The Tower of Nero: Chapters 23–31

My stomach clenched, and I retched up...well, whatever ethereal spirit-stuff one can retch in the dream world.

By killing Commodus and Caligula, I had consolidated all the power of the Triumvirate into the fasces of Nero.

He had the shaggy-maned visage of a lion, ears rimmed with black fur, mouth open to reveal fangs and a panting red tongue.

Full disclosure: I also hated my plan.

The words hung in the air like cigar smoke—cloying and suffocating.

Gunther’s face turned a mottled red.

He didn’t notice the salve I’d slathered across the threshold—and let me assure you, Will Solace’s burn ointment is slippery stuff.

But now, after knowing Lu, I wondered how many of these Germani really wanted to serve Nero, and how many had been conscripted into his service with no choice.

Kill this fool.
We gods bandied about statements like that all the time, but we never gave thought to the cost.

The Chinese-food contingent tried to extract themselves from their sofa.

In my mind, the maneuver had seemed so simple: I would glide effortlessly across the floor, avoiding Leader Guy’s thrust, veering between his legs as I fired at multiple targets from a supine position.

I was loath to harm hapless mortals (wow, I really wrote that sentence), but I had to keep these guys away from the naughty buttons that would destroy New York.

I was loath to harm hapless mortals (wow, I really wrote that sentence), but I had to keep these guys away from the naughty buttons that would destroy New York.

“No, we’re good now,” announced Tech #1. “Readings are nominal.”

Our friends from camp were engaged in close-quarters fighting with dozens of Nero’s forces: a few of the older demigod kids from Nero’s Imperial Household, a squad of Germani, mortal security guards, and even a few cynocephali—wolf-headed warriors with nasty claws and rabid, slavering mouths.

“Come, sisters!” cried a ficus spirit, brandishing a pointy stick. “We have nothing to lose but our potting soil!”

She propped me in the only intact chaise longue and began rummaging through her med pack.

I started to giggle again, though what was left of my common sense whispered, Stop it. Stop it. This is not funny.
Kayla frowned, clearly worried by my mirth.

Immediately, I realized what she was giving me and why: Mountain Dew, the glowing-lime-green elixir of perfect sobriety. I don’t know what effect it has on mortals, but ask any supernatural entity and they will tell you, Mountain Dew’s combination of sweetness, caffeine, and otherworldly je-ne-sais-quoi-peut-être-radioactif taste is enough to bring complete focus and seriousness to any god.

Under different circumstances, it might have been a lovely place for a dinner party: a table big enough for twenty guests, a Tiffany chandelier, a huge marble fireplace, and wood-paneled walls with niches for marble busts—each depicting the face of the same Roman emperor.

Finding himself right next to the bull’s head, he yelped, “Whoa!” then let loose a dissonant squeak-blatt on the sax that would have made Coltrane proud.

As Kayla mustered the younger demigods and began shooting arrows to goad the bull into following her, Austin hustled me through a side door.

I’ve always thought you can judge the quality of a villain by his elevator music. Easy listening? Pedestrian villainy with no imagination.

Smooth jazz? Devious villainy with an inferiority complex.

The guests gave her a polite smattering of applause.

How could someone twist the truth with such brazenness, telling you the exact opposite of what was clear and obvious, and still sound like they believed what they were saying?

How could you defend against lies that were so blatant and brash they should have required no challenge?

The wolf-headed men did not touch her, but they walked beside her in such a tight orbit they reminded me of sheepdogs herding a wayward lamb.

“Lester, it’s a shame you ruined our fireworks display. We could have been down in the parlor right now with our guests, watching a lovely sunset as the city burned. We could’ve had canapés and cake. But no matter. We still have so much to celebrate! Meg is home!”

“Perhaps you’re right, Meg,” he conceded.

A storm of allergens exploded from Meg’s body, as if she’d released an entire season of oak pollen in a single blast. Verdant dust coated the throne room—Nero, his couch, his guards, his rugs, his windows, his children.

I imagined her putting down her own roots, mooring herself in place.

I turned to see the impenetrable blast doors lying twisted and broken, a strangely emaciated red bull standing in the breach.

Meg tugged at my arm, shaking me from my stupor.

Unfortunately, the grizzled lieutenant seemed much better at mustering his forces than he was at delivering remote controls.

I fumbled for my ukulele, desperately reviewing my repertoire for a song that would produce a stunning reversal of fortunes.

From behind Luguselwa, a smaller figure emerged: Screech-Bling, CEO of Troglodyte Inc., festooned with six new hats atop his tricorn.

Lu sliced and poked and parried with her knife hands.

I stood my ground, but Nero hurtled backward and landed on the carpet, his clothes smoldering, his skin mottled with burns.

My family, such as they were, sat watching a holographic image that floated above the flames.