“That would be worth waiting for. To take out the entire population of Camp Half-Blood while he destroys the city, all in one terrible firestorm.” I swallowed. “I could just bluff. I could claim reinforcements are coming.”

“No,” Rachel said. “It has to be real. Nero has Python on his side. Python would know.”

I didn’t bother asking her how. The monster might not have been able to see through Rachel’s eyes yet, but I remembered all too well how his voice had sounded speaking through her mouth. They were connected. And that connection was getting stronger.

I was reluctant to consider the details of such an insane plan, but I found myself asking, “How would you alert the camp?”

Rachel gave me a thin smile. “I can use cell phones. I don’t normally carry one, but I’m not a demigod. Assuming I make it back to the surface, where cell phones actually, you know, work, I can buy a cheap one. Chiron has a crappy old computer in the Big House. He hardly ever uses it, but he knows to look for messages or e-mails in emergency situations. I’m pretty sure I can get his attention. Assuming he’s there.”

She sounded so calm, which just made me feel more agitated.

“Rachel, I’m scared,” I admitted. “It was one thing thinking about putting myself in danger. But the entire camp? Everyone?”

Strangely, this comment seemed to please her.

She took my hand. “I know, Apollo. And the fact that you’re worried about other people? That’s beautiful. But you’ll have to trust me. That secret path to the throne…the thing I am supposed to show you? I’m pretty sure this is it. This is how we make things right.”

Make things right.

What would such an ending even look like?

Six months ago, when I first plummeted to Manhattan, the answer had seemed obvious. I would return to Mount Olympus, my immortality restored, and everything would be great. After being Lester for a few more months, I might have added that destroying the Triumvirate and freeing the ancient Oracles would also be good…but mostly because that was the path back to my godhood. Now, after all the sacrifices I had seen, the pain suffered by so many…what could possibly make things right?

No amount of success would bring back Jason, or Dakota, or Don, or Crest, or Money Maker, or Heloise, or the many other heroes who had fallen. We could not undo those tragedies.

Mortals and gods had one thing in common: we were notoriously nostalgic for “the good old days.” We were always looking back to some magical golden time before everything went bad. I remembered sitting with Socrates, back around 425 BCE, and griping to each other about how the younger generations were ruining civilization.

As an immortal, of course, I should have known that there never were any “good old days.” The problems humans face never really change, because mortals bring their own baggage with them. The same is true of gods.

I wanted to go back to a time before all the sacrifices had been made. Before I had experienced so much pain. But making things right could not mean rewinding the clock. Even Kronos hadn’t had that much power over time.

I suspected that wasn’t what Jason Grace would want, either.

When he’d told me to remember being human, he’d meant building on pain and tragedy, overcoming it, learning from it. That was something gods never did. We just complained.

To be human is to move forward, to adapt, to believe in your ability to make things better. That is the only way to make the pain and sacrifice mean something.

I met Rachel’s gaze. “I trust you. I’ll make things right. Or I will die trying.”

The strange thing was, I meant it. A world in which the future was controlled by a giant reptile, where hope was suffocated, where heroes sacrificed their lives for nothing, and pain and hardship could not yield a better life…that seemed much worse than a world without Apollo.

Rachel kissed my cheek—a sisterly gesture, except it was hard to imagine my actual sister Artemis doing that.

“I’m proud of you,” Rachel said. “Whatever happens. Remember that.”

I was tongue-tied.

Meg turned toward us, her hands full of lichen and mushrooms. “Rachel, did you just kiss him? Ew. Why?”

Before Rachel could answer, the chef reappeared at our campsite, his apron and hat splattered with steaming broth. He still had that hungry glint in his eyes. “VISITORS—SQUEAK—come with me! We are ready for the feast!”

MY ADVICE: IF YOU’RE EVER GIVEN A CHOICE between drinking skink soup or serving yourself up as the troglodytes’ main course, just flip a coin. Neither option is survivable.

We sat on cushions around a communal mushroom pit with a hundred or so troglodytes. As barbarian guests, we were each given headwear, so as not to offend our hosts’ sensibilities. Meg wore a beekeeper’s hat. Rachel got a pith helmet. I was given a New York Mets cap because, I was told, no one else wanted it. I found this insulting both to me and the franchise.

Nico and Will sat on Screech-Bling’s right. Nico sported a top hat, which worked well with his black-and-white aesthetic. Will, my poor boy, had been given a lampshade. No respect for the light-bringers of the world.

Sitting to my left was the chef, who introduced himself as Click-Wrong (pronounce the W). His name made me wonder if he’d been an impulse buy for his parents on Cyber Monday, but I thought it would be rude to inquire.

The trog children had the job of serving. A tiny boy in a propeller beanie offered me a black stone cup filled to the brim, then ran away giggling. The soup bubbled a rich golden brown.

“The secret is lots of turmeric,” Click-Wrong confided.

“Ah.” I raised my cup, as everyone else was doing. The trogs began slurping with blissful expressions and many clicks, grrs, and yummy sounds.

The smell was not bad: like tangy chicken broth. Then I spotted a lizard foot floating in the foam, and I just couldn’t.

I pressed my lips to the rim and pretended to sip. I waited for what I thought was a credible amount of time, allowing most of the trogs to finish their portions.

“Mmm!” I said. “Click-Wrong, your culinary skills astound me! Partaking in this soup is a great honor. In fact, having any more of it would be too much of an honor. May I give the rest to someone who can better appreciate the succulent flavors?”

“Me!” shouted a nearby trog.

“Me!” shouted another.

I passed the cup down the circle, where it was soon drained by happy troglodytes.

Click-Wrong did not appear insulted. He patted my shoulder sympathetically. “I remember my first skink. It is a potent soup! You will be able to handle more next time.”

I was glad to hear he thought there would be a next time. It implied we would not be killed this time. Rachel, looking relieved, announced that she, too, was overwhelmed with honor and would be happy to share her portion.

I looked at Meg’s bowl, which was already empty. “Did you actually—?”

“What?” Her expression was unreadable behind the netting of her beekeeper’s hat.

“Nothing.”

My stomach convulsed with a combination of nausea and hunger. I wondered if we would be honored with a second course. Perhaps some breadsticks. Or really anything that wasn’t garnished with skink feet.