The Tyrant's Tomb

his life force to a small piece of wood, which I’d heard Frank now carried
around with him at all times. If the wood burned up, so did Frank. Such a
typical controlling Hera thing to do: I love you and you’re my special hero,
and also here’s a stick—when it burns you die HA-HA-HA-HA-HA. I disliked
that woman.
Ella ruffled her feathers, providing Aristophanes with lots of new targets
to play with. “Fire with…something, something bridge. Twice something,
something…Hmm, nope. That’s later. Need more words. Tyson needs a
tattoo.”
“Yay!” said Tyson. “Can you also do a picture of Rainbow? He’s my
friend! He’s a fish pony!”
“A rainbow is white light,” Ella said. “Refracted through water droplets.”
“Also a fish pony!” Tyson said.
“Hmph,” said Ella.
I got the feeling I had just witnessed the closest the harpy and Cyclops
ever came to having an argument.
“You two can go.” Ella brushed us away. “Come back tomorrow. Maybe
three days. ‘Eight Days a Week,’ Beatles. First UK release, 1964. Not sure
yet.”
I was about to protest that we had only four days before Caligula’s yachts
arrived and Camp Jupiter suffered another onslaught of destruction, but
Frank stopped me with a touch on the arm. “We should go. Let her work. It’s
almost time for evening muster anyway.”
After the mention of firewood, I got the feeling he would have used any
faun-level excuse to get out of that bookstore.
My last glimpse of the special-collections room was Ella holding her
tattoo gun, etching steaming words on Tyson’s back while the Cyclops
giggled, “IT TICKLES!” and Aristophanes used the harpy’s rough leather
legs as scratching posts.
Some images, like Cyclops tattoos, are permanent once burned onto your
brain.
Frank hustled us back to camp as fast as my wounded gut would tolerate.
I wanted to ask him about Ella’s comments, but Frank wasn’t in a
talkative mood. Every so often his hand strayed to the side of his belt, where
a cloth pouch hung tucked behind his scabbard. I hadn’t noticed it before,