The Tyrant's Tomb

Lavinia snorted. “You guys should try marching twenty miles in full
legionnaire gear.”
“No, thanks,” I muttered.
Meg said nothing. Despite her drained complexion and labored
breathing, she shouldered her side of the coffin without complaint—
probably just to make me feel bad.
Finally we reached the picnic beach. A sign at the trailhead read:
LAKE TEMESCAL
SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK
Typical of mortals: they warn you about drowning, but not about fleshdevouring
ghouls.
Lavinia marched us to a small stone building that offered restrooms and
a changing area. On the exterior back wall, half-hidden behind blackberry
bushes, stood a nondescript metal door, which Lavinia kicked open. Inside, a
concrete shaft sloped down into the darkness.
“I suppose the mortals don’t know about this,” I guessed.
Don giggled. “Nah, dude, they think it’s a generator room or something.
Even most of the legionnaires don’t know about it. Only the cool ones like
Lavinia.”
“You’re not getting out of helping, Don,” said Lavinia. “Let’s set down
the coffin for a second.”
I said a silent prayer of thanks. My shoulders ached. My back was slick
with sweat. I was reminded of the time Hera made me lug a solid-gold
throne around her Olympian living room until she found exactly the right
spot for it. Ugh, that goddess.
Lavinia pulled a pack of bubble gum from the pocket of her jeans. She
stuffed three pieces in her mouth, then offered some to me and Meg.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Sure,” said Meg.
“Sure!” said Don.
Lavinia jerked the bubble gum pack out of his reach. “Don, you know
bubble gum doesn’t agree with you. Last time, you were hugging the toilet
for days.”
Don pouted. “But it tastes good.”
Lavinia peered into the tunnel, her jaw working furiously at the gum.
“It’s too narrow to carry the coffin with four people. I’ll lead the way. Don,