Immortal Lycanthropes

chapter 2.


We stayed two days in that flea trap. We talked about literature, the secret history, all the things that Myron had seen. There was so much to teach him. Even the simple things everyone else already knew—that it was easier to murder one of us than a human, because humans left behind a body, while we just turned into an animal corpse, and who paid attention to those?; that mixing candy corns and cheese crackers made a tasty snack; that we, as immortals, were completely sterile—he knew none of it. And he was in seventh heaven, being cooped up in a room with his hero. His hero, a typewriter, and room service. I would be surprised if he ever had a better time in his life—in his life that he could remember, I mean.

It was only two days, but in my memory it stretches out to weeks. In my memory I pretend we had no car, and we walked across the western states, sleeping under the stars.

All those two days I kept taking notes about Myron and his odyssey. We could have stayed longer—I could have extracted from Myron all those colorful little details that lend a degree of verisimilitude to a narrative—except that after a complimentary continental breakfast we went for a stroll around the bleak and arid grounds. There in the chill air, reclining near an empty pool, was a dark-haired woman in a lime bikini. I didn’t recognize her with the sunglasses and the dye job, but she said hello, and I knew we were doomed.

I tipped my hat politely and hurried Myron away. He wanted to know who it was, of course.

“That was the Baroness von Everblum, and it’s not her I’m worried about—it’s her husband and twin brother.”

“What? Ew!”

We had hustled into the lobby and were headed back to our room. “The Baron von Everblum is the worst gossip I’ve ever met. He also can’t stop talking about how the two of them found the nagbu-thorn, and how it grants them eternal youth, which is really annoying. They’re thirty-five and they look twenty-seven, big deal—it’s just not that impressive!”

“Are they alchemists?”

“No, they’re no one, they’re just in the scene.”

And just as we turned a corner, there was the baron, dressed in plaid shorts and a pink polo shirt. His hair was also dyed, bright flaming red.

“Why, Arthur! Fancy meeting you here. It has been an age of dogs. You are looking young, of course. You will notice that I, too, have not aged, thank you to the nagbu-thorn of Utnapishtim, Lord of the Source of Streams.”

“Yes, yes. Good to see you. The baroness is by the pool, did you know that?”

He was not so easily ditched. “You’ll note that we are both in disguise. It would be awkward if we ran into old acquaintances who recognized us and wanted to know our secret, the secret of the nagbu-thorn.”

I was trying to hide Myron behind me, but he couldn’t help peeking out.

“Why, what is this?” cried the baron. “This must be the young man the Brotherhood of Moloch was raving about.”

Myron, God bless him, lacks the ability to blend in anywhere except a trauma ward.

“You were supposed to speak at a conference, no? Where are you going now? Speak up, young man. You look so startled, your mouth is like my blood, for it is a positive O.” He laughed hysterically.

“Nowhere,” Myron said.

“We really should go, your lordship,” I said, doling the honorific out as a lagniappe to flatter him, but refusing to go so far as to give it a capital letter. Perhaps, therefore, it was not good enough for him, and he kept talking.

“You’re heading west, aren’t you? You must be, for you have come from the Michigan states. And you are dressed so warmly. It must not be to the Southwest you are going, for it is warm there.”

Myron hummed nervously.

“San Francisco, perhaps? But no, your eyes betray you; it is not San Francisco. Seattle? Portland? Ah, Portland! Arthur, you should tell your charge not to be so obvious. His mouth does not twitch, perhaps due to nerve damage, but in his eyes, his naked desire for Portland is so evident.”

“Fine,” I said, “you got us, you’re a caution, Baron. Now come on, kid, let’s get started. It’s a long drive.”

The baron said, as we left, “Gang aft eagle.” He was laughing uproariously again.

“What does that mean?” Myron asked as we locked ourselves in our room.

I was packing up the typewriter. “It means the best laid plans don’t always work out. Also, he’s an idiot.” I was so distracted as we headed for the car that I accidentally paid the hotel bill.