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!”

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 odor 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 cracker 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 favorite 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.”

And at that moment, Meg McCaffrey decided to faint.

I could have told her that swooning in front of an attractive boy was never cool. The strategy hadn’t worked for me once in thousands of years. Nevertheless, being a good friend, I caught her before she could nose-dive into the gravel.

“Oh, poor girl!” Aloe Vera gave Grover another critical look. “She’s exhausted and overheated. Haven’t you let her rest?”

“She’s been asleep all afternoon!”

“Well, she’s dehydrated.” Aloe put her hand on Meg’s forehead. “She needs water.”

Pear sniffed. “Don’t we all.”

“Take her to the Cistern,” Al said. “Mellie should be awake by now. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Grover perked up. “Mellie’s here? They made it?”

“They arrived this morning,” said Joshua.

“What about the search parties?” Grover pressed. “Any word?”

The dryads exchanged troubled glances.

“The news isn’t good,” Joshua said. “Only one group has come back so far, and—”

“Excuse me,” I pleaded. “I have no idea what any of you are talking about, but Meg is heavy. Where should I put her?”

Grover stirred. “Right. Sorry, I’ll show you.” He draped Meg’s left arm over his shoulders, taking half her weight. Then he faced the dryads. “Guys, how about we all meet at the Cistern for dinner? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Joshua nodded. “I’ll alert the other greenhouses. And, Grover, you promised us enchiladas. Three days ago.”

“I know.” Grover sighed. “I’ll get more.”

Together, the two of us lugged Meg out of the greenhouse.

As we dragged her across the hillside, I asked Grover my most burning question: “Dryads eat enchiladas?”

He looked offended. “Of course! You expect them just to eat fertilizer?”

“Well…yes.”

“Stereotyping,” he muttered.

I decided that was my cue to change the subject.

“Did I imagine it,” I asked, “or did Meg faint because she heard the name of this place? Aeithales. That’s ancient Greek for evergreen, if I recall correctly.”

It seemed an odd name for a place in the desert. Then again, no odder than dryads eating enchiladas.

“We found the name carved into the old doorsill,” Grover said. “There’s a lot we don’t know about the ruins, but like I said, this site has a lot of nature energy. Whoever lived here and started the greenhouses…they knew what they were doing.”

I wished I could say the same. “Weren’t the dryads born in those greenhouses? Don’t they know who planted them?”

“Most were too young when the house burned down,” Grover said. “Some of the older plants might know more, but they’ve gone dormant. Or”—he nodded toward the destroyed greenhouses—“they’re no longer with us.”

We observed a moment of silence for the departed succulents.