Forgotten memories

POLITICS!!????

The trip to San Francisco went... surprisingly smooth. Honestly, I was bracing for a nightmare journey—weeks on the road, monsters every other mile—but nope. We made it in about a week and a half. Way faster than I expected.

The Hunters kept things interesting along the way. Mostly by turning the whole trip into one giant trivia game.
"What's the Roman equivalent of Zeus?"
"What about Artemis? You know her Roman name?"
And on and on and on. I swear, by day three, I was ready to throw myself out of the van just to get a break from the pop quiz.

Eventually, though, we pulled up to this insanely busy interstate, and I just stared around like, Why the hell are we here? Seriously, this was not the secret lair of anything except maybe angry commuters. So, for the twentieth time, I asked Phoebe:

"Are you ever going to tell me what we're doing here?"

As usual, she dodged the question, but I wasn't having it this time. "Do I need to order you to tell me?" I said, narrowing my eyes.

That got her attention. She knew the rules. If I gave a direct order, she'd have to follow it. Her sigh told me she really didn't want to, but the threat was enough.

"Fine," she muttered. "We need to convince the Romans to attack Mount Tam and destroy the palace of the Titans."

I blinked at her. "Uh... I'm sorry, what now?"

Before I could get any clarification, we crossed the interstate and headed toward the base of this mountain. And then I saw it—a door. Just a plain metal door in the rock, like some kind of maintenance tunnel. Only problem? The two guys standing guard.

They weren't your average security guards either. Nope. They were decked out in full-on traditional Roman armor. I'm talking golden spathas on their belts, and spears that looked like they'd been forged out of solid gold. They lowered their weapons as we approached, and for a second I thought things were about to get messy. Then they froze.

I couldn't see their faces clearly under those helmets, but I swear they looked... shocked. Maybe even nervous. They straightened up like they were standing inspection.

When we stopped in front of them, one of the guards—a little older than the other—gulped and spoke. "Diana's Hunters," he said, bowing his head. "It's an honor to grant you passage into our camp."

His gaze shifted to me, and confusion flickered in his eyes. "Is this... a half-blood you want New Rome to put on trial?"

Trial? My brain screeched to a halt. What am I even accused of? Breathing without a permit? I opened my mouth to protest, but Phoebe beat me to it.

"This," she said, voice like steel, "is the ambassador of Diana. We're his escort."

The guards looked at her. Then at me. Then back at her. And then they started laughing.

Like... full-on laughing.

That lasted about three seconds too long. Phoebe's knife flashed out, and suddenly it was pressed against the throat of the guy who'd spoken. I was so stunned I didn't even move.

"Are you saying Lady Diana's actions are funny?" she hissed, eyes blazing.

Instant mood shift. The guards froze, their laughter dying instantly as they shook their heads so fast I thought they might break their necks.

I stepped forward and put a hand on Phoebe's shoulder. "That's enough, Phoebe," I said, my tone calm but firm.

And just like that, she sheathed the knife. I honestly don't know what shocked the guards more—her pulling the blade or the fact that she actually listened to me.