The Tyrant's Tomb

Lotoya—who must have been a redwood dryad, judging from her
burgundy complexion and impressive size—crouched next to me and
deposited all the supplies she’d retrieved from the truck. I grabbed
frantically—not for my bow and quiver, or even for my ukulele, but for my
backpack. I almost fainted with relief when I found the Smucker’s jar inside,
still intact.
“Thank you,” I told her.
She nodded somberly. “A good jelly jar is hard to find.”
Reyna struggled to sit up among the fauns fussing over her. “We’re
wasting time. We have to get back to camp!”
Lavinia arched her pink eyebrows. “You’re not going anywhere with that
leg, Praetor. Even if you could, you wouldn’t be much help. We can heal you
faster if you just relax—”
“Relax? The legion needs me! It needs you too, Lavinia! How could you
desert?”
“Okay, first, I didn’t desert. You don’t know all the facts.”
“You left camp without leave. You—” Reyna leaned forward too fast and
gasped in agony. The fauns took her shoulders. They helped her to sit back,
easing her onto the new stretcher with its lovely padding of moss, trash, and
old tie-dyed T-shirts.
“You left your comrades,” Reyna croaked. “Your friends.”
“I’m right here,” Lavinia said. “I’m going to ask Felipe to lull you to
sleep now so you can rest and heal.”
“No! You…you can’t run away.”
Lavinia snorted. “Who said anything about running away? Remember,
Reyna, this was your backup plan. Plan L for Lavinia! When we all get back
to camp, you’re going to thank me. You’ll tell everybody this was your
idea.”
“What? I would never…I didn’t give you any such…This is mutiny!”
I glanced at the greyhounds, waiting for them to rise to their master’s
defense and tear Lavinia apart. Strangely, they just kept circling Reyna,
occasionally licking her face or sniffing her broken leg. They seemed
concerned about her condition, but not at all about Lavinia’s rebellious lies.
“Lavinia,” Reyna pleaded, “I’ll have to bring you up on desertion
charges. Don’t do this. Don’t make me—”
“Now, Felipe,” Lavinia ordered.