The Dark Prophecy by Rick Riordan
Pancakes for the road
Need a guide for your journey?
Check the tomatoes
THE NEXT MORNING,Meg kicked me awake. “Time to get going.”
My eyelids fluttered open. I sat up, groaning. When you are the sun god, it’s a rare treat to be able to sleep late. Now here I was, a mere mortal, and people kept waking me up at the crack of dawn. I’d spent millennia being the crack of dawn. I was tired of it.
Meg stood at my bedside in her pajamas and red high-tops (good gods, did she sleep in them?), her nose running as always, and a half-eaten green apple in her hand.
“I don’t suppose you brought me breakfast?” I asked.
“I can throw this apple at you.”
“Never mind. I’ll get up.”
Meg went off to take a shower. Yes, sometimes she actually did that. I dressed and packed as best I could, then headed to the kitchen.
While I ate my pancakes (yum), Emmie hummed and banged around in the kitchen. Georgina sat across from me coloring pictures, her heels kicking against her chair legs. Josephine stood at her welding station, happily fusing plates of sheet metal. Calypso and Leo—who refused to say good-bye to me on the assumption that we would all see each other soon—stood at the kitchen counter, arguing about what Leo should pack for his trip to Camp Jupiter and throwing bacon at each other. It all felt so cozy and homey, I wanted to volunteer to wash dishes if it meant getting to stay another day.
Lityerses sat down next to me with a large cup of coffee. His battle wounds had been mostly patched up, though his face still looked like the runway system at Heathrow Airport.
“I’ll watch after them.” He gestured at Georgina and her mothers.
I doubted Josephine or Emmie wanted to be “watched after,” but I did not point that out to Lityerses. He would have to learn on his own how to adapt to this environment. Even I, the glorious Apollo, sometimes had to discover new things.
“I’m sure you’ll do well here,” I said. “I trust you.”
He laughed bitterly. “I don’t see why.”
“We share common ground—we’re both sons of overbearing fathers, and we’ve been misled and burdened by bad choices, but we’re talented in our chosen ways.”
“And good-looking?” He gave me a twisted smile.
“Naturally that. Yes.”
He cupped his hands around his coffee. “Thank you. For the second chance.”
“I believe in them. And third and fourth chances. But I only forgive each person once a millennium, so don’t mess up for the next thousand years.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
Behind him, in the nearest hallway, I saw a flicker of ghostly orange light. I excused myself and went to say another difficult good-bye.
Agamethus hovered in front of a window overlooking the roundabout. His glowing tunic rippled in an ethereal wind. He pressed one hand against the windowsill as if holding himself in place. His other hand held the Magic 8 Ball.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” I said.
He had no face to read, but his posture seemed sad and resigned.
“You know what happened at the Cave of Trophonius,” I guessed. “You know he is gone.”
He bowed in acknowledgement.
“Your brother asked me to tell you he loves you,” I said. “He is sorry about your fate.
“I want to apologize, too. When you died, I did not listen to Trophonius’s prayer to save you. I felt you two deserved to face the consequences of that robbery. But this…this has been a very long punishment. Perhaps too long.”
The ghost did not respond. His form flickered as if the ethereal wind was strengthening, pulling him away.
“If you wish,” I said, “when I attain my godhood again, I will personally visit the Underworld. I will petition Hades to let your soul pass on to Elysium.”
Agamethus offered me his 8 Ball.
“Ah.” I took the sphere and shook it one last time. “What is your wish, Agamethus?”
The answer floated up through the water, a dense block of words on the small white die face: I WILL GO WHERE I MUST. I WILL FIND TROPHONIUS. TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER, AS MY BROTHER AND I COULD NOT.
He released his grip on the windowsill. The wind took him, and Agamethus dissolved into motes in the sunlight.
The sun had risen by the time I joined Meg McCaffrey on the roof of the Waystation.
She wore the green dress Sally Jackson had given her, as well as her yellow leggings, now mended and clean. All the mud and guano had been scrubbed from her high-tops. On either side of her face, rainbow-colored pipe cleaners twisted through her hair—no doubt a parting fashion gift from Georgina.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
Meg crossed her arms and stared at Hemithea’s tomato patch. “Yeah. Okay.”
By which I think she meant: I just went insane and spewed prophecies and almost died. How are you asking me this question and expecting me not to punch you?
“So…what is your plan?” I asked. “Why the roof? If we are seeking the Labyrinth, shouldn’t we be on the ground floor?”
“We need a satyr.”
“Yes, but…” I looked around. I saw no goat men growing in any of Emmie’s planting beds. “How do you intend—?”
“Shhh.”
She crouched next to the tomato plants and pressed her hand against the dirt. The soil rumbled and began to heave upward. For a moment, I feared a new karpos might burst forth with glowing red eyes and a vocabulary that consisted entirely of Tomatoes!
Instead, the plants parted. The dirt rolled away, revealing the form of a young man sleeping on his side. He looked about seventeen, perhaps younger. He wore a black collarless jacket over a green shirt, and jeans much too baggy for his legs. Over his curly hair flopped a red knit cap. A scruffy goatee clung to his chin. At the tops of his sneakers, his ankles were covered in thick brown fur. Either this young man enjoyed shag-carpet socks, or he was a satyr passing for human.
He looked vaguely familiar. Then I noticed what he cradled in his arms—a white paper food bag from Enchiladas del Rey. Ah, yes. The satyr who enjoyed enchiladas. It had been a few years, but I remembered him now.
I turned to Meg in amazement. “This is one of the more important satyrs, a Lord of the Wild, in fact. How did you find him?”
She shrugged. “I just searched for the right satyr. Guess that’s him.”
The satyr woke with a start. “I didn’t eat them!” he yelped. “I was just…” He blinked and sat up, a stream of potting soil trickling from his cap. “Wait…this isn’t Palm Springs. Where am I?”
I smiled. “Hello, Grover Underwood. I am Apollo. This is Meg. And you, my lucky friend, have been summoned to lead us through the Labyrinth.”
