The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,59

“Thank you, Grr-Fred.”

He nodded gruffly. I noticed he didn’t correct her pronunciation.

“I have done my duty,” he said. “What happens to your friends is up to Screech-Bling, assuming the CEO is even alive after the destruction you hatless barbarians brought to our headquarters. If it were up to me…”

He didn’t bother finishing the thought. I gathered Grr-Fred would not be voting in favor of offering us stock options at the next troglodyte shareholders’ meeting.

From my soggy backpack, I fished out Beanie Boy’s crystal ball and offered it to Grr-Fred. “Please, would you take this back to its owner? And thank you for guiding us. For what it is worth, I meant what I said. We have to help one another. That’s the only future worth fighting for.”

Grr-Fred turned the crystal sphere in his fingers. His brown eyes were inscrutable as cavern walls. They might have been hard and unmovable, or about to turn to meringue, or on the verge of being broken through by angry cows.

“Good digging,” he said at last. Then he was gone.

Meg peered up the stairwell. Her hands trembled, and I didn’t think it was from the cold.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked.

She started, as if she’d forgotten I was there. “Like you said, either we help each other, or we let a snake eat the future.”

“That’s not exactly what I—”

“Come on, Lester.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s get going.”

Phrased as an order, it wasn’t something I could have refused, but I got the feeling Meg was saying it to steel her own resolve as much as mine.

Together we climbed back toward the Crusty Crust.

I EXPECTED A MOAT FILLED WITH ALLIGATORS. A wrought-iron portcullis. Possibly some vats of boiling oil.

In my mind, I’d built up the Tower of Nero as a fortress of darkness with all the evil trimmings. Instead, it was a glass-and-steel monstrosity of the ordinary Midtown variety.

Meg and I had surfaced from the subway about an hour before sunset. Luxuriously early, by our standards. Now we stood across Seventh Avenue from the tower, observing and gathering our nerve.

The scene on the sidewalk out front could’ve been anywhere in Manhattan. Annoyed New Yorkers jostled past groups of gawping tourists. Kebab-scented steam wafted from a halal food cart. Funk music blared from a Mister Softee ice cream truck. A street artist hawked airbrushed celebrity paintings. No one paid any special attention to the corporate-looking building that housed Triumvirate Holdings Ltd. and the doomsday button that would destroy the city in approximately fifty-eight minutes.

From across the street, I spotted no armed guards, no monsters or Germani on patrol—just black marble pillars flanking a plate-glass entrance, and inside, a typical oversize lobby with abstract art on the walls, a manned security desk, and glass turnstiles protecting access to the elevator banks.

It was after 7:00 p.m., but employees were still leaving the building in small clusters. Folks in business suits clutched briefcases and phones as they hurried to catch their trains. Some exchanged pleasantries with the security guy on their way out. I tried to imagine those conversations. Bye, Caleb. Say hi to the family. See you tomorrow for another day of evil business transactions!

Suddenly, I felt as if we’d come all this way to surrender to a brokerage firm.

Meg and I crossed at the crosswalk. Gods forbid we jaywalk and get hit by a car on our way to a painful death. We attracted some strange looks from other pedestrians, which was fair since we were still dripping wet and smelled like a troglodyte’s armpit. Nevertheless, this being New York, most people ignored us.

Meg and I didn’t speak as we climbed the front steps. By silent agreement, we gripped each other’s hands as if another river might sweep us away.

No alarms went off. No guards jumped out of hiding. No bear traps were triggered. We pushed open the heavy glass doors and walked into the lobby.

Light classical music wafted through the chilly air. Above the security desk hung a metal sculpture with slowly swirling primary-colored shapes. The guard bent forward in his chair, reading a paperback, his face pale blue in the light of his desktop monitors.

“Help you?” he said without looking up.

I glanced at Meg, silently double-checking that we were in the right building. She nodded.

“We’re here to surrender,” I told the guard.

Surely this would make him look up. But no.

He could not have acted less interested in us. I was reminded of the guest entrance to Mount Olympus, through the lobby of the Empire