“Hold on!” I yelped. “She’s probably still swimming back. It’s a long tunnel.”
This bought me another three or four seconds, during which a clever escape plan still did not present itself. At the very least, I hoped Nanette’s death had not been in vain. I hoped the explosion had destroyed the Cave of the Oracle as Trophonius wished, but I could not be certain.
Meg was still only half-conscious, muttering and shivering. I had to get her back to the Waystation and set her on the Throne of Memory quickly, but two blemmyae still stood in my way. My hands were too numb to be any good with a bow or a ukulele. I wished I had some other weapon—even a magical Brazilian handkerchief that I could wave in my enemies’ faces! Oh, if only a surge of divine strength would course through my body!
At last the ranger sighed. “All right, Apollo. Would you prefer we stomp or dismember you first? It’s only right you get to choose.”
“That’s very polite,” I agreed. Then I gasped. “Oh, my gods! Look over there!”
You must forgive me. I realize that this method of distraction is the oldest trick in the book. In fact, it is a trick so old it predates papyrus scrolls and was first recorded on clay tablets in Mesopotamia. But the blemmyae fell for it.
They were slow at “looking over there.” They could not glance. They could not turn their heads without turning their entire bodies, so they executed a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degree waddle.
I had no follow-up trick in mind. I simply knew I had to save Meg and get out of there. Then an aftershock rattled the cavern, unbalancing the blemmyae, and I took advantage. I kicked the ranger into the lake. At precisely the same moment, a portion of the ceiling peeled loose and fell on top of said ranger like a hailstorm of major appliances. The ranger disappeared under churning foam.
I could only stare in amazement. I was fairly sure I hadn’t caused the ceiling to crack and collapse. Blind luck? Or perhaps the spirit of Trophonius had granted me one last grudging favor for destroying his cave. Crushing someone under a rain of rocks did seem like the sort of favor he would grant.
The trooper missed the whole thing. He turned back to me, a puzzled look on his chest-face. “I don’t see any…Wait. Where did my friend go?”
“Hmm?” I asked. “What friend?”
His impressive mustache twitched. “Eduardo. The ranger.”
I feigned confusion. “A ranger? Here?”
“Yes, he was just here.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
The cavern shuddered once again. Sadly, no more obliging chunks of ceiling broke free to crush my last enemy.
“Well,” the trooper said, “maybe he had to leave. You’ll excuse me if I have to kill you by myself now. Orders.”
“Oh, yes, but first…”
The trooper was not to be deterred any longer. He grabbed my arm, crushing my ulna and radius together. I screamed. My knees buckled.
“Let the girl go,” I whimpered through the pain. “Kill me and let her go.”
I surprised myself. These were not the last words I had planned. In the event of my death, I’d been hoping to have time to compose a ballad of my glorious deeds—a very long ballad. Yet here I was, at the end of my life, pleading not for myself, but for Meg McCaffrey.
I’d love to take credit for what happened next. I’d like to think my noble gesture of self-sacrifice proved my worthiness and summoned our saviors from the ethereal plane. More likely, though, they were already in the area, searching for Meg, and heard my scream of agony.
With a bloodcurdling battle cry, three karpoi hurtled down the tunnel and flew at the trooper, landing on his face.
The trooper staggered across the dock, the three peach spirits howling, clawing, and biting like a school of winged, fruit-flavored piranhas…which, in retrospect, I suppose does not make them sound very piranha-like.
“Please get off!” the trooper wailed. “Please and thank you!”
The karpoi were not concerned with good manners. After twenty more seconds of savage peachery, the trooper was reduced to a pile of monster ash, tattered fabric, and mustache whiskers.
The middle karpos spit out something that might have once been the officer’s handgun. He flapped his leafy wings. I deduced that he was our usual friend, the one known as Peaches, because his eyes gleamed a little more viciously, and his diaper sagged a little more dangerously.
I cradled my broken arm. “Thank you, Peaches! I don’t know how I can ever—”
He ignored me and flew to Meg’s side. He wailed and stroked her hair.
The other two karpoi studied me with a hungry gleam in their eyes.
“Peaches?” I whimpered. “Could you tell them I’m a friend? Please?”
Peaches howled inconsolably. He scraped dirt and rubble around Meg’s legs, the way one might plant a sapling.
“Peaches!” I called again. “I can help her, but I need to get her back to the Waystation. The Throne of Memory—” Nausea made the world tilt and twist. My vision went green.
Once I could focus again, I found Peaches and the other two karpoi standing in a line, all staring at me.
“Peaches?” demanded Peaches.
“Yes,” I groaned. “We need to get her to Indianapolis quickly. If you and your friends…Um, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Apollo.”
Peaches pointed to his friend on the right. “Peaches.” Then to the baby demon on his left. “Peaches.”
“I see.” I tried to think. Agony spiked up my arm into my jaw. “Now, listen, I—I have a car. A red Mercedes, nearby. If I can get to it, I can drive Meg to—to…”
I looked down at my broken forearm. It was turning some beautiful shades of purple and orange, like an Aegean sunset. I realized I wasn’t going to be driving anywhere.
My mind began sinking into a sea of pain under that lovely sunset.
“Be with you in a minute,” I muttered.
Then I passed out.
Waystation damaged
Commodus will pay for this
And I don’t take cash
I REMEMBER VERY LITTLE about the trip back.
Somehow, Peaches and his two friends carried Meg and me out of the cave and to the Mercedes. More disturbingly, the three karpoi somehow drove us to Indianapolis while Meg sat muttering and shivering in the passenger seat and I lay groaning in the back.
Don’t ask me how three karpoi combined forces to drive an automobile. I can’t tell you which of them used the wheel, the brake, or the gas pedal. It’s not the sort of behavior you expect from edible fruit.
All I know is that by the time I regained more or less full consciousness, we had reached the city limits.
My broken forearm was wrapped in leaves glued together with sap. I had no memory of how this came to pass, but the arm felt better—still sore, but not excruciating. I counted myself lucky the peach spirits had not tried to plant me and water me.
I managed to sit upright just as the peach spirits curbed the Mercedes on Capital Avenue. Ahead of us, police cars blocked the road. Large red signs on sawhorses announced: GAS LEAK EMERGENCY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE!
A gas leak. Leo Valdez had been right again. Assuming he was still alive, he’d be insufferable about this for weeks.
A few blocks beyond the barricades, a column of black smoke rose from the approximate location of the Waystation. My heart fractured more painfully than my arm. I glanced at the Mercedes’s dashboard clock. We had been gone less than four hours. It felt like a lifetime—a godly lifetime.