The Tyrant's Tomb

I liked. His gentle big brown eye and his broad smile made him look almost
as cuddly as Frank. Best of all, he had devoted himself to helping Ella the
harpy reconstruct the lost Sibylline Books.
Reconstructing lost prophecy books is always a good way to win a
prophecy god’s heart.
Nevertheless, when Tyson turned to lead us into the bookstore, I had to
suppress a yelp of horror. It looked like he was having the complete works of
Charles Dickens engraved on his back. From his neck to halfway down his
back scrolled line after line of miniature bruised purple script, interrupted
only by streaks of old white scar tissue.
Next to me, Frank whispered, “Don’t.”
I realized I was on the verge of tears. I was having sympathy pains from
the idea of so much tattooing, and from whatever abuse the poor Cyclops
had suffered to get such scars. I wanted to sob, You poor thing! or even give
the bare-chested Cyclops a hug (which would have been a first for me).
Frank was warning me not to make a big deal out of Tyson’s back.
I wiped my eyes and tried to compose myself.
In the middle of the store, Tyson stopped and faced us. He grinned,
spreading his arms with pride. “See? Books!”
He was not lying. From the cashier’s station/information desk at the
center of the room, freestanding shelves radiated in all directions, crammed
with tomes of every size and shape. Two ladders led to a railed balcony, also
wall-to-wall books. Overstuffed reading chairs filled every available corner.
Huge windows offered views of the city aqueduct and the hills beyond. The
sunlight streamed in like warm honey, making the shop feel comfortable and
drowsy.
It would’ve been the perfect place to plop down and leaf through a
relaxing novel, except for that pesky smell of boiling oil and leather. There
was no visible tattoo-parlor equipment, but against the back wall, under a
sign that read SPECIAL COLLECTIONS, a set of thick velvet curtains seemed to
provide access to a back room.
“Very nice,” I said, trying not to make it sound like a question.
“Books!” Tyson repeated. “Because it’s a bookstore!”
“Of course.” I nodded agreeably. “Is this, um, your store?”
Tyson pouted. “No. Sort of. The owner died. In the battle. It was sad.”
“Ah.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “At any rate, it’s good to see you
again, Tyson. You probably don’t recognize me in this form, but—”