Owl and the City of Angels

by Kristi Charish

  “My dear God, Lady Siyu learned sarcasm.” I’d have added something else, but she silenced me with a hiss.

  “That was not an invitation to speak, thief.”

  Sensing my frustration building, Rynn nudged me from behind.

  You know what? Screw best behavior. If Lady Siyu was my great hope for lifting the curse, I might as well drop dead now. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have a death wish. I like living—it means I still have something left to lose. And snark was the only defense I had holding back the tears right now.

  Rynn tensed as I faced Mr. Kurosawa. “Are all snakes this un-­personable, or is it just her?” I asked.

  Rynn swore under his breath. Two thick plumes of smoke rose from each of Mr. Kurosawa’s nostrils. “Please, explain what occurred,” he said to me.

  Lady Siyu was not impressed with the logic of my explanation, and she launched in as soon as I’d finished. “I specifically told you the items were not to be handled by humans. What part of those instructions did you fail to wrap your brain around—”

  “Enough,” Mr. Kurosawa said. A look passed between him and her, and with a last snarl at me, she retreated back into the maze. Only once the click of her heels faded did Mr. Kurosawa turn his still black eyes back on me and Rynn.

  “Lady Siyu is . . . concerned,” he finally decided on, “that the information passed on by her informant was false and therefore her conclusions concerning your guilt in the thefts is incorrect. We have determined in your absence that you must not be the thief who broke into the city. As you have otherwise fulfilled your side of our most recent bargain, Lady Siyu will attempt to lift the curse—”

  I snorted. I know, it was stupid, but come on. Lady Siyu, help me stay alive? Not if someone threatened to rip out her bleak, black heart . . .

  Rynn shoved me between the shoulder blades a little less gently.

  “In compensation for her errors in judgment,” Mr. Kurosawa continued, then waited for me to say something.

  There were a number of things I thought about saying. I won’t hold my breath topped the list, but I realized I hadn’t actually fulfilled my side of the bargain, only half. I still had no idea who the thief was.

  Mr. Kurosawa concluding our agreement before I delivered? Not a chance.

  “There’s been another theft, hasn’t there? While I was in L.A.,” I said.

  He inclined his head and smiled. I noted his usual white, human-­looking teeth were two rows of black, razor-sharp serrated points. “While both the IAA and vampires were tracking you, the thief returned to the city.”

  Of course they had, why not? Drop the artifacts off in L.A. and back to Syria. I couldn’t have pulled off two continents like that . . . Son of a bitch—I hate not being the best antiquities thief on the job.

  Wait a minute . . . “Do you have a copy of all the thefts? The ones that the IAA attributed to me?” I asked. Mr. Kurosawa nodded and handed me the tablet.

  I checked the dates, adding in the delivery to L.A. “There’s more than one thief,” I said.

  Mr. Kurosawa nodded.

  “What went missing this time?” I noted a dry feeling at the back of my throat and hoped it was just my nerves acting up and not the curse taking hold.

  “That is something I do not know. Whatever was removed, this time it was neither excavated nor documented yet.”

  I pushed back the emotional part of my brain that wanted to pulverize this thieving collective; they were careful, specific, targeting items with precision. All under the noses of a number of supernaturals: ­Hermes, Mr. Kurosawa, Lady Siyu, Daphne, hell, even the vampires. I know I attract trouble, but there was more going on here than just theft.

  I glanced up at Rynn, who mouthed, “Be careful.” More plumes of smoke rose off Mr. Kurosawa, and I wondered if the décor change might have been because the darker colors showed fewer scorch marks. Dragons struggle to control their human forms at the best of times.

  I’d done a few rounds with Mr. Kurosawa before. It wasn’t pretty. Short version, I’d get my ass handed to me. On the other hand, chances were good I’d be dead by the end of the week anyways . . . What was the worst that could happen at this point?

  “What is the real chance Lady Siyu will be able to remove the curse?”

  “It is difficult to determine at this time,” he said. “Lady Siyu is an expert, but these curses are ancient.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s a group of thieves running around stealing dangerous artifacts under my name, and an entire contingent of supernaturals who think this is a great argument to start wielding their powers over hapless humans everywhere since we can’t be trusted.” And I was starting to think the two things were not so coincidental as they appeared.

  Rynn swore loudly behind me. Mr. Kurosawa growled but didn’t eat me.

  “Just listen to my proposition.” I held up both hands and hoped I’d guessed correctly how desperate the situation had become.

  “Let me go to Syria,” I started, and before either could argue, I steamrolled on. “If there is a set of instructions saying how to lift the curse, I’ll find it in the city.” Ancient curses had a nasty habit of backfiring spectacularly. As a result, most curses kept the instructions to undo them nearby.

  “Something is going on in the IAA, and I think it’s linked with the thieves and whatever the hell is going on between you and the rest of the supernaturals. I’m dead in a week anyways. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Rynn didn’t bother hiding the fact that he wasn’t happy about my proposal.

  “Indeed, what do you have to lose?” Mr. Kurosawa said. He stood up and nodded to Rynn, and the next thing I knew Rynn was leading me back towards the maze, moving a little too fast for my liking.

  “Owl?”

  I glanced back over my shoulder. Mr. Kurosawa was regarding me with an unreadable expression. “Do humans always see treasure around every corner?”

  I thought about how best to answer that. “If you ever played a video game, you’d know it’s a pretty common theme. The bigger the monster, the better the lock, the trickier the trap.” I shrugged. “Most people assume the treasure inside is pretty damn good.”

  Mr. Kurosawa nodded. “Then if I wanted to devise a trap for humans, the same principle would apply?”

  I nodded, not certain where Mr. Kurosawa was going with this.

  “Do you know why it’s called the City of the Dead?” he asked.

  “I’m guessing because the city was built as a burial site. It was never meant for the living.”

  “In part. It was also built for the deity the early Qaraoun worshiped.”

  I wouldn’t go so far as to say deity—more like whichever supernatural happened to be masquerading as a god at the time.

  “And you are only partially right. Our legends say burial in the city was a form of human sacrifice, a fate worse than death, to spend an eternity in servitude to their god.”

  Unpleasant, but still not an uncommon practice, especially in ancient times, even up to the medieval periods. There are enough supernaturals that feed off human corpses that setting up shop as a minor god wasn’t a bad business model . . . except for the way he said it and his measured look. “Have you never wondered why their neighbors, the Natufians, slept on top of their dead?”

  The Natufians had been interesting that way. They were one of the early groups who, instead of using burial cites, literally buried their dead under their beds. Cemented in, but the visual is still a bit creepy. “I was told it was so the ghosts of the Natufian ancestors would protect their living descendents from monsters while they slept,” I said.

  He smiled. “You are mistaken. It was to protect their dead ancestors from the Qaraoun. Think on that, Owl, before you decide to deliver yourself to the temple, curse or no curse.”

  And with that, Mr. Kurosawa dis
appeared into the shadows.

  Supernaturals, curses, ancient gods, and thieves pretending to be me. This just kept getting better and better.

  12

  Drinking

  11:00 p.m., the poolside bar at the Japanese Circus.

  If you have a better idea, go right ahead.

  I did my best to tune out Rynn and Nadya. Considering the tequila and Corona buzz I had going on, it was proving more difficult than it should have been. Hell, maybe that was the first symptom. Lack of concentration . . .

  It’d hit me in the last hour.

  I was going to die.

  And not a drop-dead-unexpectedly kind of death. The nasty, painful, oozing kind.

  “Syria is too dangerous at the moment,” Rynn said.

  “She’s got less than a week. We don’t have time to go the long way,” Nadya said. I took another sip of my Mexican happy hour—tequila-­spiked Corona; swig the beer, add lime, then the tequila. Saves time. I was wallowing over my computer screen, a jumble of archaeology notes, aerial maps, and incomplete temple maps . . . which were worse than useless . . .

  “You’re more likely to get killed the first step you take inside the borders—”

  After that the conversation divulged into Russian cursing. Or maybe I was completely fucked and this was just the second symptom . . . ­everyone around me started speaking in Russian.

  Oh God, I hoped that wasn’t the second symptom.

  I took solace in the fact that for once they were yelling at each other, not me.

  Nadya and Rynn were arguing over the best way to storm the City of the Dead so we could find instructions to help us undo the curse. Forgive me if I wasn’t fucking into it. What the hell had I been thinking telling Mr. Kurosawa I’d go to Syria?

  Even if we got into Syria without getting shot at, which frankly was pretty unlikely at this point, I still didn’t have a map of the city itself, and with my current World Quest ban, I wasn’t getting one anytime soon.

  “What if we use a low-flying cargo plane?” Nadya said, my buzzed brain picking back up on the conversation.

  “You do realize every tribe, militia, and army behind those borders shoots small aircraft down for target practice?” Rynn said, lowering his voice as a couple walked up to the bar to order.

  “At least getting shot down is a faster alternative than choking on my own blood,” I added under my breath.

  I went to take another sip of my Corona. It was empty. On a positive note, no one was attempting to regulate just how much alcohol I shoved into my five-foot-four, cursed circulatory system. I looked for Nadya’s current favorite bartender but didn’t spot him. Had to be waiting on someone else but me . . .

  Never one to have my drinking streak broken, I leaned over the bar and helped myself to the tequila bottle . . . and another Corona.

  Now, where were the damn limes?

  “Alix, are you even listening to us?” Nadya said.

  English, definitely English. Hallucinating Russian was not the second symptom of the curse. Oh joy of joys.

  Now, if I were a lime, where would I be? “No, Nadya, I’m not. I’m drinking because I’m going to die.” Who the hell was going to look after Captain? Nadya would just overfeed him, and then there was the whole vampire thing . . .

  Nadya yelled at me in Russian fast enough I wouldn’t have caught it even if I’d been sober. I shrugged, lifted the Corona, and was rewarded with more angry Russian.

  “She says drunken participation is still better than none,” Rynn said. “And I agree.” He retrieved the tequila bottle before I could take advantage of it and hopped behind the empty bar before I could take advantage of that too.

  He found the limes though—win some, lose some.

  “How many Mexican happy hours does that make now?” he asked, before letting go of a tequila shot he poured for me.

  I shrugged. “Three. I think.”

  “Last one.”

  “Seriously? Why exactly are we choosing now to care about the state of my liver? Dead in . . .” I used my fingers to count. “Six days, remember?”

  “First, you aren’t dying. Between Lady Siyu and the temple in Syria, we’ll figure out a way to reverse the curse.”

  “Do you have any idea what the chances are of either of those things actually happening?” And people call me the optimistic nut job . . .

  “Secondly, we’re getting on a plane before the IAA figures out where we’re heading. I have no intention of spending the little amount of sleep I have left holding your head while you pray to the porcelain gods.”

  Rynn leaned in, took a swig of my beer himself, then added the tequila shot for me. “Alix, you’re not going to die.”

  “Unless you’re hungover for the next five days, in which case yes, you will die, either your liver or the curse, whichever gets you first,” Nadya added.

  I’m sure there was a point made in there . . .

  “Look, even if we get to the temple, I have no idea where the artifacts were taken from. There isn’t a proper map—anywhere.” I flicked the open files on my laptop, just to get my point across.

  “We stand even less chance if you can’t stop wallowing in self-pity and help us come up with a plan,” she said.

  When I didn’t have a snarky comment, Rynn added, “Let’s worry about one thing at a time. Ignore the map for now and help us figure out how we’re going to get into the temple.”

  I took another sip of beer and thought about it. If I were a thief, how would I get my ass into the temple? “First, we need to get into Syria without raising any alarms; that’s what the thieves have to be doing. Livestock and cargo planes are too predictable. Even sneaking in with livestock would have raised an alarm somewhere by now. The IAA isn’t completely incompetent—they’ll be watching the borders.”

  So how were the thieves getting in and out? Greece? No, too ­many thieves. Same thing went for Croatia and the Barbary Coast. ­They’d be combing those already . . . Hell, if the entire Mediterranean coast wasn’t crawling with IAA agents, I’d be shocked. Same thing went for flights anywhere across the Mediterranean, Middle East, and Europe.

  I took another sip and stared at the map on my screen as if that might illuminate the answer . . .

  I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the fact that I was toeing the blurry line between sober and drunk, but it struck me how the thieves had been avoiding the IAA where I’d just about been snagged.

  “What if they aren’t using any of the routes we’ve come up with?” I said.

  Both Rynn and Nadya stared at me as if I sounded as drunk as I probably was.

  I grabbed Nadya’s notebook, tore a clean sheet out, and started to draw a haphazard map of the Mediterranean, Syria, and Turkey.

  “We’ve been assuming all along they’re using the Mediterranean or the Black Sea to get in and out.”

  “It’s the only logical way. The IAA would be watching the land borders and airports too closely, you said so yourself.”

  “But that’s just it. The IAA is so thick along those coasts that I don’t think we can get back in that way again. We keep figuring these guys are geniuses—what if they’re not? I mean, the fact that they even risked the city tells me they’re idiots—idiots with a golden goose shoved up their asses, but still.”

  Nadya tsked. “Golden egg, the goose does not fit,” she corrected me.

  “Assuming they’re not using those two ports of entry then,” Rynn said.

  I pointed to the East African coast that bordered the Red Sea and traced my finger down to the sharp point where it drained into the Indian Ocean. “I think they’re dumber than we thought. I think they’re using the one place the IAA won’t dare go.”

  “The Somali coast,” Rynn said.

  I nodded.

  Nadya weighed the pros and cons over in her head. “But t
hat would be . . .”

  “Suicide?” I filled in. Maybe it was a good thing I was halfway drunk—I don’t think the third idiotic way in and out would have crossed my mind otherwise. “Eventually, sure, but these guys have already managed to sneak into the city twice without getting themselves cursed or otherwise killed. Maybe their luck just hasn’t caught up with them yet,” I said. Nadya looked like she was working on an argument, so I added, “It is the only place the IAA won’t go.”

  Fun fact about the largest antiquities society in the known world: they might not be scared of curses, supernaturals, and thieves, but throw pirates in the mix? Historically they haven’t fared well, not since Roman times.

  “All right,” Nadya said. “That still doesn’t help us get into the dig and find the tomb.”

  “I thought that was your specialty,” Rynn said.

  Nadya and I exchanged a look. Where to start? “All right, working backwards—and this is all assuming we can even find the tomb where these things were originally hidden—there are a whole wonder of things we have to worry about.”

  “Such as?”

  I started the count off. “Ancient booby traps, for one. Without a reliable map, we’ll have to find all of them manually.”

  Nadya jumped in. “And those are just the physical ones—trapdoors, weapons, pits. Who knows about the supernatural versions? Magic, more curses—”

  “Not to mention the inadvertent traps. You know how much goblins and trolls like these kinds of mountains.”

  Nadya nodded. “But before we’re even inside, we need to get past the IAA.”

  “Usually that’d be the easier part. Nadya and I would just sneak in.”

  Nadya snorted. “I do not play games with the IAA; you would sneak in, I would stay as far away as possible.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Regardless, hiding in plain sight is out.”

  “How many people guard the dig site at night?” Rynn asked.