The Tyrant's Tomb

ghoul.
Vulture Diaper treated her to its trademark hissing and spitting. “MORE
FOOD! YOU WILL ALL JOIN THE KING’S DEAD!”
“Dude.” One of the fauns nervously scratched his belly under his
PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF BERKELEY T-shirt. “That’s not cool.”
“Not cool,” several of his friends echoed.
“YOU CANNOT OPPOSE ME, ROMAN!” the ghoul snarled. “I HAVE
ALREADY TASTED THE FLESH OF YOUR COMRADES! AT THE
BLOOD MOON, YOU WILL JOIN THEM—”
THWUNK.
An Imperial gold crossbow bolt materialized in the center of Vulture
Diaper’s chest. The ghoul’s milky eyes widened in surprise. The Roman
legionnaire looked just as stunned.
“Dude, you hit it,” said one of the fauns, as if this offended his
sensibilities.
The ghoul crumbled into dust and vulture feathers. The bolt clunked to
the ground.
Meg limped to my side. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kill it.”
“Oh, shut up,” I grumbled.
We faced our unlikely savior.
The pink-haired girl frowned at the pile of dust, her chin quivering as if
she might cry. She muttered, “I hate those things.”
“Y-you’ve fought them before?” I asked.
She looked at me like this was an insultingly stupid question.
One of the fauns nudged her. “Lavinia, dude, ask who these guys are.”
“Um, right.” Lavinia cleared her throat. “Who are you?”
I struggled to my feet, trying to regain some composure. “I am Apollo.
This is Meg. Thank you for saving us.”
Lavinia stared. “Apollo, as in—”
“It’s a long story. We’re transporting the body of our friend, Jason Grace,
to Camp Jupiter for burial. Can you help us?”
Lavinia’s mouth hung open. “Jason Grace…is dead?”
Before I could answer, from somewhere across Highway 24 came a wail
of rage and anguish.
“Um, hey,” said one of the fauns, “don’t those ghoul things usually hunt
in pairs?”