Owl and the Tiger Thieves

by Kristi Charish

  It was Jesús who snorted. “Press the patterns in the right order, and a door opens?” he said to me. “Miguelito, she’s lying. I can smell it on her.”

  More arguing in Spanish. Jesús was skeptical, I could see that clearly as he glanced back at me. “Why are you so certain we won’t go back on our word?” Jesús asked me, his lip curling into a sneer. “Send you back to your cell beaten and bloody.”

  I smiled. “Call it remedial faith in humanity. The way I see it, you have two choices: send me back to my cell beaten and bloody or worse and hope I’ve told you where the traps are, or play ball.” I made a show of thinking about it. “Or I suppose there’s a third option: the three of you could forget the whole thing, stick me in some forgotten pit here, and subsist on whatever the IAA pays you. Now, how about that soft bed and three square meals?”

  Often the truth is a lie’s best alibi. I saw Jesús’s resolve waver.

  For a moment, as the three eyed one another, I worried that I’d overestimated their greed. That they’d cave to my demands. I needn’t have concerned myself. Miguelito laughed, and the other three followed.

  The last rule you should always remember about thieves is that the really good ones like their honor. Once their word is given, they go out of their way to keep it. After all, a deal with a thief is only as good as their word. And these three didn’t even merit an entry-level card.

  “We give the orders here, not little girls with delusions of thievery.”

  As expected, there was my double cross. Couldn’t say I was surprised. And I definitely wasn’t going to be treating any of them with something even resembling honor. “There are two types of people who become prison guards, Miguelito. The ones who genuinely want to usher criminals towards a better life and the ones who enjoy having unlimited power over other humans and the chance to exploit them. I’m guessing you’re not here because you wish you could have helped your sister avoid that prostitution charge.”

  Miguelito’s self-satisfied expression faded to something more sinister, violent. Oh, he fumed, but as I’d expected, he didn’t hit me. He wasn’t in a rush to give me an excuse to usher him towards his own mortality.

  “I’m the one holding all the cards,” Miguelito growled. He was trying to convince me less than himself and his two goons. If trust amongst thieves is gold, then respect is platinum. And Miguelito was a broke amateur.

  “Just remember that when you’re deciding which tiles to step on.”

  Miguelito and I stared at each other for the count of four. Then, without any warning, he reached out and slapped my face. Kujo grabbed the back of my neck, and once again my face was driven down onto the table.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have added that comment about his sister . . .

  Miguelito leaned in until he was eye level with me, his face a twisted mix of anger. “Where are the traps?”

  “Beats me, Miguelito,” I managed. “I was too busy running from the IAA.”

  “The traps!”

  I noticed something silver reflecting the light over my eyes. Jesús’s sharpened spatula.

  “Tell me, or it’s your eye.”

  “That thing so much as scratches my eye, mark my words, I’ll make sure you fall down the first trap I can find—and I’ll make certain it’s a doozy.”

  I held his gaze. Every ounce of feigned civility was gone. It reminded me of an expression someone else had looked at me with recently. I pushed that unwelcome memory aside. I did not need to be thinking about Rynn—not now, not while I was in here.

  Come on. Do it.

  I don’t know where the voice that wanted me to goad Miguelito came from, but some part of me, wedged in the back of my mind, begged him to let Jesús do it—dole out some kind of permanent pain that I wouldn’t be able to brush off or forget. The part of me that knew I deserved worse than the deck I’d stumbled out of Shangri-La with.

  It still counts as bad luck when you don’t want the good, right?

  For a second I thought Miguelito would do it, tell Jesús to take my eye out. It’d be so easy, so simple.

  Maybe I’d feel something besides the numbness that had followed me down here and bred.

  But he didn’t. Self-preservation and something resembling logic came back into play. Or he realized he was losing it in front of his two goons. Didn’t know, didn’t care.

  Miguelito tsked, and the sharpened spatula disappeared out of my limited line of sight.

  He sat back down in his chair, and the grip on my neck loosened. Slowly I lifted my head.

  “Here is what you will do, mija. You will tell us exactly where the traps are from the corner of your cell, and if you do anything we do not like, or Jesús or Marco thinks you are lying”—a smile spread slowly across his lips—“well, Jesús is not the only name you’ll be calling.”

  Now to barter for that phone call . . . Lady Siyu would be pissed I hadn’t checked in, but if I timed things right, I’d be out of the lower dungeons and boarding a plane before they realized the traps started fifty meters before they ever reached the puzzle.

  But then I noticed something: the draft that constantly wound its way through the old fortress from the ocean and cliffs outside had stopped. It was quiet in here, except for our own breathing.

  There was only one supernatural I knew of who could do that. Must have gotten wind I’d ended up in here—not the best timing, but then again I hadn’t exactly discussed my tentative plan with the Onorio—when your plan consists of getting thrown into prison and figuring the rest out as you go—well, Oricho likely would have had some issues . . .

  The real question was, what would Oricho want me to do?

  Stall for time. And for the love of God, not to let my big, fat mouth pick a fight.

  “Fine.” I spat the word out through clenched teeth, earning a smile from Miguelito.

  “Take her back to her cell,” Miguelito said in Spanish, tossing the ring of cell keys to Kujo, who caught them easily. Kujo then kicked the back of my chair, knocking me to the floor. Jesús came up beside me and hoisted me up by my shackled arm none too gently. Kujo in the lead and Jesús beside me, I was led out of Miguelito’s office and back towards my cell.

  I kept my eyes and ears peeled as Kujo and Jesús spoke in low voices. I’d done my part, I’d stalled. Now, where the hell was Oricho?

  “You hold up your end of the bargain, we’ll try to make Miguelito hold up his,” Jesús said.

  Yeah, I wasn’t about to hold my breath for that one. I nodded absently and meekly, keeping my head down so I could count the stone slabs. Ten, eleven, twelve . . .

  We turned the corner. I counted another ten stone slabs, all the way back to my cell.

  Still no Oricho. A brief panic coursed through me as the iron ring of keys jingled against the lock; a moment later the door swung open. Was it possible that my own desperate imagination had concocted Oricho? Shit.

  I heard the first body drop to the stone floor, bringing to mind a sack of potatoes. Kujo and I both turned to see Jesús crumpled against the stone wall, his large physique looking oddly like a discarded rag doll, the way his limbs were angled in odd directions. Kujo swore and went for his knife—but there was no one there besides the unconscious Jesús. No sound, no breathing, no scrapes, no Pacific Ocean draft running through the hall; even the lamps seemed to dim in the darkness.

  Still he brandished his knife, as if it might chase off a ghost. I stepped out of the way, towards my open cell door. He didn’t notice, sweat collecting on his face as he scanned the darkened hall. “¡Muéstrate!” Show yourself.

  There was no response. Instead he gasped, clutching at his throat. I know it was a cowardly thing to do—but I’d seen enough violence over the past year. I flinched and turned my face away. I heard Kujo choke and drop to the cold stones but was spared having to watch. Not that I felt bad for him. Of late I had just preferred to avoid being a spectator.

  “Just had to wait until I was right outside my goddamned cell, didn’t you?” I
said as I wiped off my hands and stood. “And by the way, I had everything perfectly under control.” I hadn’t expected Oricho to know I was in the Albino, let alone lift a hair to help me, but I wasn’t looking this gift horse in the mouth. Now all I needed to do was convince Oricho that we should hang around for another hour or so—I mean, since the guards were unconscious . . .

  Oh God, I hoped he’d only knocked them unconscious. Not that they didn’t deserve it, just the idea of letting a supernatural with dubious morals loose in here to kill even evil guards at will left a bad taste in my mouth.

  I supposed I could always tell Oricho the truth. Hey, Oricho, I know we agreed I wouldn’t do anything brash without conferring with you, but I came across a story that referenced the Tiger Thieves in some old Peruvian church archives and figured I’d check it out. How about we take a quick tour of the dungeons downstairs, won’t take more than an hour, promise.

  Dangerous? Oh . . . a couple stories about cursed pirates, but I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle. Probably not even real.

  I turned around—slowly—Oricho was still a supernatural after all. “You know they were probably a few seconds away from beating me up? Would have been a lot harder to drag me out of here uncon—”

  My voice caught in my throat.

  I’d expected to turn around and see a tall Japanese man dressed in an expensive suit with a dragon tattoo winding around his neck looming menacingly over the guards’ bodies. Instead, a blond man stood in the hallway—tall, lean, his features obscured by the shadows but still familiar.

  I couldn’t speak, though I wanted to. It couldn’t be, there was no way . . . yet I wasn’t imagining him standing there, watching me . . .

  Unless I was dreaming.

  “Rynn?” I whispered, letting more hope scratch my voice than I had any right to.

  But the optimism was short-lived as the man angled his flashlight beam into his face. Even if the features were similar, the sardonic smirk he gave me shattered what little illusion there’d been.

  My own temper and months of pent-up anger boiled right up to replace it. Of all the lousy, no-good—it wasn’t Rynn—or Oricho, not even close. I balled my hands into fists.

  “You?” I managed, hearing cruel disdain dripping from my voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Artemis, Rynn’s cousin, washed-up musician from the eighties and all-around low-life incubus, was the blond man standing before me. Blocking my exit.

  Not Rynn. Not Oricho. Him. If the guards hadn’t cleaned out the lavatory buckets, I’d have thrown one at him. And I wouldn’t have missed.

  As it was, all I could do was glare as he tsked and stepped over the downed Kujo. “Apparently we have a great deal of catching up to do,” he said, the eastern-tinged accent reminding me even more of Rynn though the attitude did not. He stuck the flashlight into my cell, looking more curious than anything else.

  What was that saying? Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I might as well be dead. Because if Artemis was any sign, that’s where this was heading.

  2

  THE MORE THINGS CHANGE . . .

  Time? Still have no clue on account of no lights.

  I’m about ready to toss an incubus over the cliffs, though . . .

  I’m not one who’s usually lost for words, and generally only for a few seconds. I have no filter at the best of times and I tend to revert to my old habits under stress.

  Which is what I was doing now. “How the hell did you find me?” I asked. I had the good sense to keep my voice low, but man, did it take effort. I clenched my hands instead, ignoring my nails digging into my palms. It was all I could do to keep myself from punching him—or throwing something at him—or pushing him into a dark, empty cell and throwing the key away . . .

  Artemis. The last person—scratch that—not-person—I ever wanted to see again, let alone find here.

  His smile only widened. Just as cold and cruel as I remembered—no, more so. “Aw, Charity, now, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  “We are most definitely not friends, nor will we ever be.” Where was a deep, dark Incan pit when you needed one?

  Artemis rolled his eyes. “Fine—not friends.” He made a show of examining his fingernails. “Though I assumed you’d be more pleasant to someone who might let you out.”

  I fantasized about shoving him into the empty cell behind him. The problem was that snakes like Artemis always managed to crawl out of whatever cage you stuck them in. They thrived when you sent them to rot with the other bottom-feeders.

  To his credit, Artemis’s smile didn’t falter, even as he tsked. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Owl, instead of standing there fuming?”

  Because Artemis knew exactly what I thought of him. He, like Rynn, was an incubus—but that’s where the comparisons ended. Unlike Rynn, Artemis was the asshole version—the kind who figured humans were there for entertainment, who used humans . . . the kind who couldn’t damn well be bothered to attempt to blend in . . . Now that my eyes had adjusted to the light, I got a better look at Artemis’s outfit. He’d broken into the prison wearing a reflective gold T-shirt, a metal-studded leather jacket that belonged back in LA, and boots that were easily worth more than the average Peruvian’s monthly salary. Not the kind of outfit you broke into any prison wearing, let alone one of the IAA’s. It was a wonder he hadn’t set off the alarms from the outskirts of the town.

  It was also a wonder he’d managed to sneak up behind both Jesús and Kujo.

  Artemis pulled the loop of keys from Kujo’s hand and held them up in front of me and raised his eyebrows. He then held them up for my cellmates. Still shackled to the walls, all three had watched the goings-on outside the cell with extreme interest but stopped short of bringing attention to themselves.

  I held out my hands, then my feet for Artemis to unlock. I have pride. But not enough to stick around here.

  “It might just be your lucky day, ladies,” Artemis said, his voice raised, as he unlocked my manacles, their iron hinges creaking as they dropped to the floor. My three cellmates shielded their eyes as Artemis’s flashlight danced about their cell. Lucinda, I think it was, swore a blue streak.

  “None other than the infamous Owl has been your cellmate these two weeks past and is currently breaking out,” Artemis continued. “You should feel honored. Normally she’s responsible for burying people—oomph!”

  I derived a small sense of satisfaction as I elbowed the air out of Artemis’s chest with a sharp jab to his rib cage.

  “Ignore him,” I said, rubbing the raw skin where the metal had chafed it over the past two weeks. Artemis gave me a questioning glance and nodded at my cellmates. I nodded back. A more prudent and cautious thief might have left them in there—the fewer chances of alerting any wayward guards, the better—but I wasn’t even going to pretend to entertain the idea. Besides, they were professionals.

  Artemis made quick work unlocking their shackles, each woman testing her cramped legs and arms. While the three of them rubbed their wrists and ankles, sore from the chains and what I gathered had been months of disuse, I set about seeing exactly what Jesús and Kujo had been hoarding. More keys, a flashlight, cash—good for getting a train ticket out of here, if nothing else—a cell phone, two pocketknives, a baton . . . I also grabbed Kujo’s jacket; it had enough large pockets to carry everything as well as protect me from the draft.

  “Charity, is it true?” Mathilda asked in her timid voice. I turned around; the acknowledgment seemed to give her bravery a boost. “You are the Owl, yes?”

  To be honest, the question stumped me. How did one answer something like that? And really, at the end of the day, did it even matter? Who cared who let them out? I shook my head. “Just—get out of Dodge fast—before someone wakes up or another guard comes down.” She nodded, eyes wide.

  I don’t know what inspired me to keep going, but I did. “And don’t use any of your ID cards or your bank accounts, not even ones you
have stashed. Otherwise the IAA will have you back in here faster than you can access an ATM.” I divided the money I’d looted from Jesús and pressed some of the bills into her hand. The rest I offered to the other two. “Let her follow you out, at the very least to the train station.” I wasn’t being completely altruistic either, I reasoned. Mathilda on her own might end up alerting the IAA that there’d been a prison break, but the other two were career criminals and knew how to stay under the radar. If they got Mathilda to the train station and she didn’t access any of her accounts, I figured she would be fine—at least until I was finished in here and well out of Peru.

  “What about you?” Lucinda asked in a gruff voice.

  I glanced back over my shoulder. Artemis, after outing me, had apparently lost interest and was once again leaning against the wall and checking his manicure.

  “Up the stairs, take a right, then a left,” Artemis told them, not bothering to look up from his nails. “Watch out for the night watchman. He spends his evenings streaming soap operas and porn on his phone, but every now and then he gets up to grab another beer and relieve himself.” To me he added, “Given someone that incompetent at his security job, it seemed a shame to interfere.”

  Cora and Lucinda. Both gave me a narrowed sideways glance.

  I shook my head. I knew what they were asking: maybe we weren’t that far off on our codes of thieving as I’d thought. “No catch. It’s just seriously your lucky day.”

  “You’re not leaving as well?” Cora this time.

  Not that far off in the thieving world, but definitely not that close. I pointed down the hall. “Do you three really need an invitation to vamoose? Get while the going is still fucking good, and don’t ask so many questions.”

  They needed no more prompting. Once they had disappeared down the hall and no screams, alarms, or shouting had ensued, I turned my attention towards my more immediate problem. The one in a ridiculous leather jacket and T-shirt.

  “I’ll ask you one more time, Artemis. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Artemis’s veneer faltered and his irritation and impatience shone through. “You know, for someone who just narrowly escaped being tortured, you might want to be more grateful.”