The Tyrant's Tomb

“Because you value his life more than ours?”
“No. Well…”
“You can leave it at no.”
Hazel shrugged. “It’s just that Frank seems to be looking for danger these
days. I don’t suppose he told you what he did at the Battle of the New
Moon?”
“He said the battle turned at the Little Tiber. Zombies don’t like running
water.”
“Frank turned the tide of battle, almost single-handedly. Demigods were
falling all around him. He just kept fighting—shape-shifting into a giant
snake, then a dragon, then a hippopotamus.” She shuddered. “He makes a
terrifying hippo. By the time Reyna and I managed to bring up
reinforcements, the enemy was already in retreat. Frank had no fear. I
just…” Her voice tightened. “I don’t want to lose him. Especially after what
happened to Jason.”
I tried to reconcile Hazel’s story of Frank Zhang, fearless-hippo killing
machine, with the easygoing, big cuddly praetor who slept in a yellow silk
jammie shirt decorated with eagles and bears. I remembered the casual way
he’d flipped his stick of firewood. He’d assured me he didn’t have a death
wish. Then again, neither had Jason Grace.
“I don’t intend to lose anyone else,” I told Hazel.
I stopped short of making a promise.
The goddess of the River Styx had excoriated me for my broken oaths.
She’d warned that everyone around me would pay for my crimes. Lupa, too,
had foreseen more blood and sacrifice. How could I promise Hazel that any
of us would be safe?
Lavinia and Meg halted so abruptly I almost ran into them.
“See?” Lavinia pointed through a break in the trees. “We’re almost
there.”
In the valley below, an empty parking lot and picnic area occupied a
clearing in the redwoods. At the far end of the meadow, silent and still, stood
a carousel, all its lights blazing.
“Why is it lit up?” I wondered.
“Maybe somebody’s home,” said Hazel.
“I like merry-go-rounds,” said Meg, and she started down the path.