The Tyrant's Tomb

Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here because
Hera stinks. Amen.
IF THERE IS ANYTHING worse than hearing Death, death, death, it’s
hearing those words while having your flab poked.
“Can you be more specific?”
I actually wanted to ask: Can you make all of this go away, and can you
also stop poking me? But I doubted I would get either wish.
“Cross references,” Ella said.
“Sorry?”
“Tarquin’s tomb,” she said. “The Burning Maze words. Frank told me:
Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless the doorway to the soundless
god is opened by Bellona’s daughter.”
“I know the prophecy,” I said. “I sort of wish people would stop
repeating it. What exactly—?”
“Cross-referenced Tarquin and Bellona and soundless god with Tyson’s
index.”
I turned to Frank, who seemed to be the only other comprehensible
person in the room. “Tyson has an index?”
Frank shrugged. “He wouldn’t be much of a reference book without an
index.”
“On the back of my thigh!” Tyson called, still happily kicking his feet,
waiting to be engraved with red-hot needles. “Want to see?”
“No! Gods, no. So you cross-referenced—”