Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (26 page)

She came at him, rushing directly under the showerhead. Her blade scraped against the foot of the golf club, sending up a shower of sparks. Artie felt the blow all the way down his arm. At the same time, he shattered the glass pane with his elbow. Broken fragments rained down onto the tiles, exposing the emergency lever. He seized it with his free hand and yanked it all the way down. He threw himself back against the wall.

“Sorry about this. You’ll thank me later.”

A huge shower of purple goo poured down on Claudia, sliming her. The blinding flash forced Artie to avert his eyes. Golden sparks, as bright as any pirate booty, flared along the length of the cutlass before blinking out. Liberally bedecked in purple, she sputtered and wiped the gunk from confused, brown eyes that no longer looked quite so intent on tossing him overboard. She spat out a mouthful of goo.

“Artie?”

The neutralizer bath had done the trick, snapping her out of the trance like a bucket of cold water to the face. The last vestiges of Anne Bonny’s seductive fury washed down the drain at her feet. Claudia stared aghast at the gooey cutlass in her hand, then dropped it like the proverbial hot potato (which, Artie recalled, was actually located four annexes away). Purple goo dripped from her hair and ran down her face.

“Careful,” he warned. “You don’t want to swallow any of that.”

Neutralizer was not to be taken internally. Ingesting it made you see . . . things, the nature of which was better left unspoken.

“Holy smokes, Artie!” Guilt showed through the goo. “I nearly . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to finish. “I swear, I didn’t mean it!”

Overcome with emotion and drenched to the skin, she rushed forward and gave him a very messy hug. Fresh neutralizer squished between them. He felt it soak through his clothes.

“You know, this probably could have waited until
after
you toweled off.”

“Shush.” She squeezed him tighter. “Don’t make me rethink not eviscerating you.”

He awkwardly extricated himself from the hug, being careful not to slip on the puddle forming beneath them. He stared down at himself and sighed wearily. Secondhand goo dripped down the front of him, pooling at his feet. He shook it from his fingers. The purple castoff fell on the discarded cutlass, which waited to be bagged. He cautiously nudged it with his toe.

“On second thought, maybe Leena was right: that cutlass might belong in the Dark Vault.”

Claudia gave him a look. “You think?”

A fierce squawk announced that the thunderbird was still flying free. A winged shadow fell over them as the avian artifact circled high above them, cawing angrily. Artie clutched the golf club with both hands, but the creature kept its distance. Had it sensed the destruction of its leonine brother? Probably, he speculated. They had both been carved from the same log after all.

“Careful!” Claudia ducked under the dripping shower head. She tugged on Artie’s arm, pulling him to safety. “There’s a grisly grizzly around here somewhere too.”

“All walled up,” he updated her. “But the bird is going to be a challenge. It’s the most dangerous of the three.” Eyewitness reports of the 1848 massacre, based on the testimony of a single half-mad survivor, made chilling reading even after more than a century. He knew precisely what they were dealing with. “A vicious man-made creature, driven only by an unquenchable appetite for vengeance.”

“As opposed to its more cuddly playmates?” Claudia shuddered but made no move to retrieve the cutlass, not even in self-defense. She peered up at the bird. “You got any ideas on how to bag that canary?”

“I’m thinking!”

The thunderbird chose the better part of valor. Perhaps hoping to avoid the lion’s fate, it soared toward the ceiling, where an old skylight offered a fuzzy glimpse of morning. The bird’s timber wings flapped strenuously, carrying it higher and higher.

“Watch out!” Artie took shelter beneath the shower. He plopped his hard hat onto Claudia’s skull instead. “It’s making a break for it!”

The bird monster smashed through the skylight on its way out. Cubes of safety glass rained down on them. Artie raised an arm to protect his eyes. The glass cubes pelted him like hail. They bounced off Claudia’s hard hat.

“Whoa!” she said. “That’s what I call an exit.”

Alarms sounded all over the Warehouse. Spinning red lights imitated the tops of cop cars. A stentorian voice, immediately recognizable as belonging to Mrs. Frederic, boomed from the PA system.

“Red alert! Warehouse security breach in progress. Repeat: security breach in progress.”

“Tell me about it.” Artie silenced the alarms by clicking a remote device in his pocket. He glowered at the shattered skylight. “That glass was supposed to be unbreakable. Do you know how much it cost?”

“Never mind that.” Claudia took off the hard hat. Her hair was still plastered with goo. “Big Bird has flown the coop.” She sounded like she didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. “Where do you think it’s winging to now?”

Artie already knew.

“The thunderbird is a bird of prey. Its predatory instincts will surely drive it to attack the nearest populated settlement, just as it did over one hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Populated?” Claudia didn’t need to consult a map. “Ohmigod. You don’t mean . . . ?”

Artie completed the thought for her.

“Univille.”

18

“UNIVILLE”

It wasn’t even noon yet, but the UnFounders Day celebration was already under way. The town had lucked out, weatherwise, with a clear blue sky and temperatures climbing toward the eighties. Not a single cloud threatened to dampen the annual festivities. A bustling street fair extended the length of Main Street, which had been closed off for the duration. Temporary booths hawked lemonade, cotton candy, and roasted corn on the cob. Local businesses offered special UnFounders Day bargains. A high school band performed in the town square, their bombastic renditions of the latest Top 40 hits benefitting more from enthusiasm than execution. Clubs and charities raised funds by selling homemade birdhouses, ceramics, bonsai plants, and other crafts. Bake sales competed with the snack stands. An inflatable moon bounce had been set up for the kids. A papier-mâché replica of Mount Rushmore gazed from atop the bandstand. The street and sidewalks were packed with locals. Getting into the spirit of things, various townsfolk had dressed up in frontier garb. Sitting Bull and Buffalo Bill mingled with Laura Ingalls Wilder. Leena counted at least three Crazy Horses.

Most everybody looked like they were having a good time. Shining auras commingled, creating a dazzling prismatic effect. At least, for those with eyes to see.

Leena wished she could enjoy it more. As a local business owner and card-carrying member of the Univille Chamber of Commerce, she’d felt obliged to make an appearance, but her heart wasn’t in it. How could it be, with Pete dying of typhoid fever thousands of miles away?

Her throat tightened as she remembered the first time she had met Pete, the day he and Myka had moved into the B&B. They had both been very frazzled and disoriented, but she had done her best to make them feel at home. To be honest, she’d found Pete attractive at the start and had flirted with him shamelessly that first afternoon. There had been a definite vibe between them, although she had known better than to let it go any further than that; getting involved with a Warehouse agent would have been much too complicated. Besides, she no longer thought of Pete that way. He was family now.

Which made his terminal condition all the more frightening.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Mrs. Lozenko eyed Leena with concern. Her bulldog tugged at its leash. The old woman’s aura was looking much healthier today. She must have remembered her vitamins.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Leena discreetly dabbed a tear away. “I just got something in my eye.” She petted the dog, who was sniffing at her ankles. “Is Lola enjoying the festivities?”

“Too much so. I have to make sure she doesn’t eat too much junk food off the ground.” She dragged the dog away from Leena. “Come along, baby.” She waved at Leena. “You have a nice day, dear.”

“I’ll try.”

She watched them depart, then let her friendly smile fade. She’d hoped that the street fair might take her mind off Pete’s impending demise, but it wasn’t working. Trying to put on a happy front for her neighbors while Pete lay dying was just too hard.
I’ve been here long enough
. Turning around, she decided to retreat back to the B&B.

Not that she expected to feel any better there.

When a Warehouse agent died or disappeared in the line of duty, his or her personal quarters and effects were carted up and transported to the Warehouse, where they were stored indefinitely. Tucked out of sight, and accessible only via an elaborate conveyor belt mechanism, were the private rooms of every lost agent, preserved exactly as they had left them, right down to the last detail. Leena had helped Artie pack up such lodgings before. She was in no hurry to do the same for Pete’s room.

Or Myka’s, for that matter.

She offered up a silent prayer that Artie and Claudia had a line on Clara Barton’s gloves by now. Forget stewing at the B&B. Maybe the others could use a hand back at the Warehouse? Her car was parked at home, just a few blocks away. If she hurried, she could be in Artie’s office by lunchtime. She could throw together a salad and some healthy snacks too. Artie and Claudia could probably use a decent meal at this point.

Her cell phone buzzed. She plucked it from her purse. Caller ID informed her that the caller was not listed anywhere.

The Warehouse, in other words.

Maybe there was good news about Pete?

She answered the call. “Hello?”

Artie didn’t waste exchanging greetings. “Where are you?”

“Downtown. At the festival.” His urgent tone frightened her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The festival?” She could practically hear him process that data. It was odd not to see his face on a screen, but a Farnsworth might have attracted unwanted attention. Better to stick to an ordinary cell phone for now. “UnFounders Day, right. Is that today?”

The occasion had clearly slipped his mind. No surprise, given all that was going on.

“Yes,” she informed him. “Everybody is here.”

“Of course they would be,” he said mordantly. “This would have to happen on UnFounders Day. . . .”

“
What
would happen?” she pressed him.

“The Nisqually Totem Pole. It got loose.”

A horrified gasp escaped her. She was well acquainted with the totem’s savage history.

“How?”

“No time to explain.” He sounded stressed and impatient, even by Artie standards. “The thunderbird is heading your way.”

She instantly grasped the danger. “But . . . the festival. The streets are packed.”

“Easy pickings for the thunderbird.” His dour expression was easy to imagine. “You need to get everybody off the street. There’s no time to lose.”

She glanced around at the bustling commotion. Pretty much the entire population of the town had turned out for the event. Hundreds of unsuspecting people enjoyed themselves, completely unaware of the danger they were in. An entire Boy Scout troop swept past her on the sidewalk, jostling her as she spoke. Mrs. Lozenko and her dog hadn’t gotten far. The high school band was still going strong. Applause greeted their off-key interpretation of Lady Gaga.

“Easier said than done, Artie. The festival is in full swing.”

She was tempted to take out her Farnsworth so he could see for himself, but he seemed to get the idea.