I headed down the widest and most well-lit aisle. I noticed that the shelves lining the wall sported rows of Cho Han bamboo bowls, which were used in a feudal Japanese dice game. If they weren’t authentic, I’d eat my tool kit. There were so many of them that they obscured the walls, all but hiding the gold and black reliefs painted from ceiling to floor. Yet for all these machines, the room was silent—and empty. I shook my head and readjusted my cap. Well, at least Mr. Kurosawa had gone for original decor. I stifled another cough, wishing I had my gas mask. Ventilation, anyone?
The slot machines opened to a bar, complete with mirrored table and white leather couches that formed a plush alcove. A pretty Japanese woman wearing a kimono fashioned like a minidress and a loose interpretation of Kabuki makeup made her way out from behind the bar, stilettos clicking against the floor in rapid succession. She offered me a plate of drinks without a word, or smile.
“Owl?” I heard Mr. Kurosawa say from the couches, his back towards me. I shot the woman a questioning look. She stepped aside. Taking that as permission, I grabbed a glass of champagne and slammed it back—damn right I needed a drink. Say what you will about tombs and ancient burial sites, a deserted casino outcreeps them any day of the week.
Ryuu Kurosawa, a Vegas mogul known for his Japanese Circus–themed casino, looked up from a white couch and smiled that business smile you come to expect from professional sharks. Not the ones who take your money, the ones that eat you while you’re still screaming. I sat down and noted his expensive suit, acutely aware how underdressed I was in my red flames hat, blue jeans, and hiking boots. I shrugged the sentiment off; it wasn’t like they’d given me the option to change.
“Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice,” he said in crisp American English. I’d spoken to him a few times on the phone and seen interviews on TV, and never once had I heard a trace of an accent or glimpsed a break in the Western businessman demeanor. In person though, the thing that struck me the most was how red and waxy his face was, dim lights or not. I shelved that little observation for later—it’s not every day you see something like that.
I crossed my hands to stop them from fidgeting and waited, and for half a second I wished I’d grabbed a second drink. Mr. Kurosawa’s smile didn’t falter as he waved the Kabuki fashion girl over. This time, instead of drinks, she was carrying a wooden box with a puzzle lid, which she deposited on the mirrored table before me.
I recognized the box—I’d packed Mr. Kurosawa’s egg inside it just this morning, before transferring the money into my offshore account and burning my trail. The trick lid had seemed appropriate, since Mr. Kurosawa is known for his love of puzzles. It’s the personal touches and attention to detail that distinguish the professionals like me from the hacks.
Mr. Kurosawa removed the contents, an ancient silver egg, with his flushed, waxy red hand and placed it in front of me, the smile not faltering. Without a word I picked it up, carefully, and examined it. Everything looked in place. Smooth and etched with characters that hadn’t been used in at least five thousand years, the egg was already an artifact when the emperor buried it in his own personal mausoleum. I turned it over and checked the bottom where the gems were supposed to be. They were all there too. It was the same artifact I’d packed this morning. More importantly, it was still in perfect condition. The confusion on my face must have been obvious, because Mr. Kurosawa’s shark smile got a lot more vicious real fast.
“Miss Owl, please do not waste my time. Where is the rest of it?”
I did my best to hide my confusion and rolled the egg over in my hands, checking one more time for missing jewels. The metal was colder than it should have been; I remembered that little observation from the dig site. I’d noted it in my files as something you don’t see every day in ancient metals.
I handed him back his egg and shook my head. “Mr. Kurosawa, it’s all there, exactly as I excavated it from the emperor’s tomb.” I indicated the folders and documentation I’d sent along with the box, also on the Kabuki girl’s tray. “From initial excavation to delivery, everything is documented. If there’s a gem or piece missing, I’m sorry, but that was absolutely all there was at the site. Take a look at the photos and video footage. I’m thorough.”
He took the egg back and stared at me. I stifled a shiver. There was something sinister about the way his eyes fixed on my face. That and the way his waxy red skin reflected the casino light.
Memories of the dig rushed to the forefront of my mind: images, details, a misunderstanding with the Chinese authorities . . . as if someone was sifting through my thoughts, pulling and tweezing. As I narrowed in on Mr. Kurosawa’s face, I noticed how the pupils had widened, eating up the whites until there was nothing left. An unpleasant thought occurred to me . . . really bad. Really, really bad. Of course, it’s only now I notice all the dragon imagery around the room.
The shock on my face, or on the surface of my thoughts, must have been transparent, because Mr. Kurosawa smiled. His teeth turned black before my eyes and extended into dagger-like points.
Ryuu, Kurosawa, even Dragon Tattoo’s name, Oricho . . . fuck, I’d been buying for a Japanese dragon.
And he didn’t like what I’d brought him.
Mr. Kurosawa laughed, low and guttural. “So you did not steal my treasure,” he said, as his eyes began to glow black and his skin turned bright red. “Lucky for you, little Owl. I eat thieves.”
As a rule, dragons aren’t very good at holding other forms. Mr. Kurosawa was holding the rest of his form pretty well, but I figured the only reason he hadn’t done the full dragon in front of me was the ten-thousand-dollar suit he was wearing. Dragons really love their treasure—more than eating humans, I hoped. I squirmed and couldn’t help myself from checking where the exits were. There weren’t any. Shit. If I got out of here alive, I’d have to look up whether there had been any interesting missing persons files around the casino. I could see the appeal to a dragon to set up shop here. No shortage of thieves with “dragon food” stamped on their foreheads in Vegas.
Mr. Kurosawa laughed, and smoke streamed from his nostrils. Well, at least he was enjoying himself. I held up my hands and chose my words very carefully. “My sincerest apologies, I didn’t mean to insult you with damaged goods, it was a complete accident on my part. You can keep the egg and I’ll even return my fee. I don’t want there to be any . . . bad feelings—”
He cut me off with a laugh so grating I winced. Was it just me, or was the room actually getting hotter?
He held out the egg and pressed three small pinholes in succession. The egg clicked and opened into three sections, like orange slices. I hadn’t even realized the egg was a puzzle box. There hadn’t been any mention of it in the inscriptions.
Still chuckling, Mr. Kurosawa exposed an empty chamber for me to see.
“You misunderstand my intentions, Owl. I’m not angry with you for bringing me what was agreed upon—now that I am sure you did not steal the contents of the egg.” His eyes glowed red for a moment. “I wish to arrange a new contract with you to find the missing contents.” He must have seen my face turn white. In fact, I’m positive he saw my face turn white, because this conversation was heading into territory I was already way too familiar with and had had enough of to last me three—no, make that five—lifetimes.
I have a strict policy. No magic, no monsters, no supernatural clients. Ever. I stumbled into what I like to call “supernatural shit” on my third job. Completely by accident, I might add. If you were wondering what drove me off the grid into living in a Winnebago, using disposable phones and hijacked satellite internet, that was it.
The only reason my “magic check” hadn’t come back positive on this one was that someone else had beaten me to it a thousand or two years ago . . . wait, that was it.
“Mr. Kurosawa—”
“Please, Owl,” he said, indicating a fresh flute of champagne proffered by the Kabuki girl. “So rarely do I . . . entertain, so to speak,” he fi
nished, and grinned.
I took the new glass. I wasn’t worried it was poisoned; easier to just eat me. I was having a hard time not cringing every time he smiled though. I started again. “Mr. Kurosawa, whatever is supposed to be inside that egg was stolen a few thousand years ago, maybe more. I don’t even know where I would start—”
He stopped me with his hand, now sporting claws. Three-inch black claws. He passed a folder to me across the mirrored table. “I believe this will help you decide where to start.”
I chewed my lower lip and opened the folder—it’s not like I had a lot of options. Inside was a list of locations: China, Japan, Korea, and a few places in Indonesia. I knew all of them. I’d turned down jobs in each and every one because they were supernatural hot spots.
I closed the folder and passed it back. If I hadn’t been sitting in front of a dragon, I’d have thrown it as far away as humanly possible. “Look, Mr. Kurowsawa, I’m really sorry, but I can’t—”
“Are you happy with your existence?” he asked.
That caught me off guard. “Ahh, if you mean am I fond of living, yeah, I’m pretty attached to it.”
Smoke billowed out of his nose as he reclined against the white leather, his glowing black eyes boring into me. “The running, hiding, evading, knowing no one would ever believe you—doesn’t it get tedious?”
“Ummm, no offense, but that’s why I don’t do supernatural jobs—”
Mr. Kurosawa’s smile shifted from sinister to mocking. “And how has that been working out for you?”
I didn’t say anything. What was the point? He was right.
He laughed.
Dragon or no, he was starting to piss me off. Besides, this was turning into a lose-lose situation, and I’d rather be eaten by a dragon than chased down by vampires. For one, the dragon didn’t have a grudge. “Look, I have enough trouble with vampires right now, and I don’t need any more supernatural problems, and that,” I said, pointing to the open egg, “is a supernatural problem.”
“What is it worth to make your problem go away?” Mr. Kurosawa asked.
That got my attention.
“No more running, no more checking over your shoulder.” He leaned in. “No one hunting you down.”
The chance to go back to my place in Seattle, actually use my bank account without worrying a vampire or its lackey was going to jump out of the next alley I passed by . . .
“What’s the catch?” I said.
On cue the Kabuki girl handed Mr. Kurosawa a third bloodred folder that matched his ever-reddening skin. He removed a single sheet and slid it across the table.
My throat went dry. It was a contract written in bright red ink. The kind of contract you can’t break.
“As per our previous arrangements, payment will be given on the delivery of the missing contents of the egg into my possession. As a gesture of good faith I will negotiate a truce with the parties currently searching for you, from this date onwards.”
“I don’t do supernatural,” I said. Even I didn’t convince myself.
“My dear, you do not have the luxury of deciding that, not if you intend to keep your current hide intact.” He smiled and flashed me those black dragon teeth again. “You’re rather famous in my circles now. Accidently bathing a vampire superior in sunlight during an excavation will do that. Though I still haven’t decided yet whether you’re brilliant or miraculously stupid for managing to deliver the sarcophagus and collecting your pay. In the meantime, you’ve evaded their agents and completed seven contracts, five of them for me. I’d wager you’re about as deep into ‘supernatural shit’ as you can get. Besides that, you’re greedy.” His eyes took on a black glow. “And greed is something I can work with.”
I held the contract. Yes or no?
“And,” Mr. Kurosawa added, glancing at his Rolex watch, “this offer will quickly expire.”
The Kabuki girl handed me a sealed envelope this time. Three photos were inside, all time-stamped a few hours before. It was the Paris boys; I’d recognize Alexander anywhere. They were in Vegas.
I had two choices: deal with Mr. Kurosawa, or take my chances with the Paris boys. Either way, odds were good I’d end up dinner. I thought about accepting for a minute. But that thought only lasted a minute. Supernatural shit got me into my Winnebago mess in the first place. Stacking a dragon on top of vampires was a stupid idea. I stood up and shook my head. “Sorry, no deal. I’m not working for you.”
“Are you not afraid I will kill you?”
I shook my head and shrugged. “You or the vampires. I’m not making the same mistake again,” I said, and started walking back towards the maze of slot machines.
“This one job, Owl. You need never see me or their ilk again.”
I glanced over my shoulder and he flashed me his black teeth, the height of Japanese fashion a few thousand years ago.
“Just this last contract, and I will deliver on my promise to intervene with the vampires. What do you have to lose?”
“I’d be off their hit list permanently?”
He nodded, once.
I rolled it over in my head. All I had to do was find the contents and I’d be rid of the vampires. It wasn’t digging myself in deeper. It was a way out. “One job, and only the one . . . ever,” I said.
Mr. Kurosawa smiled.
“And I have conditions.”
Another puff of smoke trailed out of Mr. Kurosawa’s nose, but he didn’t stop me, so I trudged onwards. Shit, what the hell was I doing, bartering with a dragon? “First, no eating me. Even after this contract expires or you terminate it. Second, you bankroll the equipment.”
“Agreed. I assume there is a third?”
I braced myself. “The vampire clause stands, even if I can’t deliver.”
His lips curled up at my last condition, and I wondered for a moment if I’d pushed dragon patience too far. I didn’t actually prefer being eaten to working for a dragon—not if he could get the Paris boys off my case—but I also wasn’t diving headfirst into a doomed wild-goose chase.
Mr. Kurosawa considered me from the plush couch. “Is that everything?”
“I want it in the contract.”
Three long seconds passed, during which I held my breath.
“Lady Siyu,” Mr. Kurosawa said. The Kabuki girl produced a red lacquer pen with a very sharp tip.
Oh hell no.
I went to shove my hand into my pocket, but she was too fast; a blur of red-tipped fingernails snatched my wrist.
I yelped as she pricked me with a needle and held my finger until a drop of blood fell on the page. She was strong for such a small woman. Lady Siyu said something in Japanese, and my conditions appeared on the bottom page. Just like that. Then she flipped the pen over and handed it to me. I kept her and Mr. Kurosawa in my sights as I signed. I thought I caught a glimpse of a slit eye as I passed the signed contract back to Lady Siyu. If she was human, I was a dancing unicorn.
“How does a dragon get vampires to back off dinner anyways?” I said.
Mr. Kurosawa frowned, as if my question was in line with what he’d expect from a four-year-old.
I held up my hands. “Just curious. They were pretty pissed off the last time we spoke in Egypt.” Thinking about my Egyptian run-in with the Paris boys was enough to give me nightmares for a week.
“There are courtesies and etiquettes to follow,” Mr. Kurosawa said. “If not, I’ve been known to eat the occasional vampire.”
I believed it. Dragons trump vampires in the supernatural food chain. Which only strengthened my conviction that I was completely and utterly out of my mind for even contemplating this job.
“So, just so we’re clear, tomorrow I can use my Visa and no one will jump out of an alley and try to kill me?” Oh yeah, vampires were loving the digital era.
“I suggest you set yourself up in Vegas to start, but yes. I’ve taken the liberty of having Lady Siyu check you into one of our suites. Your van was retrieved and is in the parkade.”
>
Lady Siyu passed me a receipt for my Winnebago, along with the red dossier. She turned on her spiked heels and motioned for me to follow.
Mr. Kurosawa regarded me. Even halfway to a dragon he still looked every inch the rich businessman. “Words of caution, Owl: do not let yourself lose track of Lady Siyu in my private casino. People have a way of getting . . . lost.”
I scrambled; I was not about to get lost in a dragon’s lair—den—whatever you call it. But my business side took over. I glanced back over my shoulder at Mr. Kurosawa before Lady Siyu entered the maze. “How do I contact you?”
“It’s all in the dossier.” He got up to leave and had almost disappeared amongst the slot machines, but I couldn’t help myself.
“What would have happened if I’d said no?”
He flashed his vicious, razor-sharp smile once more. “Those Paris vampires offered an awfully large reward for you. And I eat thieves.”
With that, he was gone, and I ran to catch up to Lady Siyu, now almost at the end of the nearest row of slot machines. She hadn’t waited for me. My head was spinning—I was working for a dragon.
Lady Siyu led me through the maze of machines, and I kept my head down, not wanting to be distracted by the neon lights. After she’d turned down too many corridors for me to keep track of, she pushed open two heavy gold doors with old Japanese characters etched deep into the metal.
I didn’t realize how tense I’d been until we stepped into the hotel corridor. With just the brush of our feet against the plush carpet to indicate anyone was here, she stopped before a black unmarked door and opened it with a gold key card, which she handed to me.
I wouldn’t call it a room. Luxury designer condo was more like it. I whistled as Lady Siyu followed me in. I hadn’t been in a real room in over four months—not counting student and hostel dorms. It’d been camping or the Winnebago. I couldn’t wait to see the bathroom and take a shower—damn, I could soak in a bath.
Owl and the Japanese Circus Page 2