Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (25 page)

“One small step for me, one giant step for geek-kind!”

As thrilling as these microgravity maneuvers were, she knew she couldn’t hang on to the moon rock too long. Artie had briefed her on its dangers when she had first started working here. Unless she let go of it soon, she would quickly achieve escape velocity and wind up the first woman on the moon, minus a space suit. Explosive decompression would make being torn apart by a timber lion seem neat and tidy by comparison.

In short, the moon rock was just a temporary fix, but hopefully it would keep her out of the lion’s reach long enough to get to the artifact that might actually save her bacon. If she remembered right, that particular item was only a lunar hop, skip, and jump away. She made like an astronaut down the hall, with the snarling lion in hot pursuit.

It growled unhappily every time Claudia jumped away from its claws.

The designated shelf came into view. As it happened, the artifact was on one of the upper shelves, making it harder to get at. A pile of wooden crates spilled into the hall, waiting to be unpacked. A large medieval tapestry hung like a curtain over a neighboring stretch of shelves. Bouncing up and down, she tried to catch a glimpse of the artifact, but it was hard to focus while taking her very first moon walk. Was that it there? She couldn’t tell, what with all the jumping around.
It had better be,
she thought.
Or I may have to choose between being eaten or going into orbit.

Neither prospect was particularly appealing.

Rather than trying to grab the artifact in mid-bound, she leaped to the top of the piled boxes, which wobbled scarily beneath her. “Please tell me somebody stacked these things carefully.” The markings on the crates provided little indication of their contents, but the top box felt surprisingly hot to her feet, almost like there was a miniature volcano inside it. A scorching gust of overheated air shot up through a crack in the crate. The blast rustled her hair and lifted the corners of her jacket. Bizarrely, it smelled like pineapples.

A roar revealed that the lion was still hot on her trail. Determined to sink its chiseled fangs into its prey, the beast started scrambling up the boxes after her. Just her luck, it had to be a
mountain
lion and thus quite adept at climbing. It was going to reach the top in no time at all.

Her feet began to lift off from the crates, losing contact with the solid wood. She grabbed a shelf to keep from floating all the way up to the ceiling. Realizing that the moon rock was getting too strong, she hurled it away from her before she could say good-bye to gravity altogether. The lunar fragment ricocheted off a gilded Egyptian sarcophagus before drifting up toward the ceiling like a lost helium balloon. Recovering it was going to be a bitch. . . .

She dropped back onto the crate, suddenly feeling a whole lot heavier than she had just instants before. The stack teetered precipitously, but that was the least of her worries right now. The lion was only a few crates beneath her, nearly nipping at her heels. A furious claw slashed at her ankle. She yanked it back just in time, nearly tumbling off the crate. White knuckles clung to the shelf for dear life. What was it with her and dangerous heights today?

“Eyes on the prize,” she reminded herself. “Don’t forget what you came for.”

Her free hand groped across the shelf above her head, searching for the right artifact.

It has to be here,
she thought.
I just put it away a few days ago!

Her fingers closed on a metal hilt.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Got you!”

Anne Bonny’s cutlass was just what she was looking for. She rescued it from the shelf and spun around to face the berserk lion, who lunged at her, going in for the kill. Claudia swung the cutlass with all her strength.

“Yo ho ho!”

The blade flashed brightly, times fifty. Multiplied two score and ten by the sword’s grisly résumé, the single swing instantly reduced the wooden lion to kindling. Painted wooden shavings flew in all directions. A roar like a buzz saw drowned out the creature’s final growl before trailing off into silence. Sawdust and splinters wafted down the hall.

“Hah!” Claudia laughed. She posed triumphantly atop the wobbly crates. “Take that, puddy-tat!”

The cutlass fit her grip perfectly. A savage exhilaration made her blood sing. A briny smell filled her lungs. A lilting sea chantey echoed inside her head, growing louder and louder, until she couldn’t help singing along:

“Oh, where is the trader of London town? His gold’s on the capstan, his blood’s on his gown . . .”

She slashed at the empty air with her cutlass.

Just as Artie showed up looking for her. Bushy eyebrows lifted warily.

“Claudia?”

Artie was relieved to find Claudia intact and unbloodied. He was less pleased to spot Anne Bonny’s cutlass in her grip. A manic gleam in her eyes that varied significantly from her usual exhausting impishness sent warning bells ringing at the back of his mind. She held the sword at the ready. Sawdust clung to her rumpled outfit. Artie got the distinct impression that he had arrived a few minutes late. He really needed to work on his timing. . . .

“Er, Claudia?” He nodded at the cutlass. “I think you can put that down now.”

A fifteenth-century French tapestry depicting a unicorn frolicking with a griffin hung from a top shelf a few feet away from where Claudia was perched. With swashbuckling élan, she leaped from atop a rickety pile of boxes and drove the point of the cutlass into the heavy tapestry, which slowed her descent as she rode the sword down the torn fabric. The stunt was an old pirate trick, once known as “sail sliding.” But how had Claudia learned it?

Artie thought he had a pretty good idea.. He kept his eye on the cutlass.

This could complicate matters. . . .

She landed nimbly on the floor at the bottom of the tapestry, which magically reknit itself behind her. The curator in Artie was glad that artifact had not been permanently harmed by the cutlass. Within seconds, it was as good as new.

Too bad he lacked the same ability. He suspected he was going to need it.

Claudia sauntered toward him, cutlass in hand.

“Strike your colors, Cap’n Bligh! This be a mutiny!”

I was afraid of this,
Artie thought. He gave her the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t suppose you’re just kidding around?”

A sneer twisted her lip. She brandished the cutlass menacingly. “You’ve dragooned your last luckless galley slave, you dried-up piece of driftwood!”

Nope, not joking.
The cutlass had ignited Claudia’s rebellious streak, fanning it into a potentially lethal conflagration. Hackers . . . pirates . . . too much of a convergence there.

He attempted to talk her down.

“Listen to me, kiddo! This isn’t you. It’s the cutlass.” He held up his hands and backed away. “Just put the sword away, all right?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted an old golf club resting on a shelf to his right. He eased toward it, while trying not to provoke her. This required delicate handling.

“You want cookies?”

“Belay that! I’m done with taking orders from a worm-eaten old tyrant like you.” A lunatic rage twisted her features. Raising the cursed sword high above her head, she charged at him with murder in her eyes. “There’s a new captain at the helm!”

Artie grabbed the golf club, a sturdy nine iron, from the shelf. Holding it upright like a sword, he parried the cutlass before it could relieve him of his head. Sparks flashed where the blade glanced off the long metal shaft. He shouted over the ringing steel.

“Stop this! You’re not Anne Bonny. You’re Claudia Donovan, junior agent and first-class pain in my butt. You have a brother, Joshua. You gave me a T-shirt and a coat for Christmas. Neither of them fit!” He blocked another thrust with the nine iron, almost losing his fingers. Sadly, golf clubs did not come equipped with hand guards, only rubber grips. And the club’s special properties only extended to guaranteeing holes in one. “I know you, Claudia. You don’t want to do this!”

“Don’t ye dare tell me what I want, you high-and-mighty muckrake!” She drove him back, slashing wildly with the sword. Her voice held a southern lilt that had never been there before, almost as though she had been born and raised in Charleston. “I’ll have you keelhauled and fed to the fishes!”

“What fishes?” he protested. “We’re in the middle of the Badlands!”

“Don’t try to confuse me!”

Cutlass clanged against club. She feinted, then thrust at his heart. The solid iron foot of the golf club weighed it down, but he managed to block the attack in time. She stabbed at him again, keeping him on defensive. The club was longer than the short sword, which helped to keep her at a distance, but his arm was already getting tired. Nine irons weren’t meant for fencing!

Claudia showed no sign of letting up.

“I’m sticking to my course,” she declared, “come fair weather or foul!”

She said so, but did she really mean it? Despite her colorful invective, she hadn’t actually run him through yet. Did that mean that, deep down inside, she was resisting the sword’s piratical influence?

Artie wanted to think so.

“Fight it, kid! Don’t let that cutlass do your thinking for you. You’re smarter and more independent than that! And don’t I know it!”

The gleaming blade sparked off the club’s shaft, jolting his arm fifty times a blow. His muscles ached; the club felt like it weighed a ton. Its foot drooped for a second, and she lunged at him again, but he deflected the thrust to the side. This wasn’t his first duel; he knew what he was doing. The trick was to always remain aware of your surroundings and take advantage of the terrain. Between parries, he glanced around for a way to defuse the situation bloodlessly. Wasn’t there an emergency rinse around here somewhere?

Yes! There it was.

An industrial-looking showerhead, of the sort installed in nuclear reactors and college chemistry labs, was mounted on a metal track running across the top of a tiled alcove. A glass pane guarded a bright red metal lever, labeled
IN CASE OF CONTAMINATION
. He looked away from the label to avoid betraying his intentions. Giving ground, he let himself be backed into the alcove, trying to lure her in. “What are you waiting for?” he baited her. “It’s not a mutiny unless you dispose of the old skipper!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, you grumpy, bushy-eyed old walrus!” She pouted as she slashed at him repeatedly. “Stand still so I can gut you proper!”

He found himself cornered in the alcove, his back against the wall. He risked a peek overhead. Claudia wasn’t quite under the showerhead yet.

Her sword whipped in and out, sneaking past the golf club. A button went flying from his vest. He flung himself sideways to avoid being skewered. Gulping, he wished he had another brick from Berlin.

Instead he took another tack.

“We don’t have time for this!” he barked. “Pete and Myka need us!”

“Pete?” She wavered. The tip of the cutlass sank toward the floor. “Myka?”

“That’s right. You remember, don’t you?” He lowered the golf club slightly, ready to take up arms again at the first hint of another attack. He tried once more to get through to her. “Pete is sick. He’s going to die . . . unless we help find Clara Barton’s gloves!”

For a second he thought that might be enough to snap her out of it, but the cutlass was too strong. The defiant bloodlust that had made Anne Bonny a legend gripped her again.

“Hold your tongue, you lying sack of bilge! I’ll swab these decks with your blood!”