As if reading my thoughts, Nero gave me a thin smile.
“Meg, my dear,” he called, “it’s safe to come forward.”
She appeared from behind one of the columns in the back of the room. Two cynocephali flanked her. The wolf-headed men did not touch her, but they walked beside her in such a tight orbit they reminded me of sheepdogs herding a wayward lamb.
Meg looked physically unhurt, though she’d been bathed to within an inch of her life. All the hard-earned grime, ash, and dirt she’d accumulated on her way to the tower had been scrubbed away. Her pageboy haircut had been reshaped in a layered pixie style, parted in the middle, making Meg resemble the dryads a little too closely. And her clothes: gone was Sally Jackson’s valentine dress. In its place, Meg wore a sleeveless purple gown, gathered at the waist by a golden cord. Her red high-tops had been exchanged for gold-corded sandals. The only thing that remained of her old look was her glasses, without which she couldn’t see, but I was surprised Nero had let her keep even those.
My heart broke. Meg looked elegant, older, and quite beautiful. She also looked utterly, completely no longer herself. Nero had tried to strip away everything she had been, every choice she’d made, and replace her with someone else—a proper young lady of the Imperial Household.
Her foster siblings watched her approach with undisguised loathing and jealousy.
“There you are!” Nero said with delight. “Come join me, dear.”
Meg met my eyes. I tried to transmit how concerned and anguished I felt for her, but her expression remained carefully neutral. She made her way toward Nero, each step cautious, as if the slightest false step or betrayal of emotion might cause invisible mines to explode around her.
Nero patted the cushions next to him, but Meg stopped at the base of the dais. I chose to take this as a hopeful sign. Nero’s face tightened with displeasure, but he masked it quickly, no doubt deciding, like the professional abusive villain he was, not to exert more pressure than was necessary, to keep the line taut without breaking it.
“And so here we are!” He spread his arms to take in this special occasion. “Lester, it’s a shame you ruined our fireworks display. We could have been down in the parlor right now with our guests, watching a lovely sunset as the city burned. We could’ve had canapés and cake. But no matter. We still have so much to celebrate! Meg is home!”
He turned to the white-bearded Germanus. “Vercorix, bring me the remote control, would you?” He gestured vaguely to the coffee table, where a black lacquered tray was piled with tech gadgets.
Vercorix lumbered over and picked one.
“No, that’s for the television,” said Nero. “No, that’s the DVR. Yes, that’s the one, I think.”
Panic swelled in my throat as I realized what Nero wanted: the control for releasing his Sassanid gas. Naturally, he would keep it with his TV remotes.
“Stop!” I yelled. “You said Meg would decide.”
Meg’s eyes widened. Apparently, she hadn’t heard Nero’s plan. She looked back and forth between us, as if worried which of us might attack her first. Watching her inner turmoil made me want to weep.
Nero smirked. “Well, of course she will! Meg, my dear, you know the situation. Apollo has failed you yet again. His plans are in ruins. He has sacrificed his allies’ lives to make it this far—”
“That’s not true!” I said.
Nero raised an eyebrow. “No? When I warned you that this tower was a death trap for your demigod friends, did you rush down to save them? Did you hurry them out of the building? I gave you ample time. No. You used them. You let them keep fighting to distract my guards, so you could sneak up here and try to reclaim your precious immortality.”
“I— What? I didn’t—”
Nero swept his fruit platter off the sofa. It clattered across the floor. Grapes rolled everywhere. Everyone in the throne room flinched, including me…and this was obviously Nero’s intention. He was a master at theatrics. He knew how to work a crowd, keep us on our toes.
He invested his voice with so much righteous indignation, even I wondered if I should believe him. “You are a user, Apollo! You always have been. You leave a wake of ruined lives wherever you go. Hyacinthus. Daphne. Marsyas. Koronis. And your own Oracles: Trophonius, Herophile, the Cumaean Sibyl.” He turned to Meg. “You’ve seen this with your own eyes, my dear. You know what I mean. Oh, Lester, I’ve been living among mortals for thousands of years. You know how many lives I’ve destroyed? None! I’ve raised a family of orphans.” He gestured at his adopted children, some of whom winced as if he might throw a platter of grapes at them. “I’ve given them luxury, security, love! I’ve employed thousands. I’ve improved the world! But you, Apollo, you’ve been on Earth barely six months. How many lives have you wrecked in that time? How many have died trying to defend you? That poor griffin, Heloise. The dryad, Money Maker. Crest the pandos. And, of course, Jason Grace.”
“Don’t you dare,” I snarled.
Nero spread his hands. “Should I go on? The deaths at Camp Jupiter: Don, Dakota. The parents of that poor little girl Julia. All for what? Because you want to be a god again. You’ve whined and complained across this country and back again. So I ask you: Are you worthy of being a god?”
He had done his homework. It wasn’t like Nero to remember the names of so many people he didn’t care about. But
