The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  The squiddies continue their rounds. Swimming by more vaults, all with the black pixels above their doors that indicate air-gap sensors. We see more ploppers and inactive squiddies.

  Oh, man.

  “Please tell me,” I say to Liáng, “that you know which vault we need.”

  Liáng says, “Vault ASCH-17.”

  Puo chimes in, “It looks like we’re headed in the right direction, the numbers and letters are decreasing.”

  That and the security is going from paranoid to overkill.

  The brick entryways off the hallway are getting larger, holding larger vault doors.

  There. Vault ASCH-17. It’s one of the larger ones and has a circular door containing what looks like a spin wheel in the center, but it’s hard to tell in the pixelated surface. An air-gap sensor squats above it all (pretty sure that’s what those black pixels are).

  “Well?” I ask Puo. Safe cracking, vault doors, that’s his gig.

  Puo shakes his head back and forth several times, thinking. “Uh, no idea based on that image. But honestly, that’s the least of our problems. Just getting to the door is a bigger issue.”

  I nod absent-mindedly. He’s right. But now that we know what we’re dealing with, some ideas are starting to form and being summarily rejected (you have to start somewhere).

  The squiddies continue their patrol through the vaults and then eventually make their way to the main basement entrance/exit in the North Building where the signal starts to improve. Large elevators mark the main entrance, along with more air-gap sensors, ploppers, and inactive squiddies.

  “Yeesh,” Puo says. He points to the elevator doors themselves.

  There are contact sensors at the top and bottom where the doors meet. If those doors are opened, those sensors are going to trip, not to mention the plopper sitting directly in front of it.

  Yeah, I don’t think we want to come in that way.

  The official squiddie leads our rogue squiddie through a stairwell, nearly as heavily guarded, near the main elevator. Once we emerge onto the main level of the museum the official squiddie returns control back over to us with the instructions to go back to our regular patrol.

  “Whew.” Puo exhales. “Now what?” he asks me.

  “Now we get to work,” I say.

  “Got any ideas?” Puo asks.

  Some. Others are starting to form. We have knowledge now, and a working layout. I think we’re in a good spot.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WE’RE SCREWED.

  Puo, Liáng, and I just spent several hours back at the house trying to solve the defenses at the British Museum. It always came back to those damned networked ploppers. There’s no way to take out a node without alerting all of them.

  So now I need a drink. Because that’s what you do when you’re screwed: you drink.

  Generally I prefer beer, at a bar, or since we’re in England, at a traditional pub. What I’m not as fond of is this place: a goth bar … or club—or whatever the goths refer to this place as. I’m going with bar.

  “Nice choice, Puo,” I say.

  “Thanks.” Puo beams at himself.

  The beaming is completely out of place at The Bridge Between, described as “England’s most ethereal alternative night scene.” The stone Gothic structure the bar sits in is at the southern entrance to Highgate Cemetery in Hampstead and rises up to form a bridge over Swain’s Lane that divides the cemetery in half.

  The three of us are sitting in a U-shaped booth of dark red leather in the middle of the building—smack over Swain’s Lane below us—facing out toward the black painted wood bar that runs down the length of the wall. The exposed brick walls are painted black with a yellow mosslike material worked into the mortar. Multiple candelabras and lighted lanterns reflect off the decorative copper tiles on the ceiling to give the dark, gloomy room a soft glow with plenty of places for shadows to hide.

  The moody bar smells of candle smoke and incense with a layer of anise and licorice that pervades it all. Two rather strong flavors I hate, and the key components of absinthe—which is the specialty of the bar. Absinthe ice-water fountains are on every table (including ours) and spaced down the bar—they’re glass and dark-metal containers with five metal spigots evenly spaced around it.

  The absinthe might be the bar’s drink specialty, but the bar is also known for straddling Highgate Cemetery, a sprawling Gothic nineteenth-century cemetery that has the bonus of being reputed to be haunted. The bar even gives nighttime drinking tours of said cemetery.

  Our server, a young guy in a striped black silk shirt with matching black skinny pants and black boots walks over to our table with a bored look.

  Black, black, black—the boring requisite color for anything and everything goth. The bar is full of these characters draped in black. I think they think they’re hiding in shadows, except for, ya know, when it’s daylight out. I like to think they’re just sad at the current state of entertainment and wish for the nicer, cleaner periods of black-and-white television—like all they need is a good old-fashioned hug.

  Our server sets the tray down on our—you guessed it—black wooden table top and stares at us from behind shoulder-length black hair like, if we tried to hug him, he’d try to bite us (not in a scary vampire way, but in the petulant toddler way).

  Yeah.

  Liáng and I kinda stick out since we didn’t know where Puo was leading us. I’m in white capri pants with a pink v-neck shirt and a gray sweater for extra layers—turns out capri pants in November in England can be cold. Fortunately, all the candles in the place make the bar feel comfortable and warm. Liáng is in khaki Chinos with a form fitting charcoal long sleeved shirt. He’d almost fit in except that the shirt makes his muscles look good, not the pale pasty limp look Goths like to sport. Honestly, I’m surprised they let us in through the door.

  Puo is in black jeans and a slate, almost purple buttoned shirt with his sleeves halfway rolled up. Apparently the turd knew where we were headed tonight and forgot to share that with the rest of us.

  “Pinot noir,” our server says softly and sets a tall red wine glass down in front of me with a clink. It’s hard to hear him over the brooding slow rock music with an emo male singer that’s being piped in everywhere. Or maybe it’s the ring in the server’s lower lip that causes a speech impediment.

  The server sets down a tumbler with etched spider webs on it and a bone base holding a red liquid in front of Puo. “Brain hemorrhage.”

  What? But I keep my mouth shut as the server sets a small absinthe glass, a type of short-stemmed shot glass with a spherical bottom half and fluted top half, down in front of Liáng. The spherical portion is filled with a bright green liquid (looks like radioactive liquid to me). The server then sets down a small plate with a flat ornate silver slotted spoon and a cube of sugar.

  Before the server can leave, I ask, “What’s in the brain hemorrhage again?”

  The server stops in his tracks and pauses while the bartender creates a racket shaking a drink. Once the bartender stops, the server says, “Peach schnapps, grenadine, and Irish Cream.” The server turns on his heel on exactly the last syllable, afraid perhaps that we’ll infect him with our non-black color.

  “Mmm,” I say, and look at Puo with a slight nod of my head. “Manly.”

  “Cheers,” Puo says and picks up his tumbler to take a sip.

  Liáng sets the flat slotted spoon that resembles a squat dagger on top of his absinthe glass, sets the sugar cube on top of it and slides it under the absinthe fountain in the center of our table. The ice water from the spigot melts the sugar cube as the water dribbles over it. The bright radioactive-green liquid inches up above the spherical portion and turns to a sickly yellowish-green (like infected pus—yum). The scent of licorice is overpowering.

  I slide my wine glass toward me and breathe in the aromatic wine to try to cleanse my palate from the unfortunate licorice scent. The smooth wine pleasantly smells of light oak with an undertone of cherry.


  “Have you had absinthe before?” I ask Liáng.

  “No,” he answers, focusing on the drink before him.

  “Then how’d you know what to do?” I ask.

  “A gentleman,” he says, a bit of airs creeping in, “knows how to properly consume alcohol.”

  Ugh. “Why do you do that?” I ask. “Bounce between being a normal, helpful person and an arrogant prig. It’s like you can’t decide who you want to be.”

  Liáng actually blushes, mumbles an apology, and then says cryptically, “There may be some truth to that.”

  I start to follow up on what he means when Puo interrupts me, “Don’t take it personally, Liáng. She’s just frustrated, both about our network problems and, ya know, … sexually—”

  “Puo!” I yell in surprise. Then against my will, my cheeks burn.

  I think of several more things to say but reject them. There’s no way after what happened with Winn that I’m ready to jump in the sack again. Where the fuck did that come from!

  Puo sniggers into his manly peach schnapps drink.

  Fucking Puo.

  “Why are you such an ass tonight?” I ask. “And unless you and Liáng have something on the side, it’s been even longer for you! And we’re still screwed on the network.”

  “We’re always screwed before we figure something out.” He shrugs. “I’ve learned to just enjoy the ride.” Puo toasts himself and takes a sip of his red drink.

  Grrr. I reach over and tip the bottom of the glass he’s drinking upward spilling it down his chin.

  He sputters and drips the red liquid all over himself.

  “It’s okay, Puo. Just enjoy the ride,” I snark and slide out of the booth. I take my pinot noir with me to go find a less irritating spot.

  What the fuck is with Puo? I am not sexually frustrated.

  Am I?

  No. No, I’m not. Fucking, Puo.

  Then why did my cheeks burn?

  I move down to the empty end of the black-painted wood bar that’s standing room only. This part of the bar is out of our booth’s line of sight, but I turn my back to Puo and Liáng all the same.

  Winn and I were … we were like two peas in a pod. Well, more like a pea and a … uh … nut of some kind, but still in a pod. It was just— Ugh! I run my hands through my hair, pulling on it to distract me.

  A small group of people are congregating for the midnight cemetery tour on the far side of the bar near the entrance, five goth types and a normal-looking couple. I’m not sure what goth people refer to normal people as—muggles? The normal couple looks like they just came to the bar for the tour. Most of the group looks like couples. Isn’t that sweet? I take a swig of my wine and roll my eyes at the thought.

  The pinot noir is smooth, warm on the tongue. The oak taste gives it an aged flavor while the cherry is sweet on the finish. The flavors linger in the front of my mouth asking to be replenished which I oblige with another sip.

  I know what Puo’s doing, or at least trying to do. He’s trying to piss me off under the belief that I have better clarity when I’m irritated. Bastard.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Liáng says walking up, “he said he thinks he went too far.”

  “It’s not true,” I say more to my own thoughts than to Liáng.

  “He didn’t go too far?” Liáng asks confused.

  “Oh, no. He went way past too far.” I explain about Puo’s theory about my working when pissed off. “He thinks I have flashes of insight when I’m too pissed off to worry about the consequences.”

  “Do you?” Liáng asks, interested.

  I study the congregating group at the end of the bar while considering my answer. One of the goth chicks is sporting a small skeleton handbag that looks to be made of ribcage bone. It caught my eye because I can see everything in there, including exactly where her brown-leather wallet is—helpful information for a pickpocket.

  “Yes, and no,” I finally answer Liáng. “I think my dynamic with Puo is that it just often seems that way. But it has to be organic, not contrived. I’m just not in the mood for it tonight.”

  Liáng doesn’t say anything at first. He leans his back up against the bar. “What was this Winn like?”

  Fuck. I don’t want to talk about Winn. I gently rest my forehead on the warm black-painted bar—it’s kinda sticky, which is really gross. “He was a law-abider right before we met him. A welder.” I start lying my ass off and lift my head up, my forehead peeling off the bar. Winn was a surgeon. To Liáng I continue lying. “He was funny though—” No he wasn’t. He was more like a brooding piece of man candy. “—a short little Argentinian man that was nearly as round as Puo.” Winn is a white southern gentleman, clean-cut, six foot and all muscle. A very delicious piece of man candy I clicked with on multiple levels.

  I shrug off the memories. I am not … frustrated. I mean, I may, possibly, miss him—

  Damn it, Puo!

  “You okay?” Liáng asks in concern.

  I’m seething. First Puo is all like “I’m worried about you” and “you act like nothing’s wrong.” And now he’s purposefully stirring shit up. I’m really tempted to go unload on Puo.

  Liáng stares at me like I’m a caged animal.

  “I’m fine,” I bite off. “What about you?” I ask.

  “What about me?” Liáng asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, getting annoyed. “Ever loved and lost? Isn’t that how conversation works? We just talked about me. Now we talk about you.”

  “I didn’t realize we were done talking about you,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s what the question signals: a shift in conversation. Your turn. Go!”

  “I … uh …” Liáng stammers. He trails off into silence and sips his absinthe instead.

  Men. Prying into everyone else’s business, but the moment you ask them about theirs, they clam up.

  Liáng continues to stand there awkwardly, looking like he’s trying to decide how best to proceed.

  The tour at the end of the bar is getting ready to leave.

  I suddenly decide I don’t want to talk about relationships. “C’mon—” I walk toward the tour group and tuck my arm into Liáng’s arm to pull him along. “—Let’s go on the cemetery tour.”

  Liáng’s arm is as I remember it from dancing, very well muscled indeed. Winn is gone. I have to start getting over him somehow, don’t I?

  Liáng hurriedly sets his drink down before he’s out of reach of the bar. “What about Puo?”

  What about him? He can stay right where he is. To Liáng I say, “He can enjoy his ride alone.”

  * * *

  After picking up our coats from our booth and telling Puo to piss off, Liáng and I now stand near the entrance to the west portion of Highgate Cemetery only a hundred feet or so from The Bridge Between.

  Our tour guide is a goth server from the bar. She’s wearing a long dark trench coat with the hood up that looks to be made of a shiny felt material. She’s also painted her face white for that extra pasty-white-goodness contrast. But it’s her calf-high ash-colored laced-up boots and dark-gray jeans that have me really jealous. Capri pants at midnight in November in England—I really should’ve known better. Wafts of cold air snake up the gap at my cuffs.

  We form a semicircle around our tour guide who is handing out candle-lit dark lanterns out of a cardboard box at her feet to a select few—all of them goth chicks. I think this is less nepotism and more the fact that all four of us muggles are standing in the back behind the goths.

  “Highgate Cemetery,” our tour guide starts, “was founded in 1839 to house the overflow of dead bodies from London.” She says all this in what I think is supposed to be a disembodied voice, but sounds to me like a bored monotone. “It was immediately associated with the paranormal, becoming a favorite spot, then and now, for occultists to perform their rituals.”

  She continues: “The most famous inhabitants aren’t necessarily those who are buried here. Those
like Karl Marx, Douglas Adams, and Charles Dickenss’ parents and brother. The most famous are those that only come out at night.” She then lists off those nighttime inhabitants, pausing after each one. “The Highgate Vampire. The Insane Old Woman. The Dark Shrouded Figure. The Floating Nun. And the long list of nameless ghouls.”

  The group isn’t moving, fixated on our tour guide. The cold wind stirs at our feet (and my freaking exposed ankles, damn it!).

  “Be watchful,” the tour guide continues, “be mindful of things in the corners of your eyes. Heed the chill creeping along your spine—”

  “I feel a chill creeping up my leg,” I whisper to Liáng.

  Liáng doesn’t react to that verbal joust of genius, but the other muggle woman near us snickers.

  The tour guide stares at us in silence. The other goth types turn to give us the stink eye, or maybe it’s just their makeup, and they give everyone including themselves the stink eye—hard to tell.

  I press my lips together and raise my eyebrows at them to let them know I’m done for the moment, while inching myself closer to Liáng to try and leech off some of his warmness. He leans his hard warm body into me.

  The tour guide goes over how the dark lanterns work—they’re just lanterns with sides that can be lowered/raised to turn on and off the light. She then dips into the box at her feet and brings out black shrouds.

  “These are funeral shrouds-”

  Oh, good Lord.

  The group once again stops to turn at look at me.

  Whoops. “Was that out loud?”

  “Yes,” Liáng says, giving me a look. To the group he says, “It’s how you can tell she’s nervous.”

  “Sorry.” I grin helpfully at them and cling to Liáng’s arm.

  “As I was saying,” the tour guide says, “these are funeral shrouds. We must wear them so that the inhabitants leave us be, thinking that we are part of the graveyard itself.”

  The group shuffles forward to claim their ridiculous disguises. I don’t let go of Liáng.