The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)

She was wrong.

On the aft deck, we found ourselves in the middle of a Cyclops/mortal volleyball game. In a sand-filled pit, half a dozen hairy Cyclopes in swimming trunks battled it out with half a dozen equally hairy mortals in combat pants. Around the edges of the game, more off-duty mercenaries were barbecuing steaks on a grill, laughing, sharpening knives and comparing tattoos.

At the grill, a double-wide dude with a flat-top haircut and a chest tattoo that read MOTHER spotted us and froze. ‘Hey!’

The volleyball game stopped. Everyone on deck turned and glowered at us.

Piper pulled off her helmet. ‘Apollo, back me up!’

I feared she might pull a Meg and charge into battle. In that case, backing her up would mean getting ripped limb from limb by sweaty ex-military types, which was not on my bucket list.

Instead, Piper began to sing.

I wasn’t sure what surprised me more: Piper’s beautiful voice, or the tune she chose.

I recognized it immediately: ‘Life of Illusion’ by Joe Walsh. The 1980s were something of a blur to me, but that song I remembered – 1981, the very beginning of MTV. Oh, the lovely videos I’d produced for Blondie and the Go-Gos! The amount of hairspray and leopard-print Spandex we had used!

The crowd of mercenaries listened in confused silence. Should they kill us now? Should they wait for us to finish? It wasn’t every day someone serenaded you with Joe Walsh in the middle of a volleyball game. I’m sure the mercenaries were a little fuzzy on the proper etiquette.

After a couple of lines, Piper gave me a sharp glance like A little help?

Ah, she wanted me to back her up with music!

With great relief, I whipped out my ukulele and played along. In truth, Piper’s voice needed no help. She belted out the lyrics with passion and clarity – a shock wave of emotion that was more than a heartfelt performance, more than charmspeak.

She moved through the crowd, singing of her own illusionary life. She inhabited the song. She invested the words with pain and sorrow, turning Walsh’s peppy tune into a melancholy confessional. She spoke of breaking through walls of confusion, of enduring the little surprises nature had thrown at her, of jumping to conclusions about who she was.

She didn’t change the lyrics. Nevertheless, I felt her story in every line: her struggle as the neglected child of a famous movie star; her mixed feelings about discovering she was a daughter of Aphrodite; most hurtful of all, her realization that the supposed love of her life, Jason Grace, was not someone she wanted to be with romantically. I didn’t understand it all, but the power of her voice was undeniable. My ukulele responded. My chords turned more resonant, my riffs more soulful. Every note I played was a cry of sympathy for Piper McLean, my own musical skill amplifying hers.

The guards became unfocused. Some sat down, cradling their heads in their hands. Some stared into space and let their steaks burn on the grill.

None of them stopped us as we crossed the aft deck. None followed us across the bridge to boat thirty-two. We were halfway across that yacht before Piper finished her song and leaned heavily against the nearest wall. Her eyes were red, her face hollowed out with emotion.

‘Piper?’ I stared at her in amazement. ‘How did you –?’

‘Shoes now,’ she croaked. ‘Talk later.’

She stumbled on.





28


Apollo, disguised

As Apollo, disguised as …

Nah. Too depressing.





We saw no sign that the mercenaries were pursuing us. How could they? Even hardened warriors could not be expected to give chase after such a performance. I imagined they were sobbing in each other’s arms, or rifling through the yacht for extra boxes of tissues.

We made our way through the thirties of Caligula’s super-yacht chain, using stealth when necessary, mostly relying on the apathy of the crew members we encountered. Caligula had always inspired fear in his servants, but that didn’t equate to loyalty. No one asked us any questions.

On boat forty, Piper collapsed. I rushed to help, but she pushed me away.

‘I’m okay,’ she muttered.

‘You are not okay,’ I said. ‘You probably have a concussion. You just worked a powerful bit of musical charm. You need a minute to rest.’

‘We don’t have a minute.’

I was fully aware of that. Sporadic bursts of gunfire still crackled over the harbour from the direction we had come. The harsh scree of strixes pierced the night sky. Our friends were buying us time, and we had none to waste.

This was also the night of the new moon. Whatever plans Caligula had for Camp Jupiter, far to the north, they were happening now. I could only hope Leo had reached the Roman demigods, and that they could fend off whatever evil came their way. Being powerless to help them was a terrible feeling. It made me anxious not to waste a moment.

‘Nevertheless,’ I told Piper, ‘I really don’t have time for you to die on me, or go into a coma. So you will take a moment to sit. Let’s get out of the open.’

Piper was too weak to protest much. In her present condition, I doubted she could have charmspoken her way out of a parking ticket. I carried her inside yacht forty, which turned out to be dedicated to Caligula’s wardrobe.

We passed room after room filled with clothes – suits, togas, armour, dresses (why not?) and a variety of costumes from pirate to Apollo to panda bear. (Again, why not?)

I was tempted to dress up as Apollo, just to feel sorry for myself, but I didn’t want to take the time to apply the gold paint. Why did mortals always think I was gold? I mean, I could be gold, but the shininess detracted from my naturally amazing looks. Correction: my former naturally amazing looks.

Finally, we found a dressing room with a couch. I moved a pile of evening dresses, then ordered Piper to sit. I pulled out a crushed square of ambrosia and ordered her to eat it. (My goodness, I could be bossy when I had to be. At least that was one godly power I hadn’t lost.)

While Piper nibbled her divine energy bar, I stared glumly at the racks of bespoke finery. ‘Why can’t the shoes be here? This is his wardrobe boat, after all.’

‘Come on, Apollo.’ Piper winced as she shifted on the cushions. ‘Everybody knows you need a separate super-yacht just for shoes.’

‘I can’t tell if you’re joking.’

She picked up a Stella McCartney dress – a lovely low-cut number in scarlet silk. ‘Nice.’ Then she pulled out her knife, gritting her teeth from the effort, and slit the gown right down the front.

‘That felt good,’ she decided.

It seemed pointless to me. You couldn’t hurt Caligula by ruining his things. He had all the things. Nor did it seem to make Piper any happier. Thanks to the ambrosia, her colour was better. Her eyes were not as dulled with pain. But her expression remained stormy, like her mother’s whenever she heard someone praise Scarlett Johansson’s good looks. (Tip: never mention Scarlett Johansson around Aphrodite.)

‘The song you sang to the mercenaries,’ I ventured, ‘ “Life of Illusion”.’

The corners of Piper’s eyes tightened, as if she’d known this conversation was coming but was too tired to deflect it. ‘It’s an early memory. Right after my dad got his first big acting break, he was blasting that song in the car. We were driving to our new house, the place in Malibu. He was singing to me. We were both so happy. I must have been … I don’t know, in kindergarten?’

‘But the way you sang it. You seemed to be talking about yourself, why you broke up with Jason?’

She studied her knife. The blade remained blank, devoid of visions.

‘I tried,’ she murmured. ‘After the war with Gaia, I convinced myself everything would be perfect. For a while, a few months maybe, I thought it was. Jason’s great. He’s my closest friend, even more than Annabeth. But –’ she spread her hands – ‘whatever I thought was there, my happily-ever-after … it just wasn’t.’