Owl and the Electric Samurai

by Kristi Charish

  Tunnels, finally, something I needed. I raised my hand. “Oh! Hemey, quick question,” I said, in an excited voice like I figured a hiker named Harmony visiting Tibet for the first time might actually use, “you didn’t mention what the tunnels were used for.”

  The smile didn’t falter. “That’s because no one really knows. A couple of historians suppose they were built for escaping from invading forces, but no exits have ever been found. It also might have been a labyrinth to disappear prisoners, or somewhere to hide goods, though I have a hard time seeing how they could have used them for storage. Over a hundred years archaeologists have been mapping Tsaparang and found mostly a collection of dead ends,” he said and gave the crowd a sinister look. “At least that’s what they figured when the various explorers didn’t make their way back out.”

  “People get lost?” a German woman in a white windbreaker asked, a concerned look on her face.

  “Hemey” turned his watt-level smile on her. “Not to worry, Camille, I guarantee you we’ll only be exploring the mapped sections.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking, Alix?” Rynn whispered as we approached the red temple.

  “That if I was a treasure, a set of lost tunnels is very well where I might be? Oh, you’ve got no idea.” The three of us had fallen to the back of the line.

  “And what are we supposed to do when the guards come looking for us? Have you thought of that?” Carpe whispered.

  “Run like hell and hope they’re a lousy shot?”

  “That’s not a plan at all.” Carpe shook his head. “Is she always this comforting on missions?” he asked Rynn.

  “Not a mission, Carpe,” I told him. “It’s a clusterfuck of a job we’ve been roped into—and for your information, I’ve gotten much better when it comes to plans. You should have seen me before I met Rynn.”

  He stared at me, mouth open.

  Captain rustled inside my backpack and made an inquisitive mew; I guessed it was because Hermes’s scent was joining in the mix. “Yeah, I’m wondering what the hell he’s up here for too, Captain,” I said. “Let’s go ask, shall we?”

  I figured Carpe couldn’t get into too much trouble with Rynn watching him, so I left them to complain at each other as I trudged past the other hikers to where Hermes—sorry, tour guide Hemey—was talking with the keeners of the hiking group. I fixed a smile on my face and waited patiently.

  Finally, he turned his bright green eyes on me. “Hey there, Harmony. Any questions you’d like to ask me about the ancient city of Tsaparang?”

  “You can tell me what the hell it is you’re doing here, Hermes. I’ve already got two too many supernatural entities on this derailing train ride. The last thing I need is one more.” And definitely not the king of fucking thieves . . . though I didn’t say that. It was implied.

  The smile didn’t falter one bit, though it did drop from his eyes. “Let’s just say I doubled down on this new endeavor of yours.”

  Supernaturals betting on whether humans lived or died . . . “Rule of bets, Hermes: get out while you’re ahead.”

  Hermes glanced over his shoulder to make sure the main group had gotten ahead.

  “You know,” he said, “sometimes I think you get it, and the rest of the time . . .” He sighed. “Piece of advice? Stop thinking about this being a one-off.”

  I went cold, a black pit twisting in my stomach.

  “Just accept it, kid. You’re caught up in something bigger than you, bigger than your two supernatural buddies over there. And since you just so happen to be one of mine—” He gave me a once-over. “I’ll tell you, no one, like seriously no one, ever expected that to happen. I mean, you thieves are twitchy at the best of times.”

  “I’m not one of yours, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

  Hermes shrugged. “Well, the details are sketchy on that part, and really I have like no say in the matter, so we’ll just have to accept the lot we’ve both received, as lousy as it might seem. For both of us.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I felt about supernaturals divvying up humans into boxes as they saw fit, but Hermes didn’t give me the chance.

  “You realize Cooper didn’t stumble across the cursed artifacts on his own?” he said. “I mean, I just assumed you figured that part out on your own—your grades before you got kicked out suggested some form of intelligence.”

  I bit my tongue at the derogatory and unconstructive names that popped into my head at the thought of Cooper. Cooper had been the postdoctoral student in charge of the dig that had led to me being expelled by the IAA, not in small part due to him lying through his teeth. He’d been behind the theft of the cursed artifacts that had led to an undead army being raised in Los Angeles—and framing me. “Yes, I realize Cooper didn’t figure out how to resurrect an army of living dead on his own,” I said.

  “And if you think that waste-of-space incubus Artemis just stumbled across some old incubi rituals, I’ve got a fantastic magic bridge to sell you as well.”

  “It’s a bridge or magic beans, not both.”

  “Thief, remember? Don’t like rules cramping my creative nature.” Hermes, Hemey, or whatever the hell else he wanted to call himself, continued. “The problem is that no one’s wanted to talk about it because no one really had any clue about who was behind it. Supernaturals get sketchy that way. They’d rather avoid problems than hit them head on. Consider it a collective fault.” He gave me another appraising look. “Until, that is, the elves threw their hats in the game. A suit of dangerous magic armor, what would those librarians want with that?” Hermes said, making a tsking noise.

  If I wanted anything out of Hermes, I was going to have to play his game. “Maybe they’re being manipulated by the same person—or thing—that arranged Cooper and Artemis. It doesn’t tell me anything except someone is serious about screwing with everyone.” And I was stuck smack in the middle of it, not running for a safe hiding spot while the whole thing blew over like everyone else with a brain.

  Hermes chuckled to himself. “I can see the wheels churning back there, slowly, but at least they still work. You should see this other thief I’m working with.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  Hermes shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some inside intel and leads, but that’s not either the question or the game, which is what you seriously need to start worrying about.”

  “That one group wants to come out in the open and the other doesn’t? Already got the memo, but thanks for playing.”

  “Your attitude? I just can’t even—” Hermes sighed. “Not wrong, but that’s the bigger picture. Think smaller. What is it the elves—or someone manipulating them—want the armor for?”

  Yeah, not like I already hadn’t been trying to figure that exact thing out, but there were still too many options. “It could be anything, from a supernatural wanting to take the world over by violent force or beat his fellow supernaturals into submission. Or any countless idiotic reason. It could just be another collector like Mr. Kurosawa wanting a fancy new paperweight.”

  “If you think anyone wants this suit for a paperweight.”

  “I know, I know. Catastrophe, then.”

  Hermes was silent for a moment. “Let’s try this from a different angle. What do you know about the suit?”

  I shrugged. “It’s dangerous, drives the wearer mad forcing them to pick fights, eventually takes over their mind and body—”

  “Too deep, kiddo. Surface superficial stuff.”

  I thought about it. “It’s picky about its hosts; it doesn’t want just anyone.”

  “Annnd?” he prompted, glancing over his shoulder back at the tour. “Seriously, I don’t have all day here. The hikers are going to start thinking I’m hitting on you. So is the boyfriend. Incubi are more territorial than the bastards let on.”

  I remembered what
Rynn had said about Atticus, the sole supernatural the armor had encountered. “Things get really violent when it takes over supernaturals.”

  “Ahhh,” Hermes said. “Now that is interesting.”

  “Great! Fantastic! How about you help me along here and tell me what the hell that means.”

  Hermes made a face. “Ah, yeah, no can do. Against the rules. As you might have deduced by now, I’m more of a neutral party.”

  “Then why do you even care who wins?”

  “Because one side is much worse than the other.”

  Whatever insult I’d been ready to throw next caught in my throat at the look on Hermes’s face. He wasn’t playing games this time.

  “Let me put it this way. You need another big win, kiddo, otherwise there’s going to be big trouble on the very near horizon, the kind neither you nor your friends can handle or hide from.”

  “Great. Is that all the advice you have for me?”

  He shrugged. “Well, sometimes the decisions you get to make are not the ones you’d like. Other than that? I got nothing.”

  More riddles than help . . . that’s what I got for asking a supernatural. “Has anyone ever told you that as an ad hoc impromptu mentor you kind of suck?”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit of a train wreck to be a hero? Got news for you, kid—I didn’t sign up for this either, but every now and again even us thieves have to get our hands dirty.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “And no more get-out-of-jail-free cards. You’d be amazed the disaster that caused my side. Well, maybe not disaster. More kerfuffle.”

  Oh for Christ—“Fine. If you can’t help, what are you even doing here?”

  “Simple. To make sure the other team at least makes a show of playing fair. FYI—I don’t expect them to.”

  Hermes turned and started back for the tour. He only made it a few feet away from me before he added, “I’m impressed you kept the guy around; good on you for not screwing that up. I’d watch the elf though. The incubus is a bit pedantic about them as a whole, but he’s right; they’re a tricky bunch on a good day. Then again, sometimes they surprise you. Guess you can’t brush an entire race with the same stereotype, kind of like you can’t brush all thieves with the same criminal coat of bad paint. Tends to peel off.”

  “Do you ever give out useful advice?” I asked him. “Or only the half-ass California Zen spiel?”

  Hermes made a show of checking his fingernails, which were way too clean and polished for a hiker. “I’m a thief. Another piece of wisdom for you? Sell the snake oil you have.”

  He continued toward the waiting tourists. “All right, folks, who wants to hear about the assassinations that led to the creation of Guge and the invading armies that lost themselves in the underground tunnels?” he called out. And just like that, Hermes went back to being tour guide “Hemey.”

  I stood where I was, watching Hermes until Rynn and Carpe caught up to me.

  I don’t know if it was an ingrained knack for distraction or something to do with his supernatural nature, but not one of them spared a glance back at us, not once.

  “Negative on the supernatural bullshit,” Carpe whispered. “Your terms, not mine.”

  Distraction it was. “Well, the good news is Hermes doesn’t want to screw us over. I think. He’s also not going to help us. Says he’s here to make sure the other side plays by the rules,” I said.

  “Whose side?” Rynn mused.

  I remembered what he said about having one of “his” in the game. “Considering his track record so far, I’m optimistic he’s on ours,” I said. The tour had turned the corner toward the white temple. As good a time as any to get lost. . . . I headed for the red. “Is it me, or does the addition of another supernatural to the mix, however seemingly friendly, signal imminent disaster?” I asked Rynn.

  “If you think having more supernaturals around is in any way, shape, or form a good thing, I have a bridge to sell you.”

  The entrance to the abandoned monastery was before us, open, nothing blocking the way except the demarcation of red against the white. Deserted and bare on the inside, it sent a chill down my spine. The white stone didn’t repel me though. Rather it drew me in, a welcoming cold rather than repulsive. It was a strange sensation—and unnerving. I shivered as I stepped over the threshold.

  Standing in the sparse temple room, no trace left of the religious trappings that would have adorned it, I could have sworn something whispered at me on the cold breeze that came through the windows. Like a voice trying to start a conversation. I strained to hear it. . . .

  Captain mewed as his claws dug into my back through the carrier.

  I snapped out of it to find Rynn watching me with a wary look. “Every­thing all right, Alix?”

  I shook the cold off and took another good look around the bare room. Nothing. A figment of my imagination from being surrounded by supernaturals. It had to be.

  “Fine.” Even though I said it, I wasn’t so sure. “Just odd seeing a meditation room so sparse. They’re usually decorated. This one’s had all the trappings removed, as if someone tried to erase it.”

  “Let’s get to finding those tunnels,” Rynn said. “Because chances are good the mercenaries will get here soon. Then things will get really interesting.”

  Carpe, who had busied himself opening up his computer, looked up. “You two really know how to brighten up my day, don’t you?”

  We both ignored him and started scanning the meditation room the violent Buddhists would have used.

  Violent Buddhists. If that wasn’t ominous, I didn’t know what was.

  “All right, look for anything out of the ordinary, you two. Secret passages, hollow walls, anything remotely supernatural. Use your imaginations,” I said, and ducked into a second, smaller meditation room.

  There were three meditation rooms in all—one large and two smaller side chambers, cut out of the rock itself. Much to my frustration, the two smaller ones proved as barren as the first. No closets, no alcoves. There weren’t even benches or shelves to rifle through. In fact, the only decorations in the rooms were a couple of spots of chipped paint and a single replication of a prayer altar holding a pot of incense that had long since burned out. Considering the temple’s bright red exterior, the insides were downright plain.

  Carpe and Rynn joined me in the smaller chamber. “Nothing?” I asked them as I crouched down to check a corner where the plaster had chipped substantially. I was hoping to find some sign of a panel or secreted space underneath.

  “Not even a statue, just some bad plaster and rushed whitewash,” Rynn said.

  “Same,” Carpe said.

  Nothing. It was just chipped plaster. “Not exactly surprising. With the exception of a couple hidden idols and frescoes, the Chinese cultural revolution did a spectacular job stamping out religious artwork across China.”

  Tsaparang, along with a large swath of Tibet, had been no different, it would seem—anything left out in the open was wiped out. Never underestimate the power of a large group of people determined at all costs to reshape their culture overnight.

  I wondered . . . I’d read somewhere about a different temple, farther east in Tibet, that had managed to hide artwork from the Red Guards.

  I found a piece of plaster higher up on the wall that had cracked through. I stood on my toes and peered at it. Was there something black underneath?

  “Rynn, help me out with this, will you?” He was taller than me and could reach, versus me, who had to jump. “I read once about a group of helpful archaeologists showing a group of Tibetan monks how to cover their artwork with plaster to hide it from the Red Guards.”

  A piece crumbled off as Rynn pried at the plaster, revealing an image underneath.

  “They hid them,” Carpe said.

  “Yup.” Hiding in plain sight. I shone my flashlight up on the patch that
Rynn had uncovered. They were faint and more worn than I would have liked, but there were definitely frescoes hidden underneath. I was searching for anything that might indicate there was something more hidden underneath.

  I found a corner that had the trace of a border, with lotus flowers drawn in the traditional style peeking out.

  The only question was, was it magic or another false start?

  Only one way to find out. Heart beating, I pulled my chicken blood water out of my backpack and sprayed the corner—carefully. I remembered what had happened the last time I sprayed chicken blood on a mural.

  Nothing happened. Not a flicker, not even a pulse. I let out my breath. I’d been so sure. I turned to Rynn and Carpe. “Any bright ideas?” Both Rynn and Carpe shook their heads.

  Great. Even the two supernaturals were stumped.

  I turned back to the mural and removed more of the plaster. More lotus flowers and pretty designs, but a far cry from anything I’d seen in the Nepalese caves.

  Come on, Jebe, you even said it yourself—the armor was wrong. Corrupted. I’ve got to think you had something to do with the fact no one has seen it in almost a thousand years. . . .

  There was a scratch at the back of my backpack, followed by a tentative mew. “Picked a great time to wake up from your nap,” I said.

  Captain replied with a more insistent mew followed by more scratching. Either he needed to pee really bad, or he smelled something.

  I let him out. Instead of running for the nearest corner or looking for somewhere promising to dig, Captain sat back on his haunches and sniffed the air—and not in Rynn’s or Carpe’s direction.

  Without any warning he darted out into the main meditation room. I swore and scrambled to grab my things before he got out of sight. So much for training.

  Rynn beat me to it. “Alix, over here,” he called out. Captain was digging at a corner of chipped and crumbling plaster. No, wait, scratch that . . . he had the plaster between his teeth and was pulling it out while growling.

  Somehow I didn’t think he was after mice in a stone city. I grabbed him before he ingested any and took a look. Captain did his best to wrest himself out of my arms to get back at the plaster. He chirped to get across the point. First supernaturals, now magic . . . “I’ve seriously broken you, haven’t I?” I said.