The Tyrant's Tomb

The ravens’ caws became cries of alarm. They widened their circle,
probably thinking they could get out of range. I proved them wrong. I kept
shooting until ten were dead. Then a dozen.
“I brought extra arrows today!” I shouted. “Who wants the next one?”
At last, the birds got the message. With a few parting screeches—
probably unprintable comments about my parentage—they broke off their
assault and flew north toward Marin County.
“Nice work,” Meg told me, retracting her blades.
The best I could manage was a nod and some wheezing. Beads of sweat
froze on my forehead. My legs felt like soggy french fries. I didn’t see how I
could climb back down the ladder, much less race off for a fun-filled evening
of god-summoning, combat to the death, and possibly turning into a zombie.
“Oh, gods.” Reyna stared in the direction the flock had gone, her fingers
absently exploring her scalp where the raven had snapped off a hunk of her
hair.
“It’ll grow back,” I said.
“What? No, not my hair. Look!”
She pointed to the Golden Gate Bridge.
We must have been inside the shipping container much longer than I’d
realized. The sun sat low in the western sky. The daytime full moon had
risen above Mount Tamalpais. The afternoon heat had burned away all the
fog, giving us a perfect view of the white fleet—fifty beautiful yachts in V
formation—gliding leisurely past Point Bonita Lighthouse at the edge of the
Marin Headlands, making their way toward the bridge. Once past it, they
would have smooth sailing into the San Francisco Bay.
My mouth tasted like god dust. “How long do we have?”
Reyna checked her watch. “The vappae are taking their time, but even at
the rate they’re sailing, they’ll be in position to fire on the camp by sunset.
Maybe two hours?”
Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed her use of the term
vappae. It had been a long time since I’d heard someone call their enemies
spoiled wines. In modern parlance, the closest meaning would’ve been
scumbags.
“How long will it take for us to reach camp?” I asked.
“In Friday afternoon traffic?” Reyna calculated. “A little more than two
hours.”