The Dark Prophecy

“Hey, you two,” Leo said. “No ancient dialects. Spanish or English, please. Or Machine.”

’s not how long you live that matters. It’s what you live for

“Apollo?” Calypso stood in the doorway.

Next to her, Leo grinned. “We didn’t realize you were arguing with your arrow. Should we come back later?”

Lityerses bowed awkwardly. “My lord.”

Commodus and I spoke in unison. “Yes?”

I thought I looked much more lordly sitting atop my chain-mail elephant, but Lityerses just sneered at me.

“Dear Meg,” I said. “I can’t be sure about Lityerses. But I think we must try. We only fail when we stop trying.”

Shakespeare, don’t bring that

Iambic pentameter

Up in my face, yo

Waystation damaged

Commodus will pay for this

And I don’t take cash

What do we do?” Calypso asked.
“Follow the ghost,” I said.
“What?” Leo yelped.
“We follow the cheese-colored ghost. As you’re always saying: Vaya con queso.”
“That was a joke, ese.”

Besides, dearie, you’re not a god anymore.”
Why did people have to keep reminding me of that?

Calypso jabbed her thumbs into Leo’s kidneys.
“Ow!” he complained.
“I know what the Mist is, Leonidas—”
“Hey, I told you never to call me that.”