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“What have you got? I don’t know what I’m going to be walking into down there.”
Muninn rummages through a box of random junk on the corner of the table and pulls out something the size of an acorn. He sets it on the table and drinks his wine. The thing is small and speckled.
I say, “It looks like an egg.”
Muninn nods.
“It is. The creature it comes from doesn’t live in this dimensional plane, but don’t worry. It’s no more exotic than an archaeopteryx, so the egg is completely edible.”
“Does that mean if I keep it warm, I’ll get a flying lizard?”
Muninn’s eyes brighten.
“Wouldn’t that be lovely? No, the egg has medicinal properties. If you’re hurt, it will help you heal and dull the pain. It has a very tough shell, so don’t feel you have to be delicate with it. Just toss it in a pocket. If you need it, put it between your teeth and bite down hard. I’ve heard they taste rather sweet. Like white chocolate.”
“You’ve never tried one?”
“I’ve never been hurt.”
If I had more time, I’d definitely want to hear more about that, but I don’t.
“By the way. There’s a tasty ’55 or ’56 Bonneville parked outside on Broadway. I don’t need it anymore and the people I took it from don’t deserve it. It would look good in your collection.”
“You’re too good to me,” he says, and comes around the table. “I’ll be sure to collect it before it’s towed away.”
I drop the egg in my coat pocket and get up.
“I have some packing to do, so I should get going.”
Muninn takes my hand and shakes it warmly.
“You keep my crystal safe and I’ll keep the Mithras for you. I hope to see you back here very soon.”
He waves at me as I step into a shadow by the stairs . . .
. . . AND COME OUT in the shadowed and semidiscreet entrance of the Museum of Death across from the hotel. It’s technically getting toward evening, but only technically. The sun won’t go down for another three hours and I’m very tired.
e. r="#000When I step out into the sun, the desert heat slaps me hard. It’s funny. I’ve lived here most of my life, so I hardly ever notice the heat. Maybe I’m feeling it now because I’m coming out of Muninn’s cool cavern. Maybe I’m noticing it the way someone with terminal cancer notices every leaf, every snatch of a song, every breeze from a passing car, and the color of smog over the hills as they wheel him to the hospice.
When I get back to the room, Candy has pushed and kicked most of the broken furniture to one side, leaving a minimalist scattering of chairs and lamps filling the cleared space.
“You got it real homey in here. Like a twister came through, not a full-on hurricane.”
She uses the toe of her sneaker to push a couple of legs from a broken table under the pile of debris.
“I wanted to make a good impression on the hotel so they could admire all the stuff we didn’t break.”
She’s looking at the junk and not at me.
“There’s no reason you have to leave. You heard what Mason said. However this thing turns out it can’t last more than three days.”
She looks at me over her shoulder, kicking splinters and broken glass into the pile.
“You want me to just hang around here like you’ve gone out for cigarettes?”
“I’m coming back,” I say.
She turns and faces me, arms folded and staring at her feet.
