The Cryptid Keeper

by Lija Fisher

  Clivo shut the summary and rubbed his forehead. Just when he’d been hoping for a nice, easy catch, he now had to worry about a desert duel with a god of destruction and chaos. Perfect.

  He signaled the flight attendant for a refill of OJ. He was suddenly feeling a little parched.

  * * *

  After almost twenty-four hours of travel and transferring planes twice, Clivo finally landed in Cairo. The first thing that hit him was the heat. The air was so hot and humid it felt like someone was holding a washcloth soaked in boiling water over his face.

  As a valued Diamond Cardholder, he was normally escorted through the airport by a bodyguard, since most Diamond Cardholders were super-wealthy VIPs at risk of getting kidnapped. But now that Clivo knew that people were on his trail, he had asked not to be accompanied during his travels. He had heard too many stories of people getting kidnapped by their bodyguards to trust anyone.

  After navigating through the crowded airport, he booked himself a flight on a small jet plane and flew the remaining one and a half hours to Naqada. He had gotten plenty of sleep on the plane ride south from Amsterdam, so he felt awake enough to stare out the window at the foreign landscape as it passed below him. The plane flew along the Nile River that sparkled in the blazing sun, the scorched desert stretching off into the distance. Ancient pyramids and other crumbling antiquities dotted the sandy terrain. Clivo felt like he was traveling back to where civilization began, and it was mesmerizing.

  The plane landed and Clivo grabbed his backpack and found a taxi. He was grateful he could speak basic phrases in Arabic, because he’d have had no idea how to get around otherwise. His driver took him past villages that dotted the flat terrain along the dirt road, their small brick buildings bright with walls painted all sorts of colors. After about half an hour, the taxi driver dropped him off at a small hotel the color of the desert sand, its rounded roofs and arched doorways making it look like a small palace.

  Clivo showered and put on the loose-fitting, ankle-length robe known as a djellaba he had bought at the Cairo airport, which felt cooler against his skin in the hot air than his regular clothes did. He always tried to dress as the locals did on his quests because he wanted to blend in as much as possible, though there was nothing he could do about his pale skin, which stood out against the darker faces around him.

  It was late in the day and he was beginning to feel the effects of jet lag, but he wanted to eat a good meal before turning in for the night. There was only so much airplane food his belly could stand before he needed to eat something that wasn’t served in tinfoil.

  He wandered through the small village and found an outdoor café where people in garb similar to what he was wearing were sitting and drinking tea. He ordered some delicious lentils and oven-fried cheese that he wolfed down while glancing around to get a sense of his surroundings. On his previous catches he had been mainly concerned with where to find the cryptid. Now, ever since his catch in Russia, he was more aware of the people nearby who might be trying to find him.

  As he shoveled the food into his mouth, he suddenly got a chill down his spine, like someone was watching him. He glanced up and saw three men leaning against a low-slung mud-colored building, all of them dressed in the same loose garb. But these men also wore black turbans with a hieroglyph on the front that looked like a dog with square ears. Clivo swallowed as he recognized the symbol of the god Seth from the Blasters’ synopsis, and his nerves really kicked into high gear after noticing that all of the men’s eyes were trained on him. He guessed they were Wasi, protectors of the Salawa.

  Here we go, Clivo thought.

  The strangers approached his table. One of them, a handsome man with shoulder-length curly black hair and dark eyes, pulled out the chair across from Clivo and sat down. The two larger men stood behind him with scowls on their faces.

  “Marhabaan,” the man greeted him.

  “Marhabaan,” Clivo replied.

  The man smiled. “Why don’t we use English? Your American accent is terrible. As is your outfit.”

  Clivo sat back in his chair. So much for blending in with the locals. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “Your dress is local. Your shoes are not,” the man said, pointing to Clivo’s tennis shoes.

  Clivo winced. It had never occurred to him to buy different shoes. “Can’t blame a kid for trying to respect the local customs.”

  The man leaned forward, his fingers casually running along the wrought iron table. “I won’t interrupt your dinner for long. I don’t know what an American child is doing in the middle of the desert—”

  “I’m actually a teenager, which technically isn’t a child anymore,” Clivo said before he could stop himself. He was so nervous one sneaker-clad foot was tapping like crazy underneath the table.

  The man raised his eyebrows, as if he was surprised to have been interrupted. “Fine. I don’t know what an American teenager is doing in the middle of the desert, but—”

  “My dad is an archaeologist, and he’s working at the Sheikh Abd el-Qurna dig site. I’m just along for the ride.” Clivo spewed out the cover story he had memorized on the plane ride over.

  The man sat back in exasperation. “Can you just let me finish my dire warning without interrupting me?”

  The two bodyguards in the background huddled in closer, and Clivo noticed the glint of swords tucked into their robes. But he also noticed something else. On a chain around each man’s neck, there dangled a small glass vial which contained a dark red liquid that looked like blood.

  “Sure. Sorry, continue with your dire warning.”

  The man leaned forward again, a shadow falling over his dark eyes. He also wore a vial of red liquid around his neck. He caught Clivo looking at it and discreetly tucked it into his robe. “This place and the things in it are not to be trifled with. I warn you, don’t anger the gods, for their vengeance is swift and merciless. For five thousand years we have protected this place and the things in it, and so we shall for five thousand more.”

  There was a long pause until one of the bodyguards cleared his throat and nudged the seated leader with his elbow, as if there was more to the dire warning.

  “Huh? Oh yes. Leave tomorrow and forget this place. Leave its mysteries. If you don’t, you have welcomed our wrath, and it will not be gentle.”

  Clivo waited a moment to make sure the man’s dire warning was finished. Then he leaned forward, steadying his voice as much as possible. “I promise you, I am not here to anger any gods. I respect your land and everything in it. But I can’t leave until my dad is done with his dig.”

  The man stared at Clivo, as if reading him. “Is it common for every American teenager to travel with these?” The inquisitor reached into his robe and laid Clivo’s two remaining tranquilizer darts on the table.

  Clivo’s eyes went wide and his stomach froze. “You robbed me?”

  The man smiled at him, revealing a gold-capped incisor. He pulled out another item and waved it in Clivo’s face—Clivo’s passport, which he’d left in his room along with his backpack. The man casually flipped through it. “Egypt does not take too kindly to foreigners stealing their antiquities, Clivo Wren. I could throw this away and have you put in jail, where you would have plenty of time to think about your transgressions.”

  Clivo’s foot increased its nervous tapping. Languishing in an Egyptian prison was not what he’d had in mind for the summer. It not only seemed very unpleasant, but he also was the last good guy left searching for the immortal. If he was stuck in prison, the bad guys would surely find it and all would be lost.

  He leaned forward and spoke softly yet with determination. “I am not here to steal anything. I’m here on an important mission to save the world. Trust me, let me do what I need to do or we will all be in trouble.”

  The man and his goons laughed. “And what do you think is more dangerous than angering the god of destruction and chaos, Clivo Wren? The last time the Salawa was threatened, a flood that las
ted three days swept through this region, nearly wiping it from the map. Nothing is worse than an angry god!”

  Except a group of power-hungry humans who want to become immortal and enslave the world, Clivo thought.

  But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t reveal to these men the truth about the immortal. If the Salawa was determined to be the ultimate, they’d probably just worship and protect it more. It’d be a full-out war.

  Clivo groaned to himself. Why couldn’t the immortal just be a cryptid nobody cared about? Like a giant sloth that emitted noxious gases instead of a spirit animal that protected a holy being?

  The man’s face relaxed and he slid the passport across the table. “You have been booked on the first flight out tomorrow morning at six, and your passport number has been given to the authorities. Say goodbye to Egypt, my friend, for you will never be allowed to return again.”

  Clivo grabbed his passport and breathed a sigh of relief, which lasted just a moment until he realized that if he wasn’t allowed back in the country, it meant that he had to figure out if the Salawa was the immortal—tonight. Without any tranquilizer darts.

  The man nodded and slowly stood up. He leaned over and spoke quietly into Clivo’s ear. “Some things are not meant to be found.”

  Yeah, I hear that a lot, Clivo thought as the man walked away, his two minions shooting Clivo parting glares.

  Clivo quickly paid for his meal and ran back to his hotel. He flung open the splintered door and discovered his room in shambles.

  “No, no, no,” Clivo moaned.

  His backpack was flung open and his clothes were strewn around the room. He frantically dug through the pack, but his tranquilizer gun was gone, as well as the blood sampler. He threw the bag across the room in frustration. He doubted there was a hardware store in the middle of the desert that sold tranquilizer guns and darts. And even if he did find the Salawa, there was no way for him to check its blood to see if it was the immortal.

  Clivo paced the room angrily before pulling himself together and glancing at the clock on his bedside table. It was six P.M. He had twelve hours to find a dangerous and mysterious creature and catch it, with no gun, no darts, and no way to confirm if it was the creature he’d been looking for, before being banned from the country forever.

  He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. This was the last clue the Blasters had to go on. There was no way he could leave without confirming if the Salawa was the immortal or not. What would be the point of catching other cryptids if this one was their last, best chance at discovering the immortal? He had to find it.

  Or did he? Clivo thought of the necklaces hanging around the Wasis’ necks. The vials had sure looked like they were filled with blood. Was it possible that they had somehow gathered some Salawa blood?

  Clivo noticed a pair of his boots scattered on the floor. He ran to them and was overjoyed to find the ham radio he had stashed in one of them to keep it safe during the flight. At least something was going right. He still had his satellite phone on him, but Douglas would probably just yell at him for messing up the mission.

  He grabbed the radio and called the Blasters.

  “Hey, it’s Clivo, is anyone around?”

  The radio was silent for a moment and then a quiet voice spoke. “Hello, Hernando speaking.”

  “Hey, Hernando! I have a quick question for you,” Clivo said, a plan forming in his mind. A very risky plan.

  “Should I get the others?” Hernando asked uncertainly. “They’re still eating breakfast.”

  “No, unless you can’t answer my question for me,” Clivo said quickly, shoving the back of a chair under the doorknob to his room so nobody could burst in and threaten him more.

  “I will do my best,” Hernando replied meekly.

  “I think I just ran into three Wasi, and they all had vials of some kind of liquid around their necks. Any chance it’s blood from the Salawa?”

  Clivo heard a quick shuffling of papers, then Hernando’s quiet voice spoke again. “According to our research, the Wasi are indeed known for carrying Salawa blood around their necks. Years ago, a group of hunters shot and injured the Salawa. The Wasi fought them off and healed the Salawa. But they took some of its blood that had spilled on the ground and promised to always wear it around their necks as a vow to never let any harm befall the Salawa again.”

  “Okay, thanks, Hernando, that’s what I needed to know,” Clivo said, glancing at the clock again. Time was ticking.

  There was a long pause, and Hernando spoke even more quietly. “Clivo, please be careful. The hunters who hurt the Salawa were killed by the Wasi. They don’t like people messing with their cryptid.”

  “Don’t worry, Hernando. I’m not going after the cryptid, I’m going after the Wasi. I need one of those necklaces.”

  Hernando let out a yelp. “Clivo, no! It’s too dangerous!”

  Clivo ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t really have a choice, Hernando. They’ve already stolen my tranquilizer gun and blood sampler. I’m running out of options.”

  “You could come home?” Hernando offered meekly.

  Clivo exhaled heavily. “Is that what you really want me to do, Hernando? When we could be this close to the immortal?”

  Clivo could almost hear Hernando fretting on the other end of the radio. “I’m not good at encouraging people to run into danger, captain.”

  “Well, I could sure use some encouragement right about now,” Clivo said, not even sure how he was going to implement his plan.

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally, Hernando cleared his throat and spoke. “In my family, my dad always taught me that as long as you try, you’ve succeeded. You don’t need to win, you just need to give it your best shot, and by doing that, you’ve already won.”

  “Thanks, Hernando,” Clivo said, getting ready to sign off.

  “Wait, I’m not done yet,” Hernando said quickly.

  “Oh, okay. Sorry, go ahead.”

  Hernando’s voice got a little stronger. “But thinking that way isn’t really going to work here. You can’t just try, Clivo, you need to win. You need that vial of blood and you’re not going to leave that desert until you’ve got it, because we are counting on you. The world is counting on you. Accept nothing less than success. You’ve got this.”

  Clivo blinked. “Wow, Hernando. That was really good.”

  “Really?” Hernando said, his voice returning to its usual timidity. “That took a lot out of me.”

  “Well, I appreciate it. I gotta go, I have some Wasi to catch.”

  “Go get ’em, captain.”

  V

  Clivo was about to load up his backpack with the supplies he needed for the night, but then he realized he didn’t have any. He felt naked—he was so used to having a bag filled with his catching supplies, including the tranquilizer gun, that to be going out with just his bare hands felt dangerous, to say the least. He tried not to think about the fact that this was his first time trying to catch a person rather than a cryptid—a person who carried a long sword, to boot. But Clivo thought about Hernando’s words—he had to do this. There was no other option.

  Clivo stuffed his belongings back into his backpack and left it by the door, figuring that if all went well he’d be making a quick getaway to the airport. The only things he took with him were his wallet and passport, phone to call Douglas, and radio to contact the Blasters in case he didn’t have time to make it back to the hotel. If he had to leave behind his old Palace of Pants clothes, it wouldn’t be the biggest tragedy.

  He looked at himself in the hallway mirror, at his dimpled face and mess of brown hair, then looked down at the Tibetan Buddhist bracelet he always wore as a reminder of his father. He still had so many questions—about how his father had gotten started in all this, why he’d never shared any of it with Clivo—but above all, he missed his dad and just wished he were around so Clivo could tell him everything, especially how nervous he was.
But he had to admit, Hernando had done a pretty good job of firing him up.

  “All right, Wren,” he said out loud to his reflection. “Let’s go catch some people.”

  Clivo snuck out the bathroom window and climbed over a stucco wall in the courtyard. He crept around the building and saw what he had been hoping for. The two large goons from earlier were perched on little stools across from the hotel, playing some kind of card game, their eyes occasionally spying on the entrance to the hotel, probably to make sure Clivo didn’t sneak out.

  The first part of Clivo’s plan was complete: Find a Wasi. As for the second part of his plan, well, he had no second part. As of that moment, he was winging it.

  He surveyed the scene in front of him the way his dad had taught him to while on what Clivo now knew were training expeditions in the mountains. The wide street was bathed in the orange of the setting sun, and indoor lights from the nearby houses were clicking on in anticipation of night. Two-level brick buildings with narrow alleyways between them extended along the street. Merchants with carts filled with fruits, vegetables, and other wares were slowly packing up their things for the evening. Before long, the street would be deserted.

  If Clivo had been catching a cryptid, at this point he would have used his tranquilizer gun. But he didn’t have a gun, and even if he did, he was sure he couldn’t shoot a person. That just felt weird, even if it was only to render them unconscious. So what were his options? He needed one of the necklaces dangling from the goons’ necks, so he simply needed to remove it from a large guy who had a sharp sword and a desire to kill him. Piece of cake.

  Clivo examined the scene again and noticed there was an empty fruit cart wedged at the top of the alley, right behind the two muscular men. If Clivo could reach out from behind the cart, rip off a necklace, and escape the way he’d come, he’d be able to make a clean getaway since there was no way the men could maneuver their hulking bodies around the cart.