Meg grabbed my sleeve. “Come on, Lester.”

She led the way through the turnstile to elevator nine. Inside, the stainless-steel box had no buttons. It simply rose on its own as soon as the doors slid closed. One small mercy: no elevator music, just the smooth hum of machinery, as bright and efficient as an industrial-grade meat slicer.

“What should I expect when we get to the top?” I asked Meg.

I imagined the elevator was under surveillance, but I couldn’t help asking. I wanted to hear Meg’s voice. I also wanted to keep her from sinking completely into her own dark thoughts. She was getting that shuttered expression she often had when she thought about her horrible stepfather, as if her brain were shutting down all nonessential services and boarding itself up in preparation for a hurricane.

She pushed her rings back on her middle fingers. “Take whatever you think might happen,” she advised, “and turn it upside down and inside out.”

That was not exactly the reassurance I’d been hoping for. My chest already felt like it was being turned upside down and inside out. I was unnerved to be entering Nero’s lair with two empty quivers and a waterlogged ukulele. I was unnerved that no one had arrested us on sight, and that the security guard had given Meg back her rings, as if a couple of magical scimitars would make absolutely no difference to our fate.

Nevertheless, I straightened my back and squeezed Meg’s hand one more time. “We’ll do what we have to.”

The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped into the imperial antechamber.

“Welcome!”

The young lady who greeted us wore a black business suit, high heels, and an earpiece in her left ear. Her luxurious green hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her face was made up to give her a rosier, more human complexion, but the green tint in her eyes and the points of her ears gave her away as a dryad. “I’m Areca. Before you meet the emperor, can I get you a beverage? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

She spoke with forced cheerfulness. Her eyes said, Help, I’m a hostage!

“Um, I’m good,” I said, a feeble lie. Meg shook her head.

“Great!” Areca lied in return. “Follow me!”

I translated this to mean Run while you can! She hesitated, giving us time to reconsider our life choices. When we did not scream and dive back into the elevator, she guided us toward a set of double golden doors at the end of the hallway.

These opened from within, revealing the loft space/throne room I’d seen in my nightmare.

Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a 360-degree view of Manhattan at sunset. To the west, the sky was bloodred over New Jersey, the Hudson River a glowing purple artery. To the east, the urban canyons filled with shadow. Several varieties of potted trees lined the windows, which struck me as strange. Nero’s decorating taste usually tended more toward gold filigree and severed heads.

Rich Persian rugs made an asymmetrical checkerboard across the hardwood floor. Rows of black marble pillars supported the ceiling, reminding me a bit too much of Kronos’s palace. (He and his Titans had been all about black marble. That was one reason Zeus insisted on Mount Olympus’s strict building codes that kept everything blinding white.)

The room was full of people, carefully positioned, frozen in place, all staring at us as if they’d been practicing on their marks for days and Nero had shrieked only seconds ago, Places, everyone! They’re here! If they started in on a choreographed dance number, I was going to dive through the nearest window.

Lined up on Nero’s left were the eleven young demigods of the Imperial Household, aka the Evil von Trapp children, all wearing their best purple-trimmed togas over fashionably tattered jeans and collared shirts, perhaps because T-shirts were against the dress code when the family welcomed important prisoners to be executed. Many of the older demigods glared at Meg.

On the emperor’s right stood a dozen servants: young ladies with serving trays and drink pitchers; buff young men with palm-frond fans, though the room’s AC was set to Antarctic winter. One young man, who had obviously lost a bet, was massaging the emperor’s feet.

Half a dozen Germani flanked the throne—including Gunther, our buddy from the Acela ride into New York. He studied me, as if imagining all the interesting and painful ways he could remove my head from my shoulders. Next to him, at the emperor’s right hand, stood Luguselwa.

I had to force myself not to sigh with relief. Of course, she looked terrible. Steel braces encased her legs. She had a crutch under each arm. She wore a neck brace as well, and the skin around her eyes was a raccoon mask of bruises. Her mohawk was the only part of her that didn’t appear damaged. But considering that I’d thrown her off a building only three days before, it was remarkable to see her on her feet at all. We needed her for our plan to succeed. Also, if Lu had ended up dying from her injuries, Meg probably would have killed me before Nero got the chance.

The emperor himself lounged on his gaudy purple sofa. He had exchanged his bathrobe for a tunic and traditional Roman toga, which I supposed wasn’t much different from his bed-wear. His golden laurels had been recently polished. His neck beard glistened with oil. If his expression had been any smugger, the entire species of domestic cats would have sued him for plagiarism.

“Your Imperial Majesty!” Our guide, Areca, tried for a cheerful tone, but her voice cracked with fear. “Your guests have arrived!”

Nero shooed her away. Areca hurried to the side of the room and stood by one of the potted plants, which was…Oh, of course. My heart thumped with sympathetic pain. Areca was standing by an areca palm, her life force. The emperor had decorated his throne room with the enslaved: potted dryads.

Next to me, I could actually hear Meg’s teeth grinding. I presumed the dryads were a new addition, maybe put here just to remind Meg who held all the power.

“Well, well!” Nero kicked away the young man who had been giving him a foot massage. “Apollo. I am amazed.”

Luguselwa shifted on her crutches. On her shaved scalp, veins stood out as stiff as tree roots. “You see, my lord? I told you they would come.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” Nero’s voice was heavy and cold. He leaned forward and laced his fingers, his belly bulging against his tunic. I thought of Dionysus staying in a schlubby dad bod as a form of protest against Zeus. I wondered what Nero’s excuse was.

“So, Lester, after all the trouble you’ve caused me, why would you roll over and surrender now?”

I blinked. “You threatened to burn down the city.”

“Oh, come now.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “You and I have both stood by and watched cities burn before. Now, my precious Meg here…” He regarded her with such tender warmth I wanted to vomit on his Persian rug. “I can believe she might want to save a city. She is a fine hero.”

The other demigods of the Imperial Household exchanged disgusted glances. Clearly, Meg was a favorite of Nero’s, which made her an enemy of everyone else in her loving adopted family of sociopaths.

“But, you, Lester,” Nero continued. “No…I can’t believe you’ve turned so noble. We can’t change thousands of years of our nature so quickly, can we? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think it would serve…you.”

He pointed at my sternum. I could almost feel the pressure of his fingertip.