Owl and the Electric Samurai

by Kristi Charish

  A breeze—cooler than occurred outside—brushed against the back of my neck, followed by another round of thunder.

  “Time to take a walk down a deep, dark tomb,” I said to cover my own nerves more than anything else. I grabbed one of the lamps, lit it, and headed for the stairs leading down, Rynn close on my heels and Captain surveying from the bag.

  Please, universe, for once don’t let this one turn into an unmitigated disaster.

  As I brushed a patch of cobwebs away from the narrow path in front of me, I figured that with my going rate of luck, that was a slim chance.

  17

  THE GUNS OF SHANGRI-LA

  And this is why we can’t have nice things . . .

  “I could have sworn there was a passageway there a moment ago,” Rynn said as we made our way back from a dead end.

  “That’s because there was,” I told him. Like Texas and Michigan had insinuated, Shangri-La played fickle. Moving passages, disappearing doors, appearing dead ends. I checked the now-dead-ended wall. Sure enough, my chalk mark was still there. Xs for doors, Os for dead ends; this one had been marked as a door. I’d started using the shorthand as soon as we’d realized the temple was playing musical chairs.

  I stopped Rynn before he could step on an inconspicuous square stone floor tile that was just a little more elevated than the others—not that any of them were exactly flush. I waved him back and knelt down, clearing the dust out of the grooves. Sure enough, it wasn’t cemented in like the others.

  Captain, curious and getting bored in the canvas bag, decided to stand on my back while I worked. I noted that not even he wanted to jump to the floor.

  “My guess is it only takes a light touch.”

  “On account of the city?”

  “On account of Captain not wanting to get out and wander around.” He normally explored these kinds of places ahead of me, but not today. He knew something was up.

  I tried to lift the tile, but it wouldn’t budge. Well, if I couldn’t disarm the trap . . . I searched the walls and surrounding tiles until I found what I was looking for. Three holes set into the murals—the tigers’ mouths in this case. I handed Captain to Rynn and edged myself as far back from the tile as I could before laying down on the floor. When Captain and Rynn were well out of range of the tigers’ mouths I reached forward, pressing my cheek into the floor, and pushed down on the tile. In quick succession, not one but six darts shot out and clattered harmlessly against the opposite wall. I tested the tile again to make sure it was inactive before retrieving one of the darts. The tip was white—a sharpened tooth. I held it up to Rynn. “Well, at least Shangri-La is thematically consistent,” I said.

  He took the dart and held it up to his nose. “Poisoned,” he said.

  “That’s just the welcome mat. Wait until we get close.”

  “Just find the tomb so I can set the dynamite,” Rynn said, crushing the dart beneath his boot.

  “At least the suit isn’t trying to take me over again.”

  “Yet. Which in my mind isn’t comforting, Alix. It only means it’s biding its time.”

  We made our way around a fallen piece of wall and found another chalk marking. This time there was a passage where there hadn’t been a moment before. Not that I didn’t agree with Rynn, but at the moment, the only option I saw was to continue onward and hope the city stopped playing games.

  I checked the floors—no trap this time. Wonder what the tunnel held up ahead.

  There was a whisper of something dark at the back of my mind. The armor wouldn’t be safe here; someone would dig it out. Better to take it with me . . .

  I paused for a moment and closed my eyes, pushing the thoughts out. We were burying it in here. A grave under a pile of rubble in a pocket universe—or whatever the hell this was. That wasn’t negotiable.

  I felt cool hands on my chin. I opened my eyes to Rynn’s blue. “Speak of the devil?” Rynn asked.

  I shivered as Rynn’s eyes flared brighter—but I also felt the armor unwind its claws and retreat back. “I hate it when you do that,” I said.

  “Better than the armor taking over and convincing you to brain me over the head with a rock.”

  As much as I would have liked to argue I’d never go through with it, it fit in line with something the armor would try—and maybe succeed at. Instead I asked, “How did you know?”

  He shrugged. “Movement. Your scent changes, so do your breathing patterns. It’s nowhere near as subtle as it thinks.”

  I was about to comment that I didn’t think the armor cared one lick about how subtle it was provided it got a chance to get back to pillaging and maiming, but a noise ahead made me pause. Rynn stopped as he heard it too; it was faint, but the echo of shifting tiles carried our way. We both stayed perfectly still and waited until Rynn broke the silence. “What do you think Shangri-La is up to?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I was getting a really bad feeling. Even Captain let out a warning mew from inside my backpack. “Nothing good.”

  There was a shift in the stone up ahead, as if the temple was opening up another passage. I started to creep forward, angling my lamp around the tunnel so as not to miss anything.

  Sure enough, a panel was sliding open, as if entirely on its own.

  “Magic?” Rynn asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Or mechanics of the city—wheels and pulleys.” Or a combination of both. Shit.

  A light escaped through the cracks as the panel continued to shift open. A light that uncannily mirrored mine. We backed up, but not in time.

  “Stop!” someone shouted.

  We ignored the command and kept running until two bullets struck the passageway unnervingly close to our heads.

  “Can you survive a bullet to the head?” I whispered to Rynn.

  He shook his head at me. “Don’t know an incubus or succubus who’s tried it, and I’d rather not be the first,” he whispered back.

  “Hands above your heads,” the Zebra shouted as more footsteps filled the still-opening passage.

  Without any other options, we complied. The city just had to keep screwing us . . .

  “So we meet again, Hiboux,” came Williams’s distinct voice. I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing a few feet behind us, well out of reach, flanked on either side by his mercenaries.

  Not wanting to run from bullets, I faced him. “I thought you were here to retrieve the World Quest dynamic duo.”

  I don’t know if it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw Williams’s expression turn dark.

  “Plans have changed, I see?” I prodded. “I’m guessing one archaeology thief and an ancient and very dangerous suit of armor have been added to the list? Should have asked for more money.”

  “Oh, you can rest assured they are paying us for the change in directives. On your knees—both of you.”

  This time I didn’t comply. “You’ve got to know by now that the IAA isn’t running this pony show anymore.”

  “But they are signing the checks. On your knees. I won’t ask again.”

  “Planning on shooting off our kneecaps?” I saw a plate on the floor, set just a few steps away and apart from the rest of the stone floor tiles.

  “I don’t need to shoot your kneecaps off to get you to kneel.”

  I glanced at the plate then at Rynn, hoping he got the message. I took the way he clenched his jaw as a sign he wasn’t exactly thrilled with my plan but would go along.

  “How about you go your way, Williams, and we’ll go ours? Call it a day, no one gets shot?” I said as Rynn and I both kneeled.

  Williams shook his head. “Can’t let you do that, Owl.”

  The plate was within arm’s reach. All I had to do was throw myself forward . . . But what kind of trap? I searched the walls for holes, but I couldn’t find any—and the murals of baboons swinging
through a jungle gave no indication what the trap might be either.

  Well, beggars can’t be choosers when it came to setting off ancient booby traps . . .

  “Yeah, I figured you might say that.” And here’s to hoping I didn’t get shot . . . I drew in a breath and threw myself at the plate. The tile sunk under my hand, scraping against the stone. The Zebras’ guns came up as they searched for the danger—all except Williams, who kept his eyes on me.

  “Oops,” I said.

  I’m sure Williams would have had something to say to me, but the tunnel around us started to shake. While the others searched the walls and floors, it was Williams who looked up; none of us could see the ceiling, even when everyone had their flashlights aimed up. Williams gave me one last look before whistling at his men. In rapid succession, every last one pressed themselves flat against the walls. A moment later I saw why as a stone cannonball suspended on a rope came pummeling down the center of the high-ceilinged tunnel toward us.

  I swore and dove for the floor, a wisp of air stirring my hair as the cannonball passed too close for comfort. I lifted my head only to find it was coming back. I ducked my head out of the way, but one of the mercenaries wasn’t nearly so lucky. I heard his gargled scream as he was pummeled down the hall.

  “Now,” Rynn said, and the two of us darted down the tunnel before it could return.

  Oh no . . . “Rynn!” was all I managed to shout before throwing myself down as another cannonball came swinging from the other direction. Rynn shone the flashlight he’d managed to hold on to ahead. Sure enough, the entire passage was lined with cannonballs—all swinging in a homicidal arc. I also noticed that a side passage had opened up beside us. I shoved Rynn and started crawling toward it. I don’t think I let out a breath until we were both in.

  Then the passageway slammed shut.

  “Shit.” I checked the wall, but there was no trace of the doorway we’d just walked through. Maybe it was an illusion. I dug my fingers into the seams . . .

  “Alix,” Rynn called again, more insistently. “You might want to turn around.”

  Oh goddamn it, the last thing I needed was another trap. “Oh sweet Jesus,” I said as I saw what was behind us.

  Illuminated by Rynn’s flashlight was treasure. Bowls, vases, dishes, jewelry—lots of it, all lined up on shelves that had been roughly carved into the walls. And not from one place either; if I had to guess, I’d say there were pieces from the medieval ends of the globe.

  I stood and wiped my dusty hands on my pants in order to have something to do with them besides reaching for the treasure while Rynn examined one of the shelves—without touching.

  “Trip wires,” he said, “fixed into the back. Another trap.”

  Could be anything—falling ceilings, collapsing floor, more of the swinging cannonballs, a pit of lava. I shivered. Shangri-La had given up on the obvious and was setting out lures. A deadly trail of golden bread crumbs . . .

  “Not even a little tempted to line your pockets?” Rynn asked.

  I shook my head. “Only when it won’t kill me. I think I’ll just leave everything where it stands.”

  Rynn stopped partway down the path of deadly treasure and torqued his head. “Buzzing—magical, I think, coming from that direction.” He gestured down a side corridor, then frowned. “It’s thrumming, like it’s tuned off key.”

  That sounded like the armor or Shangri-La. As far as the magic running them went, off key was a more generous euphemism than I would have come up with. I crept down the tunnel until I found what was reflecting the light back—not off the carved stone doors that lined the tunnel or the treasure but off a polished metal door.

  I tried to check the seams, but as my fingers brushed the metal, an impatient desperation coursed through me. I pulled my fingers away. “It’s definitely behind there—and the door’s been sealed.”

  There were no inscriptions, no latches, no locks, no etchings. The copper-colored metal had been welded into the stone itself, which should have been impossible. I checked the surrounding walls. Still no indication of how to open the door.

  Rynn did say he’d scented magic.

  I knelt down in front of the solid metal door and breathed in deep. Mixed with dirt came the familiar tang of metal mixed with blood.

  And me without my spray bottle of chicken blood . . . I searched the wall until I found a sharpened piece of stone. “Rynn, you might want to step back,” I said before sliding my forearm across it until droplets of blood ran free. Rynn swore behind me.

  I hoped the door didn’t blow up . . . I took a deep breath, held it, and pressed my arm against the door.

  The door didn’t light up—not immediately. Instead the blood pooled on the metal, circling around until it formed one dark red glob, made darker still by the copper. It ran to the center and then seeped into the metal, as if the door had been porous.

  “Was it supposed to do that?”

  I shrugged. “Beats me—shit.” I dropped to the ground as the metal door flared a brilliant red. When it didn’t explode and I convinced myself I wasn’t blind, I peeked at it through my fingers. Rynn was just standing there, looking at it—then frowning at me. I stood and wiped the dirt off my pants. He could frown all he wanted. He didn’t have my mortality issues.

  I looked at the images. Chinese characters, old ones, dating back to the Mongolian rule.

  “What does it say?” Rynn asked.

  “As best as I can tell? ‘Here lies General Jebe and his curse for whoever dares to broach this door.’ ”

  I took another deep breath, pressed both hands against the door, and pushed. It slid silently open, showing a darkened room.

  “After you,” Rynn said, aiming his flashlight inside.

  It was filled with tables and chests of treasure—weapons, gold, jewels, clothes, furniture, and artwork from all over the world. And right in the center was a sarcophagus carved out of planks of hardwood and sealed together with inlaid metal that made it look like a strange broken artifact.

  “That’s got to be Jebe,” I said.

  I crouched down and checked the doorway for traps. Either ­Shangri-La had given up, or it had decided we deserved a reprieve.

  Either way, the treasure room—or tomb—looked relatively stable. I stepped inside and picked my way around the treasure, heading straight for the sarcophagus.

  The sarcophagus itself depicted a warrior who had Mongolian features and was dressed in a suit of black armor, similar to the ones I’d seen in the Guge murals. On his chest was clasped what was left of his bow. Definitely Jebe . . . Though the paint had long since begun to chip, I could still see the whites of his eyes, which had been left open, as if on watch eternally for intruders.

  An involuntary shiver traveled down my spine. A hell of a way to go. Buried alive inside a sarcophagus to keep the armor from ever finding another victim.

  I hoped I’d be that brave, but I doubted it.

  I turned my attention away from Jebe’s. The sarcophagus was made of pieced-together thin planks of hardwood, the cracks sealed together with molten metal. I brushed my fingers against it. Warped and twisted. Just like Jebe had said in his journal.

  It hadn’t been carved that way—it had split, multiple times, if the difference in metals was any indication. “Looks like it tried to break out a couple of times,” I said. My fingers caught on the newer cracks that hadn’t been sealed. “Looks like it’s still trying.”

  “All the more reason to keep it locked up in here and throw away the key,” Rynn said.

  That I could agree with. Regardless of the danger hidden inside, I couldn’t see any obvious traps in the tomb.

  “I think it’s safe,” I called to Rynn, who was still hanging back by the doorway. As if reading my thoughts, the lanterns lining the walls—magically imbued ones, I assumed—flared on, bathing the room in an inviting, so
ft yellow light.

  As soon as Rynn stepped over the tomb threshold though, the metal door slammed shut. Rynn tried to push it back open, but it was no use.

  I abandoned the sarcophagus to see if there was some kind of inside latch to the door of the tomb. Nothing. I ran my fingers along the copper. It looked like it did before, welded into the stone. “Probably takes more blood—or there’s another exit,” I told him.

  I don’t know why, but I expected Rynn to be more upset than he was.

  “This might actually work in our favor. I’d like to avoid a second run-in with the Zebras. They won’t be caught off guard next time. See if you can find another exit,” Rynn said.

  While Rynn started setting explosives around Jebe’s tomb, I began searching for another exit. I found one—a small crawl space at the back corner. Either that, or Shangri-La was back to playing its tricks.

  “Found it,” I called. “Though it’s going to be a tight fit.”

  “Tight fit we can handle. We’re not taking anything out of here.”

  Despite the fact that I couldn’t tear my eyes off the sarcophagus, I agreed completely. Maybe it would stop haunting me once it was buried. It would lose hope, just like Jebe had. . . .

  I stopped cold as I heard a banging sound. Rynn stopped what he was doing as well. It was coming from the sealed metal door.

  Rynn was closest to the entrance. He dropped what he was doing and listened against it. “It’s them.”

  Guess the cannonball didn’t give them nearly as much trouble as I’d hoped. They couldn’t get in here though, not without knowing how to activate the entrance.

  The banging stopped.

  But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, the entire room shuddered as explosives rocked the door.

  Rynn wasn’t finished setting his own explosives yet. “Nitroglycerine,” Rynn called. “I need you to stall them!” Apparently there was a way to unseal magic doors . . .

  “Stall them? How?”

  “I don’t know—talk to them?”

  Talk to them? The mercenaries with guns? What exactly did he expect? Hi, I have the suit of armor in here, but in the meantime let’s play I spy?