"Dang! The things they can do with computers these days," he said.
* * * *
I waited until the door shut behind me and counted to twenty before relaxing my pose.
My sore shoulder had seized up, so I was stretching it out when the others came out from behind the rock.
"That was brilliant!" one of the pixies exclaimed. The others chortled their agreement.
Even Grace had calmed enough to grin at me as she handed me back my vest.
Charlie, however, did not laugh. "The door's still closed!" he hissed.
I rolled my eyes. Silly human. I scrabbled at the door until I could get a claw in the crack then pulled it partway open. I stopped and listened. When I was sure the coast was clear, I opened it the rest of the way and retrieved the St. Zita medallion I'd crammed into the strike plate to keep the lock from engaging. Dragons can't raise their eyebrows like humans, so I tilted my head and gazed at Charlie expectantly.
He smiled. "Bloody brilliant."
* * * *
Most of the corridor was long, gray, and empty, but when it branched, Operisiel pointed Grace to the more public area.
"Short cut," she mouthed. "Through museum."
I hoped her angel understood shortcuts better than door handles.
We paused; I listened, and we moved on. As we got nearer to the public areas, it began to resemble any corridor you'd find leading to the bathrooms and employee section of a hardware store. Bulletin boards flanked cheaply built, heavily deodorized facilities. One bore safety notices, policy change memos, and general administrivia including "McThing's Happy Thought of the Week." The other side (the ladies' room side, which had a flowery/cinnamon smell in contrast to the Eau de Lysol of the men's room) had—I kid you not—a star chart. Not astrological chart; a star chart, like I'd seen in elementary schools. Each employee—there were twenty-four, so I guessed we might have ten in the building—had a line of sticker stars. Some bore special messages in miniscule writing: Perfect Punctuality! Diversity Sensitive! Made a Good Effort! Teacher's Pet Joe's line had overlapping stars, while Bob's made a poor showing with only a dozen. We paused at the door for me to listen and Grace to activate our stealth charms; while they waited, some of the pixies pulled a few stars off Joe's line and added them to Bob's.
The coast clear, we zipped down the short hall and entered the McT-A movie monster room. The large darkened room had walls which curved into the ceiling. That, combined with the air conditioning and the drip-drip of a water fountain, gave the room a cave-like atmosphere.
Animatronic creatures, prototypes of the many monsters McT-A created for Hollywood fantasy, sci-fi, and horror flicks, inhabited the space. Dinosaurs, dragons (or dragonish creatures), and monsters no Faerie would have even dreamed of struck poses aggressive to amusing, while smaller creatures nestled at their feet, crawled on their polymerized bodies, or occupied their own displays behind glass cases in the walls. Spotlights still shone on all the exhibits, making the silver skeletons of some gleam and the glass eyes glow with a feral light even I can't duplicate on the best of days. The thin curved metal and gears cast creepy shadows all around.
More important to me were the cameras placed along the ceiling. I watched them move, calculated the blind spots, and told the pattern to Grace. With well-timed stops and the charms working, we could make it across without anyone noticing us, if we went in two groups. Grace and Charlie struck ahead, and the pixies followed close to me. They kept turning their heads and gaping at the metallic behemoths and miniature crawlies around us. I kept my eyes on Grace.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Mpix murmured.
"It's like their eyes are following us," one of the pixies said in a hushed voice.
"Take it easy. Just fly casual," I told him. "But don't whistle," I added when I heard one take in a breath.
"Can they smell us?" one, MacLeery, no doubt, asked in a squeak.
"They're not real. They're machines—plus, they're powered down. Besides, I can take them."
"Even that one?" MacLeery pointed.
A twenty-foot model of Billy Beaver spread his arms and smiled welcomingly, but the light below his chin brought shadows to his eyes and emphasized his teeth. With his hands disappearing into the darkness, you could easily imagine a fork and knife instead of brochures in his grubby paws. I shuddered and moved on.
At the exit, we paused for breath. I peeked into the next room, the FamilyGames (TM!) room, according to the museum map. Only a small light shone above the exit and did nothing to illuminate the space. Even with my eyesight, I could just make out a vast, empty area with six large mounds forming a wide circle. Almost directly across from us, a stairway led to an upper balcony that encircled the lower level. According to Operisiel, another secret entrance led into the butte complex from there. I only hoped it was an entrance this time. Charlie and Grace donned their IR glasses and peeked in, but they didn't help much in the climate-controlled room.
Grace shrugged. My turn to lead. The pixies settled on my back, and we made a quick, quiet trek straight across.
This time, Operisiel came through, and we found the door. Though it had no handle, a keypad disguised as a controller for the game below worked it. By actually using the magic in the St. Zita medallion this time, we got it open.
Once we were in another utilitarian gray hallway, and the door had shut behind us, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Don't know why; we were much more likely to be caught here than in the museum—and even if they caught us there, we could always say we had been in the bathrooms and got locked in. Well, Grace and Charlie could. Me and the pixies would probably have to spend the day in the animatronics room posing.
A couple of pixies zoomed down the halls, high up, to scout. Charlie glanced at his watch: forty-seven minutes since we'd jumped. Another hour and a half or so until the FBI either met us or bailed us out. Plenty of time for me and Charlie, I figured, but Grace didn't know where she was going or exactly what she was looking for.
"Forty-five minutes, and then you leave. Don't wait for us," I told her.
She nodded, her expression terse, her mind already on the task ahead of her. She murmured a prayer for direction.
"A map would be even better," I added.
At that moment, MacLeery came zooming back, lugging a large piece of paper that flapped with each beat of his wings. "Thought this would help," he said.
I grinned. Now that was service.
"Where did you get this?" Grace asked.
He shrugged, "Bulletin board behind the glass cabinet. Had to pick the lock!" He smiled.
Nothing like a little larceny to make a pixie's day.
We split up, Grace and the pixies following the map and me and Charlie following the St.
Anthony medallion. For the next fifteen minutes, we made our way down dimly lit halls, thankfully empty, as the medallion increased slightly but steadily in brightness. I was starting to feel pretty good about this whole rescue when we came to a three-way fork in the halls.
"Who designs a building with a three-way fork?" I grumbled.
Charlie slapped my flank and pointed. On either side of us, doors led to staircases going both up and down. Seven directions to choose from unless further down, these halls had branches as well.
While I kept watch, Charlie moved into the middle of the junction, holding the medallion in front of him. It dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened, as he spun a slow circle.
Something was interfering with the spell, or several of the choices could take us to Heather, but who knew which was the fastest?
I heard footsteps. I signaled to Charlie, and we rushed back into the hall we'd come down.
I grabbed the first doorknob I found and twisted. Of course, it was unlocked. Got to love when a cliché works in my favor.
Charlie started to close the door behind us, his other hand gripping the handle of his dagger so tightly I could hear the leather wrap on the handle strain, as we listened to the footste
ps coming our way, slow, bored. My predator's instincts rose; then I had a great idea. I shook my head at Charlie and winked, and he shuffled out of my way, leaving the door ajar. I settled myself with my back to the door, just inside the shadows and let the script play itself out: CLUELESS MINION enters Stage Left. He pauses, hearing a noise, but does not report it. Instead, he fondles the stars on his nametag and moves toward the empty hallway, his mind on adding another. (Probably saying, "I was proactive today!") CLUELESS pauses at door, hesitating. He stands and, back to the door, reaches for his walkie-talkie.
Suddenly, a well-muscled and gorgeously scaled tail whips out from the crack in the door and wraps itself around his neck. He only has time to grab ineffectively at the tail before he's drawn into the darkness. The door shuts behind him.
Pan shot of the empty hallway.
FADE TO BLACK
I slammed my victim on the floor and pinned him with my forelegs, then I leaned my face in nice and slow, making sure he got a good look at my fangs before he saw my eyes.
"Where's the girl?" I growled low and menacingly.
"Wh-What g-g-girl?"
Charlie crouched down by Stutterboy and glanced at his nametag. "Look, Philip, we're in a bit of a hurry. We know Rhoda Dakota's being held captive somewhere nearby. Now you can be a good survivor and tell us where…or you can be dinner."
"I-I don't—"
"Phil A. Minion." I mused and drooled a bit for effect. I live for these moments, I really do. I licked his cheek and asked Charlie, "Can I have fries with that?"
"Why not? This is Idaho."
"No! No! Wait! I'll talk! I'll talk!"
As he talked, I tapped out the truth spell Grace had taught me. Good thing, too; he stopped in mid-lie to change his story. I backed off enough for Charlie to relieve him of his gun (a Skorpion hand-held machine gun. Italian. Molto bene. ), Taser, billy club, flashlight, walkie-talkie, and handcuffs. Charlie handcuffed him, and I crunched the walkie-talkie between my teeth. I also ate his nametag, just for fun. As he sat there with a stricken look on his face, watching me chew on the leather and Velcro, Charlie clocked him with the butt of his gun.
"We could have gagged him, you know," I said as Phil phlopped over.
"I know," Charlie said. He slung the machine gun over his shoulder, stuffed the Taser into the back of his pants, and crammed the rest into his knapsack. "Do you mind?"
"Not really. Feel better?"
"Actually, I do feel more relaxed. Thanks."
I shrugged. "He's probably better off. Most people don't laugh at an unconscious man."
Charlie looked at the dark spot on Snoozerguard's pants and wrinkled his nose. "He did make a bit of a mess, didn't he? Shall we?"
Phil's route took us down the left corridor, up two flights of stairs, and down another hallway. Through it all, we didn't encounter any guards or surveillance cameras, and the only locks employed simple keypads with combos our Phil-anthropic friend was only too glad to share. Made me suspect someone hadn't read the Evil Overlord's List of Top Ten Security Mistakes. Not that I was complaining, mind you. However, it did make me a little suspicious.
Too many years of easy cases gone bad.
Not much I could do. I kept my senses alert and pressed on.
The last door opened up into the common room of a dormitory, a bright and noisy room compared to the silent and industrial hallways we'd traversed. The walls were painted in trendy colors and abstract designs. A couple of free-standing video games in one corner made arcade noises. The neon blue couch looked both expensive and comfortable. A free-standing bar with tastefully mismatched chairs separated the room from the kitchen area. I had to wonder if they'd gotten a makeover from one of those home improvement shows, or if they were in line for one.
Lairs by Larry.
One of Rhoda's music videos was playing on the big screen TV that dominated the wall.
Charlie started across the room, but I held him back. I jerked my head toward the couch then at the far hall. Two henchmen to take care of first. He nodded and reached for his dagger. I gave him a look, and he grabbed the Taser instead.
The show had cut to an interview with Heather-as-Rhoda and Charlie. They wore matching fisherman's sweaters and jeans. Heather's chair was pushed as close to Charlie's as possible. She had her arm wrapped around his, and they held hands. The show host was asking them about future wedding plans.
"Rumors on the InterdimNet say your parents have been meeting with the bishop. Isn't that as good as done in Faerie culture?"
Rhoda declared, "Nothing's official until I have a ring!" She held up her empty hand.
"And when will we see that?"
TV Charlie squirmed (actually, real Charlie did, too), but all he said was, "I'm not ruining any surprises."
"Well, that's hardly fair!" the anchor teased, as if she believed their engagement was solely for the titillation of her viewers. Maybe she did because she said, "Well, then, why don't you tell us what goes on when the parents aren't watching? Your hot and heaviest date?"
Charlie flushed and stared to rise. "How dare you speak of my lady—"
Rhoda, more used to celebrity interviews, just laughed and pulled him back down. "It's not like that. We aren't dating. We're courting. It's very old-fashioned by our world's view but, well, sweet. Of course, I think I've kissed my costars more than I have the man I love."
"You're kidding me!" The anchor scooted forward in her seat and waved her hand at Charlie. "What's wrong with you? Rhoda is hot!" The studio audience hooted and cheered.
"Her name is Heather." Charlie's quiet but commanding voice cut past the noise, and the audience calmed. "Love is patient. For now, it's enough to hold Heather's hand and gaze into her lovely, lovely eyes." For a moment they did just that, while the charmed audience let out an
"aww."
If we weren't trying to be quiet, I might have gagged.
Apparently, Couch Potato Minion felt the same way. He threw popcorn at the screen.
"You idiot! That Rhoda is sly. Man, if McThing wouldn't have my hide, I'd—"
"You'd what?" Charlie called.
Fanboy spun around, and Charlie gave him a face full of Taser. Ye-owch.
So much for subtlety. While Charlie reeled in the darts, I made a dash for the hallway, choosing to barrel down the last guard before she could aim her weapon. She fell back with a squeak. I didn’t feel like wasting time. I glanced at her nametag. "Listen, Sally; open the door to Rhoda's room, and I won't eat you. Deal?"
Eyes wide, she nodded, and I backed off of her. It took her three tries to get the code in right, but I could tell she wasn't stalling or activating an alarm. She was just shaking too hard.
Fine by me. Charlie had joined us by the time she got the door open and muscled his way in ahead of us. I saw he'd already reloaded the Taser with a fresh cartridge. Smart boy.
Heather was asleep on the bed, her wrists handcuffed to the headboard. Still in the sequined dress we'd seen her wearing the day before, she looked tear-stained and disheveled, but otherwise fine.
"Heather!" Charlie cried and ran to her.
Her eyes snapped open. "Charlie! Oh, Charlie!"
She tried to sit up. The cuffs held her back. I nudged Shivering Sally with a claw, and like a wind-up toy, she sprang to let Heather free.
Heather threw herself into her boyfriend's arms. "Oh, Charlie! I knew you'd come! I just knew!"
Charlie kissed her forehead, pulled her close. "My darling, are you all right? When I think of what they could have done—"
"Oh, Charlie!"
Only in real life could you get dialogue that bad. I tossed my head in annoyance.
"Enough with the chatter. We're not out of here yet. Charlie, go keep watch."
Charlie pulled himself out of his love's embrace just enough to glare at me.
"Unless you want to stay and watch these two ladies switch clothes?"
Three humans reddened down to the neck. Charlie sped out of the room.
Seven minutes later, Heather, now in Security Sally's uniform, had cuffed the be-gowned and gagged minion to the bed. Naturally, they were about the same size, except for the shoes. I love when a cliché works my way.
Another cliché I love: finding our way back was easier than finding our way in.
Chapter Eight: Toyland Royale
As we hurried down the hallways, I decided our luck had run too good. Something was up.
"Grace," I called over the communications set. If she didn't reply, I'd send Charlie and Heather to the rendezvous point and go after her. "We're almost to the door. What's your status?"
A moment; then, "We're almost there, too."
I almost stopped in my tracks in surprise. "Really? Did you get the information?
Everything went smoothly?"
"We got whatever we could. We left a few guards sleeping, so I think we'd better hurry."
"No argument here."
Two pixies hovered near the ceiling of the last junction. They glanced suspiciously at Heather's uniform, but when they saw her jeweled high heels, one flew off while the second alighted on her shoulder. "Miss Haskell, I represent the tribe and clothing retailers of Best Pix of Los Lagos—"
"Later!" I hissed. Should have known they'd take this rescue as a chance to angle for celebrity endorsement. Not that I had anything against it necessarily, but this one's sense of timing left something to be desired.
Grace had just opened the door as we arrived. Heather threw herself at her—I noticed the dragon had not been hugged yet. After making sure she was in control of her sobs, we made our quiet way down the stairs and to the exit. We crossed the dark game room easily enough. This time, however, we had to go through the animatronics room in three groups: Me first with a couple of pixies for the ride, then Charlie and Heather with one pixie to coach them on the pattern, then Grace with the remaining pixies. Three quick steps; then wait. Slow and easy and wait...
Heather's heels sounded unnaturally loud in the cavernous room.
"Charlie, their eyes are following us," Heather whimpered.
"Told you," MacLeery whispered in my ear. I shook my head as if shooing an annoying insect.
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