by Greg Cox
“Hey! America’s best-kept secret agents return!” Claudia Donovan sprang from an upholstered wingback chair, nearly spilling her laptop onto the floor. The teenage whiz kid was ten years younger than Myka, as evidenced by her funkier attire and style. Bobbed red hair was accented by a dyed blue swoop. A vintage biker vest was layered over her blue tank top. Novelty pins and buttons added flair to the vest. Her slim legs were tucked into a pair of skinny black jeans. She carelessly tossed the laptop onto the chair before rushing over to greet Myka. “What’s up, girlfriend? How was ye olde pirate museum?”
“The staff was a little overly enthusiastic, but nothing we couldn’t handle.” Myka grinned back at Claudia before addressing the rest of her colleagues. “Hi, Leena, Artie.”
“Welcome back.” A slender young woman turned away from the card catalog, where she had been re-alphabetizing the files. A floral sun dress flattered her figure. A voluminous head of frizzy brown hair crowned her like a halo. Smooth skin was the color of caramel. Quieter and more composed than Claudia, she radiated a certain otherworldly serenity. Knowing brown eyes squinted at Myka, seeing more than just her physical appearance. “You look well,” Leena said. “You, too, Pete.”
“Just glad to be back.” He followed Myka into the office, lugging the silver containment bag. The door clicked shut behind him. “Anybody order a bona fide pirate pigsticker?”
“Is that it?” Artie asked urgently. The grizzled agent looked up from his desk, which was strewn with index cards and yellow legal pads. A tan corduroy jacket was draped over his short, stocky frame. His rumpled black shirt needed ironing. His feet, in well-worn sneakers, rested flat on the floor. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, shrewd brown eyes lit up like those of a kid in a candy store. “Was it damaged in any way?”
Ideally, they preferred to deliver the artifacts to the Warehouse in one piece, but, sadly, that wasn’t always possible. More than once, they’d had to sacrifice some precious historical relic in order to save innocent lives. Fortunately, that hadn’t been the case this time around.
“It’s fine,” Pete assured him. “See for yourself.”
He cleared off a space on the desk, then unsealed the bag. The cutlass spilled onto the desk, landing with a thud on the clear glass desktop. Leena, Claudia, and Artie moved in for a closer look.
“Anne Bonny’s cutlass,” Artie whispered in a hushed tone. “We’ve been looking for this ever since Anne escaped the gallows back in 1720 by pleading her belly—”
“Come again?” Claudia interrupted. “Pleading her whatsit?”
“She was pregnant,” Myka translated. She had read all about Anne’s infamous career while growing up in her father’s bookstore. “With Calico Jack’s child. The court delayed her execution until the baby could be born.”
Claudia smirked. “That’s one way to beat the rap, I guess. Better knocked-up than hung.”
“Yeah,” Pete added. “But your reprieve is only good for nine months, tops.”
“As far as we know, the execution never took place,” Artie said, picking up the story. “Some say her father, a wealthy merchant, managed to buy her freedom. Anne, her baby, and the cutlass all disappeared from history . . . until now.”
He gazed reverently at the sword. For all its insidious properties, the cutlass was a genuine piece of history. Myka couldn’t blame Artie for being excited to add it to the Warehouse’s collection at last. He was a natural-born curator and historian, which made him the ideal person to manage Warehouse 13. Nobody knew the value of the artifacts, and just how much havoc they could cause, better than Artie Nielsen. He had devoted the better part of his adult life to the vital work of tracking down every weird and unnatural object that threatened to ruin the world’s day.
The first Warehouse had been established by order of Alexander the Great, way back in the Bronze Age. Even then, it had been obvious that certain potent relics and talismans were too dangerous and unpredictable to be at large in the world; better for all concerned that they be kept locked away until such time, if ever, that their mysterious attributes could be fully understood and controlled. Subsequent Warehouses, in ancient Egypt, Rome, Mongolia, and elsewhere, had continued Alexander’s work, hiding their preternatural prizes from those who might abuse their power. The current Warehouse, number thirteen, had gone into operation back in 1914. Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, and M. C. Escher had all contributed to its design. Artie himself had been recruited as an agent over forty years ago. By Warehouse standards, that was a remarkably long run. Most never lasted that long. . . .
Leena viewed the cutlass with distaste. “It has a very violent aura.” She shivered and hugged herself. “Perhaps it belongs in the Dark Vault?”
The Dark Vault was the Warehouse’s own Hall of Infamy, where the most sinister and dangerous artifacts were kept. Like an Aztec bloodstone, or Sylvia Plath’s typewriter. The latter had nearly drained Pete’s will to live last year. Anne Bonny’s cutlass would fit right in.
Artie wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know. Pretty much all the artifacts are dangerous to some extent, or they wouldn’t be here. And we can’t keep everything in the Dark Vault. There are budget issues. Do you know how much it costs to maintain those high-intensity neutralizing fields?”
“More than our lives?” Myka asked.
“Let’s try it out in the main collection first,” Artie decided. “If it acts up, we can always move it to a more secure location later.”
Leena frowned, but did not argue the point.
Neither did Myka. She was too tired to discuss it further. It had been a long trip.
Which Claudia wanted to hear all about.
“C’mon, dudes. Spill.” She bounced around them like a hyperactive elf. “How was your latest road trip? Artie’s had me cooped up here for days now, double-checking the inventory. I’m going stir-crazy.”
“Maintaining an accurate inventory is vitally important,” Artie began. “We’ve all seen what can happen when an artifact goes astray. . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. Spare me the lecture, Captain Bligh.” Claudia had heard it all before. “Enough with the bagging and tagging. I want in on some primo snagging action.”
“You’re not a full agent yet,” Artie reminded her. “Just an apprentice.”
“But I’ve helped out in the field before!” She looked to Myka and Pete for backup. “Tell ’em, guys. Remember that time in Detroit? Or when Myka and I checked out that wrestling team in California?”
“You mean the time you fell into a vat of supercharged energy drink?” Artie said. “And almost spontaneously combusted?”
“That wasn’t my fault. I was pushed.”
Pete’s stomach growled again. It sounded like a saber-tooth tiger newly escaped from the La Brea tar pits. A sound that, oddly enough, Myka was actually familiar with.
“Maybe we can table this discussion for later?” Pete suggested. “I’ve been driving for hours and I’m famished.” He looked around hopefully. “Are there any cookies left in the pantry?”
As ever, Artie was on top of things. “I whipped up a fresh batch of snickerdoodles this morning.” He glanced at Leena. “If you don’t mind . . .”
“I’ll go get them,” she said, smiling warmly. Among other things, Leena ran a bed-and-breakfast in a nearby town. Hospitality was her speciality. “Be right back.”
Myka settled into a comfy chair. A yawn escaped her. Pete could have his cookies, but she was more interested in calling it a day. Now that they had successfully delivered the cutlass to Artie, she just wanted to head over to the B&B and unwind with a good book.
Until their next investigation.
CHAPTER
3
LEENA’S BED-AND-BREAKFAST
“UNNAMED UNICORPORATED SETTLEMENT”
“What’s a six-letter word for ‘empty fingers’?”
Myka squinted at a half-finished crossword puzzle as she and Pete enjoyed a relaxing brunch on the patio. A plate of fresh scones with raspberry
jam rested on the elegant wrought-iron table between them, alongside a pitcher of hot coffee. Elm trees, their leaves already changing colors, offered shade from the sun. Graceful white columns framed the patio. Potted plants and flower boxes added life to the setting. A rose garden offered a fragrant bouquet. The morning paper was dismembered atop the table. As usual, Myka had claimed dibs on the crossword, while Pete chuckled over the comic pages. Her pencil was poised above the empty squares of the puzzle. She was not so arrogant as to use a pen.
“Beats me,” Pete mumbled through a mouthful of scone. His eyes remained glued to the funnies. “Okay, so why is it that Dilbert can’t find a better job?”
Myka assumed that was a rhetorical question.
A trace of jam leaked from the corner of his mouth. She resisted an urge to reach out and wipe it away with a napkin.
Maybe later.
She took a moment to enjoy the morning. Leena’s bed-and-breakfast was an oasis of tranquillity in their often tumultuous lives. The elegant Victorian Gothic edifice was located in “Univille,” the officially unnamed township just down the road from the Warehouse. Painted white walls and a pitched blue roof gave the B&B a much tidier appearance than the seemingly ramshackle Warehouse. Steep gables crowned the arched windows. Ivy climbed the walls. A widow’s walk topped the uppermost turret. Myka, Pete, and Claudia all had rooms at Leena’s place, giving them someplace cozy to go home to at the end of the day. Only Artie preferred to bunk down at the Warehouse full-time. He didn’t know what he was missing.
Or maybe he did.
A back door banged open and Claudia rushed breathlessly onto the patio. “Sorry I’m late, amigos, but I was up late kicking butt on the intertubes. Would you believe some troll actually thought he knew more about quantum processing and fuzzy logic than yours truly?” She snorted at the very idea before her gaze alighted on the remaining scones and jam. “Ooh! Raspberry goodness!”
She plopped herself into an empty chair and helped herself.
Artie arrived a few minutes later, about ten after twelve. A brown accordion folder, stuffed with notes, was tucked under his arm. Myka guessed that the folder held the details of their next assignment. She put aside her unfinished puzzle. She couldn’t wait to find out what sort of bizarre, unearthly mystery Artie had turned up now.
“Good morning,” he greeted them, then consulted his wristwatch. “My mistake: Make that ‘Good afternoon.’” He placed the bulging folder down on top of the open newspaper. His eyes were also captivated by the tempting spread Leena had provided. “Are those scones?”
Claudia shot him a warning look. “Go easy on the jam and butter, old man. Just because the universe is expanding doesn’t mean you have to.”
“Devil child.” He peeked sheepishly at his slight paunch before joining them at the table. Under Claudia’s watchful gaze, he applied just a dollop of jam to a scone. “Just wait until your own metabolism slows down.”
“Not going to happen, gramps. My candle burns at both ends, you know.”
“Actually, Edna St. Vincent Millay’s candle was snuffed by a Warehouse agent decades ago,” Artie informed them. “Heaven help us if either end is ever lighted again.”
He was a font of arcane lore and history, with a tendency to ramble on sometimes. “An interesting woman. Did you know she went by the name ‘Vincent’ in her early years, and also wrote prose as ‘Nancy Boyd’? But it was her poetry that really stirred things up. . . .”
Myka saw a lengthy digression coming on and tried to head it off. She nodded at the folder. “What’s up, Artie?”
The older agent made a habit of scanning news reports, police bulletins, government databases, classified ads, advice columns, human interest stories, auction listings, obituaries, scientific journals, book reviews, message boards, blogs, and other ephemera in search of freak events and patterns that might indicate the influence of a rogue artifact. Specialized computer filters and algorithms helped sort through the ceaseless flurry of data, but could never truly replace the keen eye of a veteran Warehouse employee. Tracking down artifacts was an art, not a science, and Artie was the reigning maestro.
“Yeah, Artie.” Pete lowered the funny pages. “You got something for us?”
“Possibly.” Artie finished off his scone before launching into today’s briefing. “I got a ping regarding a string of supposedly ‘miraculous’ healings associated with a traveling carnival that’s working small towns along the eastern seaboard.”
Rummaging through the folder, he extracted a garishly colored flyer promising Rides! Games! Amazing Acts and Performers! Clowns, carousel horses, and grinning children crowded the artwork, beneath the image of a towering Ferris wheel. Fun for All Ages! The Whitman Bros. Family Carnival! A bright golden starburst that looked as though it had been recently added to the design of the flyer extolled The Magical Touch of Princess Nefertiti, the World’s Greatest Psychic Healer!
Myka had never heard of her.
Princess who?
Artie slid the flyer across the table toward Myka and Pete. “Every one of the healings took place at this carnival sometime over the last three months.”
“I don’t know, Artie.” Myka peered dubiously at the paper, which reminded her of any number of colorful circus and carnival posters she had seen displayed on telephone poles and barbershop windows over the years, each touting some fly-by-night caravan of thrill rides, rigged games, and greasy food. This just looked like more of the same. “Sideshow charlatans and snake-oil peddlers are a dime a dozen,” she said, playing devil’s advocate. “How can we be certain there’s an artifact involved?”
“Right,” Pete agreed. “Maybe the whole thing’s just hype? Or a hoax?”
“Or perhaps there’s some kind of placebo effect involved,” she suggested. “People feel better because they think they’ve been healed.”
Artie shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I’ve looked into this and the claims appear to be legitimate.” He pulled more documentation out of the folder, including copies of confidential medical records and insurance claims. “We’re talking broken limbs healed in record time, tumors disappearing, incurable illnesses reversing themselves . . . even at least one case of an Alzheimer’s victim who suddenly regained her faculties.” He held an X-ray up to the light. “I’m seeing all sorts of red flags here.”
That was good enough for Myka. Artie had been doing this for a long time. His hunches almost always paid off.
“All right,” she said. “If you think you’re onto something, we need to check it out.”
“Yes! It’s carnival time.” Pete punched the air, clearly psyched at the prospect. “And you know what that means? Funnel cakes!”
“I’m more of a caramel apple girl myself,” Claudia chimed in. “But to each their own. Maybe we can squeeze in a couple rounds of dart tossing? I’m warning you, I have ‘mad skillz’ when it comes to popping balloons. . . .”
“You’re on,” Pete said, accepting the challenge. “Loser has to carry the giant stuffed panda . . . and buy the winner a ride on the Ferris wheel.”
Artie cut short the playful banter. “Sorry, you’re not going anywhere,” he informed Claudia, popping her balloon more effectively than any feathered dart. “Those inventory reports are not going to update themselves. Well, technically, they could—but that’s never a good idea.”
“But, Artie . . . !” Claudia protested. “I never get to go on any of the really fun jaunts.”
“This isn’t about having fun,” Artie said sternly. “It’s about tracking down a possible artifact whose true nature and potential remain unknown. There are way too many variables here, and I’m not sending you into the field when I have no idea what sort of jeopardy might be waiting. This is a job for Myka and Pete, not a bored teenager.” His gruff voice softened somewhat. “Trust me, it’s for your own good.”
