Owl and the Tiger Thieves Page 9

  Like Captain begging for a treat, there was a hardwired routine to this madness; he’d complain for half an hour while I tried to put my things away and ignore him. He’d progressively get louder and more annoying. Eventually I’d tire of the noise and give in.

  We both knew the script and what our resulting behaviors would amount to. He’d spend half an hour begging, and I’d eventually give in.

  At no point did either of us attempt to alter our behavior for a more efficient and satisfactory outcome. We were caught in a continuous loop of repetitive behavior that neither of us was particularly happy about.

  The point was that I knew exactly what kind of reception was waiting for me in the Dragon’s private casino upstairs. Lady Siyu would level baseless accusations at me, tell me I didn’t know how to do my job; then Mr. Kurosawa would make up his own damn mind.

  I knew it, they knew it, Captain probably knew it.

  Still, every time I walked in there, I hoped for something different, some modicum of respect, an interaction in which Lady Siyu wasn’t trying to weasel permission to kill me.

  Maybe I was mad, or maybe it was just another symptom of the human condition. Either way, I wasn’t in a rush.

  I made my way across the mezzanine to the ornate glass elevators without checking the front desk or my phone. I needed an hour to think and didn’t want distractions.

  I unlocked my suite door to a baleful Captain, who stood in my way and let me know exactly what he thought of my two-week absence. I maneuvered past him. “Yes, I’m sorry. But you’d have hated the Peruvian prison,” I said, patting his head. “No mice, and we had to run through water.” That wasn’t exactly true. I would have preferred to take Captain with me, but I’d been worried about being recognized. Captain and I together were a little too well known in IAA circles now. Considering the fact that I’d spent two weeks in prison, it was probably a good thing I hadn’t taken him. What if I’d never gotten out?

  And I hadn’t abandoned him here; I’d had one of the nymphs stop by and feed him with instructions to contact Nadya if the worst happened to me. That didn’t stop the pangs of guilt as he bellowed at me, tail straight up in the air, as he followed me through my home away from home, the luxury suite on the penthouse floor at the Japanese Circus. The floor no guests ever stayed on and that Mr. Kurosawa appeared to keep for his own use. Originally it had been filled with carefully chosen antiques, but Lady Siyu had removed most of them, replacing them with things Captain couldn’t destroy. No dishes, no dust, no signs of life beyond Captain . . . looking around my empty apartment, it felt as if I’d been gone for much longer than two weeks.

  Rynn was no longer here and it seemed empty now, and strange. Yet another mistake added to my long list. How the hell had I not seen the elves’ plot coming? Of course they’d wanted Rynn. He was their wayward soldier, the warrior; I was a damnable thief.

  Captain didn’t care about my musings on the changing nature of our living arrangements or Rynn’s absence. Not done with his lecture yet, he stood in the kitchen and made a noise that was a cross between a mew and a growl.

  Once I’d ditched my bag, and removed the sweats and sneakers I’d been wearing the past two days, acquired before stepping foot on a plane, I finally picked up my cat. He spent all of two seconds appeased until he caught the scent of something that interested him—something supernatural. He twisted around in my arms until he zeroed in on my bag and clothes.

  I used the reprieve from his attention to see to the condition of my kitchenette. It wasn’t pretty; Captain had upended his kibble since it had last been filled—which normally wouldn’t be a problem except that he’d followed with his water dish, leaving a soft, squishy, wholly unappetizing mess on the floor. I wiped it up and set the dishes right side up before refilling. Captain strolled in, as I was filling his water dish, having finished with his inspection. He snorted three times as he sat in the middle of the floor, tail curled around him, as if he were waiting for an explanation.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t happy about having to work with him either,” I said as I put the filled kibble bowl on the floor.

  He mewed one last time before shoving his face into his dinner.

  Now that I was back in civilization and caught up with a few hours’ sleep, I noticed the smell. It was coming from me. I badly needed a shower and a change of clothes. I took my time under the hot water, washing off two weeks’ worth of grime. I’d been able to clean up a bit on Mr. Kurosawa’s plane, but it wasn’t the same thing. After a long shower and a change of clothes, I grabbed a beer from the fridge and retreated to my desk and laptop, Tiger Thief medallion safely in hand.

  The Tiger Thieves, as Oricho had told it, were a secret society that had originated out of the ancient Silk Road trade routes. More assassins than thieves, they’d started by hiring themselves out to caravans as guards and guides, protecting wealthy merchants and their wares from opportunistic bandits and local armies looking for a payoff.

  They’d also been the first of their kind for another reason: they were the first recorded attempt at protection from the supernatural. Why and, more important, how was foggier. Some of the stories said they had been formed by a group who had been grievously wronged by supernaturals; others claimed they were supernaturals themselves; still other more fairy-tale versions claimed it was their sacred duty to protect humans from the supernatural, which I didn’t buy one bit.

  Though the Tiger Thieves had surrounded themselves in secrecy, Oricho had been certain on one detail: that they’d had ways of dealing with supernaturals who got in their way, from the weakest to the most powerful. During a time when supernaturals had roamed free, eating and enslaving people as they saw fit, the Tiger Thieves had become their version of the bogeyman. And any group powerful enough to take out a dragon were the only ones who stood a chance against Rynn.

  The other details he’d gleaned were less concrete, more legend and myth: the Tiger Thieves had kept to themselves and vanished a few hundred years ago; the only way to find the Tiger Thieves was by invitation or possession of one of their medallions.

  Did they still exist or had they gone the way of most secret societies—extinct? All I might uncover would be a few ancient buildings and objects hastily discarded, never to be returned for. Or maybe I’d find them.

  Whether the medallion brought me to them or them to me was also up for interpretation, if it worked. The details were sparse, and the medallion wasn’t giving up any of its secrets.

  I’d had a chance now to look over the gold markings decorating the stone for almost two days. Nothing. There was no code, no magic, no hints. I had the key to finding the Tiger Thieves right in my hand, yet after two days I still had no idea how to use it.

  I opened my laptop and scanned an image of the medallion, then sent it off to both Nadya and Oricho. Hopefully they’d have better luck—or maybe Oricho would see something I hadn’t. Captain took it upon himself to curl up in my lap, apparently having forgiven my lapse in judgment leaving him behind.

  Even though I’d done the same online searches before, I searched again for “Tiger Thieves” and the markings on the medallion on the faint hope that I’d missed some obscure line or reference.

  Artemis’s words came back to me as I sipped my beer and patted Captain, trying not to let my mind wander as I skimmed through all the references I’d seen before.

  Had I come back from Shangri-La reckless? Possibly, but this time I wasn’t being reckless for myself; it was to save someone else. That had to count for something.

  And I wasn’t about to let anyone else I cared about end up on the supernatural serving platter. Not again.

  An hour or so passed of doing online research and waiting for a response from Nadya or Oricho that didn’t come. When I checked the time, I was a half hour away from my meeting with Mr. Kurosawa and Lady Siyu, organized on the plane back without anything resembling my input. From experience I knew it was best to be early rather than late when it came to Lady Siyu. I clos
ed down my laptop and wound the medallion’s strip of leather around my wrist before tucking it into a pouch that I hid in a concealed pocket under my shirt. I wasn’t about to let it out of my sight.

  I stood up from my desk, gently dumping the protesting Captain on the floor, and tied my hair up in a loose ponytail before slipping on a leather jacket and a pair of boots. There was something else Artemis had said that had rung true; Mr. Kurosawa and Lady Siyu would eventually wise up to the fact that I was playing two games—their quest for supernatural weapons to use in their war and my own to save Rynn. I didn’t think either of them would be happy about it.

  Well, I’d deal with that when the time came. I grabbed the Incan idol from my backpack and tucked it under my arm before heading to the door.

  “Time to go see Mr. Kurosawa, Captain,” I said, letting my cat into the hall. “And let’s hope Lady Siyu hasn’t finally convinced him to let her eat me alive.”

  Captain, happy not to be left out, darted ahead to the elevator. Everything else might have changed these past weeks but at least my cat hadn’t. Be thankful for the small things, eh?

  I was starting to think that Captain liked to growl at Lady Siyu.

  The elevator chimed brightly and cheerfully when we reached the twenty-fourth floor, the penthouse. As the elevator doors slid open, Captain mewed and darted out ahead of me, setting a fast pace down the vaulted hallway to Mr. Kurosawa’s private casino, the large doors looming black, gold, and ominous up ahead. Mr. Kurosawa’s architects hadn’t skimped on space up here, combining two floors into one, I figured. The decor was also designed to make an impact; gold-leaf plates adorned the arched hallway ceiling, and black walls with white wood accents highlighted the artwork on display.

  And then there was the plush carpet sinking under my boots. Whereas the walls, ceiling, and detailed wood had been done in black, gold, and white, respectively, the carpets were a disconcerting bright red, the color of freshly oxygenated blood.

  I didn’t think they were there for the aesthetic appeal and to set off the artwork . . .

  There were decidedly more pieces of art displayed on the walls and in the mounted glass cabinets—nothing supernatural as far as I could tell, but there were a number of expensive pieces I’d retrieved over the past few months. They were not to be pegged to a specific time frame or theme, but they complemented one another in an intangible way—a style. My eyes paused on a piece I’d acquired for Mr. Kurosawa recently, a painting on wood now restored and protected behind glass. I realized why the changes to the art had bothered me. It was a trophy hall, everything a piece I’d acquired for the Dragon. I didn’t take the display as a compliment. Not from those two. More like a reminder of just who had my leash.

  I knocked on the casino’s black doors and watched as they swung open of their own volition. Captain lost no time dashing through.

  “Captain, stop,” I said.

  He halted at the edge of the carpet that denoted the start of the casino’s smoky marble floors, sniffing at the rows of slot machines, everything from Hayes early-1900s antiques to modern electronics. All of them stretching out into an endless maze, Mr. Kurosawa’s evil enchanted forest of whirring lights and sounds.

  The slot machines were all possessed with the ghosts of everyone who had ever crossed the Dragon—mostly thieves but also those who’d had the bad luck to be in his way. They were trapped forever, his eternal slaves condemned to guard his treasure.

  The maze had the power to entrap any human who entered uninvited, but whether that courtesy extended to cats and other small animals . . . ?

  As if sensing that something was there, a handful of machines began to chime, their lights flickering and gold coins clinking as they fell out and struck the marble floor.

  Captain edged forwards, sniffing a coin that rolled his way. I scrambled to pick him up before he could be accused of stealing Mr. Kurosawa’s treasure. Captain might be a Mau, a breed of cats hardwired to seek out vampires, but even he couldn’t resist the lure of a shiny toy.

  I noticed a scent drifting our way—smoke, but not from a fireplace. Mr. Kurosawa must already have his dragon panties in a bunch about something. “Best to get this over with,” I told Captain, despite what my stomach argued as it flipped.

  It was yet another symptom of madness, I suppose: talking to my cat and assuming he understood . . . “Hello?” I called out into the maze. My voice echoed back at me off the wood-paneled walls stained a deep gray, and I could have sworn the flecks that looked like smoke in the black floor tiles swirled.

  I waited and had to readjust my grip on Captain as one of the nearby machines began to blink its lights enticingly. Another slot machine farther into the maze chimed, followed by the sound of more gold coins striking the floor.

  “Assholes.” I’d decided that most of the ghosts were belligerent jerks. They might also have been mindless from years of imprisonment—or just stupid for thinking I’d fall for the lure of gold coins and lights. My cat, however . . .

  I attached his leash to his collar as he strained to investigate the slot-derived stimuli.

  The scent of smoke intensified, this time bringing with it the smell of burnt cedar. I shuddered as I stood there, waiting for whatever game Mr. Kurosawa and Lady Siyu were playing with me to unfold.

  Finally, after what seemed like minutes had passed with only the deranged slot machines to keep me and Captain company, I heard the click-clack of Lady Siyu’s designer heels striking the marble floor. A moment later she emerged from the maze.

  Unlike her usual black business suit attire—a dark jacket, white shirt, and pencil skirt paired with dark sunglasses that obscured her eyes—today she was dressed much like the first time I’d been dragged unwittingly into the casino, in a modern version of a Japanese kimono, the silk a bloodred, decorated with tiny white, black, and green flowers and fashioned into a minidress that hit just above her knees, exposing pale bare legs that ended in a pair of patent spiked heels the same bloodred color as her dress. Her face was decorated with a modern take on Kabuki makeup: skin pale but natural paired with bloodred lips and deep black winged eye liner—all the better to set off the golden, snakelike slits that were her eyes.

  Captain’s ears laid back and he let out a guttural hiss, straining at his leash.

  Captain didn’t like Lady Siyu. A few months back he’d been interned with her as an idiotic idea of payment for removing a curse.

  I picked him up with the intention of restraining him. He didn’t like that much and squirmed until he fixed his eyes right back on hers, hissing and growling warning all over again.

  Lady Siyu’s red-lacquered lips peeled back in her own snarl, and then off-white fangs extended down, dark yellow venom dripping from the tips. She hissed right back, and Captain backed down to a low growl. The feeling of extreme dislike was mutual. Captain hadn’t made their few short months together easy for Lady Siyu and had done so in a form she could understand, rending antiques and designer shoes.

  Mau cats had been bred by the Egyptians to sniff out and hunt down vampires. Their saliva was venomous to them, eliciting a severe allergic reaction reminiscent of anaphylactic shock. It shed a whole new light on the idea of cats being the guardians of the underworld. The same trait also allowed Captain to sniff out other supernaturals—though the reactions were varied and . . . unpredictable.

  I might suck at identifying the supernatural, but my cat had been earning his assistant cat status lately and making up for my shortcomings.

  As I wrangled my cat, I noted Lady Siyu was carrying something under her arm but didn’t get a chance to get a good look at it before Captain renewed his efforts at Naga evisceration. I shortened his leash as he launched another round of claws into the air as a warning, then shoved his head under my leather jacket. He bleated in complaint but otherwise quieted down.

  Captain successfully subdued, I got a better look at what was tucked under Lady Siyu’s arm: a tablet.

  Nothing good ever came of Lady
Siyu bearing electronics . . .

  “Thief,” Lady Siyu spat as she stopped three feet away, her nose crinkling, whether at me or Captain I decided was a moot point.

  “Lady Siyu.” I nodded as well as I could with Captain still making a valiant effort to get free from under my coat. “And I prefer ‘Owl’ over ‘thief.’ ”

  Her upper lip curled in an amused sneer. “I am certain you do.”

  With that she held out the tablet—or shoved it under my nose might be a more accurate description.

  I frowned. This was usually the point where Lady Siyu demanded I hand over the loot, then led me through the maze to see Mr. Kurosawa at a breakneck pace that could only be in the hope that I’d fall behind and take a wrong turn.

  Keeping an eye on Lady Siyu, I looked at the tablet, aware of both Captain and the idol wrapped in sheets of three-month-old gossip rags. It had turned into a game for me, a dangerous one. My irreverence for the way I packaged and delivered the goods I acquired for Mr. Kurosawa offended Lady Siyu more than seemed reasonable. Who cared what the package was? A jeweled box couldn’t make a fake artifact any more real than newspaper could make the authentic a fake.

  Lady Siyu gave me an unfriendly smile as I glanced down at the tablet, as if the change in routine had been designed to set me on edge. If she was anything like her snake brethren, she could smell the fear wafting off of me.

  On the tablet was a report, not from a news source like Reuters but a curated report like what you’d get from someone paid to do research.

  Sweat began to collect at the back of my neck. What if they’d found out about my contact with Oricho? I’d been careful, but even I knew it was only a matter of time before they realized I was half-assing their acquisition of weapons and started to wonder why.

  My panic subsided as I read. There was no mention of Oricho, the Tiger Thieves—not even Rynn. It was an account of my imprisonment in the Albino as Charity, the alias I’d given to the IAA dig guards when I’d been caught—on purpose. Also included was a photo—a bad one as I’d put up a fight to make my imprisonment look more plausible.