“Nope. You got a name?”
“Dieter,” he said suspiciously.
I didn’t bother asking for a last name, since it would probably be fake anyway. “Well, we’re going on a field trip, Dieter.”
“Where to?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Chapter 5
I parked my Hog next to the long concrete runoff channel along Highway 91. I didn’t have to ask if this was the place. The old Las Vegas sign, veteran of a million plastic mementos and gaudy key chains, was glittering right across the road. And according to the report I’d wheedled out of Michaelson, the body had been found practically in its shadow.
As usual, a couple tourists were taking turns posing in front of the sign, grinning toothily. It wasn’t a great day for it. To the west, the sky shaded dung brown at the horizon, then yellow, then a sick and ominous green. The air felt heavy, like maybe one of Vegas’s brief spring showers might not be far off.
“Aw, man! You gotta be shitting me!” My reluctant guide stared into the concrete gully below, looking a little wall-eyed. Then he took off.
I watched him scramble down the road for half a minute, before throwing a lasso spell around his ankles and giving it a yank. I’d been nice, waiting until he veered onto the curb so he’d hit dirt instead of asphalt, and twisting the spell so he’d land on one shoulder instead of full face. But he didn’t look appreciative when I walked over and jerked him back up.
I manhandled him down into the channel, our boots splashing through a thin, braided current and a bunch of soggy adult entertainment flyers. Ahead were two large tunnels, maybe ten feet wide by six feet high, a few of the thousands of concrete boxes linked together under the city’s urban scrawl. They were pitch dark and not very friendly looking, but I didn’t understand the severity of the struggle my prisoner was putting up.
“What’s your deal?” I demanded. “I thought you got pulled out of one of these this morning.”
“Not this one. And I’m not going in there. You may as well shoot me now! Better that than those damn things eat me!”
“What things?”
“Kappas. This drain’s infested with ’em. Everybody knows that.”
“Kappas, huh?” I peered into the mouth of the western tunnel, but saw only cobwebs and drooling algae. The place smelled like mildew and old shoes, but I didn’t pick up any of the distinctive fishy odor of kappa feces. “Kappas are Japanese,” I said. “We don’t have too many problems with them in Vegas.”
“I don’t know where they came from. But a bunch moved in and took over the whole tunnel.”
A heavy stream of runoff gurgled under my boots, but hardly enough to satisfy a river imp. “When did these kappas move in?”
“About a week ago.”
“Huh.” This was where the Hunter had dumped the body, so he wasn’t likely to be hanging around. But the kappas were interesting. It was exactly the kind of story someone would circulate who didn’t want anyone poking around his hidey-hole. And if he’d been here once, there was a chance he’d left something behind.
The guy’s acne-covered chin took on a mulish tilt. “I’m not going in there and you can’t make me. I know my rights. You have to guarantee my safety and you can’t! There’s too many of ’em. They’re like freaking piranhas! I’m—”
“You’re not going in there.”
He stopped midrant. “I’m not?”
“Nope.” I really didn’t expect any trouble, but you never know. I dragged him back up the embankment and across the road. The tourists had gone, so I lassoed him to the Vegas sign by one ankle. “You’re going to wait for me here, safe and sound and ready to interpret anything I bring back.”
“What happens if you don’t come back?”
“Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”
I returned to the entrance of the drain and pulled out my flashlight. I shone it around, but there wasn’t much to see. A stream of runoff swallowed my ankles before disappearing into darkness. Long skeins of cobwebs fluttered overhead. Mud squelched underfoot, smelling sharply of garbage and man-made chemicals. Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun.
My natural unease was strong enough that it took me a minute to notice the other, subtler urge plucking at my senses. The more I looked down that drain, the more convinced I was that I shouldn’t be here, like the very air was wrong, alien, not for me. I got the definite impression that this place didn’t like me; that it wanted me to leave. Now.
So I went in.
Patrol had noted the presence of a decaying protection ward over the west tunnel entrance. It was the kind that played with a person’s senses—in this case fear—and was the standard keep away for the supernatural community. It seemed like overkill to me. Like anyone would want to go in there.
The protection ward grew stronger as I moved forward, making me feel like I was battling the tide with every step. I pushed on anyway, trying to ignore the spell screaming that somewhere, just up ahead, something horrible waited. It was terribly real and absolutely convincing, like being a child staring into a dark closet and having complete certainty that evil lurked inside.
It didn’t help that, if I was in the right place, it just might.
And then my flashlight blew out.
I shook it a couple times, cursing, which only caused the bottom to come off and the batteries to fall out. Batteries I couldn’t find without a light. I bit the bullet and gave my owl tat a metaphysical nudge. I felt the power drain immediately, which wasn’t good, but when I opened my eyes the pitch black had transformed into something closer to a dark night—all outlines and shadows. I still couldn’t see clearly, but I comforted myself with the fact that neither could anybody else.
I found the batteries, but they didn’t help the piece-of-junk flashlight. I finally gave up and went on, deciding I might be better off. No need to announce my presence, assuming anybody was still hanging around. I actually doubted it; patrol had done a brief walk-through, and found nothing: no kappas and no clues.
But then, they hadn’t had my motivation.
The protection ward finally cut out twenty or so yards up the tunnel, allowing me to breathe. That was a huge relief, but it was the only improvement. The floor had sunk or the water had risen, because it was now shin high. The temperature had also gone up, enough to plaster my hair to my skull and stick my T-shirt to my skin. And I became increasingly aware of an ache running up both legs, like maybe spelunking through the drains of Vegas wasn’t on my approved activities list.
I’d gone maybe three hundred yards when I spied flashes of dim light up ahead, spotting the wall like visible Morse code. It turned out to be coming from behind a ward, if you could call such a half-assed attempt by that name. It was spitting and crackling around the edges, lighting up a graffiti-covered junction box. It made me wonder why anyone had bothered.
Usually, going through a warded door into an unknown location makes my skin crawl. Most of them are designed so that the outside resembles the wall or whatever surface they are mimicking, but the inside is transparent. That leaves the person outside blind, while anyone inside has a clear view—and a clear shot. But in this case, the gloom of the drain ensured that all anyone saw was blackness until I stepped through, with shields up and gun drawn.
And realized that the most dangerous thing about the place was the smell. The acrid tang of wet, charred wood hit my nostrils like bad breath. The ward was concealing a cave maybe twenty by twenty-five, which looked like it had recently been doubling as a barbeque pit. The ceiling was black with soot, the remains of a bonfire scarred the floor, and smoke had almost obliterated the graffiti burning across the walls. The only artwork still visible was four savage vertical slash marks, dripping with painted blood. Colorful.