Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (8 page)

“Keep back,” he warned Jim before fishing a silver bag from his pocket. He held it open for Myka, then turned his head away. “Bombs away.”

Myka dropped the ankh into the goo. Pete braced himself for the usual fireworks.

But nothing happened. Not even a fizzle.

“What the heck?” He shared a surprised look with Myka. “Did I miss something?”

She plucked the ankh from the bag and wiped it clean with a tissue. Holding it up to her eyes, she squinted at the small hooped cross. “False alarm,” she declared. “Look at this.”

She held up the ankh for his inspection. He spotted a tiny inscription:

Made in China.

Oops!

Nadia and Jim stared at the agents in bewilderment. “Is that it?” he asked. “Are you happy now?”

“Not really, no.” Pete scratched his head. “Okay, so if it’s not the ankh, what is it?” He looked Nadia over. The bright red gemstone on her forehead caught his eye. “Maybe that ruby thingie?”

“It’s just a cheap piece of costume jewelry,” Nadia insisted. She peeled it off her brow and tossed it to Pete. “Take it.”

He caught it reflexively, then held it up to the light. On close inspection, he had to admit it didn’t look all that impressive. Polished glass, maybe, or crystal. Then again, that didn’t mean much. Sometimes the most innocuous of objects could turn out to be artifacts. Like a rubber dodgeball or an old can of tuna fish.

“What do you think?” he asked Myka.

His partner had another idea. “Her gloves,” Myka said, giving Nadia’s hands wear a closer look. “I was distracted by the ankh before, but those gloves don’t really go with the rest of her costume. They don’t fit with the whole ‘Egyptian high priestess’ look she’s going for.”

Pete looked at the gloves. They were wrist-length and made of white kid leather. Decorative stitching adorned their backs. Delicate ivory buttons held them tight about her wrist.

“Good call.” He tended to defer to Myka on matters on women’s fashion, but he saw what she meant. Unlike the rest of Nadia’s outfit, the gloves looked better suited to Queen Victoria than Cleopatra. “And it’s not exactly cold in here.”

Myka made up her mind. “Let me see the gloves.”

“No!” Nadia yanked her hands back, reacting much more strongly than before. “You can’t have them. They have . . . sentimental value.”

Pete didn’t buy it. If anything, Nadia’s outburst proved they were on the right track. He stuck the phony ruby in his pocket, although it was probably worthless, just like Nadia had said. The gloves had moved to the top of their to-do list. “Sorry. I think those gloves are coming with us.”

“Please.” Nadia held her hands tightly to her breast, one over the other. “You can’t—”

“Leave her alone!” Jim lunged to her defense. “I won’t let you—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Pete grabbed the young carnie by the shoulders and roughly steered him away from Nadia. Jim struggled to break free, but Pete had years of Secret Service training on his side. He strong-armed Jim toward the curtain. “I know you’re just trying to stick up for your girl, pal, but it’s time for you to clear out of here. This is between us and those gloves.”

He shoved Jim out of the backstage area, then waited to see if the carnie was going to come back swinging. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to zap Jim with the Tesla. He felt enough like a storm trooper as it was. Too bad the artifact wasn’t being misused by some crook. That always made this easier.

Surprisingly, Jim got the hint. Pete heard the youth storm out of the tent. “That’s better.” He turned away from the curtain and joined Myka in front of Nadia. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

“But you can’t just take them,” the girl begged. “They belong to me.”

“Sorry,” Pete apologized again. Her pleas stung his conscience, even though he knew they were doing the right thing. “Believe it or not, this is for your own good.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Nadia asked bitterly. “What gives you the right?”

“The U.S. government,” Myka said, simplifying things somewhat. In truth, the agents answered to a secretive board of Regents whose relationship to the federal government was . . . complicated. But that was more than Nadia needed to know. “This is our job.”

“Just give us the gloves, Nadia,” Pete said. “We’re not leaving until we get them.”

Outnumbered and overwhelmed, Nadia finally gave in. She pulled off the gloves and practically threw them in Myka’s face. “Fine. Do what you have to do.”

“Thank you.” Myka politely ignored the attitude. She quickly examined the gloves, just to avoid another embarrassing “Made in China” moment, then beckoned to Pete. “Shall we try this again?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Pete recycled the silver retrieval bag. “Go for it.”

Into the bag went the gloves. This time he kept his eye on the reaction, which was only marginally more pyrotechnic than before. The goo fizzed a little, and he caught a glimpse of a few flickering sparks, but it was hardly the usual blinding flash.

“Okay,” he commented, “I don’t think that was fully neutralized.”

“Didn’t seem like it,” Myka agreed. Her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle it out. “Maybe we’re dealing with another two-part artifact, like Poe’s quill and journal, or Robert Louis Stevenson’s bookends? In that case, we’d need both items to neutralize them.”

No surprise that she recalled those incidents. Poe’s notebook had nearly killed Myka’s father, before they had managed to track down the quill as well.

“But don’t we already have both gloves?”

“Maybe not.” She rescued the gloves from the bag and gave them another once-over. “Hmm. The stitching on the left glove looks a little too uniform, almost like it was done by a modern sewing machine. The stitching on the right glove seems like it was done by hand.” She turned toward the gloves’ owner. “Nadia?”

“The left glove is a copy,” the girl admitted. “I had a costumer whip it up to match the right glove.”

“Which came from where?” Pete asked.

“A thrift store near Gettysburg. It was just lying there, in a bin of mismatched items. I guess somebody must have cleaned out an attic or something.” She paused, remembering. “I don’t know what it was about the glove, but it just . . . called to me somehow. Like I was meant to find it.”

Sounds plausible enough,
Pete thought, believing Nadia’s story. He wondered how long the glove had been sitting dormant—and who had it originally belonged to. Mary Todd Lincoln? Charlotte Brontë? Catherine the Great? Maybe Artie could figure it out.

In the meantime, there was a more pressing question.

“So where is the
real
left glove?”

“I wish I knew.” Nadia looked hopefully at the right glove. “Does this mean I get them back?”

“Sorry,” Pete said. They needed to hang on to the glove until they found its mate. “No can do.”

“But you don’t understand!” She grabbed for the glove, but Myka yanked it away from her, beyond her reach. Nadia burst into tears. “I have to heal people! I
have
to!”

Whoa,
Pete thought, taken aback by her outburst.
Talk about a drama queen.
Was there more to this than just an understandable desire to do good? She sounded out of control, almost like she was under some kind of compulsion.
Maybe we’re taking that glove away from her none too soon?

“Hey, rube!” an angry voice intruded. “You need to listen to the lady.”

The curtain was yanked open from the outside, exposing the stage. Jim Doherty had returned—with reinforcements. His sideshow cronies glared at the two agents. A snake charmer cradled a hissing python. A scowling strong man flexed his muscles. The fat lady crossed her slab-like arms atop her capacious chest. The alligator boy, his body covered in scales, bared his teeth, which were filed to points. A full set of throwing knives was tucked into Jim’s belt.

Crap,
Pete thought.
This could get ugly.

Myka held up her badge. “I’m going to have to ask you all to vacate the tent. We’re on official business.”

“No way, toots,” the strong man rumbled. A poster outside had hyped him as
The Mighty Atlas!
Leopard-print trunks left most of his imposing frame exposed. His muscles had muscles—and big, bulging ones to boot. His sinews stood out like steel cables. A thick skull rested atop a neck wide enough to serve as a pedestal. A handlebar mustache framed his jowls. His deep bass voice made James Earl Jones sound like a castrato. “Nadia’s one of us. We look after our own.”

“Yesss,” Ophidia the snake charmer hissed. Sequins glinted like scales on her tight sheath dress. A forked tongue showed just how far she was willing to go for her act. The python flicked its own tongue in unison. “Ssshe’s helped usss all.”

She got a little too close to Atlas, who shot her a disgusted glance before putting some distance between them. He clearly wasn’t a fan, not that Pete really cared. The agent was more concerned with shutting down this sideshow before someone got hurt.

Like maybe him and Myka.

“Everyone needs to calm down here.” He drew his Tesla from beneath his jacket and swung its muzzle from left to right and back again, trying to keep the entire crew in his sights. “And leave the tent immediately.”

“You got that backwards, rube,” Jim shot back. “You and your partner are the ones who are leaving.” He nodded at Myka. “Without the glove.”

“No way.” Myka stuffed the glove into her pocket, then pulled out her own sidearm, but the knife thrower was quicker on the draw. Moving faster than the proverbial eye, he flung a blade at the gun, knocking it from Myka’s grasp. The gun skidded across the dirt.

“Myka!” Pete decided that Jim was the primary threat. He swung the Tesla at the youth even as Atlas and the alligator boy charged him from opposite sides. A bolt of polyphase energy burst from the gun, but struck the alligator boy instead. Electricity lit up his scaly body and flung him backward across the stage, nearly colliding with Jim, who jumped out of the way just in time. He hurled a second knife at the Tesla, but the commotion threw off his aim. Pete felt the blade whoosh past his hand as he lurched away from the knife—right into the arms of the oncoming strong man.

Herculean arms caught him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side. The Mighty Atlas lifted Pete off his feet so that his legs dangled above the ground. The arms squeezed tightly, crushing him like an implosion grenade. Pete gasped for breath.

“M-maybe we can just shake hands instead?”

A few feet away, Myka had problems of her own. She watched in dismay as her gun flew from her fingers, leaving her empty-handed. Ducking her head, she started to dive for the weapon, only to hear the snake lady hissing at her pet.

“Sssic her, Sssussie-Q!”

Susie-Q?
Myka barely had time to register the python’s name before the snake charmer tossed the reptile at her. Over fifty pounds of squirming serpent came flying at Myka, who threw up her hands to protect herself. She grabbed the coils with both hands, trying to keep them from wrapping around her throat. That was the major threat, she knew. No matter what, she had to keep the python away from her windpipe.

Not getting bit would be good too.

The python snapped and hissed at her, its fangs only inches away from her face. Myka struggled to hold on to the thrashing reptile; it was like wrestling with a whipping water hose. The snake’s lower coils wrapped around her waist, squeezing tightly, but there was nothing she could do about that now. She couldn’t let go of the snake’s throat for a moment.