Kitty Raises Hell
Page 67
Chapter 23
Within a couple of hours, we stood in line at security at Denver International Airport, waiting to catch the morning’s first flight to Vegas. We didn’t even pack. I had a backpack, Ben didn’t have anything. I carried the bottled djinn in my arms. Tina and I had packed it in a box, padded the hell out of it, wrapped the box with duct tape, packed the box in another box, padded it some more, wrapped more duct tape around it. We weren’t taking any chances.
I didn’t want to let the box go to put it on the conveyor belt. What if the X-ray machine supercharged it and let it escape? But I also couldn’t see myself explaining any of this to the nice TSA folks. So I let it go and held my breath. I passed through the metal detector without incident. So did Ben.
Then the guy at the X-ray machine said, “Ma’am? Does this box belong to you?”
Oh, no. Of all the obstacles we’d overcome, of all the world’s wickedness we’d faced, I hadn’t expected this.
I looked at the guy, round-faced and mustached, sagging in his early-shift fatigue. I smiled, cheerful and feigning ignorance. “Yes?”
The X-ray operator inched the conveyor forward, and the guy who’d addressed me picked up the box.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need to take a look in this box.”
No no no. I must have looked stricken. Ben leaned forward and whispered—without looking like he was leaning forward and whispering—“If you argue, they’ll get suspicious and put you in a holding room. Say ‘All right.’”
“Um... okay?” I said. My smile froze.
The TSA agent led us over to a stainless-steel table and took out a box cutter, no doubt confiscated from some other hapless traveler. And what was I going to do if he confiscated the ifrit ? Did the TSA manual even cover something like this?
With great precision, he sliced through the duct tape around the box. Watching, I bounced in place a little. Ben was a picture of aggravating serenity. Maybe he had some lawyer-fu he could pull out at the last minute to avert disaster.
The TSA agent dug through the wadded-up newspaper and drew out the next box. Holding it, he eyed us, as if inviting us to share the great secret we were hiding. We didn’t oblige him.
“Fragile?” he said.
“Very,” I said.
He cut through the tape on the second box. I winced, thinking maybe it would explode. It didn’t. Ben wasn’t quite the picture of calm anymore; he clenched his hands behind his back. His courtroom face didn’t reveal anything. I would have to learn from his example, because I was fidgeting. I was this close to grabbing the box from the guy and running. But that would be so very bad. Down, girl.
Finally, the agent drew out the brown bottle. My hands were reaching for it.
“Is it liquid?” he asked. Holding up to the light, he peered at it.
“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing liquid, nothing dangerous at all. Just a perfectly harmless bottle.” Corked, sealed with wax, with another layer of duct tape wrapped over the wax for good measure. The agent studied the elaborate corking material with great suspicion. Not that I could blame him. But I so didn’t have time for this.
“Mind if I have a look inside this?”
I winced. Truth-or-consequences time. “Actually, I’d really rather you didn’t. I’ll never be able to get it closed up just right again.” And wasn’t that the truth? This guy had no idea. If I said there was an evil djinn locked inside, he’d probably call the police.
He gave me the talking-to-crazy-people look. “There doesn’t seem to be anything in here.” To make his point, he gave the bottle a shake. I wanted to scream at him not to do that. What if it pissed the djinn off? Pissed him off more, anyway.
“Please. It shouldn’t be opened. It’s sealed like that for a reason.”
“Why? It’s not radioactive, is it?”
“It, uh, has the breath of Elvis inside?”
The expression on his face changed, subtly. The lines around his eyes grew softer, the hard edges of his frown vanished. It was a shift from a “dealing with crazy people” look to a “dealing with crazy but harmless people” look.
I’d take that.
He put the bottle in the little box, the little box in the big box, not bothering to arrange the packing or reseal the tape. He handed the box back to me, with crushed newspaper spilling out the top. “You folks have a nice flight.”
“Thank you,” I said around gritted teeth. Quickly, we retreated. I didn’t even pause to rearrange the packing. Time enough to do that while we waited to board—which was in about ten minutes, thanks to Mr. Vigilant.
“So,” Ben said. “That went well.”
I glared at him.
It was near dawn when Peter met us at Las Vegas’s McCarran Airport in Grant’s car. He seemed to be in a rush. Excited, at least. Positively gleeful, like a plan was coming together. We climbed into the car’s backseat.
“Is that it?” He nodded at the box.
“Yeah,” I said. “So what’s the plan? What’s Grant cooking up?”
Grinning, he shook his head. “I think Odysseus Grant is the freakiest guy I’ve ever met. He’s so cool.”
I glared. “You’re having way too much fun, Peter. What’s going on?”
“Grant said to tell you to just be ready with the jar.”
I hated all this man-of-mystery crap.
Even at this hour, Las Vegas was overstimulating. The Strip, the main street, home to all the mega hotel resorts and most of the crowds, was all lights, bleached slightly by the first hint of the rising sun. I had to squint against the glare. It was like a giant parade that had stalled in the desert.
We turned a corner, crossed the Strip, and continued toward a great concrete ziggurat.
Ben groaned. “We’re not going where I think we’re going.”
But yes, we were. The Hanging Gardens Hotel and Resort, home of the Balthasar, King of Beasts Show, now fronted by Nick, since were-lion Balthasar died in a blaze of silver-bulleted gunfire. Right before he tried to sacrifice me on his unholy fake altar. We were heading toward where this whole sleigh ride started.
Peter pulled into the drive and handed the keys to the valet parking guy. He barely broke stride while collecting his ticket, turning to us, and saying, “We need to hurry.”
“But what are we doing?”
Within a couple of hours, we stood in line at security at Denver International Airport, waiting to catch the morning’s first flight to Vegas. We didn’t even pack. I had a backpack, Ben didn’t have anything. I carried the bottled djinn in my arms. Tina and I had packed it in a box, padded the hell out of it, wrapped the box with duct tape, packed the box in another box, padded it some more, wrapped more duct tape around it. We weren’t taking any chances.
I didn’t want to let the box go to put it on the conveyor belt. What if the X-ray machine supercharged it and let it escape? But I also couldn’t see myself explaining any of this to the nice TSA folks. So I let it go and held my breath. I passed through the metal detector without incident. So did Ben.
Then the guy at the X-ray machine said, “Ma’am? Does this box belong to you?”
Oh, no. Of all the obstacles we’d overcome, of all the world’s wickedness we’d faced, I hadn’t expected this.
I looked at the guy, round-faced and mustached, sagging in his early-shift fatigue. I smiled, cheerful and feigning ignorance. “Yes?”
The X-ray operator inched the conveyor forward, and the guy who’d addressed me picked up the box.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need to take a look in this box.”
No no no. I must have looked stricken. Ben leaned forward and whispered—without looking like he was leaning forward and whispering—“If you argue, they’ll get suspicious and put you in a holding room. Say ‘All right.’”
“Um... okay?” I said. My smile froze.
The TSA agent led us over to a stainless-steel table and took out a box cutter, no doubt confiscated from some other hapless traveler. And what was I going to do if he confiscated the ifrit ? Did the TSA manual even cover something like this?
With great precision, he sliced through the duct tape around the box. Watching, I bounced in place a little. Ben was a picture of aggravating serenity. Maybe he had some lawyer-fu he could pull out at the last minute to avert disaster.
The TSA agent dug through the wadded-up newspaper and drew out the next box. Holding it, he eyed us, as if inviting us to share the great secret we were hiding. We didn’t oblige him.
“Fragile?” he said.
“Very,” I said.
He cut through the tape on the second box. I winced, thinking maybe it would explode. It didn’t. Ben wasn’t quite the picture of calm anymore; he clenched his hands behind his back. His courtroom face didn’t reveal anything. I would have to learn from his example, because I was fidgeting. I was this close to grabbing the box from the guy and running. But that would be so very bad. Down, girl.
Finally, the agent drew out the brown bottle. My hands were reaching for it.
“Is it liquid?” he asked. Holding up to the light, he peered at it.
“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing liquid, nothing dangerous at all. Just a perfectly harmless bottle.” Corked, sealed with wax, with another layer of duct tape wrapped over the wax for good measure. The agent studied the elaborate corking material with great suspicion. Not that I could blame him. But I so didn’t have time for this.
“Mind if I have a look inside this?”
I winced. Truth-or-consequences time. “Actually, I’d really rather you didn’t. I’ll never be able to get it closed up just right again.” And wasn’t that the truth? This guy had no idea. If I said there was an evil djinn locked inside, he’d probably call the police.
He gave me the talking-to-crazy-people look. “There doesn’t seem to be anything in here.” To make his point, he gave the bottle a shake. I wanted to scream at him not to do that. What if it pissed the djinn off? Pissed him off more, anyway.
“Please. It shouldn’t be opened. It’s sealed like that for a reason.”
“Why? It’s not radioactive, is it?”
“It, uh, has the breath of Elvis inside?”
The expression on his face changed, subtly. The lines around his eyes grew softer, the hard edges of his frown vanished. It was a shift from a “dealing with crazy people” look to a “dealing with crazy but harmless people” look.
I’d take that.
He put the bottle in the little box, the little box in the big box, not bothering to arrange the packing or reseal the tape. He handed the box back to me, with crushed newspaper spilling out the top. “You folks have a nice flight.”
“Thank you,” I said around gritted teeth. Quickly, we retreated. I didn’t even pause to rearrange the packing. Time enough to do that while we waited to board—which was in about ten minutes, thanks to Mr. Vigilant.
“So,” Ben said. “That went well.”
I glared at him.
It was near dawn when Peter met us at Las Vegas’s McCarran Airport in Grant’s car. He seemed to be in a rush. Excited, at least. Positively gleeful, like a plan was coming together. We climbed into the car’s backseat.
“Is that it?” He nodded at the box.
“Yeah,” I said. “So what’s the plan? What’s Grant cooking up?”
Grinning, he shook his head. “I think Odysseus Grant is the freakiest guy I’ve ever met. He’s so cool.”
I glared. “You’re having way too much fun, Peter. What’s going on?”
“Grant said to tell you to just be ready with the jar.”
I hated all this man-of-mystery crap.
Even at this hour, Las Vegas was overstimulating. The Strip, the main street, home to all the mega hotel resorts and most of the crowds, was all lights, bleached slightly by the first hint of the rising sun. I had to squint against the glare. It was like a giant parade that had stalled in the desert.
We turned a corner, crossed the Strip, and continued toward a great concrete ziggurat.
Ben groaned. “We’re not going where I think we’re going.”
But yes, we were. The Hanging Gardens Hotel and Resort, home of the Balthasar, King of Beasts Show, now fronted by Nick, since were-lion Balthasar died in a blaze of silver-bulleted gunfire. Right before he tried to sacrifice me on his unholy fake altar. We were heading toward where this whole sleigh ride started.
Peter pulled into the drive and handed the keys to the valet parking guy. He barely broke stride while collecting his ticket, turning to us, and saying, “We need to hurry.”
“But what are we doing?”
