The Tyrant's Tomb

In my pickup truck
With my dogs and my weapons
And this fool, Lester
REYNA AND MEG WERE waiting for me at the camp’s front gates,
though I barely recognized the former. In place of her praetor’s regalia, she
wore blue running shoes and skinny jeans, a long-sleeved copper tee, and a
maroon sweater wrap. With her hair pulled back in a braided whip and her
face lightly brushed with makeup, she could’ve passed for one of the many
thousands of Bay Area college students that nobody would think twice
about. I supposed that was the point.
“What?” she asked me.
I realized I’d been staring. “Nothing.”
Meg snorted. She was dressed in her usual green dress, yellow leggings,
and red high-tops, so she could blend in with the many thousands of Bay
Area first graders—except for her twelve-year-old’s height, her gardening
belt, and the pink button pinned to her collar that displayed a stylized
unicorn’s head with crossed bones underneath. I wondered if she’d bought it
in a New Rome gift shop or somehow gotten it specially made. Either
possibility was unsettling.
Reyna spread her hands. “I do have civilian clothes, Apollo. Even with
the Mist helping to obscure things, walking through San Francisco in full
legionnaire armor can attract some funny looks.”
“No. Yeah. You look great. I mean good.” Why were my palms
sweating? “I mean, can we go now?”