Owl and the Tiger Thieves

by Kristi Charish

  At first glance I thought it was a simple wooden club—innocuous, not unlike a lot of other crude weapons—but as Artemis moved it under the gas-lamp light, I caught the glint of light reflecting off the etchings.

  “Silver etched with lead,” Artemis opined. “What you might call a brownie or pixie bat.”

  “Brownies?” Brownies were a rare subset of the fairy family—pixies, leprechauns, nixies, anything small with wings was pretty well known except for brownies, the veritable penguins of the fairy world . . . “They’re harmless.”

  “A nuisance, yes, but not always benign. Their populations have shrunk and they tend to shy away from civilization, but back in Leonardo’s day they were worse than a warren of rats under your bed and more aggressive; no one’s larder was safe. When they got desperate, particularly in an island city like this, it wasn’t unusual for them to suffocate the odd dowager or even an infant to free up space and food. Definitely not harmless.”

  I put the club back down. “What’s this one?” I asked, picking up a silver metal ball.

  Artemis peered at it, then shuffled through the blueprints. “Ah—I believe that’s supposed to be a sunlight grenade of some sort.”

  Hunh. I discreetly slid it into my pocket. Could never have enough small, easily transported vampire deterrents . . .

  Weapons. There were a lot of them, some of which Lady Siyu and Mr. Kurosawa might be interested in, but nothing reminiscent of the Tiger Thieves except the cylinder. No hints, no inklings . . .

  “And what do we have here . . .” His voice trailed off as he stared at something under the pile of blueprints. “I, ah, think I found your tourists—or one of them,” Artemis said, holding up a skeletal hand. I cringed; it was small—likely the woman’s.

  I spotted something silver on the wall, hidden behind the collections of pictures and blueprints. I pushed one of the papers aside. It was a mirror, an old one with bits of the silver chipped out. I stared at my reflection. I still looked gaunt, but in the dim light it was less noticeable than it had been in daylight. My hair was a mess, damp from the humidity.

  I winced as the twinge of a headache hit me. I wanted to shut my eyes, but I couldn’t look away from the mirror.

  My face dissolved before my eyes as Rynn’s came into view. He did not look happy. The pain in my head blossomed, and I pressed my forehead. Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes off the mirror.

  “I’ll warn you once, Alix. Stay out of my way.” His lips didn’t move, but his voice was clear and painful inside my head.

  “Owl?” Artemis said.

  Whatever spell the mirror had over me vanished. I shut my eyes tight and pressed my cool hands into my forehead. When I opened them, Artemis was glaring at me but any sense of Rynn had vanished. I glanced back at the mirror.

  No sign of Rynn there either, only the chipped mirror and my reflection.

  “What happened?” Artemis asked, still frowning.

  I glanced up at the mirror one more time. Only my own reflection. I shook myself out of it. It was the proximity of Artemis and his resemblance to Rynn—plus the fact I was close to two months of running on empty.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Ah, just lack of sleep and probably low oxygen getting the best of me.” Artemis didn’t look like he believed me, so I added, “Really. Just my imagination playing tricks on me. I found a mirror. Scared myself.” And really, what was more plausible? That my paranoid brain was inventing new and interesting ways to terrify me or that Rynn had found a way to haunt me?

  Artemis shook his head. “I think I saw a vent in the stairwell. I want to make certain no one is waiting to ambush us, sick vampire or not. Stay here.”

  Fine with me, there were a number of blueprints I wanted to go through . . . now, what was this? Under one of the blueprints was a collection of papers with a close scrawl in Latin, clipped together with a modern paper clip.

  At first I tried to cure the consumption myself with the supernatural element, but that has proved futile, not without a more powerful specimen, which I have little faith we will come across.

  Tuberculosis. Not a lot of cures for that back then . . . I skimmed the pages, wondering if they’d been written by my sick vampire. I had to admit, I had no idea what happened if a terminally ill person was turned—did he or she get better? Stay sick? Or get worse? It was a good question.

  A few poor fairies—a nymph, I think. Though their humors gave me relief from the symptoms it was temporary and unsustainable, since I had to drain both to create the elixir. I have one hope left, a vampiric gentleman who was apprehended last night by my brothers in the Illuminati. They still believe I am working on the device. I hate to deceive them, but if the consumption takes me before I finish, they will have no weapon. The lie is essential.

  At least this one I thankfully won’t feel guilt about experimentation. Not like the others.

  Brothers in the Illuminati? Shit, this must be the accounts of Leonardo da Vinci—or one of his assistants.

  I continued to flip. Sure enough, the author signed himself Leonardo da Vinci. Madman or the real thing, the experiments documented were real enough.

  His quest for the elixir of youth had started off well, but as his condition deteriorated, so had his desperation until it read like an obsession. I don’t think even he realized what had happened. The experiments got more reckless as did the type of supernaturals he was using; he was even mixing blood types, convinced that he’d eventually stumble upon the right mix. Completely and utterly obsessed . . . I reached the second-to-last page, where he described taking a vampire’s blood along with that of another hapless pixie and nymph. I turned the page, a macabre branch of my curiosity wanting to know what had happened.

  I frowned. There was no mention of the results, no more theories on pixies, nixies, types of metal needed to catalyze the reaction. Instead, the next few pages were covered with lines—patterns of them with nonsensical text scrawled underneath.

  It wasn’t a code or script I recognized. Supernatural, maybe? Leonardo had been crazy enough to play with their magic after all. “Hey, Artemis,” I called out. “Come see if you can make anything out.” I traced the lines with my finger. Even the gold ink used was similar.

  Something crashed behind me, and I just about dropped the book. Captain stopped his mapping of the pigeonhole cabinet as well and reared his head.

  “Artemis?” I called out, partially to see if it had been him and to call him if it hadn’t. There was no reply—or any more movement.

  But whether that was a good or a bad sign . . .

  Captain jumped up on the table and bleated at me. Absently I patted his head as he nosed the pages of the journal, taking in their scent. “If you’re not worried, I’m not worried,” I told him. After all, what good was a vampire detection system if you didn’t pay attention—

  Shit! I grabbed at the arms that had sneaked around my neck.

  “Ah, I see you’ve found my journal. I was wondering where that had gotten to,” said a raspy older voice. I winced as warm breath laced with rotten lily of the valley and something else rotten—like flesh—descended over me.

  New lesson, Owl, even the best detection systems fail . . .

  “And you found Diana. I rather liked her and her family, wonderful conversationalists from the East Coast of America. I had hoped I’d be able to restrain myself, but alas, it wasn’t to be.

  “Now, normally I’d be polite and see if you wouldn’t scream, but I’d rather not deal with your incubus friend at the moment, so . . .”

  A canvas bag was slid over my head, and the rope noose tightened. A moment later I heard a muffled yelp as Captain was shoved into his own canvas bag. Then the chloroform hit.

  Goddamn it. I hate it when I’m too unconscious to cause a scene.

  6

  FAILURE TO LAUNCH

  Early evening: Just below the waterline of Venice.

  I came to seated in a chair this time. The sloshing water woke me—and the cold sensation that
engulfed my feet, which were submerged up to my ankles. Considering my boots and legs were soaked but the first chills of hypothermia hadn’t set in, I guessed I’d been sitting here for ten to twenty minutes.

  I checked my hands, but no restraints had been placed around them. In fact, I found I was completely free to move. The relief at not being tied up was short-lived—about as long as it took to realize that I couldn’t see.

  I remembered the canvas bag tossed hastily over my head and pulled tight—and the off scent of rotting lily of the valley. I blindly felt for the bag, and, finding the rough canvas, I felt for the string. I found an intricate knot and began to work my fingers into it, feeling to loosen it. I did a mental check: no grogginess, no problem with motor control. Whatever kind of vampire this da Vinci was—and there was no doubt in my mind that that’s what he had to be—his pheromones were faulty, as was his regeneration if I read the scent of rotting flesh right. Somehow I didn’t think a sick vampire was necessarily better than the healthy version—not when both tried to eat you and one wasn’t packing a full set of painkillers. I also picked up traces of mildew and chemicals, reminiscent of oil paints.

  Before I could parse out any more scents, the canvas bag was pulled off my head with a flourish.

  “Let us try that again. You don’t scream, and I won’t use the chloroform on you and the Mau again, yes?”

  Crouched in front of me, holding the bag in one hand, was possibly the strangest old man I’d ever seen. Long salt-and-pepper hair that hadn’t been cut in years fell around his shoulders, and he had a beard to match. His clothing was in tatters and arranged in an odd array: a long canvas parka worn over rough jeans and tied with what looked like a combination of leather belts. A heavy wool shawl thrown over his shoulders added to the strangeness, giving his attire an old-fashioned effect despite the obviously modern pieces.

  Old, unattractive, and with a lack of interest in fashion and grooming: all in all, it was the least likely looking vampire scenario I’d ever seen. Either through conscious selection or as a side effect of being turned, vampires were normally as fastidious as cats when it came to hygiene and grooming.

  In fact, if it hadn’t been for the lily of the valley smell, I’d have debated whether or not this was a vampire at all.

  Vampires were the cockroaches of the supernatural world, but they were one of the only ones that started off as human. In contrast to the vampire legends, they didn’t acquire super strength or powers of persuasion. What they did get was a secretable aromatic pheromone that had an opiate-like sedation effect on any nearby humans. It was a high that was as pleasant and addictive as heroin. Victims didn’t always even know they were being preyed upon by vampires. They just kept going back for more until there was very little left of them but a living, breathing junkie whose only desire in life was to do the vampire’s bidding. It wasn’t a nice way to live, and they were used and discarded more often than not.

  The point was that even the youngest vampire could incapacitate an adult human. A trace of pheromones alone should have me reduced to Owl-flavored Jell-O. Yet here I was. Cringing.

  He smiled absently, showing me his slightly elongated incisors. They were a tartar-stained yellow. Again, not typical for a vampire.

  I spotted the source of the chemical scents across the shallow room, set out on the easel below a half-finished piece of artwork, one that hadn’t been in the workshop before. I got a glimpse of it: a macabre and beautiful work, featuring a family of four in various stages of decay.

  “Ah—my last guests. Do you like it?”

  I turned my attention back to my supposed Leonardo. “You know, I think you’re really missing out on ironic comedy. You should really try to pass these off and watch the art experts sweat.”

  That earned me a laugh. “Thinking of escaping, are we? Don’t lie, I saw you glance about my workshop. Not a bad survival strategy, running from predators, though I suggest you look up before you set your mind to it.”

  I did—still keeping the vampire in my sights.

  Shit. Above me, suspended from pulleys, was a spiked metal ball large enough to take both me and the chair out, along with a decent chunk of the floor.

  “If your weight shifts even a fraction, the spike is rigged to fall. It is quite deadly. I thought it would be a greater incentive to keep your half of the conversation civil.”

  “A little overkill, don’t you think?” I asked but still shuffled my ass so it was square in the center of the chair. Even if he was bluffing, those pulleys and ropes didn’t look stable.

  “As I was saying earlier,” Leonardo said, “I have a problem with eating people I like. As much as I try, my acquaintances never seem to last that long. It used to bother me, but now I find the best thing for my mind and soul is to accept the inevitable, enjoy the moment, and do my best to record their memory on canvas, yes?”

  The fact that he was confessing to being an uncontrolled, impulsive serial killer who knocked off online vacation tourists because he couldn’t help himself did not put me at ease, particularly the fact that he seemed to be asking me to admit it was okay. Over my dead body—scratch that, not over my dead body . . .

  I noticed a canvas bag on the floor tucked underneath the table in a shallow puddle. It wriggled and huffed, then let out a forlorn mew. Even this close, though, Captain wasn’t close to his normal vampire reaction. I did another mental check. No pheromone effects at all. I could smell the rotting lily of the valley, but even this close it did nothing.

  Maybe da Vinci wasn’t a vampire; maybe he just smelled like one . . . sort of.

  I peered at his features, searching for the telltale signs of vampirism. Leonardo’s deflated and wrinkled face smiled back at me, exposing his yellow fangs.

  I swallowed. Just because he wasn’t a normal vampire didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

  “Please understand that I don’t want to hurt anyone, it’s simply in my nature now, like a cat killing a mouse when there’s a full bowl of food. But I do love conversations. I hoped we could have one,” he added as he turned towards a desk to choose a new brush. I spotted the journal out in the open. Yeah, I was going to need that . . .

  “Tell me, what is it you and the incubus are looking for?”

  I hesitated. At the moment he wasn’t trying to eat me. Once I gave him what he wanted? All bets were off.

  Leonardo’s upper lip curled as he tsked, the first sign I’d seen of displeasure. He turned his back on me, and I heard the sound of rustling papers.

  At least there wasn’t anything in reach that could lend itself to violence . . .

  I heard the clink of metal out of my line of sight, heavier than a paint spatula or brush. He flashed me another yellowed, toothy smile and held up a set of pliers stained a brown that I didn’t think was rust.

  He held them up. “I find that fingernails are very effective. You will tell me what I wish to know, yes?”

  When a crazed vampire threatens to torture you for information and has the stained tools to back it up, tell it whatever the hell it wants to know. Holding out is for martyrs and heroes.

  I nodded and held up my hands. “No need for a manicure.”

  He smiled again and nodded as he shuffled towards me, wet slippers slopping against the floorboards. “After, yes?” he said, holding up the tools again. “After I take a fingernail or two, you won’t be tempted to lie.” He paused. “Or maybe I’ll take all of them—for my collection.”

  I realized that the painting I’d been admiring of the American tourists was a collage made of delicately painted fingernails.

  Leonardo closed in on me. I leaned back as far as I could without sliding off the chair. “I’m looking for the Tiger Thieves, all right?”

  The pliers paused. “Ahh, I suspected as much,” he said, and held up my amulet, the gold lines glinting in the lamplight. He narrowed in on me, grasping both my shoulders with his bony hands, the chair rocking back as his rancid breath washed over me. I glanced up at the spi
ked ball now rocking precariously overhead.

  “Did they tell you to come after me, flush poor Leonardo out?”

  Oh, Oricho was going to get an earful about not doing due diligence . . . “No! I just want to find them, that’s all. I swear!”

  His face took on a manic panic, and he began searching the room with his reddened eyes. “You’re working for them, aren’t you?” I flinched as neutered vampire spittle sprayed over my face. “Are they here? Is that why you’re still here talking to me?”

  “No. I’m still sitting here because you rigged a spiked cannonball over my head. Trust me, if it wasn’t there, I’d be long gone.”

  “I don’t believe you.” He spat on the floor and searched the room again, his eyes turning an angry red. “I wouldn’t put it past them—lurking, teasing me, laughing at me.” He snorted. “You never know when the Tiger Thieves are watching, manipulating you—they’re tricky that way.” He turned back to his desk to rummage angrily once again. I saw where he placed my amulet—on the open page of the red journal.

  A piece of canvas was jostled, uncovering a new piece he was working on: me and Captain, immortalized for the ages with terror-stricken faces.

  “What a coincidence you came down here when you did. I’d given up on finding any more of these. You do know what it is, don’t you?”

  Best course of action? Play along with him until I figured out a better course of action.

  I offered him a slow nod. “It’s a Tiger Thief amulet. It’s supposed to lead to the Tiger Thieves.”

  The madness left Leonardo and he nodded back at me with clear eyes. He held up his hand, and I realized he was holding a second amulet. “Not perhaps so much as a guide but as a puzzle to solve. The Tiger Thieves are a reclusive lot, but you are correct, these amulets are the key. I’ve been trying to find them for a very long time, hundreds of years now, I believe. I think they can help me with my”—he paused as if searching for a word—“predicament,” he finally settled on.