The Cult of Dionysus

Apollo

At least I don't have to clean toilets.

I spend the afternoon in the griffin roost, playing music for Heloise to keep her calm while she lays her egg. She enjoys Adele and Joni Mitchell, which strains my human vocal cords considerably, but she has no use for my impersonation of Elvis Presley. Griffin musical tastes are a mystery.

Once, I spot Calypso, Calli, and Leo down in the great hall, walking with Emmie, the four of them deep in conversation. Several times I see Agamethus float through the hall, wringing his hands. I try not to think about his Magic 8 Ball message: WE CANNOT REMAIN, which is neither cheerful nor helpful when one is trying to provide egg-laying mood music. About an hour into my second set, Jo resumes the manufacture of her tracking device in the workshop, which necessitates me finding tunes that go well with the sound of a welding torch. Fortunately, Heloise enjoys Patti Smith.

The only person I don't see during the afternoon is Meg. I assume she's on the roof, making the garden grow at five times its normal rate. Occasionally I glance up, wondering when the roof might collapse and bury me in rutabagas.

By dinnertime, my fingers are blistered from playing my combat ukulele. My throat feels like Death Valley. However, Heloise is clucking contentedly on top of her newly laid egg.

I feel surprisingly better. Music and healing, after all, are not so different. I wonder if Jo sent me to the roost for my own good as well as Heloise's. Those Waystation women are tricky.

That night I sleep like the dead—the actual dead, not the restless, headless, glowing orange variety. By first light, armed with Emmie's directions to the Canal Walk, Meg, Leo, Calli, and I are ready to navigate the streets of Indianapolis.

Before we leave, Josephine pulls me aside. "Wish I was going with you, Sunny. I'll do my best to train your friend Calypso this morning, see if she can regain control over her magic. While you're gone, I'll feel better if you wear this."

She hands me an iron shackle.

I study her face, but she doesn't seem to be joking. "This is a griffin manacle," I say.

"No! I would never make a griffin wear a manacle."

"Yet you're giving me one. Don't prisoners wear these for house arrest?"

"That's not what it's for. This is the tracking device I've been working on."

She presses a small indentation on the rim of the shackle. With a click, metallic wings extend from either side, buzzing at hummingbird frequency. The shackle almost leaps out of my hands.

"Oh, no," I protest. "Don't ask me to wear flying apparel. Hermes tricked me into wearing his shoes once. I took a nap in a hammock in Athens and woke up in Argentina. Never again."

Jo switches off the wings. "You don't have to fly. The idea was to make two ankle bracelets, but I didn't have time. I was going to send them off to"—she pauses, clearly trying to control her emotions—"to find Georgina and bring her home. Since I can't do that, if you get in trouble, if you find her..." Jo points to a second indentation on the manacle. "This activates the homing beacon. It'll tell me where you are, and you'd better believe we'll send reinforcements."

I don't know how Josephine would accomplish that. They don't have much of a cavalry. I also don't want to wear a tracking device on general principle. It goes against the very nature of being Apollo. I should always be the most obvious, most brilliant source of light in the world. If you have to search for me, something is wrong.

Then again, Josephine is giving me that look my mother, Leto, always pulled when she was afraid I'd forgotten to write her a new song for Mother's Day. (It's kind of a tradition. And yes, I am a wonderful son, thanks.)