Owl and the Japanese Circus (17 page)

I stood there, stunned. I didn’t know what to say. Hell, I didn’t know what I felt. Mostly I couldn’t believe I’d just called Rynn a whore. That was low, even for me. I’m an international thief, for Christ’s sake. Who the hell am I to be judging what people do for a living?

I closed my eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that—”

“Which part? That I’m a glorified whore serving drinks, or I have no conscience?” Rynn was good at hiding his emotions, but I’d hurt him. A cold lump formed in my stomach. One of two people in this world I trusted and cared about, and I couldn’t go two days without saying something horrible to him, all because of a little jealousy. Damn it.

I took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t think that of you . . .”

There’d been a grain of truth in there, and Rynn knew it. What should I have said? That I cared about him and that fact bothered me more than I wanted to admit? That I was a little unnerved and scared that he cared enough to chase me into Bali?

Even one of those would have helped. Instead I feigned pushing my hair out of my face so I could look away. “Rynn, what can I say? I’m sorry. How often do you want me to say it?”

Lame, I know, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m not good with people.

He just stared at me. “Save it. Or at least try meaning it.” He nodded at Bindi. “Go get your tablet inscriptions. I’ll keep her distracted.”

“I really didn’t meant it—”

He was almost to the room. “Funny, from here it sounds like you
said
exactly
what you meant.” And without another glance at me, he stormed off after Bindi.

Captain, who’d been cleaning himself while we’d argued, glanced up at me and meowed.

“Yeah, that was an all-time low for me.” I felt sick to my stomach, worse than when I’d been thrown out of grad school, and that is my all-time low benchmark.

I hoisted my pack and jogged towards the tunnel, Captain on my heels.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed mad at me either this time.”

I jogged past the first and second tunnels in my rush to reach the third catacomb entrance Red had marked on my map.

Why run? Always good policy to save time when you can; never know when you’ll need it later.

The tunnel made a sharp right turn. The air turned heavy, with a musty, metallic taste. I wondered what could have caused it when I skidded on slick rock, almost falling on Captain. I did a quick check of the walls and ceilings with my flashlight. Thin trickles of water reflected the light back, making the wall look like it was covered in zebra stripes. I ran my fingers along the matte black. It was malleable and crumbled off with a bit of applied pressure, confirming my suspicion. The entire tunnel was dug through porous volcanic rock. Would have been nice if Red had mentioned just how much water was in here.

“The good news, Captain, is an explosion and cave-in probably won’t kill us. The bad news is it’s gonna get wet.”

The puddles deepened as we continued. Captain kept his nose to the wind and took his time finding the driest spots to jump between. Better than watching a cat on a hot tin roof.

About twenty meters in, the tunnel walls smoothed out and the first pictograph relief came into view.

One thing about the supernatural is that it never ceases to surprise me. I guess if I was desperate for a positive thing to say about the supernatural, that might count. The relief was painted in white—maybe a faded light blue, but with my flashlight I couldn’t tell for sure. It depicted a dragon rising out of the ocean in a crested wave towards a circle of nagas holding a sacrifice—read: victim.

A water dragon in a volcano. Well, that explained all the damn water.

I followed the pictographs with my flashlight, keeping my eye out for any hints of booby traps, ancient pits, pressurized hydrochloric acid, as well as the fork Red had mentioned. With the uneven flooring in the dark, a fork would be easy to miss.

Besides the usual “Beware, trespassing in dragon’s home,” there wasn’t anything that jumped out. Why wasn’t I worried about running into a dragon? Since the archaeologists who found the tunnel aren’t dead, I’m betting dragon Naga Besukian is long gone . . . or dead. I prefer to think it moved out; however, I didn’t favor the thought of stumbling into something that could kill a dragon in a narrow passageway.

Out of nowhere, Captain laid back his ears and hissed. I swung my flashlight around as the scent of fermenting lily of the valley hit me.

Vampire.

Sabine? How the hell had she found me so fast?

I dropped my backpack and dug out my gas mask, the kind that heavy-duty painters use and makes you sound like Darth Vader.

I fastened the catch around my head and checked the seal, when the hackles on Captain’s back shot up and his warning growl morphed into a battle howl.

“Captain! Stay—” I whispered as loud as I dared and reached out to grab him before he did something stupid.

But he darted down the tunnel before I could grab hold of his red harness. I checked my phone to see if I could get a message off to Rynn or Nadya. No reception again. Talk about déjà vu.

I powered on my UV flashlight and pulled out a squirt gun filled
with garlic water. Why do I always carry a squirt gun filled with garlic water? Because I’m paranoid.

I don’t carry stakes for the same reason I don’t play with guns. Unless you happen to be Buffy the Vampire Slayer—and if you think you are, I strongly suggest you get help—chances are very good the vampire will take said stake and ram it through
your
heart. I hear they get very touchy around people who carry stakes.

Captain yowled up ahead—the sound cats make when another cat makes the mistake of crossing into their territory. I shoved the squirt gun into my pants and flipped my UV flashlight onto flood before running after him.

The tunnel made a series of
S
turns. As soon as I caught sight of Captain’s flicking tail, it disappeared around the corner ahead of me.

Shit, he was going to get us killed.

Captain was in hunt mode and well past listening. I swore and sped up. I should never have let him off his leash; if he got hurt, it was going to be my fault.

Egyptian Mau cats are bred to smell vampires, which makes for a fantastic warning system. Unfortunately they’ve also been hardwired to hunt them, and once they pick up the scent, it’s next to impossible to get one to stop and think. What worried me was that they’d been bred to hunt in packs, not take them head-on like Captain was trying to do.

The tunnel straightened out and my flashlight picked up the fork. Captain had stopped, his nose in the air, trying to pick the scent back up. There was also an opening in the ceiling, roughly five meters off the floor, reminiscent of the naga burrows in Sanur. I skidded to a halt and pressed myself against the wall.

“Captain,” I whispered.

But he’d picked up the scent again and didn’t give me a second glance as he leapt up the wall like a mountain goat and shot through the opening. His growls echoed in the chamber above.

I readied my squirt gun and waited. Nothing moved up ahead,
so I continued on until I was a few feet away from the naga burrow. I half expected Sabine to drop down any second. A little closer, a little closer . . .

A sharp shriek that could only be from Captain echoed through the catacombs above, about ten feet away, I’d guess.

I tried not to breathe—mostly because of the raspy sound the mask makes—as I aimed the flashlight up where Captain had disappeared. Still no Sabine. I stepped into a foothold and pushed myself up, edging the flashlight around. The burrows were only wide enough to crawl through. Great for a cat, but not me.

I slid down and crept along the right fork, where Red had indicated the tablet was. It was also where I’d heard Captain howl. Sabine must have gotten there ahead of me and laid a trap. Well, she clearly didn’t know me very well, because she was about to get one hell of a garlic UV surprise . . .

It was a dead end. And there was no sign of the tablet. And where the hell was she?

Something hard and heavy slugged into my left calf, more than enough to knock me off my feet. I grabbed at the wall, but it was too slippery to get a grip. I landed on my ass in a puddle, my flashlight rolling out of reach. Rough hands reached under my arms and pulled me up. A man holding a baseball bat and wearing an expensive suit and even more expensive leather shoes stepped out from a hidden alcove and retrieved my flashlight as if it were a distasteful piece of trash.

I swallowed at the sight of his shoes. These were vampires all right . . . and far too familiar to be Sabine’s. The one holding me under my arms half carried/half dragged me down the left fork—the one Red had warned me about. A shove sent me stumbling into a side cavern. Another shove from behind forced me to my knees. Trying not to fall flat on my face, I scrambled to the far wall as fast as I could in order to put as much distance between me and the vampires as possible. My efforts only brought on laughter. In spite of the situation, that pissed me off. I pushed my back against the wall and slid my hand to where
my water gun was. Laugh it up, boys, just makes it funnier when I soak you in garlic.

There are a few misconceptions about vampires. Whenever people think vampire, they think of some superstrong, enigmatic, romantic, gorgeous monster that drinks blood and only wants to fall madly and tragically in love with the first pretty high school girl who swoons their way. Sunlight, garlic, holy water, and wooden stakes burn them up into a pile of ash. A more accurate image is a moth careening into a flaming blowtorch. Vampires are the blowtorch. They aren’t nearly as susceptible to light and garlic, but I’ll get to that in a sec.

Another vampire approached from the side, wearing the same expensive shoes, his face hidden in the shadows. It dawned on me that they were fencing me in. He crouched down in front of me, his face peeking out from underneath shoulder-length brown hair. Alexander smiled as I recognized him, and two tiny fangs peeked out. He still didn’t look a day over twenty. He was still beautiful, except for the thin scar that ran from just under his eye to the corner of his mouth. Alexander grabbed the front of my gas mask as a handle so he could tilt my head back.

Meet the Paris boys, vampire Eurotrash extraordinaire at its finest. Alexander was the ringleader and my least favorite of the bunch.

I stayed where I was and checked the cave out of the corner of my eye. There were three vampires, two guarding the exit and Alexander.

The third vampire stepped into view and said something in French to Alexander. I noticed the scratches down the side of his face and the shredded front of his suit, then caught my breath. He was dragging Captain’s limp body behind him like a spoiled brat drags a stuffed toy he doesn’t care about. I straightened and had to stop myself from pulling my water pistol out right then and there. If I wanted to get us out alive—
if
Captain was still alive—I had to wait for my best chance.

Alexander smiled, showing off his incisors again. Most people miss them completely; the supposed size of vampire fangs is overblown, one of those bigger-is-better things . . .

Alexander was all smiles for me today. I smiled back through my mask and did my best not to look at Captain. Why the hell hadn’t I kept him on the leash? I knew exactly why; my guard had been down because Rynn was here with me. I hadn’t been thinking in survival mode, and it had cost me.

“So kind of you to join us today, Owl,” he said with the slightest trace of French accent.

“Go fuck yourself. We’ve got a truce.”

The smile on his face faltered for a second before turning vicious. He pressed his face up against my mask. “That’s only a problem if we are caught—and if they find your body.”

I refused to look him in the eye. He unclipped my gas mask, and I took the last clean breath I’d get. I made it a good one and held it as my mask was pulled off.

“Though I think it will be much more fun to turn you into my next lapdog. Hmm? How do you like that, Owl? Clip your wings, so to speak?”

I kept holding my breath and glared at him. Come on, Alexander, look away at one of your stupid cronies, just for one second, that’s all I need . . .

He did it. He couldn’t resist the audience. Thank God I knew Alexander.

I spit in his face and, when he looked back, unloaded my water pistol in his eyes. It feels good to watch a good-looking vampire scream as his face has one hell of an allergic reaction. He grabbed his eyes, dropping my gas mask in the process. I slid it back on and set my sights on the two remaining and very surprised vampires.

Vampires really are like cockroaches. Bug sprays are supposed to work, but in reality they’re just mildly irritating and piss them off. Same with garlic, holy water, and sunlight on vampires. Sunlight only has the cool vaporizing effect on the really old ones. In reality, they’re little more than glorified thugs that drink blood and excrete that lily of the valley narcoticlike pheromone. They aren’t even that
pretty or strong—it’s the pheromone talking, a potent aromatic that hits you with euphoria akin to heroin and weakens you everywhere so you can’t lift a finger to resist. They heal a bit better than we do, but a stake through the heart works as well on vampires as it does on people. So does an AK-47. The old ones get powerful, but they also have to deal with the spontaneous combustion thing. I know; I’ve seen it firsthand. The point is the garlic wouldn’t down Alexander for long, so I had to move fast.