COLD! complained the Arrow of Dodona. COLD! COLD!

Personally, I didn’t feel a thing. The searing pain had become a dull, throbbing ache throughout my whole body. I was pretty sure that was a bad sign.

Incitatus trotted over. “Whoa, he really did it. That’s a horse of a different color.”

Medea examined the wound. She cursed in ancient Colchian, calling into question my mother’s past romantic relationships.

“This idiot can’t even kill himself right,” grumbled the sorceress. “It appears that, somehow, he missed his heart.”

’TWAS ME, WITCH! the arrow intoned from within my rib cage. DOST THOU THINK I WOULD FAIN ALLOW MYSELF TO BE EMBEDDED IN THE DISGUSTING HEART OF LESTER? I DODGED AND WEAVED!

I made a mental note to either thank or break the Arrow of Dodona later, whichever made the most sense at the time.

Medea snapped her fingers at the emperor. “Hand me the red vial.”

Caligula scowled, clearly not used to playing surgical nurse. “I never rummage through a woman’s purse. Especially a sorceress’s.”

I thought this was the surest sign yet that he was perfectly sane.

“If you want to be the sun god,” Medea snarled, “do it!”

Caligula found the red vial.

Medea coated her right hand with the gooey contents. With her left, she grabbed the Arrow of Dodona and yanked it from my chest.

I screamed. My vision went dark. My left pectorals felt like they were being excavated with a drill bit. When I regained my sight, I found the arrow wound plugged with a thick red substance like the wax of a letter seal. The pain was horrible, unbearable, but I could breathe again.

If I hadn’t been so miserable, I might have smiled in triumph. I had been counting on Medea’s healing powers. She was almost as skilled as my son Asclepius, though her bedside manner was not as good, and her cures tended to involve dark magic, vile ingredients, and the tears of small children.

I had not, of course, expected Caligula to let my friends go. But I had hoped, with Medea distracted, she might lose control of her venti. And so she did.

That moment is fixed in my mind: Incitatus peering down at me, his muzzle flecked with oats; the sorceress Medea examining my wound, her hands sticky with blood and magic paste; Caligula standing over me, his splendid white slacks and shoes freckled with my blood; and Piper and Crest on the floor nearby, their presence momentarily forgotten by our captors. Even Meg seemed frozen within her churning prison, horrified by what I had done.

That was the last moment before everything went wrong, before our great tragedy unspooled—when Jason Grace thrust out his arms, and the cages of wind exploded.

 

 

ONE tornado can ruin your whole day.

I’d seen the sort of devastation Zeus could wreak when he got angry at Kansas. So I was not surprised when the two shrapnel-filled wind spirits ripped through the Julia Drusilla XII like chain saws.

We all should have died in the blast. Of that I’m certain. But Jason channeled the explosion up, down, and sideways in a two-dimensional wave—blasting through the port and starboard walls; bursting through the black ceiling that showered us with golden candelabras and swords; jackhammering through the mosaic floor into the bowels of the ship. The yacht groaned and shook—metal, wood, and fiberglass snapping like bones in the mouth of a monster.

Incitatus and Caligula stumbled in one direction, Medea in the other. None of them suffered so much as a scratch. Meg McCaffrey, unfortunately, was on Jason’s left. When the venti exploded, she flew sideways through a newly made rent in the wall and disappeared into the dark.

I tried to scream. I think it came out as more of a death rattle, though. With the explosion ringing in my ears, I couldn’t be sure.

I could barely move. There was no chance I could go after my young friend. I cast around desperately and fixed my gaze on Crest.

The young pandos’s eyes were so wide they almost matched his ears. A golden sword had fallen from the ceiling and impaled itself in the tile floor between his legs.

“Rescue Meg,” I croaked, “and I will teach you how to play any instrument you wish.”

I didn’t know how even a pandos could hear me, but Crest seemed to. His expression changed from shock to reckless determination. He scrambled across the tilting floor, spread his ears, and leaped into the rift.

The break in the floor began to widen, cutting us off from Jason. Ten-foot-tall waterfalls poured in from the damaged hull to port and starboard—washing the mosaic floors in dark water and flotsam, spilling into the widening chasm in the center of the room. Below, broken machinery steamed. Flames guttered as seawater filled the hold. Above, lining the edges of the shattered ceiling, pandai appeared, screaming and drawing weapons—until the sky lit up and tendrils of lightning blasted the guards into dust.

Jason stepped out of the smoke on the opposite side of the throne room, his gladius in his hand.

Caligula snarled. “You’re one of those Camp Jupiter brats, aren’t you?”

“I’m Jason Grace,” he said. “Former praetor of the Twelfth Legion. Son of Jupiter. Child of Rome. But I belong to both camps.”

“Good enough,” Caligula said. “I’ll hold you responsible for Camp Jupiter’s treason tonight. Incitatus!”

The emperor snatched up a golden spear that was rolling across the floor. He vaulted onto his stallion’s back, charged the chasm, and leaped it in a single bound. Jason threw himself aside to avoid getting trampled.

From somewhere to my left came a howl of anger. Piper McLean had risen. Her lower face was a nightmare—her swollen upper lip split across her teeth, her jaw askew, a trickle of blood coming from the edge of her mouth.

She charged Medea, who turned just in time to catch Piper’s fist in her nose. The sorceress stumbled, pinwheeling her arms as Piper pushed her over the edge of the chasm. The sorceress disappeared into the churning soup of burning fuel and seawater.

Piper shouted at Jason. She might have been saying COME ON! But all that came out was a guttural cry.

Jason was a little busy. He dodged Incitatus’s charge, parrying Caligula’s spear with his sword, but he was moving slowly. I could only guess how much energy he’d expended controlling the winds and the lightning.

“Get out of here!” he called to us. “Go!”

An arrow sprouted from his left thigh. Jason grunted and stumbled. Above us, more pandai had gathered, despite the threat of severe thunderstorms.

Piper yelled in warning as Caligula charged again. Jason just managed to roll aside. He made a grabbing gesture at the air, and a gust of wind yanked him aloft. Suddenly he sat astride a miniature storm cloud with four funnel clouds for legs and a mane that crackled with lightning—Tempest, his ventus steed.

He rode against Caligula, jousting sword versus spear. Another arrow took Jason in the upper arm.

“I told you this isn’t a game!” yelled Caligula. “You don’t walk away from me alive!”

Below, an explosion rocked the ship. The room split farther apart. Piper staggered, which probably saved her life; three arrows hit the spot where she’d been standing.

Somehow, she pulled me to my feet. I was clutching the Arrow of Dodona, though I had no memory of picking it up. I saw no sign of Crest, or Meg, or even Medea. An arrow sprouted from the toe of my shoe. I was in so much pain already I couldn’t tell if it had pierced my foot or not.