The Tyrant's Tomb

Stick my godly face
Where it doesn’t belong and—
Venus, I hate you
FOR SUCH A POPULATED area, San Francisco had a surprising number
of wilderness pockets. We parked on a dead-end road at the base of the
tower’s hill. To our right, a field of rocks and weeds offered a multimilliondollar
view of the city. To our left, the incline was so heavily forested you
could almost use the eucalyptus trunks as climbing rungs.
From the hill’s summit, perhaps a quarter mile above us, Sutro Tower
soared into the fog, its red-and-white pylons and crossbeams forming a giant
tripod that reminded me uncomfortably of the Delphic Oracle’s seat. Or the
scaffolding for a funeral pyre.
“There’s a relay station at the base.” Reyna pointed toward the hilltop.
“We may have to deal with mortal guards, fences, barbed wire, that kind of
thing. Plus whatever Tarquin might have waiting for us.”
“Neat,” Meg said. “Let’s go!”
The greyhounds needed no encouragement. They charged uphill,
plowing through the underbrush. Meg followed, clearly determined to rip her
clothes on as many brambles and thorn bushes as possible.
Reyna must have noticed my pained expression as I contemplated the
climb.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We can take it slow. Aurum and Argentum
know to wait for me at the top.”