I feared the sun might look that hostile for the rest of eternity if Caligula became the new solar god…but no, I couldn’t think like that.

If Caligula came into possession of the sun chariot, there was no telling what horrible things he would do to trick out his new ride: sequencers, under-carriage lighting, a horn that played the riff from “Low Rider”…Some things could not be tolerated.

I sat in the backseat with Crest and did my best to teach him basic ukulele chords. He was a quick learner, despite the size of his hands, but he grew impatient with the major chords and wanted to learn more exotic combinations.

“Show me the suspended fourth again,” he said. “I like that.”

Of course he would like the most unresolved chords.

“We should buy you a large guitar,” I urged once more. “Or even a lute.”

“You play ukulele,” he said. “I will play ukulele.”

Why did I always attract such stubborn companions? Was it my winning, easygoing personality? I didn’t know.

When Crest concentrated, his expression reminded me strangely of Meg’s—such a young face, yet so intent and serious, as if the fate of the world depended on this chord being played correctly, this packet of seeds being planted, this bag of rotten produce being thrown into the face of this particular street thug.

Why that similarity should make me fond of Crest, I wasn’t sure, but it struck me how much he had lost since yesterday—his job, his uncle, almost his life—and how much he had risked coming with us.

“I never said how sorry I was,” I ventured, “about your Uncle Amax.”

Crest sniffed the ukulele fret board. “Why would you be sorry? Why would I?”

“Uh…It’s just, you know, an expression of courtesy…when you kill someone’s relatives.”

“I never liked him,” Crest said. “My mother sent me to him, said he would make me a real pandos warrior.” He strummed his chord but got a diminished seventh by mistake. He looked pleased with himself. “I do not want to be a warrior. What is your job?”

“Er, well, I’m the god of music.”

“Then that is what I shall be. A god of music.”

Meg glanced back and smirked.

I tried to give Crest an encouraging smile, but I hoped he would not ask to flay me alive and consume my essence. I already had a waiting list for that. “Well, let’s master these chords first, shall we?”

We traced our way north of LA, through San Bernardino, then Pasadena. I found myself gazing up at the hills where we’d visited the Edgarton School. I wondered what the faculty would do when they found Jason Grace missing, and when they discovered that their school van had been commandeered and abandoned at the Santa Barbara waterfront. I thought of Jason’s diorama of Temple Hill on his desk, the sketchbooks that waited on his shelf. It seemed unlikely I would live long enough to keep my promise to him, to bring his plans safely to the two camps. The thought of failing him yet again hurt my heart even worse than Crest’s attempt at a G-flat minor 6.

Finally Crest directed us south on Interstate 5, toward the city. We took the Crystal Springs Drive exit and plunged into Griffith Park with its winding roads, rolling golf courses, and thick groves of eucalyptus.

“Farther,” Crest said. “The second right. Up that hill.”

He guided us onto a gravel service road not designed for a Mercedes XLS.

“It’s up there.” Crest pointed into the woods. “We must walk.”

Grover pulled over next to a stand of yuccas, who for all I knew were friends of his. He checked out the trailhead, where a small sign read OLD LOS ANGELES ZOO.

“I know this place.” Grover’s goatee quivered. “I hate this place. Why would you bring us here?”

“Told you,” Crest said. “Maze entrance.”

“But…” Grover gulped, no doubt weighing his natural aversion to places that caged animals against his desire to destroy the Burning Maze. “All right.”

Meg seemed happy enough, all things considered. She breathed in the what-passed-in-LA-for-fresh air and even did a few tentative cartwheels as we made our way up the trail.

We climbed to the top of the ridge. Below us spread the ruins of a zoo—overgrown sidewalks, crumbling cement walls, rusty cages, and man-made caves filled with debris.

Grover hugged himself, shivering despite the heat. “The humans abandoned this place decades ago when they built their new zoo. I can still feel the emotions of the animals that were kept here—their sadness. It’s horrible.”

“Down here!” Crest spread his ears and sailed over the ruins, landing in a deep grotto.

Not having flight-worthy ears, the rest of us had to pick and climb our way through the tangled terrain. At last we joined Crest at the bottom of a grimy cement bowl covered with dried leaves and litter.

“A bear pit?” Grover turned pale. “Ugh. Poor bears.”

Crest pressed his eight-fingered hands against the back wall of the enclosure. He scowled. “This is not right. It should be here.”

My spirits sank to a new low. “You mean your secret entrance is gone?”

Crest hissed in frustration. “I should not have mentioned this place to Screamer. Amax must have heard us talking. He sealed it somehow.”

I was tempted to point out that it was never a good idea to share your secrets with someone named Screamer, but Crest looked like he felt bad enough already.

“What now?” Meg asked. “Use the downtown exit?”

“Too dangerous,” Crest said. “There must be a way to open this!”

Grover was so twitchy I wondered if he had a squirrel in his pants. He looked like he wanted very much to give up and run from this zoo as fast as possible. Instead, he sighed. “What did the prophecy say about your cloven guide?”

“That you alone knew the way,” I recalled. “But you already served that purpose getting us to Palm Springs.”

Reluctantly, Grover pulled out his pipes. “I guess I’m not done yet.”

“A song of opening?” I asked. “Like Hedge used in Macro’s store?”

Grover nodded. “I haven’t tried this in a while. Last time, I opened a path from Central Park into the Underworld.”

“Just get us into the maze, please,” I advised. “Not the Underworld.”

He raised his pipes and trilled Rush’s “Tom Sawyer.” Crest looked entranced. Meg covered her ears.

The cement wall shook. It cracked down the middle, revealing a steep set of rough-hewn stairs leading down into the dark.

“Perfect,” Grover grumbled. “I hate the underground almost as much as I hate zoos.”

Meg summoned her blades. She marched inside. After a deep breath, Grover followed.

I turned to Crest. “Are you coming with us?”

He shook his head. “I told you. I’m no fighter. I will watch the exit and practice my chords.”

“But I might need the uku—”

“I will practice my chords,” he insisted, and began strumming a suspended fourth.

I followed my friends into the dark, that chord still playing behind me—exactly the sort of tense background music one might expect just before a dramatic, bloodcurdling fight.