Owl and the City of Angels Read online

  “Shhh! Quiet. I read that Caracalla liked his women meek and docile.” To the mummy he added, “She’s a little rough around the edges, but not too bad once you clean the dirt off.”

  I shook my head and readied my foot. “Just wanted to let you know trying to trade me to a mummy deserved a hell of a lot worse than a broken nose, that’s all.”

  Mike howled as my foot connected hard with his precious bits. He let go and doubled over, eyes wide in shock.

  “And you also get a broken nose.” I grabbed Mike’s head—already conveniently doubled over—and connected his nose with my knee. Mike’s eyes glassed over for a brief moment before he sunk to the floor and passed out against the sarcophagus. I turned back to Caracalla, still approaching through the water. As tempting as it was to offer the mummy Mike, I wasn’t willing to cross that line. It was just safer for everyone involved, especially me, if Mike was left out of the negotiations from this point on.

  Now, left with only the mummy to deal with, I had a chance to better scan the room for options. By some unknown miracle, Mike’s rope had fallen near the sarcophagus in the shallows. I hopped down from the pedestal lip and felt under the surface for the rope, never letting the mummy out of my sight as he paced the edge of my side of the shallows. “You stay on your side, I’ll stay on my side . . .” I said, more of a hope than a threat.

  Caracalla glanced up toward the hole in the ceiling before spreading what was left of his lips in macabre mimicry of a smile.

  Great, just fantastic. The mummy had the wherewithal to figure out there was a new exit.

  My fingers brushed against the nylon rope. I wrapped it around my wrist and searched my bag for my grappling hook. In general, I stay the hell away from grappling hooks. You’re more likely to eviscerate yourself or fall to your death than orchestrate a timely escape. Having said that, I was desperate.

  I tied the rope end off fast and reeled the hook back for a throw. It bounced harmlessly off the ledge and fell back down in an arc. Right idea, wrong execution . . .

  I shoulder-checked Caracalla in time to see him reach into the water. I got a good look at what he retrieved: a jagged, broken bone—femur was a good guess . . .

  And human.

  “Hello—anyone?” I yelled, hoping someone else had come back down to see what had happened to me and Mike. “Need some help down here, like right now.” But all that came back was the echo of my own voice warped by the water in the tomb—that, and another truck running overhead.

  The mummy made a grating, laughing noise that reminded me of a monster on a bad amusement park ride.

  Come on, you stupid rope, come on. I threw it again and was rewarded with a catch.

  Caracalla dove under the water.

  Son of a bitch. Why the hell hadn’t I ever read anything about swimming mummies? I might be able to shimmy up the rope, but not before I could pull Mike out. Maybe I should just leave him for Caracalla . . . but I dismissed that thought and repeated my newest mantra: I am better than Mr. Kurosawa and also the IAA.

  I shone the flashlight over the surface but didn’t spot Caracalla. Damn it, what the hell was I supposed to do with a swimming mummy?

  I retrieved my phone and made the call I’d gone out of my way to avoid making since setting foot in Egypt.

  I called Rynn.

  To give him credit, he picked up on the first ring.

  “Alix.”

  No detectable anger, no accusations . . . this was good. “Hey Rynn, listen, I’m in a bit of a jam—what do you know about Egyptian mummies from the Roman era? The ones who look more like rotting corpses.”

  There was a brief pause. “What the hell are you doing in Egypt?”

  “Yeah, about that—I decided since I was already on the continent, I might as well hit both the Moroccan and Egyptian jobs. Last-minute decision, and I didn’t have time to call.” I winced at the white lie. I’d had the time to call, just not for the argument that would have followed.

  “We agreed you’d tell me what jobs you were doing.” Rynn tried to hide his frustration, but I’d gotten a lot better at picking up on it lately.

  “And I’m telling you now—” I started.

  “Before something tried to kill you!”

  “Well, we also said you weren’t supposed to become Mr. Kurosawa’s new security.”

  “I told you that’s temporary—”

  “Well, so is Egypt!”

  Rynn sighed. “Roman mummies don’t do well with bright light. UV is best. Has to do with degeneration of the retina.”

  OK, that was useful. I patted my jacket until I found my UV flashlight. Never leave home without it. I aimed and shone it on the surface. “He’s under the water—how do I find him?”

  “Just keep the flashlight on the water. He shouldn’t resurface.”

  I switched the setting to flood, illuminating the whole room. “Rynn, I know you hate the whole thieving thing, but man, if you saw half the stuff in here . . .”

  “Keep me on the phone until you’re out of whatever hole you’ve crawled into.” Rynn kept his voice professional. He usually did on business, but there was genuine concern under the irritation.

  I was guessing Rynn also needed me on the phone to get a signal on my whereabouts—considering the circumstances, I didn’t think that was half as bad an idea as I normally would. “All right, what do you want to talk about?” I said, and began tying the loose end of the rope around Mike, making sure it would hold.

  “I think the fact you’re in Egypt is a good start.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I saw an opportunity to get both pieces on Mr. Kurosawa’s list, so I took it.”

  “We agreed to do it my way—”

  I tested the rope one last time to make sure it would hold me as I climbed up. “Yeah, but your way means I end up aborting the job halfway through because it’s too dangerous.”

  “No fucking offense, Alix, but considering the circumstances, I’m the only one in this conversation with a point. And this is the second time you’ve done this.”

  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 m
y 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.