The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan

Captain Underpants

Does not appear in this book

Copyright issues

I WAITED FOR THEsounds of renewed combat outside. The bookstore was so quiet I could almost hear the zombies breathing.

The city remained silent.

“Right about now,” Tarquin repeated, snapping his finger bones again.

“Having communications issues?” Hazel asked.

Tarquin hissed. “What have you done?”

“Me? Nothing yet.” Hazel drew her spatha. “That’s about to change.”

Aristophanes struck first. Of course the cat would make the fight all about him. With an outraged mewl and no apparent provocation, the giant orange tub of fur launched himself at Tarquin’s face, fastening his foreclaws on the skull’s eye sockets and kicking his back feet against Tarquin’s rotten teeth. The king staggered under this surprise assault, screaming in Latin, his words garbled because of the cat paws in his mouth. And so the Battle of the Bookstore began.

Hazel launched herself at Tarquin. Meg seemed to accept that Hazel had first dibs on the big baddie, considering what had happened to Frank, so she concentrated on the zombies instead, using her double blades to stab and hack and push them toward the nonfiction section.

I drew an arrow, intending to shoot the ghoul on the balcony, but my hands trembled too badly. I couldn’t get to my feet. My eyesight was dim and red. On top of all that, I realized I’d drawn the only arrow remaining in my original quiver: the Arrow of Dodona.

HOLDEST THOU ON, APOLLO!the arrow said in my mind. YIELDETH THYSELF NOT TO THE UNDEAD KING!

Through my fog of pain, I wondered if I was going crazy.

“Are you giving me a pep talk?” The idea made me giggle. “Whew, I’m tired.”

I collapsed on my butt.

Meg stepped over me and slashed a zombie who had been about to eat my face.

“Thank you,” I muttered, but she’d already moved on. The ghouls had reluctantly put down their books and were now closing in on her.

Hazel stabbed at Tarquin, who had just flung Aristophanes off his face. The cat yowled as he flew across the room. He managed to catch the edge of a bookshelf and scramble to the top. He glared down at me with his green eyes, his expression implying I meant to do that.

The Arrow of Dodona kept talking in my head: THOU HAST DONE WELL, APOLLO! THOU HAST ONLY ONE JOB NOW: LIVE!

“That’s a really hard job,” I muttered. “I hate my job.”

THOU HAST ONLY TO WAIT! HOLD ON!

“Wait for what?” I murmured. “Hold on to what? Oh…I guess I’m holding on to you.”

YES!the arrow said. YES, DOEST THOU THAT! STAYEST THOU WITH ME, APOLLO. DAREST THOU NOT DIE UPON ME, MAN!

“Isn’t that from a movie?” I asked. “Like…every movie? Wait, you actually care if I die?”

“Apollo!” yelled Meg, slashing at Great Expectations. “If you’re not going to help, could you at least crawl someplace safer?”

I wanted to oblige. I really did. But my legs wouldn’t work.

“Oh, look,” I muttered to no one in particular. “My ankles are turning gray. Oh, wow. My hands are, too.”

NO!said the arrow. HOLD ON!

“For what?”

CONCENTRATE UPON MY VOICE. LET US SING A SONG! THOU LIKEST SONGS, DOST THOU NOT?

“Sweet Caroline!” I warbled.

PERHAPS A DIFFERENT SONG?

“BAHM! BAHM! BAHM!” I continued.

The arrow relented and began singing along with me, though he lagged behind, since he had to translate all the lyrics into Shakespearean language.

This was how I would die: sitting on the floor of a bookstore, turning into a zombie while holding a talking arrow and singing Neil Diamond’s greatest hit. Even the Fates cannot foresee all the wonders the universe has in store for us.

At last my voice dried up. My vision tunneled. The sounds of combat seemed to reach my ears from the ends of long metal tubes.

Meg slashed through the last of Tarquin’s minions. That was a good thing, I thought distantly. I didn’t want her to die, too. Hazel stabbed Tarquin in the chest. The Roman king fell, howling in pain, ripping the sword hilt from Hazel’s grip. He collapsed against the information desk, clutching the blade with his skeletal hands.

Hazel stepped back, waiting for the zombie king to dissolve. Instead, Tarquin struggled to his feet, purple gas flickering weakly in his eye sockets.

“I have lived for millennia,” he snarled. “You could not kill me with a thousand tons of stone, Hazel Levesque. You will not kill me with a sword.”

I thought Hazel might fly at him and rip his skull off with her bare hands. Her rage was so palpable I could smell it like an approaching storm. Wait…I did smell an approaching storm, along with other forest scents: pine needles, morning dew on wildflowers, the breath of hunting dogs.

A large silver wolf licked my face. Lupa? A hallucination? No…a whole pack of the beasts had trotted into the store and were now sniffing the bookshelves and the piles of zombie dust.

Behind them, in the doorway, stood a girl who looked about twelve, her eyes silver-yellow, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed for the hunt in a shimmering gray frock and leggings, a white bow in her hand. Her face was beautiful, serene, and as cold as the winter moon.

She nocked a silver arrow and met Hazel’s eyes, asking permission to finish her kill. Hazel nodded and stepped aside. The young girl aimed at Tarquin.

“Foul undead thing,” she said, her voice hard and bright with power. “When a good woman puts you down, you had best stay down.”

Her arrow lodged in the center of Tarquin’s forehead, splitting his frontal bone. The king stiffened. The tendrils of purple gas sputtered and dissipated. From the arrow’s point of entry, a ripple of fire the color of Christmas tinsel spread across Tarquin’s skull and down his body, disintegrating him utterly. His gold crown, the silver arrow, and Hazel’s sword all dropped to the floor.

I grinned at the newcomer. “Hey, Sis.”

Then I keeled over sideways.

The world turned fluffy, bleached of all color. Nothing hurt anymore.

I was dimly aware of Diana’s face hovering over me, Meg and Hazel peering over the goddess’s shoulders.

“He’s almost gone,” Diana said.

Then I was gone. My mind slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” My sister’s voice woke me rudely.

I’d been so comfortable, so nonexistent.

Life surged back into me—cold, sharp, and unfairly painful. Diana’s face came into focus. She looked annoyed, which seemed on-brand for her.

As for me, I felt surprisingly good. The pain in my gut was gone. My muscles didn’t burn. I could breathe without difficulty. I must have slept for decades.

“H-how long was I out?” I croaked.

“Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.”

She helped me to my feet. I felt a bit unsteady, but I was delighted to find that my legs had any strength at all. My skin was no longer gray. The lines of infection were gone. The Arrow of Dodona was still in my hand, though he had gone silent, perhaps in awe of the goddess’s presence. Or perhaps he was still trying to get the taste of “Sweet Caroline” out of his imaginary mouth.

Meg and Hazel stood nearby, bedraggled but unharmed. Friendly gray wolves milled around them, bumping against their legs and sniffing their shoes, which had obviously been to many interesting places over the course of the day. Aristophanes regarded us all from his perch atop the bookshelf, decided he didn’t care, then went back to cleaning himself.

I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again. “I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion.

She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.”

“I missed you!”

“Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.”

“It worked, then!” I grinned at Hazel and Meg. “It worked!”

“Yeah,” Meg said wearily. “Hi, Artemis.”

“Diana,” my sister corrected. “But hello, Meg.” For her, my sister had a smile. “You’ve done well, young warrior.”

Meg blushed. She kicked at the scattered zombie dust on the floor and shrugged. “Eh.”

I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The bandages had vanished, along with the festering wound. Only a thin white scar remained. “So…I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect.

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.”

“Little brother?”

She smirked, then turned to Hazel. “And you, Centurion. How have you been?”

Hazel was no doubt sore and stiff, but she knelt and bowed her head like a good Roman. “I’m…” She hesitated. Her world had just been shattered. She’d lost Frank. She apparently decided not to lie to the goddess. “I’m heartbroken and exhausted, my lady. But thank you for coming to our aid.”

Diana’s expression softened. “Yes. I know it has been a difficult night. Come, let’s go outside. It’s rather stuffy in here, and it smells like burnt Cyclops.”

The survivors were slowly gathering on the street. Perhaps some instinct had drawn them there, to the place of Tarquin’s defeat. Or perhaps they’d simply come to gawk at the glowing silver chariot with its team of four golden reindeer now parallel-parked in front of the bookshop.

Giant eagles and hunting falcons shared the rooftops. Wolves hobnobbed with Hannibal the elephant and the weaponized unicorns. Legionnaires and citizens of New Rome milled about in shock.

At the end of the street, huddled with a group of survivors, was Thalia Grace, her hand on the shoulder of the legion’s new standard-bearer, comforting the young woman as she cried. Thalia was dressed in her usual black denim, various punk-band buttons gleaming on the lapel of her leather jacket. A silver circlet, the symbol of Artemis’s lieutenant, glinted in her spiky dark hair. Her sunken eyes and slumped shoulders made me suspect that she already knew about Jason’s death—perhaps had known for a while and had gone through a first hard wave of grieving.

I winced with guilt. I should have been the one to deliver the news about Jason. The cowardly part of me felt relieved that I didn’t have to bear the initial brunt of Thalia’s anger. The rest of me felt horrible that I felt relieved.

I needed to go talk to her. Then something caught my eye in the crowd checking out Diana’s chariot. People were packed into its carriage tighter than New Year’s Eve revelers in a stretch limo’s sunroof. Among them was a lanky young woman with pink hair.

From my mouth escaped another completely inappropriate, delighted laugh. “Lavinia?”

She looked over and grinned. “This ride is so cool! I never want to get out.”

Diana smiled. “Well, Lavinia Asimov, if you want to stay on board, you’d have to become a Hunter.”

“Nope!” Lavinia hopped off as if the chariot’s floorboards had become lava. “No offense, my lady, but I like girls too much to take that vow. Like…like them. Not just like them. Like—”

“I understand.” Diana sighed. “Romantic love. It’s a plague.”

“Lavinia, h-how did you…” I stammered. “Where did you—?”

“This young woman,” said Diana, “was responsible for the destruction of the Triumvirate’s fleet.”

“Well, I had a lot of help,” Lavinia said.

“PEACHES!” said a muffled voice from somewhere in the chariot.

He was so short, I hadn’t noticed him before, hidden as he was behind the carriage’s sideboard and the crowd of big folk, but now Peaches squirmed and climbed his way to the top of the railing. He grinned his wicked grin. His diaper sagged. His leafy wings rustled. He beat his chest with his minuscule fists and looked very pleased with himself.

“Peaches!” Meg cried.

“PEACHES!” Peaches agreed, and he flew into Meg’s arms. Never had there been such a bittersweet reunion between a girl and her deciduous fruit spirit. There were tears and laughter, hugs and scratches, and cries of “Peaches!” in every tone from scolding to apologetic to jubilant.

“I don’t understand,” I said, turning to Lavinia. “You made all those mortars malfunction?”

Lavinia looked offended. “Well, yeah. Somebody had to stop the fleet. I did pay attention during siege-weapon class and ship-boarding class. It wasn’t that hard. All it took was a little fancy footwork.”

Hazel finally managed to pick her jaw off the pavement. “Wasn’t that hard?”

“We were motivated! The fauns and dryads did great.” She paused, her expression momentarily clouding, as if she remembered something unpleasant. “Um…besides, the Nereids helped a lot. There was only a skeleton crew aboard each yacht. Not, like, actual skeletons, but—you know what I mean. Also, look!”

She pointed proudly at her feet, which were now adorned with the shoes of Terpsichore from Caligula’s private collection.

“You mounted an amphibious assault on an enemy fleet,” I said, “for a pair of shoes.”

Lavinia huffed. “Not just for the shoes, obviously.” She tap-danced a routine that would’ve made Savion Glover proud. “Also to save the camp, and the nature spirits, and Michael Kahale’s commandos.”

Hazel held up her hands to stop the overflow of information. “Wait. Not to be a killjoy—I mean, you did an amazing thing!—but you still deserted your post, Lavinia. I certainly didn’t give you permission—”

“I was acting on praetor’s orders,” Lavinia said haughtily. “In fact, Reyna helped. She was knocked out for a while, healing, but she woke up in time to instill us with the power of Bellona, right before we boarded those ships. Made us all strong and stealthy and stuff.”

“Reyna?” I yelped. “Where is she?”

“Right here,” called the praetor.

I didn’t know how I’d missed seeing her. She’d been hiding in plain sight among the group of survivors talking with Thalia. I suppose I’d been too focused on Thalia, wondering whether or not she was going to kill me and whether or not I deserved it.

Reyna limped over on crutches, her broken leg now in a full cast covered with signatures like Felipe, Lotoya, and Sneezewart. Considering all she’d been through, Reyna looked great, though she still had a hunk of hair missing from the raven attack, and her maroon sweater wrap was going to need a few days at the magical dry cleaner.

Thalia smiled, watching her friend come toward us. Then Thalia met my eyes, and her smile wavered. Her expression turned bleak. She gave me a curt nod—not hostile, just sad, acknowledging that we had things to talk about later.

Hazel exhaled. “Thank the gods.” She gave Reyna a delicate hug, careful not to unbalance her. “Is it true about Lavinia acting on your orders?”

Reyna glanced at our pink-haired friend. The praetor’s pained expression said something like, I respect you a lot, but I also hate you for being right.

“Yes,” Reyna managed to say. “Plan L was my idea. Lavinia and her friends acted on my orders. They performed heroically.”

Lavinia beamed. “See? I told you.”

The assembled crowd murmured in amazement, as if, after a day full of wonders, they had finally witnessed something that could not be explained.

“There were many heroes today,” Diana said. “And many losses. I’m only sorry that Thalia and I couldn’t get here sooner. We were only able to rendezvous with Lavinia and Reyna’s forces after their raid, then destroy the second wave of undead, who were waiting in the sewers.” She waved dismissively, as if annihilating Tarquin’s main force of ghouls and zombies had been an afterthought.

Gods, I missed being a god.

“You also saved me,” I said. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. Her flesh felt warm and human. I couldn’t remember the last time my sister had shown me such open affection.

“Let’s not celebrate quite yet,” she warned. “You have many wounded to attend to. The camp’s medics have set up tents outside the city. They will need every healer, including you, brother.”

Lavinia grimaced. “And we’ll have to have more funerals. Gods. I wish—”

“Look!” Hazel shrieked, her voice an octave higher than usual.

Arion came trotting up the hill, a hulking human form draped over his back.

“Oh, no.” My heart wilted. I had flashbacks of Tempest, the ventus horse, depositing Jason’s body on the beach in Santa Monica. No, I couldn’t watch. Yet I couldn’t look away.

The body on Arion’s back was unmoving and steaming. Arion stopped and the form slipped off one side. But it did not fall.

Frank Zhang landed on his feet. He turned toward us. His hair was singed to a fine black stubble. His eyebrows were gone. His clothes had completely burned away except for his briefs and his praetor’s cape, giving him a disturbing resemblance to Captain Underpants.

He looked around, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

“Hey, everybody,” he croaked. Then he fell on his face.