The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,3

our enemies before they killed Meg and me. Zero. My odds of cowering in fear behind a chair while Meg took care of both of them? Slightly better, but still not great.

I made my way down the aisle, my knees wobbling. The mortal passengers frowned as I passed. As near as I could figure, they thought my shriek had been a disturbance unworthy of the quiet car, and the conductor was now calling me out. The fact that the conductor wielded a crossbow and had just killed a two-headed serpentine commuter did not seem to register with them.

I reached my row and glanced at Meg, partly to make sure she was all right, partly because I was curious why she hadn’t attacked. Just holding a sword to Meg’s throat was normally not enough to discourage her.

She was staring in shock at the Gaul. “Luguselwa?”

The woman nodded curtly, which told me two horrifying things: First, Meg knew her. Second, Luguselwa was her name. As she regarded Meg, the fierceness in the Gaul’s eyes dialed back a few notches, from I am going to kill everyone now to I am going to kill everyone soon.

“Yes, Sapling,” said the Gaul. “Now put away your weapons before Gunther is obliged to chop off your head.”

THE SWORD-WIELDER LOOKED DELIGHTED. “Chop off head?”

His name, GUNTHER, was printed on an Amtrak name tag he wore over his armor—his only concession to being in disguise.

“Not yet.” Luguselwa kept her eyes on us. “As you can see, Gunther loves decapitating people, so let’s play nice. Come along—”

“Lu,” Meg said. “Why?”

When it came to expressing hurt, Meg’s voice was a fine-tuned instrument. I’d heard her mourn the deaths of our friends. I’d heard her describe her father’s murder. I’d heard her rage against her foster father, Nero, who had killed her dad and twisted her mind with years of emotional abuse.

But when addressing Luguselwa, Meg’s voice played in an entirely different key. She sounded as if her best friend had just dismembered her favorite doll for no reason and without warning. She sounded hurt, confused, incredulous—as if, in a life full of indignities, this was one indignity she never could have anticipated.

Lu’s jaw muscles tightened. Veins bulged on her temples. I couldn’t tell if she was angry, feeling guilty, or showing us her warm-and-fuzzy side.

“Do you remember what I taught you about duty, Sapling?”

Meg gulped back a sob.

“Do you?” Lu said, her voice sharper.

“Yes,” Meg whispered.

“Then get your things and come along.” Lu pushed Gunther’s sword away from Meg’s neck.

The big man grumbled “Hmph,” which I assumed was Germanic for I never get to have any fun.

Looking bewildered, Meg rose and opened the overhead compartment. I couldn’t understand why she was going along so passively with Luguselwa’s orders. We’d fought against worse odds. Who was this Gaul?

“That’s it?” I whispered as Meg passed me my backpack. “We’re giving up?”

“Lester,” Meg muttered, “just do what I say.”

I shouldered my pack, my bow and quiver. Meg fastened her gardening belt around her waist. Lu and Gunther did not look concerned that I was now armed with arrows and Meg with an ample supply of heirloom-vegetable seeds. As we got our gear in order, the mortal passengers gave us annoyed looks, but no one shushed us, probably because they did not want to anger the two large conductors escorting us out.

“This way.” Lu pointed with her crossbow to the exit behind her. “The others are waiting.”

The others?

I did not want to meet any more Gauls or Gunthers, but Meg followed Lu meekly through the Plexiglas double doors. I went next, Gunther breathing down my neck behind me, probably contemplating how easy it would be to separate my head from my body.

A gangway connected our car to the next: a loud, lurching hallway with automatic double doors on either end, a closet-size restroom in one corner, and exterior doors to port and starboard. I considered throwing myself out one of these exits and hoping for the best, but I feared “the best” would mean dying on impact with the ground. It was pitch-black outside. Judging from the rumble of the corrugated steel panels beneath my feet, I guessed the train was going well over a hundred miles an hour.

Through the far set of Plexiglas doors, I spied the café car: a grim concession counter, a row of booths, and a half dozen large men milling around—more Germani. Nothing good was going to happen in there. If Meg and I were going to make a