The Tyrant's Tomb

Aha.
“Come, my friends,” I said. “Let us escort our brother to his final feast.”
I suppose I did all right. No one looked scandalized. I turned and led the
way out of the fort, the entire legion following in eerie silence.
Along the road to Temple Hill, I had a few moments of panic. What if I
led the procession in the wrong direction? What if we ended up in the
parking lot of an Oakland Safeway?
The golden eagle of the Twelfth loomed over my shoulder, charging the
air with ozone. I imagined Jupiter speaking through its crackle and hum, like
a voice over shortwave radio: YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.
Back in January, when I’d fallen to earth, those words had seemed
horribly unfair. Now, as I led Jason Grace to his final resting place, I
believed them. So much of what had happened was my fault. So much of it
could never be made right.
Jason had exacted a promise from me: When you’re a god again,
remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.
I meant to keep that promise, if I survived long enough. But in the
meantime, there were more pressing ways I needed to honor Jason: by
protecting Camp Jupiter, defeating the Triumvirate, and, according to Ella,
descending into the tomb of an undead king.
Ella’s words rattled around in my head: A wildcat near the spinning
lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. To open his door, two-fiftyfour.
Even for a prophecy, the lines seemed like gibberish.
The Sibyl of Cumae had always been vague and verbose. She refused to
take editorial direction. She’d written nine entire volumes of Sibylline Books
—honestly, who needs nine books to finish a series? I’d secretly felt
vindicated when she’d been unable to sell them to the Romans until she
whittled them down to a trilogy. The other six volumes had gone straight
into the fire when…
I froze.
Behind me, the procession creaked and shuffled to a halt.
“Apollo?” Reyna whispered.
I shouldn’t stop. I was officiating Jason’s funeral. I couldn’t fall down,
roll into a ball, and cry. That would be a definite no-no. But, Jupiter’s gym
shorts, why did my brain insist on remembering important facts at such
inconvenient times?