By the time I was finished checking, the first guy to wake up was standing tremulously, gazing around at the others, wide-eyed, with his eyebrows high on his forehead.
“If you’ll tell me the fastest way out of here, I’ll go get help. I promise, no police,” I said.
“Don’t need no help. We kin take care of ourselves. Out’s that way,” he said, pointing at the opening the noisy cart pusher originally came in through. He never once tried to make eye contact. I’d have killed that Kalku again, if I could, for making me hurt those people.
The mangled remains of the shaman made me grin as I remembered that I needed to get him back to the goblins. Noticing the pieces of Jack Rios all over the cavern, I decided that they were entirely unidentifiable to anyone who didn’t already know what they’d been part of. It could have been considered desecration, but given that none of the remaining parts were much larger than a cell phone, I decided it was best to just leave the incalculable number of pieces where they were.
As I looked from the remains back to the injured mole people, I figured I’d be better off just getting out of there before those guys started asking questions. I grabbed the bloody mess that was left of the Kalku, wrapped the poncho around the parts of his head and upper body, and pitched him over my shoulder. I threw the skin bag over my other shoulder, pulled out my flashlight, and returned the way I’d come. First, I’d drop the body off with the goblins, and then I’d get the Cup back to Athena.
CHAPTER 15
I’d thought the Kalku and Wekufe would be tougher. The Kalku had been powerful but woefully inexperienced. I’d expected someone capable of creating the kind of complex explosion that had happened at the museum, not a little guy behaving as if it were his first day with the training wheels off. There was no way he was the mastermind behind this whole thing.
After verifying with the goblins that the body I had was indeed the man who’d caused them trouble, I presented it to them and left. I had no desire to know what they intended to do with it.
Of course, the duffel bag with my trench coat was missing from where I’d left it inside the cave entrance. I was sure no one would notice me walking across Central Park at nine o’clock at night, dressed in black with two swords on my back and a couple of guns, and what appeared to be a dead goat hanging from my shoulder. Covered in what was left of Jack Rios, I probably reeked like a dead goat, too. It all just added to my pounding head.
It turned out—much to my chagrin—that no one noticed. While I did cross paths with several people—including one old woman, on an electric scooter, feeding and talking to the raccoons—no one paid attention to the smelly, armed nut with the dead animal on his back, even after the recent bombing. Thank God New Yorkers were so jaded. I even managed to sneak up to my hotel room without raising any alarms, by waiting for the night clerk to duck into the restroom. Once in my room, I locked the door and grabbed my phone to call Athena. It was a few minutes before ten. The message light on the room phone was blinking, and I had a message on my cell as well. It had to be from Sarah, which probably meant I’d missed her.
My head pounded as I dialed. Athena answered on the third ring. “And?”
“I got the Cup back. The Kalku is dead and the Wekufe is… whatever it is that happens to him when his Kalku is dead.” I started to undo my vest to take it off, and a piece of the Wekufe fell on my boot. “Um, really odd that the guy stuck around, don’t you think?” I rubbed my head.
Nothing so far made sense, but my head hurt too much, and my stomach felt too queasy as I thought about my date. I couldn’t figure anything out right now. But I did notice it took Athena a few seconds to respond to my statement. I’m sure she knew I was apprehensive.
“Good work. And yes, very odd. I’ll have Octivius and Dechion pick it up from you shortly.” Overall, she seemed pleased.
“I kinda figured the Kalku and the Wekufe would be tougher. Other than slinging me against the wall and trying to incinerate me, they were pretty tame. Clearly, not used to combat—magical or otherwise.”
“Not completely unpredictable. A Kalku is basically a shaman,” Athena explained. “Their abilities usually lie within the realm of healing and prophecy. The Wekufe is like a battery. Once the shaman connects to it, his abilities magnify, and they often become capable of causing sickness and even death. You say he tried to incinerate you and managed to throw you, I assume using some sort of spells?”
I put the phone on speaker and brought it into the bathroom with me to start cleaning up. “Yeah, why?” I asked, finally stripping out of the vest.
“Well, Mapuche shaman aren’t usually proficient in that kind of magic, and the Wekufe has no abilities except for whatever physical attributes the body it is given possesses. It just functions to supply its Kalku with the energy it needs to cast spells.”
“The Kalku was trying to pull off some kind of magic with the Cup, and he had twenty homeless people under some sort of mind control. We’ll need to get them some medical help if we can.” I splashed water on my face and then dabbed a cold wet washcloth at the lump on my head.
“I don’t know that he would have had the ability to control his visions in the Cup,” Athena replied. “And there’s no way he should have been able to control or even manipulate a person, let alone many people. That makes no sense.”
“Well, he projected a lot of power,” I said, jerking and wincing as I tried to clean the dried blood from the tender area at the back of my head. “He picked me up like a rag doll, tossed me twenty-five feet, and then generated enough fire to shame an M202 FLASH. I mean, he cracked rock, for cripes’ sake, and all while apparently controlling those people. He wasn’t particularly adept at combat, but he had some ideas about it. Look, I’m headed back late tonight. We can talk more about it later. It’s done with.”
Poking at my wounds and talking about how I’d gotten them wasn’t improving my mood, and all I could think about was the phone call from Sarah probably asking why I’d stood her up.
“Very well. Be at my office tomorrow morning,” she replied curtly.
“Nah, I’m supposed to be on the water tomorrow. Can it wait until I get back around three?”
“Fine, but no later than half past.” She hung up.
I checked my messages. Both were from Sarah. One saying she was running late and the other saying she doubted she’d make it after all, but she might have news about the bomber, and she’d call later if she did.
At first, my heart rose, and then it sank again with the next beat. I hadn’t stood her up—she was going to stand me up. Given the gravity of the situation, I completely understood. As I stood there, disappointed, I wished the world I lived in wasn’t so arcane. Sarah and all her colleagues had no idea that nothing they were doing really had any bearing on this event. I’d wrapped it up for them in a few hours, and they would never know. And we could have our date.
A knock at the door snapped me back to attention. I peeked through the peephole but couldn’t make out anything but black material.
“Who is it?” I asked, ducking to the hinge side of the door, ready for it to slam open.
“Oc and Dec,” replied a deep rumbling voice. “You’re expecting us, Tydides.”
I opened the door and peered directly into the chests of two of the most titanic guys I had ever seen, even bigger than Ajax was. They were a couple of Athena’s Spartoi, the warriors created from dragons’ teeth, nearly seven feet tall with pale white skin, amber eyes, and shaved heads and surrounded by a glowing energy that suggested they weren’t human.
I was six feet tall and just over two hundred pounds. World-class athletes would have killed to be in my shape, but these guys made me feel like a pimply teenager in gym class. They were mirror images of each other, dressed identically in black silk suits that probably cost more than my boat and were so well tailored I couldn’t even tell i
f the guys were armed.
And she had the nerve to complain about the hotel I’d chosen. Boy, did my head hurt.
“Come on in. I’ll get you the Cup,” I said, but they didn’t move. I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
I dumped the contents of the goatskin bag onto my bed and fished through them until I found the tarnished old vessel. I held it up for the mountainous bookends, and its dull metal finish came alive at my touch with an otherworldly mercurial sheen. I put it back in the bag and walked over to hand it to them.
I didn’t know for sure, but given that the Cup was a man-made magical object, I was sure Athena would give it to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, the Odin Brotherhood, or a similar organization for safekeeping.
“Here ya go,” I said, feeling somewhat relieved. For a second, I even tried to believe it could be that easy.
They took the bag and left without saying a word. Side by side, they took up the entire hallway, but despite their enormity, they moved easily. Good grief.
As I closed the door, I wondered what they’d be like in a fight. I recalled sparring with Ajax during the funerary games at Troy and how easy it had been to predict his moves because of his size. But when he connected… hoo boy.
The phone rang.
“Steve?” Sarah asked. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Nah, just touching base with the Metis Foundation’s people here in New York and cleaning up. Sorry I missed your calls.”
“Oh, no problem. You said you’d be out. Did you find anything? Because we’ve made some headway.”
“The ID of the bomber?” I asked, suddenly feeling energized. “You mentioned you might have a lead.”
“Well, not a name,” she said enthusiastically, “but we have some video of his movements over the past month. We haven’t been able to match his face with any state or federal IDs yet, but we have facial matches of him on the ferry from Brooklyn and the subway up to the museum, including yesterday before the explosion.”
I was impressed by how keyed up she was by this information. It wasn’t that I didn’t think she was good at her job, but I liked that something as simple as finding a facial match got her fired up. She was committed, and I could relate.
“It’ll take us a while longer to check private security cameras to verify his movements that day, but since he came through Brooklyn, we’ll spread our search there as well,” she continued.
“That’s good news,” I said. “I wasn’t as productive.”
It was a lie, but I didn’t think the truth would go over very well. Plus, I really didn’t want that Cup back on public display. If the Kalku really was the one behind all this and discovered what the Cup was, then it would only be a matter of time before a more informed person—or entity—came to get it. It was better off in the hands of people who could protect it.
“I didn’t really find much at all—just some eyewitnesses in the park who described a guy who could have passed for a football player, but that’s the extent of it. In fact, I think I’m going to head back to San Diego tomorrow and let you guys handle the rest of it. But if you wouldn’t mind staying in touch if you find the bomber’s ID…”
“I doubt that will be an issue,” she replied. “I’d be willing to bet we find a bit more within the next twenty-four hours. Should I contact you through the Metis Foundation or directly?”
“Just contact me directly, but either way works. It was a pleasure meeting you, and I appreciate your help. Good luck chasing this guy down.”
“Got it. Remember, I still owe you dinner,” she added.
“Next time I’m in town.” I couldn’t help but smile at her admonition.
We hung up, and I began cleaning myself up and packing my gear bag so I could get back home. It’d been a long day, and the upcoming one wasn’t going to be any shorter, although it would be far more enjoyable.
The problem was, I couldn’t shake the feeling this thing wasn’t really over and that the real culprit was yet to be found. How had a Kalku controlled magic beyond his talents as a shaman? What was he trying to use the Cup for? Why hadn’t he just gone home? And why was there a separate—but clearly connected—bomber? Though I supposed, given that the Kalku could control people, it made some sense: he could have just fiddled with the guy’s mind and sent him in as a diversion.
Then there was the whole question about the nature of the bomb itself. How did a shaman with no obvious combat experience create a magical incendiary device that sophisticated? Too many questions and not enough answers.
CHAPTER 16
I usually get down to my boat two hours before a charter, so I was at the dock at four in the morning. I’d only had a few hours of sleep after I took the Ways back from New York, and I was still thinking about the Kalku and the Cup as I put fly rods together, strung them, and attached flies to tippets. I was so distracted that when Ned hopped aboard it actually startled me badly enough that I fumbled my four-hundred-dollar titanium pliers overboard.
“Dammit, man. You could give someone a heart attack, sneaking up on them like that,” I said. “Get my damned pliers, would ya?”
“Jumpy much, dude?” Ned laughed.
He pointed at the water and at Elvis, the bull sea lion that frequented our landing and mooched fish carcasses, with my pliers in his mouth. The battle-scarred old pinniped flipped the pliers onto the boat, barked loudly enough to wake anyone still asleep on their live-aboards, and then took off. He had a new blue-and-white Tady 9A lure stuck in his flank. Man, I hate sea lions.
“Just got back from that mess in New York. And now I gotta fish all day,” I replied, even crankier than I’d been five minutes ago. “Why don’t you go pull that lure outta Elvis’s ass and leave me alone?”
“Dude, you’re going fishing!” He said it as if that in and of itself should have been enough to cure all ills. Maybe normally it would have been. I just shrugged in response.
“Word is you wrapped it up, man,” he said, flashing me a smile so wide that it glowed in the first light of dawn. “That’s what I hear, anyway. So, what’s eatin’ ya? And don’t worry about Elvis—he’s got a collection of lures that would make a tackle shop jealous. I sell ’em on the interwebs from time to time for sardines and beer money. We share the ’dines, and I get the beer.” He winked at me.
“Ah, it’s not the fishing,” I replied, stopping my preparations to look at him. “Yeah, I got the Cup back and got the guy who stole it, too, but he died before I could talk to him. There’s still stuff that doesn’t make any sense. That’s what’s bugging me. You know anyone in Brooklyn?”
“Died before you could talk to him?” he said with a single hearty chuckle. “I hear tell you exercised your usual brand of diplomacy on his ass. But I might know someone in Brooklyn. Why?” Ned dug into my cooler. “You ain’t put the beer in there yet, man.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t provide beer? If they want it, they can bring it. I was hoping to get a little more information about the guy who blew himself up. He traveled up from Brooklyn to the museum the day of the explosion, but the Feds have no record of him from any kind of ID. If you knew someone in Brooklyn, then we could ask him to ask around, maybe find a lead, maybe ID the guy. It just bugs me, okay?”
I was being curter than I intended, and I really did need Ned’s help. In my world, Ned was the guy who always knew a guy. I was hoping he’d know someone or something that kept up with the supernatural happenings in Brooklyn. After all, he clearly found out about what took place in the tunnels under Central Park pretty quickly. That didn’t really surprise me. Goblins were wicked gossips.
“Gotcha. I’ll check, but it’ll cost you—and not just my fee,” he said, smiling that white smile again. “You know, dudes who traffic in information ain’t cheap. I’ll let you know when you come back. Oh, before I forget, you might
find a white or two at the Imperial Beach kelp, on the shallow side near the dinosaur cage. And you better release ’em, too, or I’ll plague your ass with dogs.” He waved at me over his shoulder as he walked up the dock.
I sighed and watched the flag on top of the hotel across the bay to check the wind, hoping to find it calm for a change. Wouldn’t that be nice?
It was a beautiful day on the water, and by the time we got back into the bay and motored toward my marina that afternoon, I had put the Cup and the case out of my mind. My anglers, an accomplished husband and wife, were on their game, and we actually found the white sea bass. One of them would have been a world record on fly, which would have been a feather in the cap of a great day, but it was better than that. Having fished with this particular pair of anglers for several years, I knew they had no desire to kill fish, even for a record. So the wife got it, they took a few pictures, and without a second thought, we let the fish go. The time I took making sure the fifty-pound fish was safely released got me a two-hundred-dollar tip.
As I tied up at the dock and began to clean up, the buzz of the great day began wearing off, and I had to sit down for a minute. My head started to hurt again, my stomach wouldn’t stop growling, and my back was a bit sore as well. With a sigh, I checked my watch: almost three. Maybe I could finish up with Athena and be home by five. Maybe pigs could fly, too.
I finished cleaning the boat and my gear a little slower than I’d planned, mostly on mental autopilot, and before I knew it, I was on my way to the Metis Foundation’s offices downtown near the baseball stadium in East Village. The Foundation occupied a one-hundred-thirty-year-old Victorian mansion that was completely out of place on the corner of Thirteenth and Island surrounded by condos and construction.
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