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The Tyrant's Tomb

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Illustrated Book of Vultures. Another crouched on the balcony above,

happily chewing a leather-bound edition of Great Expectations.

Tarquin himself was too busy to notice our entrance. He stood with his

back to us, at the information desk, yelling at the bookstore cat.

“Answer me, beast!” the king screamed. “Where are the Books?”

Aristophanes sat on the desk, one leg straight up in the air, calmly licking

his nether regions—which, last I checked, was considered impolite in the

presence of royalty.

“I will destroy you!” Tarquin said.

The cat looked up briefly, hissed, then returned to his personal grooming.

“Tarquin, leave him alone!” I shouted, though the cat seemed to need no

help from me.

The king turned, and I immediately remembered why I shouldn’t be near

him. A tidal wave of nausea crashed over me, pushing me to my knees. My

veins burned with poison. My flesh seemed to be turning inside out. None of

the zombies attacked. They just stared at me with their flat dead eyes as if

waiting for me to put on my HELLO, MY NAME USED TO BE name tag and start

mingling.

Tarquin had accessorized for his big night out. He wore a moldy red

cloak over his corroded armor. Gold rings adorned his skeletal fingers. His

golden circlet crown looked newly polished, making it clash nicely with his

rotted cranium. Tendrils of oily purple neon slithered around his limbs,

writhing in and out of his rib cage and circling his neck bones. Since his face

was a skull, I couldn’t tell if he was smiling, but when he spoke, he sounded

pleased to see me.

“Well, good! Killed the emperors, did you, my faithful servant? Speak!”

I had no desire to tell him anything, but a giant invisible hand squeezed

my diaphragm, forcing out the words. “Dead. They’re dead.” I had to bite

my tongue to keep from adding lord.

“Excellent!” Tarquin said. “So many lovely deaths tonight. And the

praetor, Frank—?”

“Don’t.” Hazel shouldered past me. “Tarquin, don’t you dare say his

name.”

“Ha! Dead, then. Excellent.” Tarquin sniffed the air, purple gas scrolling

through his skeletal nose slits. “The city is ripe with fear. Agony. Loss.

Wonderful! Apollo, you’re mine now, of course. I can feel your heart

pumping its last few beats. And Hazel Levesque…I’m afraid you’ll have to

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