Owl and the City of Angels (4 page)

My first instinct was to tell him this conversation would end as soon as he quit Mr. Kurosawa’s security job, but my thought process was interrupted as bony, clawlike fingers reached through the water and dug into my khakis.

Shit.

“Got to go. Work is rearing its half-rotting head,” I said, and tossed my pack and phone onto the sarcophagus before Caracalla pulled me under.

Eyes closed, I kicked at Caracalla’s face with my free boot as he towed me under and towards the deep end. I dragged my hands across the bottom on the off chance I’d come across something to use as a weapon.

My lungs were burning by the time my fingers grazed something that felt like a stick. I gave one last kick at Caracalla’s head. I didn’t dislodge his hand, but I did dislodge my boot. Good enough. I broke through the surface and swam for the safety of the sarcophagus in the shallows. I heard, rather than saw, Caracalla surface a few feet behind me.

I scrambled back up on top, finding my flashlight on the edge of the pedestal just short of the water. I reached for it just as Caracalla broke the surface.

He offered me another grin as I jumped back, tightening my grip on the bone.

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying,” he said, his voice raspy from vocal cords as dry and tight as sinew. “Why don’t you leave me the large one and we’ll call it even?”

I almost dropped the bone out of sheer shock. “Wait just a fucking minute. You speak
English
?” To think I’d spent the last ten minutes terrified I was dealing with some ancient, mindless monster . . .

Caracalla’s smile widened. “Of course I speak English. I’ve been listening to you insects natter for over a century—your kind, and your superiors,” he said, and I picked out the mix of British- and American-accented words, along with something else foreign to my ears. “And I see they’ve sent me—what is it your ilk calls it again?” I got a good look at just how many black teeth he had. “Takeout.”

I eyed the flashlight, wondering if I could reach it in time. “They won’t like you eating one of their archaeologists,” I said.

I could have sworn his empty sockets glittered.

“You really think they’ll care what I’ve done with your corpse?” he said. “Only a decade or so ago I had the pleasure of drowning a young man who swam through my lower catacombs. He thought your superiors might care what I did to him as well. Your very presence here disproves that theory spectacularly.”

That made me pause. OK, the IAA was evil, but they weren’t in the habit of feeding archaeologists to the odd supernatural . . . Were they? “I don’t believe you. It had to be an accident.” OK, even I can admit that sounded naïve.

Caracalla laughed and picked up what I thought at first was a rat. It was a black walkie-talkie, an old one. “Oh I think not. Not the way he screamed. I ate him very slowly, and all the while they listened on the other end. Chatted with me even, until the ‘batteries’ died.” He pronounced the word
batteries
as if it were still strange and foreign to him.

The IAA was made up of a bunch of bureaucratic assholes, but I’d always assumed their particular brand of fuck-off only extended to throwing miscreants like me under the bus. Not actively sacrificing the ones who toed the lines . . .

“Why the hell would they do that?” I said.

Caracalla inclined his head at an unnatural angle, as if considering my question. “Hard to say, but I suppose they hope I’ll one day tell them where my treasure is buried. Or maybe they hope I’ll tell them the incantations for immortality.” He leaned towards me. “I’ll let you in on a little secret before I kill you. I won’t tell them. Eating archaeologists like you is much too much fun.”

Somehow I thought I should be a little more surprised, or angry. Then again, it was the IAA . . .

“Well, not that it hasn’t been a nice chat,” Caracalla said before disappearing under the surface. I launched myself at the flashlight, but he was faster underwater than I’d wagered. A desiccated arm covered in sinew and tattered linen wrappings shot out like a viper.

Before his hand could close around my neck, I grabbed his wrist and started tearing through the skin and what was left of his wrappings. He smiled and leaned in to smell my skin. “I haven’t killed anyone in years. I eviscerated the last fellow. I wonder what I’ll do to you? Shame you don’t seem to have one of these,” he said, shaking the old walkie-talkie. “I would have preferred an audience.”

I grunted and kicked at his midsection. Something gave way, but it did nothing to dissuade him.
Come on, Owl, think. You studied the Pharaonic cults, for Christ’s sake . . .

“You could always start to scream, beg for your life?” Caracalla suggested. “The noise might make it more interesting.”

I snorted. I had a better idea. I tightened my grip on my bone—it probably belonged to one of the archaeologists he ate.

“Or you could simply accept the end of your life and worthlessness to the IAA. Just another disposable archaeologist,” Caracalla continued.

I may suck with supernaturals in general, but I’m an expert on mummification. Caracalla might be walking and talking, but there was one thing the Romans hadn’t bothered to do.

“You’re wrong,” I said, now struggling to keep his hand at bay—there wasn’t much left to peel off.

What was left of Caracalla’s lip curled up.

“About the incantations,” I said. “That’s the last thing the IAA wants from you, on account of how much you screwed them up.”

The muscles in his face contorted into a snarl. “And how would you know that?”

“Because if you’d gotten the incantations right, I wouldn’t be able to do this,” I said, and rammed the femur through one of his eye sockets.

Caracalla screamed and grasped at the bone protruding from his face.

The Roman Pharaonic cult hadn’t bothered removing the organs.

He fell back into the shallow water, still batting at the bone. As he floated out, I heard the first high-pitched squeak. Rats, apparently flooding out of thin air and shadows, began swimming towards his body as it drifted towards the deep end.

Hunh, apparently humans aren’t the only species who like a little revenge.

And time to get the hell out of here.

I made sure the gold Medusa head was still safely taped to my stomach, then rechecked the grappling hook to be sure it wasn’t going to come loose and clock me in the face. Once that was done, I shimmied up the rope and climbed the hell out.

No one had come looking for us. The chamber was empty.

I glanced back down the hole. Caracalla wasn’t going to be getting up anytime soon, and I could always send someone else in for Mike as soon as I reached the stairs . . .

I started for the main hall and stopped. Damn it, why can’t I ever be the bad guy? Because then I’d be just like them, that’s why . . .

I looped the rope through my hook and used a pillar as a lever to pull Mike out.

“That was amazing—” Mike called up when I started to pull on the rope I’d secured around his waist earlier.

Fantastic, he was conscious. Blood streamed from his nose as I helped him over the ledge, but his eyes were wide, almost manic.

“I can’t believe you took out a mummy with a stick—”

Bone, actually, and one of Caracalla’s victims at that. And I’d really been hoping on Mike being unconscious for that part. “Yeah—well—adrenaline does wondrous things.” I reached into my backpack, wrapped my hand around the bottle of chloroform I kept for emergencies, and dunked it over the sleeve of my shirt. I hesitated, but only for a moment. I did not need Mike conscious so he could tell people how I took out a mummy single-handedly. For one, it was against IAA rules to engage supernaturals. Granted, there are no protocols for when they try to eat you—IAA mediated or not—but they still get in a bunch about breaking rules to save your own neck. More importantly though I was ready to blow this popsicle stand.

When I went to knock Mike out though, he grabbed my wrist. “
That
wasn’t from the IAA handbook,” he said. “You’re not a grad student, you’re the Owl.”

You know, it’s always when they’re safe and sound that they remember I’m the bad guy. Why is that?

Well, at least I didn’t feel bad about what I was about to do anymore. “You know what, Mike? After trying to trade me to the mummy, you should have quit while you were ahead.” I elbowed him in his broken nose—no such thing as fair in a street brawl—and rammed my chloroform-soaked sleeve in his face.

His eyes went wide, but he passed out before he could make a half-assed attempt at swiping my arm away.

“Sleep tight,” I said. And by that I meant he should have horrible nightmares filled with supernatural monsters for the rest of his archaeology career . . .

I ditched my one remaining boot and slipped on my runners, which were, miraculously, still dry in my bag. I weighed the pros of losing the jacket too but decided not to waste the time.

I thought about calling Rynn, but he’d only yell at me about Egypt some more, so I sent him a text instead.
Ditched
mummy
.
Running for border
. He’d get the message. I called Nadya next. And yes, my phones are now heavy duty and waterproof. Another one of Rynn’s changes as part of Mr. Kurosawa’s security . . . God, I hated his new job . . .

“Alix?”

“I’m still in the catacombs. Mike tried to play supercop—don’t worry, I knocked him out, but he made me when I shoved a chewed-off bone through Caracalla’s eye socket. I’m leaving now—I’ll tell them there was a cave-in and bolt for the hostel,” I said, as I jogged down the narrow passage towards the spiral stairs. All I had to do was run to the guys at the front gate and tell them there was a cave-in. Nothing about Caracalla, nothing about Mike. They’d head in and find him on their own, and by then I’d hopefully be halfway across the city.

“Alix—you need to run!” Nadya said, a new level of panic in her voice. “Don’t stop, and whatever you do, don’t go through the gates! Go around back and hop over the wall, and
run
!”

I reached the door and peeked out. There wasn’t even a guard on duty—probably on lunch break. “But I’ve got a clear path to the street. Jumping over the fence will only get me attention,” I said, and almost opened the door and bolted for the road.

Except Nadya didn’t get scared without a reason, and if there was one thing she could smell out, it was trouble.

“I’m already in the building across the road and just saw a van of IAA agents pull up.”

Across the street from the dig site, the door to a nondescript white van slid open. Five suits exited, led by a woman with brown hair tied in a severe bun, dressed in a pencil skirt of the color I like to call “lawyer black,” along with matching heels.

“It’s a trap, Alix. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but the IAA found you.”

My heart rate spiked as the agents turned the corner and headed for the catacombs gate. Shit. “Nadya, running—
now
—” I said. I threw up my hood and bolted out the door, not bothering to see if the IAA agents saw me.

“I should have known that tip Mr. Kurosawa received on the Medusa head was too good to be true,” I said to Nadya, then stopped. It hadn’t been the Medusa head that had tipped them off; that lead had been fine. It had been Algiers . . . Son of a goddamn . . . they’d
known
I’d hit the Algiers job, and they’d known exactly what bait to use—the gold prisoner chains and cuffs Cleopatra II wore . . . my very first excavation . . .

And I’d been stupid enough to fall for it.

Damn it, why the hell hadn’t I stopped at Morocco?

Because I have lousy decision-making skills at the best of times, that’s why.

“We need somewhere to meet—” Nadya began.

I reached the stone wall that ran along the back of the dig site. Instead of replying to Nadya I dropped my phone in my pocket so I could scramble up. When I reached the top of the wall, and because I’m a sucker for morbid punishment, I shoulder-checked the approaching IAA. They were at the gates now, five in total, and I watched the lead as he raised his arm and pointed straight at me.

I dropped down on the other side and hit the ground running. I fished my phone back out of my pocket before I’d turned a corner. “Screw it, Nadya we’ve got bigger problems than a meeting place right now. The IAA agents just spotted me.”

“Lose them in the crowd before you grab Captain—”

“I know that!” Still running, I slid out of my jacket and shoved it and my red baseball cap into my bag. I slowed to a jog and turned down the first crowded side street I came across that was still travelling in the general direction of my hostel.

My name is Alix Hiboux, archaeology grad school dropout and international antiquities thief for hire.

Have I mentioned I don’t do supernatural jobs?

Welcome to my life.

2

Mummies, Monsters, and the IAA

Ah—12:45 p.m., maybe? Oh who cares what time it is, I’m running from the IAA.

I broke out the other side of a crowded alley onto a more or less empty street twenty feet from my hostel, the Queen of the Nile.

I thought it was a whorehouse too, but no; just catered to backpackers.

I might not have had the sense to stay out of Egypt mid-revolution, but at least I’d picked a nondescript hostel close to the dig site. I ducked back into the alley and scanned the street, ready to run at the first sign of IAA. There were none waiting outside.

Well, the universe didn’t completely hate me today. Not that I’m dumb enough to trust my own judgment . . .

Breathing hard, I bolted for the hostel entrance.

“Excuse me—sorry—dumb tourist,” I said as I pushed past a group of backpackers huddled around the front desk. No one paid me any mind—everyone’s attention was glued to the TV. More protests, if the glimpse I caught of the newsreel was any indication. That had me worried. No matter how noble the cause, large aggregates of angry people are destined to leave hordes of dead and unconscious bodies in their wake. And millions of dollars’ worth of property damage.

I threw a quick wave over my shoulder that no one paid attention to as I ran up the stairs. Relief flooded me as I unlocked and scanned my room. No sign of rifling through my things or tampering with the lock.