The Tyrant's Tomb

“Thanks,” I grumbled.
Frank shifted his weight, suddenly looking self-conscious about his own
writing surfaces. “Ella says it’s the only way she can record the words in the
right order,” he explained. “On living skin.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. In the last few months, I’d sorted out
prophecies by listening to the insane voices of trees, hallucinating in a dark
cave, and racing across a fiery crossword puzzle. By comparison, assembling
a manuscript on a Cyclops’s back sounded downright civilized.
“But…how far have you gotten?” I asked.
“The first lumbar,” Ella said.
She showed no sign that she was joking.
Facedown on his torture bed, Tyson paddled his feet excitedly.
“READY! Oh, boy! Tattoos tickle!”
“Ella,” I tried again, “what I mean is: Have you found anything useful for
us concerning—oh, I don’t know—threats in the next four days? Frank said
you had a lead?”
“Yep, found the tomb.” She poked my love handles again. “Death, death,
death. Lots of death.”