Owl and the City of Angels (21 page)

Technically Mr. Kurosawa had a truce with Alexander and the vampire powers that said they couldn’t kill me. In practice, that just meant Alexander couldn’t get caught. If Alexander got wind I was in L.A., he might risk it.

I was starting to wonder whether protection from the vampires was worth it.
Three years, Owl—three years and then you’re free
 . . . provided I managed to clear my name and convince both Mr. Kurosawa and the IAA I wasn’t the thief breaking into the City of the Dead.

I put my forehead against my keyboard. This is exactly what I got for facing my problems and trying to come up with adult solutions. And Rynn wondered why the hell I avoided adult conversations . . .

My World Quest screen pinged again.

Hey? You playing or not?

I snorted at Carpe’s message and took one last look around the lobby. Considering Captain wasn’t growling and trying to chew his way out of the carrier, it was probably residual vampire he was picking up.

I went back to the game screen.
Of course I’m still playing. Why wouldn’t I want to play? I mean, it’s generic goblins? What’s not to like?

Seriously, Byzantine, get your ass back in the game or fuck the hell off—this crappy quest is in fact entirely your fault and you don’t hear me bitching and
whining.

Not what I need to hear right now, Carpe
 . . . yet another problem blamed on me. I counted ten goblins left.

I took a sip of my coffee and faded Byzantine into the shadows in preparation for a backstab. Then I came out with one of my most powerful attacks—a swipe of a magic staff I’d picked up on a much better and more lucrative dungeon crawl. One of those one-a-day deals that wipes out an entire playing field of enemies in a digital haze of lightning and fire.

Yes, it was overkill.

The screen lit up, and in a moment all that was left of the goblin cave was a few scorched skeletons and what treasure they’d been carrying.

Happy?
I wrote back.

Stop being such a fucking princess.

I ignored Carpe and started to search the cave for loot. Maybe I’d get lucky and the goblins had killed a new player who’d gone out and supped themselves up with armor, weapons, and magic gear from the real-money in-game store.

My phone pinged before I could open the first bag. Carpe was pissed enough as it was, so I planned on ignoring the call—until I saw it was Hermes.

Keeping one eye on the screen, I checked the message.

Dear Owl—I can fit you into my schedule now. Hermes

Yeah, not likely. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I ditched the game now, especially after that stunt I just pulled . . .

Bad timing, Hermes—Now’s no good. How bout 30? Better yet, pick a spot, I’ll come meet you.
Giving my location out to relative strangers fuels my paranoia. Now . . . let’s see if there isn’t a secret stash in here somewhere . . . newbie players need loot drop too, right?

My phone pinged again with Hermes’s response.

Dear Owl, I think I’ll meet you. No offense, but you drag trouble behind you like a gator tows seaweed through a swamp.

Yeah, still not happening.
You think I’m giving you the hotel I’m staying at you might as well pony up some cash for magic beans.

Dear Owl, Doing my best to stay polite here. Not asking again. Give me your hotel, I’ll swing by, we’ll talk.

Yeah. No. I started to type my response and noted Captain chirped. Probably a game light flashing . . . or he had to go to the litter box. “Dude, just give me a sec—”

“Will you just look the fuck up already?” said a male voice, medium tenor, with a mild American accent.

Son of a bitch. I looked up and swore at the guy standing in front of me: late twenties/early thirties, light red hair that came down just past his ears, dressed like a bike messenger, complete with bag, and perpetual smile filled with very good white teeth. Cute in an outdoorsy, nondescript kind of way, except for the bright red hair. That would have stood out anywhere.

He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Hi there. Hermes,” he said, then took the seat across from me.

“Umm, yeah, OK. Please, just take a seat.”

Captain chirped again, louder this time, so I glanced down. He was alert and curious but not a frantic, hissing mess. OK, Hermes wasn’t a vampire. I counted that as a positive.

“You realize finding this hotel wasn’t easy?” he said.

I frowned. “That’s the point. And how the hell do I know you’re even Hermes?”

Nonplussed at my question, Hermes waved a waitress down as she walked by. “Two Coronas—that’s what you drink, right?”

I nodded. Slowly. I still hadn’t decided if I should run. I figured I could at least wait until the Corona arrived. Between me and my double on the cruise ship, I was having surprising luck in the weaponizing bottles department.

“In fact, couldn’t track you,” Hermes said. “Had to track your boyfriend. Nice-looking guy, by the way, even for an incubus. He could do a lot better. You can’t.”

“Ummm, fuck off?”

He didn’t leave though, just leaned back in the leather chair. “So here’s my question: at what point did you wake up and say,
Hey, I want to be a complete and utter fuckup
?” he said, open, friendly smile still on his face.

“All right, where do you get off calling me the fuckup?”

Hermes ignored me and kept going. “Like seriously, out of all my clients—and trust me, there are some seriously messed-up cats on my list right now—you’re the one who decided to fuck the IAA. I mean, how does someone do that? Do you just wake up and say,
Hey, I know, let’s fuck everyone’s business
?”

Oh for Christ’s sake . . . I was officially sick and tired of everyone—including the IAA—blaming me for a bunch of thefts that some asshole was pinning on me. “First off, whatever the IAA is saying, it’s not me—”

Hermes snorted. “I know that. You wouldn’t have been asking about the pieces if you’d taken them. You’d be running—knowing you, really far, really fast.”

“OK—wait a minute. Back up here. If you know it’s not me, why do you even care?”

“Because you’re the one in the eye of the storm, so you’re the one they’re looking for, and not just the IAA. The supernaturals are getting pissed about it too, which, by the way, makes up a hell of a lot of my business. It’s not just you thieves.”

Captain meowed from his carrier, probably wanting to know why no one was paying attention to him. Hermes reached in and gave Captain a pat. More surprisingly, Captain let him. “Like the cat, by the way. You realize if the IAA decides to crack down, I could be out of business?”

I think I preferred Hermes as a digital entity. “Like I give a flying fuck. As you pointed out, I’ve got enough problems. Worry about your own skin.”

“Seriously? We’re going there? Already? And where’s your sense of community?” That perpetual smile was starting to unnerve me. Botched Botox?

“Hey, I’m all for honor amongst thieves, but the golden rule is watch thine own goddamn back.”

A corner of Hermes’s mouth twitched up in sarcasm. “OK, that is so not the first rule of thieves—”

“Prove it, Hermes—oh that’s right. You can’t.”

For the first time since he sat down, his smile fell. “Goddamn it, the worst part about you thieves is you warp and twist the rules any which way that suits you. Jesus, I mean, who does that?” He paused while the waitress delivered our drinks. “No offense, kid, but you seriously need to start taking some advice.”

I took a swing of my Corona. I needed it—though I briefly wondered how the alcohol, caffeine, and incense comedown would mix. “Really? Let me guess, yours is the advice I should take?”

He shrugged. “Honestly? At this point, I think you could take anyone’s advice and it’d be better than your own.”

I got up to leave.

“Just relax,” Hermes said, pulling a small laptop out of his messenger bag, one that looked as if a grab bag of tech parts had been thrown together at a late-night engineering party—one with lots of beer. “I found something. I won’t even charge you for it as a sign of goodwill.” He shook his head while he typed, then passed the screen to me.

On the screen was a job list I knew of but had never used—it was hosted on Black Pit Freelance, a website on the dark net, where people went to post illegal jobs and heists—either to recruit or off-load. It was a bad scene, and not because of the thieves. It was full of FBI and IAA agents setting up fake accounts and combing the posts. Only rookies and the desperate trawled for work there.

Highlighted on Hermes’s screen was a post from about two months back, looking for someone willing to do a retrieval in Syria. The coordinates and photos in the bottom left no doubt about it—it was for a job at the Syrian City of the Dead.

“Son of a bitch, you found the original job posting—”

“Ah! Don’t get excited. It’s all bogus accounts. To be honest, I thought it was another idiot IAA or FBI agent trying to draw a few rookies out. Too high-stakes for the pros. The poster and the guy who responded—Red Shirt one—closed their accounts after a couple hours.”

Set up a new bogus account for each job and delete it as soon as terms are agreed upon—preferably from a location the IAA had a hard time getting agents into.

I had no way to trace the original poster, but at least I knew where the job had originated.

“What about Daphne Sylph?” I asked.

Hermes shook his head. “If she was involved, it was through an intermediary—and I doubt it, because I hacked her email. Just curious,” he added. “If she was behind it, she kept it quiet, and between you and me, I don’t think she’s that smart. In my humble opinion, she’s holding it for someone or bought it after the fact.”

Which meant someone had not only targeted the City of the Dead but they also hadn’t wanted to end up on anyone’s radar. I swore. This was not the scenario I’d been hoping for. It neither cleared my name nor got me closer to the real thief. Guilty by default.

Hermes put the laptop away. “Like I said, not much. Piqued my interest though. Especially with you involved. Seriously, Owl, people are pissed. There’s a reason I don’t deal in cursed items.”

I glared. “Neither do I.”

“Hey, not me you have to convince. It’s the supernaturals and the IAA.”

Hermes shrugged, fumbled something out of his front pocket—an off-white business card with embossed gold lettering on both sides—and extended it to me, balanced between two fingers. “I wasn’t going to give you this, buuuttt I figure you deserve some kind of frequent flyer bonus.” He stood and added, “You’re turning into one hell of a long shot. Smarter people than me bet you’d be dead long before now.”

Oh God, there was a betting pool on me now? “Let me guess, how soon until Owl ends up in jail?”

“Dead, actually.” Hermes’s expression turned serious. “Just be glad you’re proving entertaining enough to attract some attention. If you’re going to be a colossal fuckup, might as well be an interesting one. Seriously, though—I’ve got big money on you coming through this game, and I’m going to be pissed if I lose.” He nodded at the card. “Just remember that, kid.”

I took the card, and a static shock coursed through me. I suck at spotting the supernatural, but even I know magic when I touch it.

Shit . . .

On the card was Hermes’s name and number followed by the statement
Good for one get out of jail free. All attempts to forge more uses will null and void this card. Yes, it’s been a problem, you fucking thieves.

I turned the card over. On the back, in blue pen, was written,
Stop fucking around, kid.

Oh shit . . . Yeah, no, this wasn’t a dangerous situation at all . . .

I looked up at Hermes. “What are you?”

He grinned. It wasn’t unfriendly or friendly. “A bit like clothes with no price tags; if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it.” He bent down to give Captain a scratch. “Just do me a favor and don’t waste the card, OK? It’ll piss me off. You get, like, one from me—and let’s face it, chances are good you’ll be dead before you rate a second.”

The perpetual smile didn’t falter as he polished off the beer and headed out of the lobby.

Fuuuccckkkk. Oh I was so not telling Rynn and Nadya about this . . . no way, I’d never live it down.

“BTW?” Hermes said.

I glanced up. He’d stopped a few feet away and turned back around to face me.

“I’ll be really disappointed if you ditch the boyfriend. He’s one of the few things keeping you alive. Like I said, I’ve got money on this.” And with one last wave, Hermes left.

Oh I was so screwed . . . I finished off my beer as I watched Hermes go. I hate it when people have a point. “What do you think, Captain?”

In response, he gave me a forlorn mew from inside his carrier. If he’d wanted his litter box and food dish before, he really wanted them now. I took it as a sign to go back upstairs and try to act like an adult. Before any more supernaturals who found my current predicament mildly amusing walked through the door . . .

I hate supernaturals.

I’m out, Carpe,
I typed into the game window.
I’ve got things to do, and let’s face it, this quest blows.
I closed the game screen before Carpe could respond.

While packing up my laptop, I noticed a news alert tag on my phone. I monitor a handful of sites and accounts that report actual news, not the latest
Voice
results. “Unknown flu strikes two undocumented workers from overseas. Pathogen remains unidentified though authorities suggest it is not contagious. Any suspected flu cases should be reported to doctors immediately—”

I opened the link, but the report was little more than a Reuters footnote. I shoved my phone in my pocket and headed for the elevator. There was no reason to think it had anything to do with the curse . . . still, I’d keep my eye on the news and tell Nadya to do the same.

Time to be a grown-up and face Rynn.

I didn’t even lose my nerve on the way to the room. Rynn was sitting at the desk, working on his own laptop.