The Tyrant's Tomb

They shared stories. They bonded over their hatred of me. They realized
that Tarquin wanted this to happen. He had thrown them together, hoping
they’d become friends, so he could use them as leverage against each other.
But they couldn’t help their feelings.
Wait. I interrupted Harpocrates’s story. Are you two… together?
I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to send such an incredulous
thought, like how does a shh god fall in love with a voice in a glass jar?
Harpocrates’s rage pressed down on me, making my knees buckle. The
air pressure increased, as if I’d plummeted a thousand feet. I almost blacked
out, but I guessed Harpocrates wouldn’t let that happen. He wanted me
conscious, able to suffer.
He flooded me with bitterness and hate. My joints began to unknit, my
vocal cords dissolving. Harpocrates might have been ready to die, but that
didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill me first. That would bring him great
satisfaction.
I bowed my head, gritting my teeth against the inevitable.
Fine, I thought. I deserve it. Just spare my friends. Please.
The pressure eased.
I glanced up through a haze of pain.
In front of me, Reyna and Meg stood shoulder to shoulder, facing down
the god.
They sent him their own flurry of images. Reyna pictured me singing
“The Fall of Jason Grace” to the legion, officiating at Jason’s funeral pyre
with tears in my eyes, then looking goofy and awkward and clueless as I
offered to be her boyfriend, giving her the best, most cleansing laugh she’d
had in years. (Thanks, Reyna.)
Meg pictured the way I’d saved her in the myrmekes’ lair at Camp Half-
Blood, singing about my romantic failures with such honesty it rendered
giant ants catatonic with depression. She envisioned my kindness to Livia
the elephant, to Crest, and especially to her, when I’d given her a hug in our
room at the café and told her I would never give up trying.
In all their memories, I looked so human…but in the best possible ways.
Without words, my friends asked Harpocrates if I was still the person he
hated so much.
The god scowled, considering the two young women.
Then a small voice spoke—actually spoke—from inside the sealed glass
jar. “Enough.”