The Tyrant's Tomb - Rick Riordan Page 0,12

seemed…not deserted, exactly, but only half full. A few young heroes walked on crutches. Others had arms in casts. Perhaps some of them were just in their barracks, or in the sick bay, or on an extended march, but I didn’t like the haunted, grief-stricken expressions of the legionnaires who watched us.

I remembered the gloating words of the eurynomos at Lake Temescal: I HAVE ALREADY TASTED THE FLESH OF YOUR COMRADES! AT THE BLOOD MOON, YOU WILL JOIN THEM.

I wasn’t sure what a blood moon was. Lunar things were more my sister’s department. But I didn’t like the sound of it. I’d had quite enough of blood. From the looks of the legionnaires, so had they.

Then I thought about something else the ghoul had said: YOU WILL ALL JOIN THE KING’S DEAD. I thought about the words of the prophecy we’d received in the Burning Maze, and a troubling realization started to form in my head. I did my best to suppress it. I’d already had my full day’s quota of terror.

We passed the storefronts of merchants who were allowed to operate inside the fort’s walls—only the most essential services, like a chariot dealership, an armory, a gladiator supply store, and a coffee bar. In front of the coffee place stood a two-headed barista, glowering at us with both faces, his green apron stained with latte foam.

Finally we reached the main intersection, where two roads came to a T in front of the principia. On the steps of the gleaming white headquarters building, the legion’s praetors waited for us.

I almost didn’t recognize Frank Zhang. The first time I’d seen him, back when I was a god and he was a legion newbie, Frank had been a baby-faced, heavyset boy with dark flattop hair and an adorable fixation on archery. He’d had this idea that I might be his father. He prayed to me all the time. Honestly, he was so cute I would’ve been happy to adopt him, but alas, he was one of Mars’s.

The second time I saw Frank, during his voyage on the Argo II, he’d had a growth spurt or a magical testosterone injection or something. He’d grown taller, stronger, more imposing—though still in an adorable, cuddly, grizzly-bear sort of way.

Now, as I’d often noticed happening with young men still coming into their own, Frank’s weight had begun to catch up to his growth spurt. He was once again a big, girthy guy with baby cheeks you just wanted to pinch, only now he was larger and more muscular. He’d apparently fallen out of bed and scrambled to meet us, despite it being just early evening. His hair stuck up on top like a breaking wave. One of his jean cuffs was tucked into his sock. His top was a yellow silk nightshirt decorated with eagles and bears—a fashion statement he was doing his best to cover with his purple praetor’s cloak.

One thing that hadn’t changed was his bearing—that slightly awkward stance, that faint perplexed frown, as if he were constantly thinking, Am I really supposed to be here?

That feeling was understandable. Frank had climbed the ranks from probatio to centurion to praetor in record time. Not since Julius Caesar had a Roman officer risen so rapidly and brightly. That wasn’t a comparison I would have shared with Frank, though, given what happened to my man Julius.

My gaze drifted to the young woman at Frank’s side: Praetor Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano…and I remembered.

A bowling ball of panic formed in my heart and rolled into my lower intestines. It was a good thing I wasn’t carrying Jason’s coffin or I would have dropped it.

How can I explain this to you?

Have you ever had an experience so painful or embarrassing you literally forgot it happened? Your mind disassociates, scuttles away from the incident yelling Nope, nope, nope, and refuses to acknowledge the memory ever again?

That was me with Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano.

Oh, yes, I knew who she was. I was familiar with her name and reputation. I was fully aware we were destined to run into her at Camp Jupiter. The prophecy we’d deciphered in the Burning Maze had told me as much.

But my fuzzy mortal brain had completely refused to make the most important connection: that this Reyna was that Reyna, the one whose face I had been shown long ago by a certain annoying goddess of love.

That’s her! my brain screamed at me, as I stood before her in my flabby and acne-spotted glory, clutching a bloody dress to

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