Mr. Kurosawa seemed to consider it, which raised Lady Siyu’s skepticism.
“You expect us to believe the thief would have to circumvent the IAA after stealing artifacts from their midst?” she said.
God, I wish I could wipe that sneer off her face. If it wasn’t for the fangs . . .
I held up a hand. “Despite what you two would like to think, the IAA actually knows what they’re doing when it comes to covering up the supernatural. They’ll be looking for these—” I pointed to the objects on the tablet. “And if they haven’t found them already, they will soon, courtesy of Daphne Sylph.”
Mr. Kurosawa spoke to Lady Siyu in supernatural. Normally the routine is Lady Siyu nods and slithers off into some dark hole—and yes, I’m proud of myself for that one. This time she spat back.
Only when Mr. Kurosawa turned a deeper shade of red and barked out another command did Lady Siyu back down, though if I was any judge, she wasn’t too fucking happy about it.
Mr. Kurosawa focused his attention back on me. He indicated the couch opposite the mirrored coffee table. I took the seat—and promptly downed a second glass of champagne as he settled back. Thin line between calm and buzzed be damned.
“Lady Siyu thinks I should let her kill you,” he said, smoke billowing out of his nose. “Though I will admit, your current argument is compelling, if not convincing.”
“No offense, but I think she’ll take any excuse she can get to kill me.”
A slow smile spread across his face, and I noted his teeth had shifted back to the white, human-looking version. “It is as you say. So, tell me, if I entertain the notion that you are not the thief, who is?”
I wracked my head for any other antiquities thieves who could have pulled it off. Unfortunately, none of the good ones that came to mind were stupid enough to touch the city. They all valued their skins too much. “Whoever did this is very good,” I said tentatively.
“Better than you?”
I weighed that one carefully. Whoever had pulled it off had managed to convince both the IAA and Lady Siyu it was me. Even if it wasn’t on purpose, that meant they had to be as good as me, maybe better, since I was the only thief in anyone’s crosshairs.
“Let’s just say they’d have to be good enough to get by the IAA, and dumb enough to go after the city.”
Mr. Kurosawa reached for a glass containing a deep red liquid, wine maybe—or something else dragons ate. Vampires weren’t the only supernaturals fond of blood. “Lady Siyu’s contacts insist that very thief could only be you.”
I shook my head. “I’m not that stupid.”
His smile widened as he took another sip. “That, as you might say, is a matter of opinion. One that is currently divided in my house. I do not like a divided house.”
God, I hate supernatural logic. The equation here was simple; they were supernatural, I was human. My existence was currently presenting both a benefit and a problem. Things don’t stand in tandem for long. I either helped make the problem go away, or before long the inconvenience would start to outbalance the benefit.
And I doubted very much Lady Siyu really thought I was the thief: she just wanted an excuse to kill me, and this was the first chance—lately—to fall in her lap.
“Since we are divided,” Mr. Kurosawa continued, “here is my compromise. First, you will go to Los Angeles and retrieve every piece from this collector.”
OK, B&Es were not exactly my specialty, but I could handle it if it meant Lady Siyu didn’t get to eviscerate me.
“Second, since someone did remove those artifacts from the city, and you are currently our only suspect, I require you to find the real thief.”
“If such a human exists,” Lady Siyu added.
OK . . . a little more difficult. Like I said, whoever this thief was, they were good enough that I had no leads. “And if I can’t find out who it is?”
“Then I will have no choice but to revisit Lady Siyu’s evidence.”
I stopped myself just short of swearing. Great. Just what I fucking needed. If I couldn’t find out who did take the artifacts, I’d be back up on the plate for slaughter.
Mr. Kurosawa stood and straightened his suit. “Since Lady Siyu is occupied, I will lead you to the entrance myself.”
I figured that was more so Lady Siyu didn’t accidently kill me. I didn’t see Mr. Kurosawa leading many mice out of the mousetrap.
I followed close on his heels. Getting lost amongst the slot machines was a bad idea. It looked straightforward enough, but when I glanced back over my shoulder, I could have sworn the machines changed their arrangement. Some kind of magic-induced maze. Contrary to popular belief, I do in fact learn from my mistakes. I wouldn’t make a very good enslaved soul. Especially not one trapped in a slot machine.
I’d probably just start hoarding treasure behind his back . . .
We reached the heavy black doors painted with red Japanese characters. “Lady Siyu will forward you documentation we’ve collected on the thefts, and the incubus will accompany you to Los Angeles,” Mr. Kurosawa said as the doors swung open as if of their own volition.
Yup, I’d seen that one coming too.
“Things will not go well if you do not find me the thief. We supernaturals agree with the IAA in that we do not wish to be exposed to the human population at large.”
Mostly because I didn’t dare turn my back on Mr. Kurosawa, I bowed to him and watched as he retreated back into the casino.
Before he stepped into the slot machine maze, he stopped.
Reflex kicked in, and I started to gauge how fast I could get to the elevators . . .
But Mr. Kurosawa didn’t attack. Instead, he said, “You are correct in your assessment of the City of the Dead. Keep in mind that even we supernaturals sometimes lose places for a reason.”
And with that, he was gone, and the black doors slammed shut behind me. I headed to the elevators and called Nadya.
“Alix, I’m relaxing. I don’t want to hear about any more disasters for the next three hours, preferably after I’ve convinced the attractive Japanese bartender Rynn hired to come over and say hello.”
“Seriously?”
She sighed. “Just tell me what is so important you are interrupting my quiet afternoon.”
“What do you know about the Syrian City of the Dead?”
There was a pause on the other end. “Enough to know if you’re the one asking it counts as an imminent disaster.”
“Yeah, well the good news is it wasn’t me.”
“Bad news?”
“Someone beat me to it and everyone thinks it’s me.”
Nadya swore. “Meet me down by the pool.”
I hung up and rode the elevator down. I really hoped Nadya had some candidates for the theft, because I had no plans of letting Lady Siyu gut me.
5
The Devil’s in the Details
2:30 p.m., the Garden Café. Where the hell is Nadya . . . ?
It took me a minute of scanning the casino’s greenhouse-themed restaurant to spot Nadya, who was sitting outside at a table by the pool. I headed through the giant glass doors decorated with what looked like gold cherry blossoms—or maybe they were lotus flowers. I was never one for plants in the first place, and recent events with vampires had turned me off lilies forever. Now Lady Siyu took perverse pleasure in filling the Japanese Circus with lily of the valley arrangements whenever I returned.
I slid into the seat across from Nadya. “Here, see what you can make of these,” I said, passing her the stack of files Lady Siyu and Mr. Kurosawa had left for me at the front desk. “I’m officially the one and only suspect on the IAA’s shit list for one City of the Dead theft.”
For her part, Nadya only glanced at the folder before turning her attention back to the bar. She was busy trying to make eye contact with the new bartender, an attra
ctive Asian man with hair bleached within an inch of its life, and re-dyed in a color scheme I could only call tequila sunrise; red at the ends, shifting to orange, then white-yellow at the roots.
“What number cosmo are you on?”
“Two.” She angled her sunglasses down to glare at me, then waited until she caught the bartender’s eye. She winked, raising her empty martini glass and flashing a smile.
Not that I’m an expert in relationships, but to me, the bartender looked more interested in mixing drinks than sneaking a glance at Nadya. Wonder of wonders, Rynn hired bartenders who actually worked . . .
“How many cosmos before you throw in the towel?” I asked.
“As many as it takes, Alix. I’m a professional hostess. Trust me, I can hold my alcohol. Besides, I haven’t had a fix in a month, and the bartender isn’t the only view out here.”
I followed her gaze. Nadya had a good view of the nymph pool boys Mr. Kurosawa employed to take care of the pools and various stray bodies that seemed to accumulate around supernaturals in general. They were close enough that you could enjoy the show, but not so close that their plastic faces unnerved you.
Nadya didn’t have my inherent fear of supernaturals. Then again, Nadya didn’t have my experience—probably since she was a sight better at spotting them, and I . . . well . . . let’s just say I have a blind spot, one that had led to a number of problems over the years.
I watched as a pale man sporting a tuft of white hair carried a glass rack across the pool area, walking with a wide, lumbering gait to the outdoor bar. After stopping to chat with Nadya’s bartender, he unloaded the fresh glasses.
Fish demon? No, not pale enough and shouldn’t have hair. Turnip demon then?
“Hunh?” I said, as Nadya broke my train of thought.
Nadya had started perusing the files, both the dig and the surveillance package. “What the hell is this?” she said, holding up the photos taken of me out on various recent jobs.
“The IAA tracking me for the last two to three weeks?” I said.
Nadya gave out a low whistle, followed by something in Russian as she flipped through.
“Told you they’d gotten more organized,” I said, and glanced back up at the bar. The man with the tuft of white hair was still there. Was it me, or were his arms too long?
Nadya shook her head. “No—I mean, yes, this is much more extensive than I’d expect from them, but I was referring to the theft. This? Infiltrating dig sites, lifting artifacts right under the IAA’s nose? It’s got your signature all over it.” She held up the list of recent heists the IAA had attributed to me, some of which were mine, and others that weren’t but could have been. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear these were all you.”
“Apparently the IAA agrees with you. Though I’m starting to think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time . . .”
Nadya frowned. “Perhaps,” she said, picking up one of the photographs of the dig itself, then switching to the notes. She had a knack for cross-referencing research and would pick up anything I’d missed. “But regardless, I think someone is trying to make it look like you did it.”
The same thought had occurred to me too, though it didn’t sit well that someone in the underground antiquities community would purposefully try to throw me under the bus.
Yes, there is such a thing as honor amongst thieves.
“That reminds me—” I pulled out my phone and typed out a quick message to Hermes. Hermes was a courier who specialized in delivering stolen goods under the radar of customs and other authorities. He was one of the best working in the continental US, and the only one who specialized in antiquities. If he hadn’t delivered the items himself, he’d have a good idea who had.
Hermes—info on Daphne Sylph L.A. purchase? Some asshole’s setting me up.
I attached the article and accompanying video footage from an entertainment channel showing the three stolen items at the charity party to the email. No sense giving Hermes more than needed. He might take the whole honor amongst thieves thing seriously, but that didn’t mean I wanted to let the fox into the chicken coop. The pictures would generate enough questions as it was.
The busboy had finished at the bar and was heading back through the service door. “Daikon demon?” I asked Nadya, nodding at the busboy.
Nadya glanced up from the folder, frowned, and shook her head. “No. Frog. Good guess though,” she added.
It was not, but Nadya was encouraging me to get better at picking them out. You know the kind of people you’ve surrounded yourself with by the lies they tell. Good friends lie about the little stuff and tell you the truth when it’s important—regardless of what you want to hear. Bad friends either always tell the truth or always lie. Either way, it ends up being pointless noise.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that some supernaturals, like Carpe and Rynn, are OK, but those are extreme exceptions, not the rule. Most supernaturals hate humans. The majority of humans don’t know supernaturals exist, so they have no opinion one way or the other . . . except about vampires. They still don’t believe in them, but somehow everyone’s convinced they’re romantic, immortal creatures who have nothing better to do than spend their days trolling high schools for teenagers in need of rescuing from a boring, uneventful life and parents who just don’t understand them. . . . Well, vampires do troll for high school kids, but trust me, it’s not romantic, it’s convenient. Like fast food.
“Alix,” Nadya said, still leafing through the pages, “I think this is more serious than you realize.”
“Because the IAA finally got their shit together?” I said it as cavalierly as I could, but in all honestly just the thought of my near brush in Alexandria still sent my heart racing.
“No, because I think there is more to this than Mr. Kurosawa is letting on.”
There was that slow set of chills riding down my spine. Nadya was good when it came to archives and data pushing—better than me. Where I saw a collection of papers and data on a site depicting sporadically connected events, Nadya saw patterns. Again, that’s why Nadya avoids trouble, and I stumble in headfirst . . . “I got the impression they were being pretty damn transparent when Lady Siyu suggested I be lunch.”
Nadya shook her head. “Something smells very wrong with all this, and I think it begins with the IAA, not the thief.”
Nadya began arranging the data into piles. “Start going through these and find me everything you can on the dig teams—take notes on each one, what they worked on, which notes were theirs . . .” She handed me the set of notes from 1950 and took the more recent ones for herself, opening up her laptop at the same time. “And Alix?”
I looked up from my pile.
“Do a bar run first. We’re both going to need more than one drink.”
The pool had gotten crowded as people settled in around us for post-gambling sun and alcohol, mostly for drowning their sorrows, though a few looked celebratory. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to drown out the background noise as I crossed off another set of dig notes on Dr. Caitlin, one of the first 1950 grad students to fall ill. They’d sent her farthest into the tunnels, either because she’d presumably been smaller, or they’d figured the least senior grad student got to play canary. Fifty-fifty on those odds.
Over the last two hours, Nadya and I had pored over the three IAA excursions and, for the most part, had accounted for all the dig team members. The only one we couldn’t find any information on was the current dig team, including the postdoc who would be running it.
I glanced over at the bartender, wondering what my chances were of wrangling another Corona as a bachelorette party, led by a trio of girls with a gradient of blond shades of hair sidled up to the bar. Unfortunately, Rynn was still hiring, so the bar was short staffed.
Speaking of Rynn, there’d still been no sign of him . . . I couldn’t decide if that was
a good or bad thing.
“More than I expected, less than I hoped for,” Nadya said, putting down her folder. “The good news or bad news first?”
“Bad news please. I refuse to delude myself with false hope.”
“The Syrian City of the Dead is a cursed place, one of the few real ones.”
I frowned. “We knew that already.”
“Yes, but you’re not seeing the bigger picture.” She picked up the most recent dig approval forms for reopening the Neolithic dig. “In order to open up a class-five restricted site, which supernatural plagues fall under, you need the entire IAA Board of Directors’ approval.”
“Which is right there on the bottom of the form,” I said.
“The stamp is there, but I can’t find any signatures.”
“I’ve never seen a signature on one of these. They’re kept under some clandestine fortress, aren’t they?”
She nodded and pulled out what looked like another form. The paperwork was something I sure as hell didn’t miss about the IAA. They might rival the Illuminati and Masons for most clandestine, but they were sticklers for a paper trail.
“But in order for the board to approve even a class-three restricted site—which, by the way, because of skin walkers and genies includes every site in Russia, so I am very familiar with the paperwork, especially since my professors couldn’t be bothered to pull themselves out of their vodka bottles long enough to fill out a form when there was a sober graduate student hanging around—they require every individual on the dig to be listed with the stamp.”
“It’s to make sure if a skin walker gets out, they know who the possible victims are, right?”
Nadya nodded gravely and handed me back the copy of the permit. “No names means this is either forged or the IAA doesn’t want a record of them having been there. Alix, I know restricted sites—we had enough trouble with our class threes. The director would never approve this project. It’s too dangerous.”
Owl and the City of Angels Page 10
