The Tyrant's Tomb

“BAHM! BAHM! BAHM!” I continued.
The arrow relented and began singing along with me, though he lagged
behind, since he had to translate all the lyrics into Shakespearean language.
This was how I would die: sitting on the floor of a bookstore, turning
into a zombie while holding a talking arrow and singing Neil Diamond’s
greatest hit. Even the Fates cannot foresee all the wonders the universe has
in store for us.
At last my voice dried up. My vision tunneled. The sounds of combat
seemed to reach my ears from the ends of long metal tubes.
Meg slashed through the last of Tarquin’s minions. That was a good
thing, I thought distantly. I didn’t want her to die, too. Hazel stabbed Tarquin
in the chest. The Roman king fell, howling in pain, ripping the sword hilt
from Hazel’s grip. He collapsed against the information desk, clutching the
blade with his skeletal hands.
Hazel stepped back, waiting for the zombie king to dissolve. Instead,
Tarquin struggled to his feet, purple gas flickering weakly in his eye sockets.
“I have lived for millennia,” he snarled. “You could not kill me with a
thousand tons of stone, Hazel Levesque. You will not kill me with a sword.”
I thought Hazel might fly at him and rip his skull off with her bare hands.
Her rage was so palpable I could smell it like an approaching storm. Wait…I
did smell an approaching storm, along with other forest scents: pine needles,
morning dew on wildflowers, the breath of hunting dogs.
A large silver wolf licked my face. Lupa? A hallucination? No…a whole
pack of the beasts had trotted into the store and were now sniffing the
bookshelves and the piles of zombie dust.
Behind them, in the doorway, stood a girl who looked about twelve, her
eyes silver-yellow, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was
dressed for the hunt in a shimmering gray frock and leggings, a white bow in
her hand. Her face was beautiful, serene, and as cold as the winter moon.
She nocked a silver arrow and met Hazel’s eyes, asking permission to
finish her kill. Hazel nodded and stepped aside. The young girl aimed at
Tarquin.
“Foul undead thing,” she said, her voice hard and bright with power.
“When a good woman puts you down, you had best stay down.”
Her arrow lodged in the center of Tarquin’s forehead, splitting his frontal
bone. The king stiffened. The tendrils of purple gas sputtered and dissipated.
From the arrow’s point of entry, a ripple of fire the color of Christmas tinsel