The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(11)

Estelle cooed. Paul’s eyes wrinkled around the edges. He tapped her nose. “Boop.”

The baby was stunned for a millisecond. Then she laughed with such glee I worried she might choke on her own spit.

I found myself staring in amazement at Paul and Estelle, who struck me as even greater miracles than Percy’s graduation. Paul seemed like a caring husband, a loving father, a kind stepfather. In my own experience, such a creature was harder to find than an albino unicorn or three-winged griffin.

As for baby Estelle, her good nature and sense of wonder rose to the level of superpowers. If this child grew up to be as perceptive and charismatic as she appeared to be now, she would rule the world. I decided not to tell Zeus about her.

“Paul…” I ventured. “Aren’t you worried about having us here? We might endanger your family.”

The corners of his mouth tightened. “I was at the Battle of Manhattan. I’ve heard about some of the horrible things Sally went through—fighting the Minotaur, being imprisoned in the Underworld. And Percy’s adventures?” He shook his head in respect. “Percy has put himself on the line for us, for his friends, for the world, plenty of times. So, can I risk giving you a place to catch your breath, some fresh clothes, and a hot meal? Yeah, how could I not?”

“You are a good man, Paul Blofis.”

He tilted his head, as if wondering what other kind of man anyone would possibly try to be. “Well, I’ll leave you to get cleaned up and dressed. We don’t want dinner to get burned, do we, Estelle?”

The baby went into a fit of giggles as her father scooped her up and carried her out of the room.

I took my time in the shower. I needed a good scrubbing, yes. But mostly I needed to stand with my forehead against the tiles, shaking and weeping until I felt like I could face other people again.

What was it about kindness? In my time as Lester Papadopoulos, I had learned to stand up under horrendous verbal abuse and constant life-threatening violence, but the smallest act of generosity could ninja-kick me right in the heart and break me into a blubbering mess of emotions.

Darn you, Paul and Sally, and your cute baby, too!

How could I repay them for providing me this temporary refuge? I felt like I owed them the same thing I owed Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-Blood, the Waystation and the Cistern, Piper and Frank and Hazel and Leo and, yes, especially Jason Grace. I owed them everything.

How could I not?

Once I was dressed, I staggered out to the dining area. Everyone was seated around the table except Estelle, who Paul informed me was down for the night. No doubt all that pure joy required a great amount of energy.

Meg wore a new pink smock dress and white leggings. If she cherished these as much as the last outfit Sally had given her, she would end up wearing them until they fell off her body in burned-and-shredded rags. Together with her red high-tops—which thankfully had been well cleaned—she sported a Valentine’s Day color theme that seemed quite out of character, unless you considered her sweetheart to be the mountain of garlic bread she was shoveling into her mouth.

Lu was dressed in an XXL men’s work shirt with ELECTRONICS MEGA-MART stitched over the pocket. She wore a fluffy turquoise towel around her waist like a kilt, because, she informed me, the only other pants in the apartment large enough to fit her were Sally’s old maternity pants and, no thank you, Lu would just wait for hers to get out of the dryer.

Sally and Paul provided us with heaping plates of salad, lasagna, and garlic bread. It wasn’t Sally’s famous seven-layer dip, but it was a family-style feast like I hadn’t experienced since the Waystation. That memory gave me a twinge of melancholy. I wondered how everyone there was doing: Leo, Calypso, Emmie, Jo, little Georgina.…At the time, our trials in Indianapolis had felt like a nightmare, but in retrospect they seemed like happier, simpler days.

Sally Jackson sat down and smiled. “Well, this is nice.” Shockingly, she sounded sincere. “We don’t have guests often. Now, let’s eat, and you can tell us who or what is trying to kill you this time.”





I WISHED WE COULD HAVE HAD REGULAR small talk around the dinner table: the weather, who liked whom at school, which gods were casting plagues on which cities and why. But no, it was always about who was trying to kill me.

I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s appetite, especially since Paul’s savory family-recipe lasagna was making me drool like Estelle. Also, I wasn’t sure I trusted Luguselwa enough to share our whole story.

Meg had no such qualms. She opened up about everything we’d been through—with the exception of the tragic deaths. I was sure she only skipped those to spare Sally and Paul from worrying too much about Percy.

I don’t think I’d ever heard Meg talk as much as she did at Sally and Paul’s dinner table, as if the presence of kindly parental figures had uncorked something inside her.

Meg told them of our battles with Commodus and Caligula. She explained how we had freed four ancient Oracles and had now returned to New York to face the last and most powerful emperor, Nero. Paul and Sally listened intently, interrupting only to express concern or sympathy. When Sally looked at me and said, “You poor dear,” I almost lost it again. I wanted to cry on her shoulder. I wanted Paul to dress me in a yellow onesie and rock me until I feel asleep.

“So, Nero is after you,” Paul said at last. “The Nero. A Roman emperor has set up his evil lair in a Midtown high-rise.”