The Tyrant's Tomb

When we reached the Chevy, Reyna whistled. Her dogs jumped into the
back. We wrestled our unconscious beanstalk master into the middle of the
bench seat. I collapsed next to her. Reyna cranked the ignition, and we tore
off down the hill.
Our progress was great for about ninety seconds. Then we hit the Castro
District and got stuck in Friday traffic funneling toward the highway. It was
almost enough to make me wish for another bucket brigade of plants that
could toss us back to Oakland.
After our time with Harpocrates, everything seemed obscenely loud: the
Chevy’s engine, the chatter of passing pedestrians, the thrum of subwoofers
from other cars. I cradled my backpack, trying to take comfort in the fact
that the glass jar was intact. We had gotten what we came for, though I could
hardly believe the Sibyl and Harpocrates were gone.
I would have to process my shock and grief later, assuming I lived. I
needed to figure out a way to properly honor their passing. How did one
commemorate the death of a god of silence? A moment of silence seemed
superfluous. Perhaps a moment of screaming?
First things first: survive tonight’s battle. Then I would figure out the
screaming.
Reyna must have noticed my worried expression.
“You did good back there,” she said. “You stepped up.”
Reyna sounded sincere. But her praise just made me feel more ashamed.
“I’m holding the last breath of a god I bullied,” I said miserably, “in the
jar of a Sibyl I cursed, who was protected by birds I turned into killing
machines after they tattled about my cheating girlfriend, who I subsequently
had assassinated.”
“All true,” Reyna said. “But the thing is, you recognize it now.”
“It feels horrible.”
She gave me a thin smile. “That’s kind of the point. You do something
evil, you feel bad about it, you do better. That’s a sign you might be
developing a conscience.”
I tried to remember which of the gods had created the human conscience.
Had we created it, or had humans just developed it on their own? Giving
mortals a sense of decency didn’t seem like the sort of thing a god would
brag about on their profile page.
“I—I appreciate what you’re saying,” I managed. “But my past mistakes
almost got you and Meg killed. If Harpocrates had destroyed you when you