The Tyrant's Tomb

Imperial gold bolt hit the zombie between the shoulder blades, causing him
to implode in a pile of armor and clothes.
“Sorry, Bobby!” Lavinia said with a sob.
I made a mental note never to tell Hannibal how his former trainer had
met his end.
I kept firing until only the Arrow of Dodona remained in my quiver. In
retrospect, I realized I’d fired a dozen arrows in about thirty seconds, each a
kill shot. My fingers literally steamed. I hadn’t unleashed a volley like that
since I was a god.
This should have delighted me, but any feeling of satisfaction was cut
short by Tarquin’s laughter. As Hazel and Meg cut down the last of his
minions, he rose from his sarcophagus couch and gave us a round of
applause. Nothing sounds more sinister than the ironic slow-clap of two
skeletal hands.
“Lovely!” he said. “Oh, that was very nice! You’ll all make valuable
members of my team!”
Meg charged.
The king didn’t touch her, but with a flick of his hand, some invisible
force sent Meg flying backward into the far wall. Her swords clattered to the
floor.
A guttural sound escaped my throat. I leaped over the railing, landing on
one of my own spent arrow shafts (which are every bit as treacherous as
banana peels). I slipped and fell hard on my hip. Not my most heroic
entrance. Meanwhile, Hazel ran at Tarquin. She was hurled aside with
another blast of unseen force.
Tarquin’s hearty chuckle filled the chamber. From the corridors on either
side of his sarcophagus, the sounds of shuffling feet and clanking armor
echoed, getting closer and closer. Up on the balcony, Lavinia furiously
cranked her manubalista. If I could buy her another twenty minutes or so,
she might be able to take a second shot.
“Well, Apollo,” said Tarquin, purple coils of mist slithering from his eye
sockets and into his mouth. Yuck. “Neither of us have aged well, have we?”
My heart pounded. I groped around for usable arrows but found only
more broken shafts. I was half-tempted to shoot the Arrow of Dodona, but I
couldn’t risk giving Tarquin a weapon with prophetic knowledge. Can
talking arrows be tortured? I didn’t want to find out.