Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (22 page)

The things people do to make history . . .

A wild idea hit her. Wresting the lid off the top of the barrel, she dived inside just as the thunderbird’s talons nearly grazed her again. Bear and lion claws barely missed her as well. Watching her fingers, she pulled the lid down and worked it back into place. The barrel was cramped and dark and smelled of pickles but was big enough for her to huddle inside. Peering out through a crack between the staves, she glimpsed the totem circling around for another go. Her northwestern nemesis obviously had no intention of abandoning the hunt.

She knew better than to expect the barrel to protect her for long. Memories of the totem clawing through the lighthouse doors were still disgustingly fresh in her mind. But maybe the barrel could provide a way out? After all, if it could survive going over the falls . . .

There was no time to think about it. Bracing her knees and shoulders against the inside of the barrel, she rocked back and forth while doing her best to ignore the squawk-growl-roars getting louder by the moment. The totem sounded like it was right on top of her.

Inertia held the barrel stubbornly in place. She threw her full weight, such as it was, against the left side of the barrel, finally producing the desired result. The barrel tilted to one side, then toppled over the edge of the shelf. It plunged toward the floor with Claudia inside. Her stomach climbed up her throat. Wincing in anticipation, she curled up into a tight little ball and braced for impact. If only there had been time to read the instructions . . . !

What if the barrel just magically pickled cucumbers or something?

It hit the floor with a resounding thud but, miraculously, not enough to flatten her. As she had hoped, the artifact had somehow shielded her from the full force of the crash landing, just as it had for that thrill seeker at Niagara back in the day. No bones appeared to be broken.

So far.

Landing on its side, the barrel rolled wildly down an unknown aisle. Claudia tumbled inside like a load of laundry in a spin dryer. “Ouch, ouch, triple ouch!” she yelped every time she smacked against the inside of the barrel. Thank goodness she was still wearing those knee and elbow pads from before, but she found herself longing for the discarded crash helmet. Her bruises were getting bruises. Not to mention splinters.

Just when she thought the thrill ride was never going to end, the barrel, well, barreled into something solid and unyielding, bringing it to a brutal stop. She caught her breath and took a moment to let her head stop spinning, then kicked the lid off the barrel. Woozy as a punch-drunk fighter, yet stoked to be alive, she crawled out of the barrel on her hands and knees. A quick look around revealed that the barrel had come to a stop against a tall obsidian obelisk engraved with arcane Celtic runes. The imposing monument reeked of antiquity and bygone pagan rites.

She didn’t have a clue what it was.

Claudia climbed unsteadily to her feet. For a few minutes the entire Warehouse seemed to whirl around her like a vomit comet. She leaned against the obelisk to keep from falling.

“Wow,” she gasped “What a rush!”

A sudden desire to do it again came over her. As her surroundings gradually stopped rotating, she gazed up at the surrounding shelves, wondering how she could get the barrel back up to the top again. Maybe if she rigged up some kind of block and tackle apparatus?

“Whoa!” she blurted, catching herself.
What the heck am I thinking?

She cast a suspicious glance at the barrel, lying oh-so-innocently next to the obelisk. It had kept her safe going over the edge, sure, but what was the catch? Most artifacts came with a sting, and she had a sneaky feeling that she was experiencing the flip side of the barrel’s special properties right now. Besides saving your life, did it also turn you into a danger junkie?

It sure felt like it. Even knowing better, it was all she could do to keep from climbing back inside the barrel for another spin. Maybe there were some basement stairs around here somewhere? She could ride the barrel all the way down. . . .

A blood-chilling growl snapped her out it. She slapped herself across the face, just to be sure, then looked around anxiously for the totem. The tripartite terror was nowhere in sight, but she could hear it snarling a short way back. It sounded way too close for comfort.

Escape was still the order of the day. The obelisk rested at the center of a four-way intersection, but which way to go. Left? Right? Straight ahead? Turning around was not an option, not with the totem right behind her.

“Eenie, meenie . . .”

Choosing at random, she dashed to the right, trying to put as much distance as possible between her and the barrel. This was her chance, she realized, to give the indefatigable totem the slip.

With any luck, the darn thing wouldn’t know which way she went!

The totem pole hunted for its flame-haired prey. Gliding low down the halls of this strange, immense longhouse, it spied the wooden barrel lying out of place beside a spire of polished black rock. The hunter recognized the barrel as the one the girl had rode to elude it before. It snarled at the memory.

The creature touched down upon the floor. Lion and Bear took turns sniffing the barrel, while Bird peered inside. The man-made nest was empty now; their prey had fled the barrel, although her enticing scent lingered. Six nostrils flared. Three sets of jaws watered. It had been caged for too long. Three empty stomachs craved human meat. It licked its fangs.

Turning away from the barrel, the totem inspected the crossroad before it. All three heads sniffed the air, trying to catch the girl’s scent, but the great longhouse was filled with too many confusing odors. Bear turned left. Lion looked right. Bird flapped its wings and tried to fly straight ahead, only to be held back by the other two. It cawed indignantly.

Conflicting intentions halted the totem, which found itself pulling in three directions at once. For a brief interval it appeared frozen in indecision, unable to reach a consensus. Then a harsh, wrenching sound, like creaking timbers, echoed off the crowded shelves. Joined for generations, the stacked creatures strained against each other. Determined growls and screeches added to the cacophony. Painted wood cracked and splintered like bones.

Bird broke free first. It tore loose from Lion’s shoulders, taking flight on its own. It swooped and soared overhead, enjoying its newfound liberty. No longer encumbered by the upper carving, Lion and Bear fought and pulled in opposite directions before tearing noisily apart. Lion sprang from atop Bear, landing nimbly upon the floor. The beasts growled and roared in triumph. Not bothering to bid farewell to their former partners, they split away from each other.

Bear lumbered to the left.

Lion bounded to the right.

Bird circled above the intersection once more before soaring straight ahead.

It was a race now.

Winner take all.

16

FAIRFIELD HOSPITAL

“Psychic Fair. Central Park. Got it.” Myka peeked at her watch. “If I hurry, I can be there in a couple of hours. Maybe less if the traffic’s not too bad.”

“Good,” Artie replied. His grizzled visage filled the screen of her Farnsworth. “But watch out for Worrall. I can’t stress enough how dangerous he’s becoming.”

“You don’t need to remind me of that.”

She had been sitting at Pete’s bedside all night. Vanessa had offered to give her a break, and Mrs. Frederic had even reserved a room for Myka at a nearby hotel, but she had been unable to tear herself away from the quarantined hospital room. He was her partner. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone at a time like this. She knew he’d do the same for her.

“No, I suppose I don’t.” Artie tried to peer past Myka via the Farnsworth. He lowered his voice. “How is he doing?”

Her throat tightened. “Not good.”

Pete stirred restlessly in the hospital bed. He had already sweated through several sets of sheets. A damp compress, laid across his brow, failed to ameliorate his fever, which was still well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Frequent saline infusions fought a losing battle against dehydration. His pulse rate was erratic. There was no sign of internal hemorrhaging yet, but, according to Vanessa, that was only a matter of time. . . .

“I see.” Artie didn’t press her for details. “Then you had better get on your way. Claudia and I will be in touch if we find out anything more.” He glanced around his office like he was looking for someone. “What’s taking her, anyway?”

Myka wasn’t sure where Claudia was supposed to be, but that was hardly her top concern at the moment. She’d let Artie wrangle his apparently wayward apprentice.

“Thanks for the lead,” she told him. At least she finally had a name to go with Calvin Worrall’s pallid face, and a new place to start looking for the gloves. That was something. “I knew I could count on you and Claudia.”

“Just find those gloves.” Artie looked as worried as she had ever seen him. “Before Worrall infects thousands of innocent people.”

No pressure there,
Myka thought. But she was up to the challenge. She had once been responsible for protecting the life of the president of the United States. High stakes had never daunted her.

Especially not when Pete’s life was also on the line.

She had already lost one partner in her life. Sam Martino had been killed in a shoot-out in Denver a few years ago, while attempting to apprehend a would-be presidential assassin. Myka had blamed herself for Sam’s death for a long time. She’d be damned if she’d let another partner die on her watch.

“Sorry, Pete,” she whispered as she rose to her feet. Her back was sore from sitting in the chair all night. She put the Farnsworth away. “I’ve got to go.”

“Not without me,” he said hoarsely.

His voice startled her. She had thought he was out cold. He had been murmuring deliriously just a few hours ago. Mostly about his ex-girlfriend Kelly . . . and cookies.

“Pete?”

His eyes fluttered open. They were sunken and bloodshot, reminding her far too much of Worrall’s ghoulish orbs. Flinching, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. He clutched his stomach in pain. The blinking monitors reported an elevated heart rate. His lips were gray.

“You heard Artie,” he grunted. “We’ve got a psychic fair to crash.”

Had he been listening in on Artie’s briefing? “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” He fumbled clumsily with the metal rail around his bed. Stubble carpeted his jaw. “Nadia’s likely to make a surprise appearance at Central Park, which means that this Worrall dude’s bound to be there too. Good. I owe that freak some serious payback.”

Lowering the rail, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The effort exhausted him and he teetered precariously. Myka rushed forward to catch him before he fell.

“Pete?” She propped him up and looked urgently into his eyes. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You need to lie down and let me handle this.”

“Not going to happen, Myka.” He inhaled deeply, trying to rally whatever strength he had left. An outgoing breath wheezed from his lungs. “No way am I missing this shindig.”

“But you’re sick,” she protested. “You have stage three typhoid fever. You want to do something, I understand that, but please, you’ve got to be reasonable.”

“Says who?” He managed a pained smile. “This is me you’re talking to, remember? Since when have I ever been reasonable?”

Granted, that was not a word one often used to describe Pete. She liked to think of herself as the reasonable one . . . which was why she had to talk some sense into him.

“Let me call Vanessa,” she volunteered. “Maybe she can explain why you need to stay in the hospital.”