Immortal Lycanthropes - By Hal Johnson Page 0,41
platypus.”
“Platypi are poisonous?”
“Venomous. And don’t say platypi—it is an incorrect plural in Greek, Latin, and English. Platypodes or platypoda or even platypuses, if you must.”
“I can’t believe platypuses are venomous.”
“I fear that if I turn back into Procyon lotor I will suffer a much worse fate.”
“It works that way. Wounds from one form don’t carry over?”
“No, of course not, but my human form is large enough that the venom is not fatal.”
“As opposed to—what is your animal?”
“P. lotor, the raccoon. Small enough for the venom to kill. So I am stuck in human form until such a time as I can locate an antivenom capable of coping with immortal venom.”
“And platypuses are seriously venomous?”
“They are.”
“And what was that you said about their only having one hole?”
Mignon Emanuel explained this in more detail. What Myron took away from the lecture was that platypuses had sex with their butts, which is perhaps not strictly accurate.
“But we have spoken a long time, Myron, and you have much to think about. Permit me briefly to explicate the rules of this compound. In a word, there are no rules. You are in a land of do-as-you-please.”
Myron remembered how nervous and respectful Oliver had been. “Oliver sure acted like he thought there were rules.”
That earned another smile from Mignon Emanuel. She bestowed her smiles like gifts, or alms, and they were worth the wait. “For you there are no rules, to be more precise. Naturally not everyone has the same privileges as the chosen one.”
Florence, who had been circling the room in her own unique orbit, added, “The boy’s also an idiot. Factor that in.”
“Now, do you have any questions for me?” Mignon Emanuel asked.
Myron was taken aback. But after a moment, without even a yes, he said, “I need to find out what happened to a friend of mine, this guy, Spenser.”
“That was not a question.”
“Can you help me?”
“Excellent. For I already am. I have met Spenser on several occasions, a splendid fellow, and when we found you we recognized his spoor. I have six woodsmen on his trail. The difficulty is that it appears he fled to Canada, and international red tape is retarding the proceedings.”
“Can I go there? I don’t mean Canada, I mean back to the place you found me.”
“That will be difficult, for the location is three hundred miles away. I’m afraid you made quite a journey, much of it by boat, in your frozen state after we chanced across you. And with Marcus Lynch, Panthera leo, canonically nature’s deadliest hunter, on your trail, I would hardly advise moving much past the front yard. I would not want you to worry, though, so I promise to keep you abreast of details. My only caveat is that the Spenser I knew was a consummate woodsman, and if he does not wish to be found, finding him will prove difficult.”
“What do you know,” Myron said, “about the bear?”
“There are too many species of bear to be certain of much. Also unknown is whether this was a strike, perhaps by P. leo, against you, or whether it was an unrelated event that only Spenser can shed light on.”
“Okay, then let me ask about my parents.”
“Your parents, happily, are safe. But I hope you understand that their safety is to some degree dependent on keeping a healthy distance from you.”
“What? Why?”
“Myron, they are your weak spot. Any contact you have with them could, and probably will, be detected by your enemies.”
“I don’t believe this for one second,” Myron shouted, standing up. “I’ve heard this story about my parents before!”
Mignon Emanuel pushed back her chair and stood as well. Myron hesitated, unsure whether she was standing because he had stood, to be polite, or whether she was going to start a fight. “I thought you might feel that way,” she said, “so I encouraged an old friend of yours to join us.” Clambering out from underneath the enormous desk came—
“Mrs. Wangenstein!” Myron cried. It was his old guidance counselor.
She said, nervously, “Myron, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize for any inconvenience that might have been engendered from myself being compelled to be allied with your enemies. Full responsibility is of course taken by myself. I was blackmailed into it, it was not my fault. Photographs, a youthful indiscretion—”
“There’s no need to go into the embarrassing details, my dear,” Mignon Emanuel said. “We quite understand.”
“Please be informed,” Mrs. Wangenstein continued, “that while your family may have had their phone number reassigned to my husband and