The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,23

a pool of red-black tar.

Meg squinted up at the hill’s summit. “Who’s that guy? We didn’t meet him before.” She sounded suspicious, as if he were intruding on her territory.

“That,” I said, “is the god Dionysus.”

Meg frowned. “Why?”

She might have meant Why is he a god? Why is he standing up there? or Why is this our life? All three questions were equally valid.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s find out.”

Trekking up the hill, I fought the urge to burst into hysterical sobbing or laughter. Probably I was going into shock. It had been a rough day, and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. However, given the fact that we were approaching the god of madness, I had to consider the more serious possibility that I was having a psychotic or manic break.

I already felt disconnected from reality. I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t know who I was, who I was supposed to be, or even who I wanted to be. I was getting emotional whiplash from my exhilarating surges of godlike power, my depressing crashes back into mortal frailty, and my adrenaline-charged bouts of terror. In such a condition, approaching Dionysus was asking for trouble. Just being near him could widen the cracks in anyone’s psyche.

Meg and I reached the summit. Peleus welcomed us with a puff of steam from his nostrils. Meg gave the dragon a hug around the neck, which I’m not sure I would have recommended. Dragons are notoriously not huggers.

Dionysus eyed me with a mixture of shock and horror, much the same way I looked at myself in the mirror these days.

“So, it’s true, what Father did to you,” he said. “That cold-hearted glámon.”

In Ancient Greek, glámon meant something like dirty old man. Given Zeus’s romantic track record, I doubted he would even consider it an insult.

Dionysus gripped my shoulders.

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

He looked the same as he had for the past half century: a short middle-aged man with a potbelly, sagging jowls, a red nose, and curly black hair. The violet tint of his irises was the only indicator that he might be more than human.

Other Olympians could never comprehend why Dionysus chose this form when he could look like anything he wanted. In ancient times, he’d been famous for his youthful beauty that defied gender.

But I understood. For the crime of chasing the wrong nymph (translation: one our father wanted instead), Dionysus had been sentenced to run this camp for a hundred years. He had been denied wine, his most noble creation, and forbidden access to Olympus except for special meeting days.

In retaliation, Dionysus had decided to look and act as ungodly as possible. He was like a child refusing to tuck in his shirt, comb his hair, or brush his teeth, just to show his parents how little he cared.

“Poor, poor Apollo.” He hugged me. His hair smelled faintly of grape-flavored bubble gum.

This unexpected show of sympathy brought me close to tears…until Dionysus pulled away, held me at arm’s length, and gave me a triumphant smirk.

“Now you understand how miserable I’ve been,” he said. “Finally, someone got punished even more harshly than me!”

I nodded, swallowing back a sob. Here was the old, on-brand Dionysus I knew and didn’t exactly love. “Yes. Hello, Brother. This is Meg—”

“Don’t care.” Dionysus’s eyes remained fixed on me, his tone infused with joy.

“Hmph.” Meg crossed her arms. “Where’s Chiron? I liked him better.”

“Who?” Dionysus said. “Oh, him. Long story. Let’s get you into camp, Apollo. I can’t wait to show you off to the demigods. You look horrible!”

We took the long way through camp. Dionysus seemed determined to make sure everyone saw me.

“This is Mr. A,” he told all the newcomers we encountered. “He’s my assistant. If you have any complaints or problems—toilets backing up or whatnot—talk to him.”

“Could you not?” I muttered.

Dionysus smiled. “If I am Mr. D, you can be Mr. A.”

“He’s Lester,” Meg complained. “And he’s my assistant.”

Dionysus ignored her. “Oh, look, another batch of first-year campers! Let’s go introduce you.”

My legs were wobbly. My head ached. I needed lunch, rest, antibiotics, and a new identity, not necessarily in that order. But we trudged on.

The camp was busier than it had been the winter when Meg and I first straggled in. Then, only a core group of year-rounders had been present. Now, waves of newly discovered demigods were arriving for the summer—dozens of dazed kids from all over the world, many still accompanied by the satyrs who had located them. Some demigods, who, evidently,