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

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.”

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

Calypso grumbled in ancient Minoan, “I already said that.”
“Well, excuse me, sorceress!” I replied in the same language. “Perhaps if you had helpful visions, I’d listen to you more often!”
Calypso called me a few names that reminded me how colorful the Minoan language had been before it went extinct.

“GPS?” Calypso asked.
“Godly positioning systems.”
“That’s not a real thing!”
“Guys, cool it.” Leo patted the dragon’s neck. “Apollo, just try, will you? Does this look like the city you dreamed about or not?”