The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,106

me together. That probably wasn’t good.…

Python lay beside me, his body also crumbling, his size drastically reduced. He was now only five times larger than me—like a prehistoric crocodile or constrictor, his shape a mixture of the two, his hide still rippling with half-formed heads, wings, and claws. Impaled in his blind left eye, the Arrow of Dodona was still perfectly intact, not a bit of fletching out of place.

Python rose to his stubby feet. He stomped and howled. His body was coming apart, turning into chunks of reptile and light, and I must say I didn’t like the new disco-crocodile look. He stumbled toward me, hissing and half-blind. “Destroy you!”

I wanted to tell him to chill out. Chaos was way ahead of him. It was rapidly tearing apart our essences. We no longer had to fight. We could just sit on this obsidian spire and quietly crumble together. Python could cuddle up against me, look out over the vast expanse of Chaos, mutter It’s beautiful, then evaporate into nothingness.

But the monster had other plans. He charged, bit me around the waist, and barreled forward, intent on pushing me into oblivion. I couldn’t stop his momentum. I could only shuffle and twist so that when we hit the edge, Python tumbled over first. I clawed desperately at the rock, grabbing the rim as Python’s full weight almost yanked me in half.

We hung there, suspended over the void by nothing but my trembling fingers, Python’s maw clamped around my waist.

I could feel myself being torn in two, but I couldn’t let go. I channeled all my remaining strength into my hands—the way I used to do when I played the lyre or the ukulele, when I needed to express a truth so deep it could only be communicated in music: the death of Jason Grace, the trials of Apollo, the love and respect I had for my young friend Meg McCaffrey.

Somehow, I managed to bend one leg. I kneed Python in the chin.

He grunted. I kneed him again, harder. Python groaned. He tried to say something, but his mouth was full of Apollo. I struck him once more, so hard I felt his lower jaw crack. He lost his grip and fell.

He had no final words—just a look of half-blind reptilian horror as he plummeted into Chaos and burst into a cloud of purple fizz.

I hung from the ledge, too exhausted to feel relief.

This was the end. Pulling myself up would be beyond my ability.

Then I heard a voice that confirmed my worst fears.

“I TOLD YOU SO.”

I never doubted those would be the last words I heard.

Next to me, the goddess Styx floated over the void. Her purple-and-black dress might have been a plume of Chaos itself. Her hair drifted like an ink cloud around her beautiful, angry face.

I wasn’t surprised that she could exist here so effortlessly, in a place where other gods feared to go. Along with being the keeper of sacred oaths, Styx was the embodiment of the River of Hate. And as anyone can tell you, hatred is one of the most durable emotions, one of the last to fade into nonexistence.

I told you so. Of course she had. Months ago at Camp Half-Blood, I had made a rash oath. I’d sworn on the River Styx not to play music or use a bow until I was a god again. I’d reneged on both counts, and the goddess Styx had been dogging my progress ever since, sprinkling tragedy and destruction wherever I went. Now I was about to pay the final price—I would be canceled.

I waited for Styx to pry my fingers from the obsidian ledge, then give me a raspberry as I plummeted into the soupy, amorphous destruction below.

To my surprise, Styx wasn’t done talking.

“Have you learned?” she asked.

If I hadn’t felt so weak, I might have laughed. I had learned, all right. I was still learning.

At that moment, I realized I’d been thinking about Styx the wrong way all these months. She hadn’t put destruction in my path. I’d caused it myself. She hadn’t gotten me into trouble. I was the trouble. She had merely called out my recklessness.

“Yes,” I said miserably. “Too late, but I get it now.”

I expected no mercy. Certainly, I expected no help. My little finger slipped free of the ledge. Nine more until I fell.

Styx’s dark eyes studied me. Her expression was not gloating, exactly. She looked more like a satisfied piano teacher whose six-year-old pupil had finally mastered “Twinkle,