The Tyrant's Tomb

“It worked, then!” I grinned at Hazel and Meg. “It worked!”
“Yeah,” Meg said wearily. “Hi, Artemis.”
“Diana,” my sister corrected. “But hello, Meg.” For her, my sister had a
smile. “You’ve done well, young warrior.”
Meg blushed. She kicked at the scattered zombie dust on the floor and
shrugged. “Eh.”
I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The
bandages had vanished, along with the festering wound. Only a thin white
scar remained. “So…I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to
my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect.
Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m
still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.”
“Little brother?”
She smirked, then turned to Hazel. “And you, Centurion. How have you
been?”
Hazel was no doubt sore and stiff, but she knelt and bowed her head like
a good Roman. “I’m…” She hesitated. Her world had just been shattered.
She’d lost Frank. She apparently decided not to lie to the goddess. “I’m
heartbroken and exhausted, my lady. But thank you for coming to our aid.”
Diana’s expression softened. “Yes. I know it has been a difficult night.
Come, let’s go outside. It’s rather stuffy in here, and it smells like burnt
Cyclops.”
The survivors were slowly gathering on the street. Perhaps some instinct had
drawn them there, to the place of Tarquin’s defeat. Or perhaps they’d simply
come to gawk at the glowing silver chariot with its team of four golden
reindeer now parallel-parked in front of the bookshop.
Giant eagles and hunting falcons shared the rooftops. Wolves hobnobbed
with Hannibal the elephant and the weaponized unicorns. Legionnaires and
citizens of New Rome milled about in shock.
At the end of the street, huddled with a group of survivors, was Thalia
Grace, her hand on the shoulder of the legion’s new standard-bearer,
comforting the young woman as she cried. Thalia was dressed in her usual
black denim, various punk-band buttons gleaming on the lapel of her leather
jacket. A silver circlet, the symbol of Artemis’s lieutenant, glinted in her
spiky dark hair. Her sunken eyes and slumped shoulders made me suspect