The Tyrant's Tomb

Let’s play guess the god.
Starts with H. Wants to kill me.
(Besides my stepmom.)
AS SOON AS I reached the catwalk, I gripped the rail. I wasn’t sure if my
legs were wobbly or if the entire tower was swaying. I felt like I was back on
Poseidon’s pleasure trireme—the one pulled by blue whales. Oh, it’s a
smooth ride, he’d promised. You’ll love it.
Below, San Francisco stretched out in a rumpled quilt of green and gray,
the edges frayed with fog. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for my days on the sun
chariot. Oh, San Francisco! Whenever I saw that beautiful city below, I knew
my day’s journey was almost done. I could finally park my chariot at the
Palace of the Sun, relax for the night, and let whatever other forces that
controlled night and day take over for me. (Sorry, Hawaii. I love you, but I
wasn’t about to work overtime to give you a sunrise.)
The ravens were nowhere in sight. That didn’t mean anything. A blanket
of fog still obscured the top of the tower. The killers might swoop out of it at
any minute. It wasn’t fair that birds with twenty-foot wingspans could sneak
up on us so easily.
At the far end of the catwalk sat the shipping container. The scent of
roses was so strong now even I could smell it, and it seemed to be coming
from the box. I took a step toward it and immediately stumbled.
“Careful.” Reyna grabbed my arm.
A jolt of energy went through me, steadying my legs. Perhaps I imagined
it. Or maybe I was just shocked that she had made physical contact with me