A Touch of Fever

CHAPTER
5

LANCASTER COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA

Calvin Worrall kept off the main roads. Behind the wheel of a luxury Lincoln Town Car, he drove north past miles of moonlit countryside. Acres of cornfields and leafy tobacco plants provided most of the scenery. Amish farms advertised fresh eggs and homemade root beer, but not on Sunday. A horse-drawn buggy, trotting slowly along the shoulder of the road, forced the car to slow to twenty miles an hour. Worrall sighed impatiently but reminded himself that this sort of delay was to be expected, given the route he had selected. The main highway would have been faster, true, but there were good reasons to stick to the back roads. More privacy.

Fewer witnesses. Gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. Despite the humid weather, the windows were rolled up and he wore a dark turtleneck sweater to keep warm. He was pushing thirty, but he looked much older. His gaunt face was pale and drawn. Swollen veins wormed beneath his shaved scalp. Sunken gray eyes were streaked with red.

Classical music emanated from an expensive sound system. He drove alone, the backseat of the car filled with luggage. He had been on the road for weeks now, covering hundreds of miles a day. Home was a fading memory. He glanced at his watch. It was already after eight.

Soon he would have to start looking for another motel, unless he felt like driving all through the night, which he was doing more and more often, health permitting. The northbound road called to him like a drug. He was getting closer. He could feel it. An open straightaway gave him a chance to pass the buggy. Hitting the gas, he left the clip-clopping horse and its burden behind. About time, he thought.

Maybe now he could finally make some progress toward… Where? Ah, that was the rub. He had no idea where his final destination was, only that he was getting closer with every mile. Soon, very soon, his search would be over. I know it’s out there, he thought. It’s pulling on me. A billboard advertised a roadside diner a few miles ahead. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten for hours. He scowled at the inconvenience. The last thing he wanted to do was stop driving, not when he could feel his prize somewhere up ahead, but apparently his treacherous body had another idea. What’s more, he could feel a headache coming on. Acid churned in his gut. His jaw clenched. All right, he groused. Maybe just a quick stop. The diner was a low steel structure that resembled a boxcar. A neon sign promised All-American Eats. Only a handful of vehicles were parked out front. The Lincoln pulled in beside them. He stepped out of the car into the cool night air. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. He had to admit, it felt good to stretch his legs after all that driving. But then the migraine caught up with him, just like it always did.

Pressure started building in his temples, squeezing his skull like a vise. Throbbing eyes felt hard as marbles. A sudden wave of nausea swept over him. Already? he thought. Again? A queasy stomach drove all thought of food from his mind, but he didn’t get back in the car.

There was no point. Pretty soon he would be too sick to drive anyway.

Unless… He dragged himself toward the diner. An annoying bell announced his arrival. He winced at the chime. Bright interior lighting stabbed his eyes and he hastily put on a pair of designer sunglasses. “Seat yourself,” a solitary waitress called out to him.

“Be with you in a jiff.” He glanced around the diner, which was decorated in nostalgic 1950s kitsch. A jukebox, mercifully silent, occupied one corner. Vintage Coca-Cola signs were mounted on pink walls the color of Pepto-Bismol. A transparent display case held slices of fresh shoofly pie. A jar by the cash register collected change for the March of Dimes. Seating was available at the counter or in booths with molded plastic seats. Only one of the booths was occupied, by a family enjoying a night out. A trio of high school girls were seated at the counter. They whispered and giggled amongst themselves. Everyone seemed to be happy, healthy. Damn them. Their carefree chatter grated on his nerves. These stupid people had no idea how lucky they were. They took their sound, healthy bodies for granted. They hadn’t spent their whole lives sick and miserable. It’s not fair, he thought bitterly. Why should I be the only one to suffer?

Invisible ice picks jabbed his brain. Resentment bubbled over inside him, like the acid climbing up his throat. He choked on the reflux, coughing violently into his right fist. The noise drew anxious looks from the other customers. A teenager spun around on her stool. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. The parents in the booth turned their heads and covered their mouths to keep from catching anything. Like that was going to do them any good. He dropped into the nearest empty booth. Ragged breaths shook his bony form. He massaged his temples, but the trembling fingers brought little in the way of relief. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting. Even the slightest movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through his aching head. He considered taking a pill, but why bother? It wouldn’t do any good. It never did.

Only one thing helped. The waitress, a middle-aged floozy wearing an apron, approached him. A plastic name badge pegged her as Marjorie.

She handed him a menu. “You okay, hon? You’re looking a little green around the gills.” He could believe it. There was no turning back now.

“I will be,” he rasped. “At least for a while.” He seized her arm with his left hand. An oily gray haze flowed from his fingertips. Misty tendrils seemed to sink into Marjorie’s skin. A sour, gangrenous odor clung to the haze. She swooned and grabbed onto the seat to keep from falling. Her order pad slipped from her fingers. All the color bled from her face. Her lips took on a grayish tint. “W-what did you do to me?” she stammered weakly. “I feel sick…” She fainted onto the floor. “That’s odd,” he said archly. “I’m starting to feel much better.” One of the teenagers screamed out loud. Over at the other booth, the mom and dad put their arms protectively around their kids.

They gaped at Worrall. “Listen, mister,” the father began, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but…” Worrall ignored the man’s pointless babbling. He rose from the booth, moving less painfully than before. His head was still pounding, but not for much longer. He stood in the aisle, blocking the exit. He coughed again to clear his throat, then raised his arm like a conductor facing an orchestra. A grayish fog spread throughout the diner. The lights flickered overhead. A chorus of groans and coughs greeted his ears. His stomach began to settle. The pain in his temples receded. He made a mental note to grab a slice of pie for the road. WEST HAVEN Little Brian, formerly Squeaky, was just the beginning. From the bleachers, Pete and Myka watched as, one by one, members of the audience came forward to experience Princess Nefertiti’s healing touch. The football player, previously suffering from a potentially career-ending knee injury, tossed away his crutches. Disfiguring scars and burns faded away, leaving smooth, unblemished skin behind. Wheelchairs and walkers were abandoned. Pained expressions gave way to tears of joy. A fudge-like aroma overpowered the incense. Okay, Pete thought, consider me impressed. The old lady with Parkinson’s was finally getting her turn on the stage. “Let this gentle woman be healed,” Nefertiti proclaimed as she laid her hands on the shaking senior citizen. Pete couldn’t be sure, but he thought the healer’s voice sounded slightly weaker than before. Dmitri, doing double duty as Nefertiti’s assistant, stood close by. “Take away her trembling.” Cobalt sparks flashed once more, jolting the elderly woman. Dmitri caught her before she crumpled onto the stage. Judging from his smooth move, he’d had plenty of practice.

Nefertiti seemed to need an assist as well. She tottered unsteadily on her feet, almost as though she were on the verge of collapsing. She was breathing hard. Sweat beaded her brow. She coughed and clutched her chest. “Looks like all this healing is taking its toll,” Myka observed. “A side effect of the artifact?” “Probably,” Pete guessed.

There was almost always a cost to using an artifact. That was a big reason they needed to be taken out of circulation. He’d seen too many people get themselves into serious trouble because they thought they could control an artifact’s powers. Like Princess Nefertiti? The healer’s debilitated state did not escape her assistant’s notice.

“That’s enough for tonight!” After escorting the dazed old woman back to her seat, Dmitri bounded back onto the stage. He threw a protective arm around her shoulders. “Princess Nefertiti needs her rest.”

Disappointed cries and protests erupted from the audience. Nefertiti wavered, clearly reluctant to let down her petitioners. “Perhaps just one more?” “No.” Dmitri was emphatic. He hustled her back toward the curtain while shushing the crowd. “Show’s over, folks. Please come back tomorrow!” For a moment Pete feared a riot, but the audience proved more civilized than that. Perhaps the touching scenes they had witnessed had brought out the better angels of their natures? Or was it just that the grumblers were too sick to make a fuss? Or unwilling to risk offending the healer? In any event, the crowd shuffled out of the tent, leaving Pete and Myka alone on the bleachers. They waited until the audience had entirely cleared out before heading backstage.

Pete drew back the curtains. They found themselves in a small prep area crammed with props, seating, and a cooler full of iced drinks. A sturdy wooden pole, driven through a hole in the stage, held up the tent. Dmitri was fretting over Nefertiti, who had collapsed into a folding director’s chair. He handed her a bottle of water while shaking his head. “You shouldn’t push yourself like this. You’re making yourself sick.” “It will pass,” she assured him. The English accent had vanished with the audience, replaced by the less elevated cadences of New Jersey or Long Island. Her voice was hoarse. “It always does.” Pete cleared his throat to get their attention. Dmitri noticed the intruders for the first time. He scowled and stepped in front of Nefertiti. “Didn’t you hear me before? The show’s over… and this area is off-limits. No townies allowed.” “I’ve got a backstage pass.” Pete flashed his badge and ID. “Secret Service.” The badge caught them both by surprise. Nefertiti sat up straight. “Secret Service?” She blinked in confusion. “Is the president coming here?”

You wish, Pete thought. That would be pretty good publicity for your little tent show. Not that he would let the POTUS come within a hundred miles of a suspected artifact. “I’m afraid not,” Myka clarified. “We’re here on a different assignment.” She presented her own ID. “My name is Myka Bering. This is my partner, Agent Lattimer.”

She eyed the young healer skeptically. “And I’m guessing your name isn’t really Princess Nefertiti, is it?” “Nadia Malinovich,” the girl confessed. “From Long Island.” Backstage, without all stage dressing and ballyhoo, she seemed a lot less mystical and more like a worried young woman wondering what had brought the Feds to her door. She nervously fingered the ankh around her neck. “And all that business about being descended from a long line of healers?” “Just patter.

Although my mom and pop used to do a mind-reading act back in the eighties.” She shrugged. “I’m third-generation carnie.” “What’s this all about, anyway?” Dmitri demanded. “Why are you bothering her?” Pete got the distinct impression that the young knife thrower was more than just Nadia’s assistant. “And you are…?” “Jim Doherty,” he divulged. “And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?” “We watched your act,” Pete said. “We want to know how you managed to heal all those people.” “Why?” Jim protested. “She’s not hurting anyone.” “Except maybe herself.” Myka squeezed past Jim to speak to Nadia directly. “Is that it, Nadia? Does healing others make you sick?” “It’s a gift,” the girl insisted. “I just want to heal people. What’s wrong with that?” A fair question, Pete admitted. Nadia struck him as sincere. Myka tried to explain. “It may not seem obvious to you now, but trust me on this, what you’re doing is not safe. There are bound to be negative consequences down the road. Serious ones. My partner and I have dealt with this kind of thing before. Power like this always comes with a heavy price tag. More than you may want to pay.” “Stop harassing her,” Jim said. “Do you know how many people she’s helped?” Like little Brian and everybody else tonight? Pete recalled all the heartwarming moments he had just beheld. He couldn’t deny that Nadia had made a lot of people’s lives better. Artifact or not, she seemed to be doing more good than harm. Just ask Brian and his mom. He felt uncomfortable cracking down on Nadia. To be honest, it wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way. James MacPherson, Artie’s former partner, had once tried to convince Pete that some artifacts were too valuable to be locked away in the Warehouse, where they couldn’t do the world any good. MacPherson had been a murderous creep, of course, but maybe, just maybe, he’d had a point? He pushed the doubts out of his head in order to get the job done. “My partner is right,” he said, backing Myka up. “You need to tell us how you’re doing this.” Nadia kept toying with the ankh. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” His spider-sense tingled. “I’m getting a real vibe here,” he informed Myka. He looked pointedly at the ankh. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Myka nodded. She slipped on a pair of purple gloves. “Hand over the ankh, please.” “Why?” Nadia asked. “It’s just a prop. I picked it up at a dollar store.” Myka held out her hand. “Then there’s no harm in showing it to me, is there?” Jim pushed forward. “You can’t do this. You have no right!” “Easy, buster!” Pete got between Jim and the women. He had a few inches and about twenty pounds of muscle on the younger man. “Don’t make us do this the hard way.” “It’s all right, Jim,” Nadia called out. “It’s no big deal.” She removed the ankh and handed it over to Myka. “I’m not sure why you want this.” Was she truly unaware of the ankh’s special properties? Pete couldn’t be sure. “Keep back,” he warned Jim before fishing a silver bag from his pocket. He held it open for Myka, then turned his head away. “Bombs away.” Myka dropped the ankh into the goo. Pete braced himself for the usual fireworks. But nothing happened. Not even a fizzle. “What the heck?” He shared a surprised look with Myka. “Did I miss something?”

She plucked the ankh from the bag and wiped it clean with a tissue.

Holding it up to her eyes, she squinted at the small hooped cross.

“False alarm,” she declared. “Look at this.” She held up the ankh for his inspection. He spotted a tiny inscription: Made in China. Oops!

Nadia and Jim stared at the agents in bewilderment. “Is that it?” he asked. “Are you happy now?” “Not really, no.” Pete scratched his head.

“Okay, so if it’s not the ankh, what is it?” He looked Nadia over. The bright red gemstone on her forehead caught his eye. “Maybe that ruby thingie?” “It’s just a cheap piece of costume jewelry,” Nadia insisted. She peeled it off her brow and tossed it to Pete. “Take it.”

He caught it reflexively, then held it up to the light. On close inspection, he had to admit it didn’t look all that impressive.

Polished glass, maybe, or crystal. Then again, that didn’t mean much.

Sometimes the most innocuous of objects could turn out to be artifacts. Like a rubber dodgeball or an old can of tuna fish. “What do you think?” he asked Myka. His partner had another idea. “Her gloves,” Myka said, giving Nadia’s hands wear a closer look. “I was distracted by the ankh before, but those gloves don’t really go with the rest of her costume. They don’t fit with the whole ‘Egyptian high priestess’ look she’s going for.” Pete looked at the gloves. They were wrist-length and made of white kid leather. Decorative stitching adorned their backs. Delicate ivory buttons held them tight about her wrist. “Good call.” He tended to defer to Myka on matters on women’s fashion, but he saw what she meant. Unlike the rest of Nadia’s outfit, the gloves looked better suited to Queen Victoria than Cleopatra. “And it’s not exactly cold in here.” Myka made up her mind. “Let me see the gloves.” “No!” Nadia yanked her hands back, reacting much more strongly than before. “You can’t have them. They have… sentimental value.” Pete didn’t buy it. If anything, Nadia’s outburst proved they were on the right track. He stuck the phony ruby in his pocket, although it was probably worthless, just like Nadia had said.

The gloves had moved to the top of their to-do list. “Sorry. I think those gloves are coming with us.” “Please.” Nadia held her hands tightly to her breast, one over the other. “You can’t-” “Leave her alone!” Jim lunged to her defense. “I won’t let you-” “Okay, that’s enough.” Pete grabbed the young carnie by the shoulders and roughly steered him away from Nadia. Jim struggled to break free, but Pete had years of Secret Service training on his side. He strong-armed Jim toward the curtain. “I know you’re just trying to stick up for your girl, pal, but it’s time for you to clear out of here. This is between us and those gloves.” He shoved Jim out of the backstage area, then waited to see if the carnie was going to come back swinging. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to zap Jim with the Tesla. He felt enough like a storm trooper as it was. Too bad the artifact wasn’t being misused by some crook. That always made this easier. Surprisingly, Jim got the hint. Pete heard the youth storm out of the tent. “That’s better.” He turned away from the curtain and joined Myka in front of Nadia. “All right. Let’s get this over with.” “But you can’t just take them,” the girl begged. “They belong to me.” “Sorry,” Pete apologized again. Her pleas stung his conscience, even though he knew they were doing the right thing. “Believe it or not, this is for your own good.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Nadia asked bitterly. “What gives you the right?” “The U.S. government,” Myka said, simplifying things somewhat. In truth, the agents answered to a secretive board of Regents whose relationship to the federal government was… complicated. But that was more than Nadia needed to know. “This is our job.” “Just give us the gloves, Nadia,” Pete said. “We’re not leaving until we get them.” Outnumbered and overwhelmed, Nadia finally gave in. She pulled off the gloves and practically threw them in Myka’s face. “Fine. Do what you have to do.” “Thank you.” Myka politely ignored the attitude. She quickly examined the gloves, just to avoid another embarrassing “Made in China” moment, then beckoned to Pete.

“Shall we try this again?” “Sounds like a plan.” Pete recycled the silver retrieval bag. “Go for it.” Into the bag went the gloves. This time he kept his eye on the reaction, which was only marginally more pyrotechnic than before. The goo fizzed a little, and he caught a glimpse of a few flickering sparks, but it was hardly the usual blinding flash. “Okay,” he commented, “I don’t think that was fully neutralized.” “Didn’t seem like it,” Myka agreed. Her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle it out. “Maybe we’re dealing with another two-part artifact, like Poe’s quill and journal, or Robert Louis Stevenson’s bookends? In that case, we’d need both items to neutralize them.” No surprise that she recalled those incidents. Poe’s notebook had nearly killed Myka’s father, before they had managed to track down the quill as well. “But don’t we already have both gloves?” “Maybe not.” She rescued the gloves from the bag and gave them another once-over. “Hmm.

The stitching on the left glove looks a little too uniform, almost like it was done by a modern sewing machine. The stitching on the right glove seems like it was done by hand.” She turned toward the gloves’ owner. “Nadia?” “The left glove is a copy,” the girl admitted.

“I had a costumer whip it up to match the right glove.” “Which came from where?” Pete asked. “A thrift store near Gettysburg. It was just lying there, in a bin of mismatched items. I guess somebody must have cleaned out an attic or something.” She paused, remembering. “I don’t know what it was about the glove, but it just… called to me somehow. Like I was meant to find it.” Sounds plausible enough, Pete thought, believing Nadia’s story. He wondered how long the glove had been sitting dormant-and who had it originally belonged to. Mary Todd Lincoln? Charlotte Bronte? Catherine the Great? Maybe Artie could figure it out. In the meantime, there was a more pressing question.

“So where is the real left glove?” “I wish I knew.” Nadia looked hopefully at the right glove. “Does this mean I get them back?”

“Sorry,” Pete said. They needed to hang on to the glove until they found its mate. “No can do.” “But you don’t understand!” She grabbed for the glove, but Myka yanked it away from her, beyond her reach.

Nadia burst into tears. “I have to heal people! I have to!” Whoa, Pete thought, taken aback by her outburst. Talk about a drama queen. Was there more to this than just an understandable desire to do good? She sounded out of control, almost like she was under some kind of compulsion. Maybe we’re taking that glove away from her none too soon? “Hey, rube!” an angry voice intruded. “You need to listen to the lady.” The curtain was yanked open from the outside, exposing the stage. Jim Doherty had returned-with reinforcements. His sideshow cronies glared at the two agents. A snake charmer cradled a hissing python. A scowling strong man flexed his muscles. The fat lady crossed her slab-like arms atop her capacious chest. The alligator boy, his body covered in scales, bared his teeth, which were filed to points. A full set of throwing knives was tucked into Jim’s belt. Crap, Pete thought. This could get ugly. Myka held up her badge. “I’m going to have to ask you all to vacate the tent. We’re on official business.”

“No way, toots,” the strong man rumbled. A poster outside had hyped him as The Mighty Atlas! Leopard-print trunks left most of his imposing frame exposed. His muscles had muscles-and big, bulging ones to boot. His sinews stood out like steel cables. A thick skull rested atop a neck wide enough to serve as a pedestal. A handlebar mustache framed his jowls. His deep bass voice made James Earl Jones sound like a castrato. “Nadia’s one of us. We look after our own.” “Yesss,”

Ophidia the snake charmer hissed. Sequins glinted like scales on her tight sheath dress. A forked tongue showed just how far she was willing to go for her act. The python flicked its own tongue in unison. “Ssshe’s helped usss all.” She got a little too close to Atlas, who shot her a disgusted glance before putting some distance between them. He clearly wasn’t a fan, not that Pete really cared. The agent was more concerned with shutting down this sideshow before someone got hurt. Like maybe him and Myka. “Everyone needs to calm down here.” He drew his Tesla from beneath his jacket and swung its muzzle from left to right and back again, trying to keep the entire crew in his sights. “And leave the tent immediately.” “You got that backwards, rube,” Jim shot back. “You and your partner are the ones who are leaving.” He nodded at Myka. “Without the glove.” “No way.”

Myka stuffed the glove into her pocket, then pulled out her own sidearm, but the knife thrower was quicker on the draw. Moving faster than the proverbial eye, he flung a blade at the gun, knocking it from Myka’s grasp. The gun skidded across the dirt. “Myka!” Pete decided that Jim was the primary threat. He swung the Tesla at the youth even as Atlas and the alligator boy charged him from opposite sides. A bolt of polyphase energy burst from the gun, but struck the alligator boy instead. Electricity lit up his scaly body and flung him backward across the stage, nearly colliding with Jim, who jumped out of the way just in time. He hurled a second knife at the Tesla, but the commotion threw off his aim. Pete felt the blade whoosh past his hand as he lurched away from the knife-right into the arms of the oncoming strong man. Herculean arms caught him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side. The Mighty Atlas lifted Pete off his feet so that his legs dangled above the ground. The arms squeezed tightly, crushing him like an implosion grenade. Pete gasped for breath. “M-maybe we can just shake hands instead?” A few feet away, Myka had problems of her own.

She watched in dismay as her gun flew from her fingers, leaving her empty-handed. Ducking her head, she started to dive for the weapon, only to hear the snake lady hissing at her pet. “Sssic her, Sssussie-Q!” Susie-Q? Myka barely had time to register the python’s name before the snake charmer tossed the reptile at her. Over fifty pounds of squirming serpent came flying at Myka, who threw up her hands to protect herself. She grabbed the coils with both hands, trying to keep them from wrapping around her throat. That was the major threat, she knew. No matter what, she had to keep the python away from her windpipe. Not getting bit would be good too. The python snapped and hissed at her, its fangs only inches away from her face.

Myka struggled to hold on to the thrashing reptile; it was like wrestling with a whipping water hose. The snake’s lower coils wrapped around her waist, squeezing tightly, but there was nothing she could do about that now. She couldn’t let go of the snake’s throat for a moment. The serpent’s scaly body was cool and dry to the touch. Myka fought an instinctive sense of revulsion. She had to stay cool and keep her wits about her. Thank goodness snakes were not among her phobias. “That’sss it, sssugar!” Ophidia cheered on her pet. “Show that nasssty lady who’sss bosss!” Myka wished the woman had trained poodles instead. A hand wriggled past the snake to dig around in her pocket. “Yes!” Nadia exclaimed as she reclaimed her glove and slipped it back onto her right hand. “I’ve got it!” She darted for the exit, taking the artifact with her. “Run, Nadia!” her boyfriend urged her.

“Get out of here!” She hesitated in the doorway. “Aren’t you coming with me?” He shook his head. “I’ll catch up with you later. We’ll hold on to these losers while you get away!” “Nadia, don’t!” Myka called out. Caught up in the coils of the python, she could only watch in frustration as the artifact slipped away from them. “You don’t know what you’re messing with!” None of them did, really. But Nadia ignored the agent’s orders. The fat lady scooted the young healer out of the tent, then planted herself in front of the exit. “Don’t worry,” she assured Jim and her fellow carnies. “Nobody’s getting past me.” The python squeezed her ribs. Myka’s hold on its neck slipped for a moment, and its fangs came closer to her face. A forked tongue licked her cheek. Grimacing, she shifted her grip on the writhing coils and shoved the snake’s head back. Its gaping jaws offered her a clear view down its gullet. It was a visual she could have done without. Remind me to make sure that asp is safely bottled up, she thought, if and when we make it back to the Warehouse. Where was Pete? She glanced away from the snake’s fangs long enough to spot her partner in a tight squeeze of his own. The strong man had Pete in a bear hug, and it didn’t look like he was planning to let him go anytime soon. Myka wondered which of them was in the most trouble. Given a choice, she thought, I think I’d prefer the muscle man. The snake snapped at her again. Pete’s ribs and arms felt like they were in a vise. He tried to break from the strong man’s grip, but it was like straining against iron girders. The rugged agent liked to think he had plenty of muscle, too, but the strong man made him feel like a ninety-pound weakling.

All he needed was sand kicked in his face. What the heck were they feeding this guy? “Good job, Atlas!” Jim urged the strong man. “Don’t let him go.” Despite his current predicament, Pete noted that the knife thrower had yet to put his blades to lethal use, despite plenty of opportunity to do so. This told him that Jim Doherty wasn’t actually out to hurt them. He just wanted to let his girlfriend get away-with that darn glove. Pete wasn’t going to let that happen. Years of hand-to-hand combat training proved useless against the human behemoth squeezing the breath out of him. He tried to hook his leg around Atlas’s and yank him off his feet, but it was like trying to uproot a redwood. A head butt just bruised his own brow. The strong man had a skull of concrete. “Try that again,” Atlas snarled, “and I’ll crack your ribs.” His breath reeked of tobacco and alcohol. Pete turned his face away to avoid the stench. “Sorry ’bout that,” Pete gasped. “My mistake.” Dangling above the ground, it was difficult to get any leverage. All he had managed to do was hang on to the Tesla, not that it was doing him much good right now. He and Atlas were just a little too cozy at the moment. There was no way to blast the strong man without zapping himself as well. Electricity was a bitch that way.

What about Myka? Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his partner wrestling with an upset python while the snake charmer egged the serpent on. Myka appeared to be holding her own for the time being, but in the meantime Nadia and the glove were getting farther and farther away. There had to be some way out of this mess. Pete noticed that Myka was still wearing her protective purple gloves. A wild idea occurred to him. His arms remained pinned to his sides, but he could still move his wrist slightly. Maybe enough to aim the Tesla…

“Myka!” he shouted. “Can you unwrap yourself a little?” She risked a peek at him. Her eyes widened as she spied the Tesla’s transparent barrel recharging. She nodded back at him, getting the message. Her right hand let go of the python’s throat, leaving only the left hand to hold its head-with its gaping mouth and fangs-away from her, and grabbed the snake’s tail. Agent and serpent danced awkwardly across the backstage area as she forcibly unwound the coils around her waist.

It didn’t look easy, and she grunted with exertion, but she briefly managed to extricate herself from the python’s embrace. “Hurry!” she yelled, holding the writhing snake at arm’s length from her body.

“It’s getting loose!” “Hang on!” He bent his wrist back as far as it would go, pointing the Tesla toward her. There was no way to read the gauges on the weapon, but he hoped that it still had enough of a charge to take out a snake. “Here goes nothing!” He squeezed the trigger. Cobalt lightning sizzled through the air to strike the python, which twitched and sparked like a high-voltage cable. Myka turned her face away from the crackling electricity, relying on her gloves to insulate her. Ozone tickled Pete’s nostrils. The python went limp in Myka’s hands. “Sssusssie-Q!” Ophidia shrieked sibilantly.

“Sssweetie!” Her leathery face contorted with rage, she ran at Myka, who dropped her with a spinning kick to the jaw. The snake charmer joined her pet in unconsciousness. “Next time, keep your ‘sweetie’ on a leash,” Myka advised, her hands still full of stunned reptile. She turned toward Atlas. “Hey, big boy. You like snakes?” Had she also noticed the strong man’s aversion to the serpent earlier? Of course, Pete realized. This was Myka, after all. Atlas backed away from her.

“Get that slimy thing away from me!” “Trade you,” she said. “Catch!”

She lobbed the sagging serpent at the strong man, who let out a surprisingly high-pitched squeal. Panicked by the sight of the snake flying toward him, he let go of Pete and threw himself backward-right into the central pole supporting the tent. A couple hundred pounds of pumped muscle collided with the pole, which cracked alarmingly. Heavy canvas heaved and tore loose from its moorings. The rippling fabric crackled like thunder. Pete looked up in dismay, as did everybody else under the tent. “Oh, for crying out loud,” the fat lady said. Jim dived for cover. More poles snapped. “Timber…” Pete groaned. An avalanche of canvas came down on their heads.