Game of Cages

my ghost knife, I didn’t need keys. I set the tray against the wall and went outside. After the musty warmth of the house, the cold made my skin feel tight on my face and hands.

The cottage sat at the top of the bare slope. When I crossed to it, I would be in full view of anyone looking out of a back window. I wished I had some cloud cover to darken the lawn; the thick black power line that ran from the house to the guesthouse cast a moon shadow on the lawn.

I jogged across the damp crabgrass. He’s the only dog of his kind in the world, Regina had said. A sapphire dog. I wondered if she was being literal or if that was more rotten poetry. I still imagined something with wings.

Maybe it was a bad idea to imagine anything. Whether it had wings, was shaped like a dog, or was just a blue smear of light, I was going to have to destroy it. If I could. Better to keep an open mind.

A stairway of mortared stone led up the muddy slope. I jogged up. The cottage faced away from the main house, and all but one of the ground-floor windows were shuttered. I peeked inside. A desk lamp shone onto scattered papers and a closed laptop, but the room beyond was dark. I circled around.

There was a huge metal tank and a generator against the building. I rapped on the tank. It was nearly full. Regina had enough fuel to run that generator for weeks.

The front of the cottage was pretty much what illustrated fairy-tale books had taught me to expect. There was a heavy wooden door with an even heavier lintel. On either side was a window split into four panes with a window box underneath. At the far side of the building, I saw the front of a parked ATV.

By the floodlight above the door, I saw muddy footprints smeared on the stone walkway leading to the door. I knocked, then knocked again. No answer.

The door was locked. I slid the ghost knife between the door and the jamb, then put it into my back pocket. The door creaked open.

“Hello?” I called. The room was silent. I reached for a light switch, then stopped myself.

A ceramic tile hung on the wall just above the switch. It was about the size of my palm, and it was painted white with an emerald-green squiggle on it.

Out of habit, I glanced down at my hand. The squiggle didn’t look exactly like the marks on me, but it was similar enough to make me nervous. I took out my ghost knife again and sliced through the tile.

It split in two, but even before it fell, the broken squiggle released a jet of black steam and iron-gray sparks. I jumped out of the doorway to avoid the spray.

A magic sigil can throw off a lot of energy when it’s been destroyed.

After it died down, I stepped back into the room. Whatever that spell had been created to do, it was just a mess on the floor now. I flicked on the light.

The cottage was a single room with very little furniture. A narrow bed was set into the back corner with a small dresser beside it. Next to that was a narrow desk with a lamp still burning, and beside that was the tiny stove from Regina’s photo. The shelf above the stove was filled with can after can of Dinty Moore beef stew.

I saw no TV, no stereo, no bookshelves, and no Charlie Brown Christmas tree strung with lights. There was one thing in here to occupy a person’s attention.

A large Plexiglas cage was set into a recess in the floor. It was larger than the one in the truck, maybe five feet on each side. It, too, had powerful floodlights at four corners, all aimed inward. Tiny electric fans were set on opposite sides of the cage, one to blow in, I guessed, and one to blow out. The black electrical wires powering them were strung all around the Plexi and held in place with peeling yellowed tape. There was also a plastic hatch along one side with an additional light shining through it.

Hanging from the ceiling was a smaller Plexiglas cube that could be fitted to the hatch. I guessed it was a holding tank so the main cage could be cleaned.

But there was nothing in the cage that needed cleaning—no bowls, blankets, litter boxes, or squeak toys. There hadn’t been any of that packed in the truck, either.

A rocking chair was set at the edge of the recessed section of floor. I imagined Regina sitting and staring into the cage.

The door banged open behind me. I spun. A woman was silhouetted by the floodlight. She was almost six feet tall, broad in the shoulders and hips and dressed head to toe in white ski gear. Her plump face was pale and puffy. It was Ursula.

I felt the edge of the ghost knife in my pocket. “Don’t move!” she shouted with an accent I couldn’t place. She extended her arm, and I realized she was holding a gun.

It was a Colt .45, very old, very intimidating, and very aimed at my head. Someone who knew more about guns would have aimed it at my chest, where I had protective tattoos. I didn’t have any protection on my face.

“Put that away,” I said, sounding much more calm than I felt. “I’ve come to offer you a job.”

“Hands up!” she barked. “Take your hand out of your pocket slowly. It should be empty, or I will shoot. Yes?” Her accent was northern European—Swedish maybe. I left my ghost knife in my pocket and showed her my empty hands.

“How did you get in here without …?” She glanced back at the wall and saw that the tile was gone. She didn’t think to look on the floor. “Who are you?”

“You should hear me out, and quickly. I’m not kidding about that job.”

“I think you are kidding. Even if you were not, I would never work for a man dressed as kitchen help. Besides, I already have a job. I will be traveling with Armand early tomorrow, and I do not have time to waste.”

I smiled. “Armand isn’t going to Hong Kong with Yin.”

She smirked at me. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“Everyone knows something you don’t. Why don’t you close that door? This jacket isn’t worth a damn.”