The Tyrant's Tomb

more comfortable. (Yes, I am sure. I did some research on Folsom Prison
with Johnny Cash. Long story.)
“The coffee shop is downstairs,” Meg clarified. “This is Bombilo’s spare
room.”
I remembered the two-headed, green-aproned barista who had scowled at
us on the Via Praetoria. I wondered why he would’ve been kind enough to
give us lodging, and why, of all places, the legion had decided to put us here.
“Why, exactly—?”
“Lemurian spice,” Meg said. “Bombilo had the nearest supply. The
healers needed it for your wound.”
She shrugged, like, Healers, what can you do? Then she went back to
planting iris bulbs.
I sniffed at my bandages. One of the scents I detected was indeed
Lemurian spice. Effective stuff against the undead, though the Lemurian
Festival wasn’t until June, and it was barely April…. Ah, no wonder we’d
ended up in the coffee shop. Every year, retailers seemed to start Lemurian
season earlier and earlier—Lemurian-spice lattes, Lemurian-spice muffins—
as if we couldn’t wait to celebrate the season of exorcising evil spirits with
pastries that tasted faintly of lima beans and grave dust. Yum.
What else did I smell in that healing balm…crocus, myrrh, unicorn-horn
shavings? Oh, these Roman healers were good. Then why didn’t I feel
better?
“They didn’t want to move you too many times,” Meg said. “So we just
kind of stayed here. It’s okay. Bathroom downstairs. And free coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“I do now.”
I shuddered. “A caffeinated Meg. Just what I need. How long have I
been out?”
“Day and a half.”
“What?!”
“You needed sleep. Also, you’re less annoying unconscious.”
I didn’t have the energy for a proper retort. I rubbed the gunk out of my
eyes, then I forced myself to sit up, fighting down the pain and nausea.
Meg studied me with concern, which must have meant I looked even
worse than I felt.
“How bad?” she asked.