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Owl and the Electric Samurai

Page 29

by Kristi Charish


  If the armor was that way . . . “You heard the elf—look for any other images in the cave that match the gate.”

  Rynn clenched his jaw but didn’t argue any further. The three of us set about searching the cave once more. Now . . . was that another set of pictures on the ceiling?

  I shone the light up. Sure enough, dancing on the ceiling were more pink and orange elephants.

  “Over here! I found another one,” Carpe called out.

  “I’ve got one too, on the ceiling,” I said, before joining him. Bone inlay just like that on the wall peeked through centuries’ worth of grime. I got down on all fours and started to brush it away until I uncovered a pink elephant, then an orange tiger, then a blue-and-yellow lotus flower.Carpe joined me, and we kept going until I uncovered what I was looking for—the first hint of a circular gate. I cleared more of the dirt and stood up to get a better look. The circle on the floor was as large as the one on the wall and ceiling.

  Like a mirrored image of triplets. “All three need to be activated,” I said. “That’s what I missed before. Remember how the one in Nepal created a siphon?”

  “Before or after it exploded?” Rynn asked me, arching an eyebrow.

  I ignored his tone. “I’ll bet there was a corresponding one in Nepal and we just missed it. Probably buried under years’ worth of dirt.” Or maybe it collapsed right after Texas and Michigan used it. I grabbed my water bottle of blood, but Rynn grabbed my arm and spun me around before I could reach the mural.

  “Alix, think about what you are about to do. This is complete ­madness—and it’s not like you.”

  More red anger—this time at the incubus, who was getting in the way. “I have a literal gun to my head to bring that armor back—and for that matter, so do you. Now move.”

  But he didn’t. “If you can’t be bothered to care for us or yourself, at least think about the people outside. What happens to them if you’re wrong?”

  The thrumming dimmed. Staring at Rynn, I realized he had a point. All I really had was a theory. I shook my head. If the headache would just go away . . . “Maybe you’re right—” I started.

  The elephants and tigers blurred together as my burgeoning headache reared its abysmal and punishing head full force.

  I closed my eyes, but that didn’t do a damn thing. I clutched both sides of my head and sat down. The ground—the nice, soft, and stable ground—was what I needed. . . .

  Rynn’s frown deepened and his grip tightened. “There’s something wrong with you,” he said.

  I opened my eyes, and they were veiled with a red film. “Just a migraine I think. I had something like it back at the Nepal temple, just not nearly this bad.” I was going to add that I just needed a moment, but another wave of pain and bright lights hit me. I stopped and just held my hand to my forehead, wishing for it to go away.

  “Did she hit her head on the way down?” Carpe asked. “I hear that’s quite bad for humans.”

  “No,” Rynn said, studying me now more intently, his hands—cool where they were normally warm—gripping my chin and turning it side to side. “This is something else entirely. I’m not so sure the elves are only planning a retrieval anymore.”

  What was he talking about? I stopped thinking as Rynn’s eyes turned blue.

  Blue. There was something I was supposed to remember about that . . . something really important.

  The sea of red anger descended. Shangri-La was right there in front of me; all I needed to do was open the door. The headache would go away then, I was sure of it. . . .

  Rynn’s bright blue eyes flared as they held mine.

  I screamed and slumped back to the floor, clutching my head as the pain hit me full force. I curled up in a ball, willing the insistent thrumming to go away. Slowly but surely it receded.

  In the background I vaguely heard Rynn screaming at Carpe.

  “You good for nothing—you knew this was what they were planning.”

  “I swear, I didn’t know! I wouldn’t agree to something like this.”

  Planned? What had been planned? Something pulled my attention back to the mural. Not a voice exactly, but a feeling of desperation and frustration—something I could relate to. It wanted me to open it . . . calling to me, and man, was it ever hungry . . .

  Or was that me? Hungry to find the lost city, where everyone else had failed. . . .

  My eyes focused back on the pattern on the floor . . . and a sharpened piece of rock nearby.

  That would make the headache go away. It would have to . . .

  I reached for the stone piece and dragged it across my hand, not gently, like you would for a small cut, but all the way across and deep. That way, I’d be certain to get enough blood.

  I watched as it pooled in my hand, then I reached out toward the bone.

  I hesitated. There was something behind the thrumming. A warning . . . The headache came back full force. That’s your problem, Alix, you think things through too much of the time. Just put your hand on the mural. . . .

  Something slammed into me before my hand touched the image, knocking me to the ground. My head hit the ground, and something primal screamed at me to get back up.

  It took me another second to realize it was Rynn. He rolled me over until I was staring into his blue eyes. I should be angry about that.

  He shook my shoulders again, worry written over his face. “Alix, snap out of it.”

  Anger replaced my own bewilderment far too quickly for me to question where it came from.

  “I had it,” I started.

  “No, you didn’t. It had you.”

  The blue pushed away to red clouds, and the thrumming pull toward the doorway vanished.

  I looked up at Rynn, then glanced down at the deep gash in my hand. “What the hell happened to me?”

  “It’s the armor,” Rynn said. “That’s what happened upstairs and in Nepal—it’s what I felt. All this time it’s been calling to you.”

  Son of a bitch. We knew the suit called to people, we’d just never considered the possibility . . .

  “It has to be because we’re so close to the portal,” I said. “It’s getting desperate.” And if it could exert that much control from wherever the hell it was locked up in Shangri-La, what would it be able to do when people were standing there?

  Rynn and Carpe exchanged a glance. “What? What are you two not telling me?”

  “It’s not just getting desperate. If it was, why not trick one of the countless monks or tourists to open the gate?” Carpe said.

  I went cold. Oh no, not that—anything but that.

  “I think the armor has chosen you as its next host,” Rynn said. He shot Carpe a lethal look as he added, “And I think the elves knew it would.”

  Carpe held up his hands and backed away from Rynn. “Not me. I would not do that to Alix—to anyone!”

  That didn’t matter. None of it mattered. We had a much bigger problem. I did my best to keep my head clear, but I could already feel the darkness—wrongness—ebbing at my thoughts.

  Is this what Jebe had felt? Or had he felt something worse?

  “We need to get out of here now,” I said, and pushed myself back up to sitting. Now that I recognized the dark thoughts coming from the armor, I at least stood a chance of holding it back. It had been so insidious, passing itself off as my own thoughts. If Rynn hadn’t caught it . . . I grabbed my backpack and coaxed Captain inside.

  “Why?” Carpe asked.

  I gave him an even look. “Because regardless of whether or not that suit picked me, you two want to bet that now that it doesn’t have me activating the portal, it can’t go elsewhere to bring in reinforcements?”

  Rynn swore, and Carpe got his laptop out.

  Something metallic bounced down the chute. A canister pinged against the stone floor before rolling to a stop in the
center of the cavern. It let out a soft puff before white opaque gas streamed out both ends. Three more canisters followed in rapid succession.

  Man oh man, I hate being right at times like this.

  “Down the ramp,” I said. I hoped the Guge hadn’t used anything that required dynamite to block off the exit . . .

  “There isn’t time,” Carpe said. “Besides, I think they already found it. They figured out a way to flank us—I can hear the chatter on their comms.”

  “Rynn?” I said, the panic creeping into my voice. Between the mercenaries and the armor . . .

  Rynn glanced around the cave, then made up his mind. “Get on your knees, hands behind your head,” he said, and then did it himself.

  “What—you can’t be serious!”

  “If there’s anything on those computers or electronics in your bag you don’t want the mercenaries or the IAA to have, elf, I strongly suggest you make it disappear.”

  Carpe swore. Kneeling down, he pulled out his laptop and a collection of tablets and phones. His fingers clicked faster across the keys than I would have thought possible.

  I knelt down beside Rynn, cat carrier on my back and hands behind my head.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Carpe hit the last key on his laptop before the first of the Zebras rappeled into the cave, the dangerous end of the gun first.

  I swallowed. “Hi there,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to be the rescue crew the Chinese sent. If you are, color me impressed.”

  None of the Zebras answered. Three of them detached and without a word bound both Carpe and Rynn.

  Me, on the other hand . . . “What, no ties?” I asked, raising my hands.

  In answer, a cloth full of chloroform was shoved in my mouth.

  One of these days, I’d learn to keep it shut. This, however, was not that day.

  14

  ZEBRAS IN CENTRAL PARK

  Time and Place? Oh hell, I have no idea

  There’s a saying: when you see hoofprints in Central Park, don’t go looking for zebras. Yes—a zebra could be the culprit, but in all likelihood it’s just another horse that’s thrown a shoe.

  The point is, don’t go chasing after the exotic. Rule out the mundane first, and then worry about monsters.

  At least the mercenaries who’d shoved a ball of chloroform down my throat had a sense of humor . . .

  I was lying on my side—for some time, considering how my right arm and leg were going numb. And I was tied up; somewhere between the chloroform and dragging me wherever this was, the Zebras had had the brains to restrain me. I listened, but beyond the odd murmur of voices and clanging of metal—boxes maybe—I couldn’t pick out anything distinct.

  I craned my neck to get a better look around and winced at the disoriented protest my brain shot me. Oh my God, worst hangover ever. No wonder chloroform works so well if it does this to your head.

  Besides recognizing the extent of just how incapacitated I was, I found out two other things. One, I was in a cave, and two, if Rynn, Carpe, and Captain were here, they were not being kept nearby.

  My stomach churned. There was only one reason you separated ­prisoners . . .

  As if on cue, I heard footsteps coming my way.

  As far as caves went, I’d wager I was in a surface cavern. The air didn’t have the stale, metallic taste that went with caves that were far underground. And though it was dark, I picked up some ambient light seeping through from outside. Rather than detract, it added a creepy veneer to the industrial LEDs the mercenaries had set up at even intervals in a circular perimeter around the cavern—at least the part I could see.

  I tried to get a look around again, and this time, despite my chloroform-­induced hangover, I managed to crane my neck high enough to get a good look at the ceiling. No bats. This was perfect bat habitat—which meant the surrounding area was inhospitable. Okay, so we were still in the western Tibetan mountains.

  The least they could have done was get me as far away as possible from the armor.

  A moment later a flashlight blinded me, and the makeshift gate keeping me locked up was rattled. I shielded my eyes as best I could and counted five mercenaries. One of them motioned for me to step out.

  Considering they weren’t actively trying to beat me up, I obliged.

  They led me down a narrow cavern trail, me keeping my eyes on my feet so I wouldn’t stumble on the uneven ground. It was a fine line, keeping my eyes down enough that the floodlights didn’t blind me and not so much that I couldn’t see a damn thing.

  Eventually the narrow tunnel opened into a larger cavern, floodlights set at various intervals showing a small table and chairs set in the center. I didn’t recognize the cavern, but I strongly suspected we were still under Tsaparang.

  At least I could see. I glanced at the mercenaries behind me. One of them nodded toward the table and gestured with his gun.

  Right. Sit at the table . . .

  I sat down and waited. Well, if there was one benefit to all of this, the evil armor was no longer pinging my brain at every step of the way—though something told me it was saving its reserves now that it knew I was on to it.

  I didn’t have much more time to ponder the armor’s motivations. The mercenaries guarding me all stood to attention as a man walked into the room and headed for the table. Dressed in the same black outfit as the other mercenaries, with the same white-and-black patch on the left corner pocket. He was older than the others—midforties to early fifties I guessed, tall and still muscular, with a crew cut that toed the line between blond and white. His expression didn’t give anything away, but it also didn’t betray any viciousness. More businessman than mercenary. Regardless, I recognized him. He’d been one of the false firemen in Vancouver.

  He sat down at the table and waited for one of his men to bring him a pitcher of water and two glasses. He poured one for himself, then one for me, passing it over. I left it alone and kept my eyes on him despite the fact that I was thirsty.

  “My name is Captain Williams,” he said, his South African accent coming through, “and you are Alix Hiboux, also known as the Owl.”

  “If you say so,” I said, offering a shrug.

  He didn’t smile exactly, but he did turn over the tablet he was carry­ing. “Currently you are a person of interest with the IAA. They claim you are dangerous and should be treated as a hostile.”

  “The IAA has a bad habit of using creative license.”

  He glanced up at me at that. “They also claim you are in possession of the location of Frank Caselback and Neil Chansky, the designers of World Quest who the IAA currently have hired us to obtain.”

  That one I didn’t answer. There didn’t seem much of a point.

  He glanced back down at the tablet, unperturbed by my silence. “To be honest, I’m more interested in your history with vampires. Most ­people who run afoul of vampires, especially one of Alexander’s repute, don’t come out quite so alive as you have.”

  The research surprised me, though I did my best to hide it.

  “The IAA was unable to illuminate me or my intelligence department why that might be—a failure on their part. When my clients fail to provide me with information, it makes me look.”

  Not knowing what the end game to this conversation was, I went with glib. “I have a strong stomach and an expansive collection of gas masks.”

  “Still, it’s an impressive show of ingenuity. Something the IAA is not fond of in their own ranks.” He made a tsking noise and sat back in his own chair, evaluating me. “Which has become their own problem, since it necessitates hiring out of their own ranks to get anything done.”

  “Is this the part where you coerce me to tell you what it is you want to know? Because, honestly, I’d really prefer it if we could skip to that rather than discuss the IAA’s organizational failings.”

  “And
I find it rather interesting you make no mention of your Mau cat in your success with the vampires.” He turned the tablet around once again, to a photo of my cat, along with a write-up and what looked like dates beside it.

  Despite my resolve not to give him anything, I leaned forward, all signs of my complacent, apathetic expression wiped from my face and replaced with a murderous look. “If this is you trying to give me incentives to play along—”

  He tsked. “Oh, don’t mistake my intentions,” he said, turning the tablet back around. “I just wished to point out that where the IAA often misses important details, we do not.” He glanced up at me again. “Nor do we throw promising assets to the wolves.”

  I kept quiet, not entirely sure where this was going and not wanting to rise to the bait.

  Williams continued. “We are not the bad guys here. We have no interest in the IAA’s political endeavors or lowering ourselves to their level of operations.” He took a sip of his water. “You are accustomed to catering to the lowest common denominator—the IAA, the vampires.”

  “No offense, but if you’re working for them, whether or not you lower yourselves to their tactics is a moot point.”

  Williams narrowed his eyes at me—the first show of anything but business professionalism. “We’re professional mercenaries. They pay.”

  I braced the arms of my chair, anticipating a switch in tactics . . .

  But he didn’t stand up or otherwise threaten me. He simply picked up his glass of water and took another sip.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting exactly—overt threats, outward violence . . . What I saw was calculation.

  And a gun. Williams wasn’t stupid. He’d removed one of his firearms and rested it on the table. Not exactly aimed at me but something that could very obviously be rectified if the need arose.

  “Would you like to know what my predicament is?”

  I didn’t answer. He continued anyway. “Here is the thing. I have a contract with the IAA to retrieve two of their wayward employees. I do not know why they want them or even if the manhunt is justified, but that is neither here nor there in my line of business.” His eyes were impassive. “I do have it on authority that you have also been looking for them.” He slid the tablet across the table again. It was me in Nepal in the back of the orange-and-pink jeep—not a bad shot, all things considered. “And both my intelligence and the IAA believes that you are very close to finding them.”

 

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