The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)

I turned to Grover. ‘The strixes?’

He shook his head. ‘If any survived, they wouldn’t risk the daylight, even if they could get through the strawberries. The plants have filled the entire shaft.’ He pointed to the furthest ring of brickwork, where we must have emerged. ‘Nobody’s getting in or out that way any more.’

‘But …’ I gestured at the ruins. ‘Surely this isn’t your base?’

I was hoping he would correct me. Oh, no, our base is that nice house down there with the Olympic-size swimming pool, right next to the fifteenth hole!

Instead, he had the nerve to look pleased. ‘Yeah. This place has powerful natural energy. It’s a perfect sanctuary. Can’t you feel the life force?’

I picked up a charred brick. ‘Life force?’

‘You’ll see.’ Grover took off his cap and scratched between his horns. ‘The way things have been, all the dryads have to stay dormant until sunset. It’s the only way they can survive. But they’ll be waking up soon.’

The way things have been.

I glanced west. The sun had just dropped behind the mountains. The sky was marbled with heavy layers of red and black, more appropriate for Mordor than Southern California.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.

Grover gazed sadly into the distance. ‘You haven’t seen the news? Biggest forest fires in state history. On top of the drought, the heat waves and the earthquakes.’ He shuddered. ‘Thousands of dryads have died. Thousands more have gone into hibernation. If these were just normal natural disasters, that would be bad enough, but –’

Meg yelped in her sleep. She sat up abruptly, blinking in confusion. From the panic in her eyes, I guessed her dreams had been even worse than mine.

‘W-we’re really here?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t dream it?’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You’re safe.’

She shook her head, her lips quivering. ‘No. No, I’m not.’

With fumbling fingers, she removed her glasses, as if she might be able to handle her surroundings better if they were fuzzier. ‘I can’t be here. Not again.’

‘Again?’ I asked.

A line from the Indiana prophecy tugged at my memory: Demeter’s daughter finds her ancient roots. ‘You mean you lived here?’

Meg scanned the ruins. She shrugged miserably, though whether that meant I don’t know or I don’t want to talk about it, I couldn’t tell.

The desert seemed an unlikely home for Meg – a street kid from Manhattan, raised in Nero’s royal household.

Grover tugged thoughtfully at his goatee. ‘A child of Demeter … That actually makes a lot of sense.’

I stared at him. ‘In this place? A child of Vulcan, perhaps. Or Feronia, the wilderness goddess. Or even Mefitis, the goddess of poisonous gas. But Demeter? What is a child of Demeter supposed to grow here? Rocks?’

Grover looked hurt. ‘You don’t understand. Once you meet everybody –’

Meg crawled out from beneath the tarp. She got unsteadily to her feet. ‘I have to leave.’

‘Hold on!’ Grover pleaded. ‘We need your help. At least talk to the others!’

Meg hesitated. ‘Others?’

Grover gestured north. I couldn’t see what he was pointing to until I stood up. Then I noticed, half hidden behind the brick ruins, a row of six boxy white structures like … storage sheds? No. Greenhouses. The one nearest the ruins had melted and collapsed long ago, no doubt a victim of the fire. The second hut’s corrugated polycarbonate walls and roof had fallen apart like a house of cards. But the other four looked intact. Clay flowerpots were stacked outside. The doors stood open. Inside, green plant matter pressed against the translucent walls – palm fronds like giant hands pushing to get out.

I didn’t see how anything could live in this scalded barren wasteland, especially inside a greenhouse meant to keep the climate even warmer. I definitely didn’t want to get any closer to those claustrophobic hot boxes.

Grover smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m sure everyone’s awake by now. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the gang!’





5


First-aid succulent,

Heal me of my many cuts!

(But no slime trail, please)





Grover led us to the first intact greenhouse, which exuded a smell like the breath of Persephone.

That’s not a compliment. Miss Springtime used to sit next to me at family dinners, and she was not shy about sharing her halitosis. Imagine the odour of a bin full of wet mulch and earthworm poop. Yes, I just love spring.

Inside the greenhouse, the plants had taken over. I found that frightening, since most of them were cacti. By the doorway squatted a pineapple cactus the size of a barrel, its yellow spines like shish-kebab skewers. In the back corner stood a majestic Joshua tree, its shaggy branches holding up the roof. Against the opposite wall bloomed a massive prickly pear, dozens of bristly paddles topped with purple fruit that looked delicious, except for the fact that each one had more spikes than Ares’s favourite mace. Metal tables groaned under the weight of other succulents – pickleweed, spinystar, cholla and dozens more I couldn’t name. Surrounded by so many thorns and flowers, in such oppressive heat, I had a flashback to Iggy Pop’s 2003 Coachella set.

‘I’m back!’ Grover announced. ‘And I brought friends!’

Silence.

Even at sunset, the temperature inside was so high, and the air so thick, I imagined I would die of heatstroke in approximately four minutes. And I was a former sun god.

At last the first dryad appeared. A chlorophyll bubble ballooned from the side of the prickly pear and burst into green mist. The droplets coalesced into a small girl with emerald skin, spiky yellow hair and a fringe dress made entirely of cactus bristles. Her glare was almost as pointed as her dress. Fortunately, it was directed at Grover, not me.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘Ah.’ Grover cleared his throat. ‘I got called away. Magical summons. I’ll tell you all about it later. But, look, I brought Apollo! And Meg, daughter of Demeter!’

He showed off Meg like she was a fabulous prize on The Price Is Right.

‘Hmph,’ said the dryad. ‘I suppose daughters of Demeter are okay. I’m Prickly Pear. Or Pear for short.’

‘Hi,’ Meg said weakly.

The dryad narrowed her eyes at me. Given her spiny dress, I hoped she wasn’t a hugger. ‘You’re Apollo as in the god Apollo?’ she asked. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Some days, neither do I,’ I admitted.

Grover scanned the room. ‘Where are the others?’

Right on cue, another chlorophyll bubble popped over one of the succulents. A second dryad appeared – a large young woman in a muumuu like the husk of an artichoke. Her hair was a forest of dark green triangles. Her face and arms glistened as if they’d just been oiled. (At least I hoped it was oil and not sweat.)

‘Oh!’ she cried, seeing our battered appearances. ‘Are you hurt?’

Pear rolled her eyes. ‘Al, knock it off.’

‘But they look hurt!’ Al shuffled forward. She took my hand. Her touch was cold and greasy. ‘Let me take care of these cuts, at least. Grover, why didn’t you heal these poor people?’

‘I tried!’ the satyr protested. ‘They just took a lot of damage!’

That could be my life motto, I thought: He takes a lot of damage.

Al ran her fingertips over my cuts, leaving trails of goo like slug tracks. It was not a pleasant sensation, but it did ease the pain.

‘You’re Aloe Vera,’ I realized. ‘I used to make healing ointments out of you.’

She beamed. ‘He remembers me! Apollo remembers me!’

In the back of the room, a third dryad emerged from the trunk of the Joshua tree – a male dryad, which was quite rare. His skin was as brown as his tree’s bark, his olive hair long and wild, his clothes weathered khaki. He might have been an explorer just returning from the outback.

‘I’m Joshua,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Aeithales.’