Nefertiti’s Curse: An Urban Fantasy Read online

  He was the current head of the Directorate of Special Operations, a secret unit of the United States Department of Defense. The DSO had originally been formed by Abraham Lincoln as the Office of Otherworldy Affairs after vampires sympathetic to the Confederacy had nearly changed the course of American history. Its Congressional mandate was to “Reckon with unnatural forces which threaten the security or sovereignty of our great nation.”

  During his eleven years in the position, Carlos had interpreted this mandate broadly enough to include outreach efforts and pilot programs like the SGZ in addition to traditional militaristic functions. His approach, despite its documented successes, vexed the enforcement wing of the agency and the more conservative members of its Senate oversight committee, who staunchly believed the purpose of the DSO was to eliminate supernatural life, not manage it.

  “I thought we had an understanding about my house,” Xavier said.

  “That almost sounds like a threat.”

  “Carlos.”

  “Xavier.”

  “It’s not a threat in any way, shape or form. I know better.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Agent Lathan said you wanted to speak with me.”

  “Do you like Indian food?”

  “I guess.”

  “Great. Meet me at a restaurant in Adams Morgan called Patni at three o’clock.”

  “Three o’clock today?”

  “I’ll be wearing black,” Carlos said before hanging up.

  Xavier sighed, thinking of everything he would need to cancel to make it to DC in the next five hours.

  * * *

  Xavier had just made his Amtrak reservation when his specially encrypted iPhone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “I told Maya I thought it was fine to send Chiyem’s report,” Isabella said with a slight Slavic accent.

  “Oh, good. I was going to talk to you about it today but now I have to go to DC and see Carlos.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  Although only twenty minutes had passed since his conversation with Carlos, he was not surprised.

  “Did she tell you who requested the report?”

  “I am quite familiar with Ms. Lathan.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the day she began working for Carlos.”

  “How come I’ve never heard about her?”

  “For the same reason Brad Pitt doesn’t do my taxes.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lysefjorden, Norway, Two Years Earlier

  “Drekka Mer! Drekka Mer!” the group chanted at the twenty-three-year-old man who was guzzling beer from a plastic funnel above his head. When gravity made the alcohol flow faster than the man could swallow, he bumbled away in a fit of spastic coughs that sprayed the liquid in every direction.

  His friends cheered, their voices echoing through the isolated woods they had descended upon for a night of debauchery.

  The eight of them, four women and four men, came together here once a year to rekindle the close friendships they had forged at the exclusive upper secondary school outside Oslo they had all attended.

  Cella always looked forward to the gathering and typically had a blast, but this year she had limited her alcohol intake and antics to ensure she would not end up on social media doing something that would damage her father’s upcoming campaign for Prime Minister.

  When the man Cella usually paired up with stepped away from the group to relieve himself, Ingra came over and shoved a beer bottle in Cella’s hand. “Please loosen up.”

  Cella sat the bottle down next to the other two she hadn’t opened. “I’m loose. I’m having a great time.”

  “Ivar’s not,” Ingra said. “He keeps texting Lars to see if he can talk me into having a three-way because you suddenly turned into a kjerring when we weren’t looking.”

  Cella groaned. “Gross. Tell Lars if Ivar really wants to have a good time he can go—”

  She was interrupted by a sudden scream from the woods.

  “Was that Ivar?” Ingra asked.

  “I think so,” Cella said.

  Lars and Morten stumbled over.

  “Is Ivar with you?” Morten asked.

  “No,” Ingra said, pointing. “He went that way to take a piss.”

  They all stared into the dark woods.

  “Ivar!” Morten shouted. “Stop being a kodd. It’s not funny.”

  “We should go check on him,” Lars said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Morten said, clumsily picking up a rock.

  “Turn on the camera lights in your phones,” Cella advised.

  “Good idea,” Lars said, tapping at his screen.

  As Lars and Morten went off to investigate, the others joined the group.

  “Are we drunk-dreaming or did we just hear someone scream?” Sissel asked.

  “We think it was Ivar. Lars and Morten are going to check it out.”

  “I better go with them,” Erik said.

  “No!” Cella snapped. “We should stay together.”

  “Like in the movies?” Sissel joked.

  No one laughed.

  The light from Lars’s phone suddenly winked out. Then Morten’s light was gone.

  “Dritt!” Ingra said.

  They all gawked for a few moments before Sissel took off in a sprint towards their cars.

  “Sissel!” Erik yelled. “Come back!”

  The floodlights illuminating their campsite went out.

  “Dritt!” Ingra said again. “Dritt!”

  Sissel screamed.

  “Run!” Erik shouted.

  Petrov Leclerc appeared from the shadows with a handgun and shot Erik in the face at point-blank range.

  Cella and Ingra were sprayed with blood. Cella’s left ear went deaf from the sudden bang.

  “How about you just die instead?” Leclerc asked.

  Two other vampires seized the women from behind.

  Ingra yelled and struggled against her captor’s grip until Leclerc gave a slight nod of his head. The vampire holding her sank its fangs deep into her neck. She went limp.

  Cella hung her head and sobbed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Washington, DC

  The restaurant sat between a coffee shop and a printing store on a busy retail strip in DC’s trendiest neighborhood. The exterior, with its vibrant hues of blue and pink, had the aesthetic of some exotic island in the Caribbean.

  Xavier’s Uber driver, a man with many strong opinions about Middle Eastern politics, said he had never heard of it. But after reading the awning above the restaurant’s entrance, he became so elated that he refused Xavier’s tip.

  All Xavier saw on the sign was a Spanish phrase that didn’t mean much to him. Out of curiosity, he asked two pedestrians passing by to read the sign. The two white women, one middle-aged and the other half as young, indulged him despite their evident discomfort at being approached by an unknown African American male.

  The older woman looked at the sign then covered her mouth with her hand, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  The younger woman bounced up and down excitedly. “Mom, it’s really him. Oh my god.”

  The older woman turned to Xavier. “Are you an ang—”

  “Definitely not,” he said.

  “Well whoever you are, thank you so much for this.”

  * * *

  A gorgeous Indian woman in her early thirties with long dark hair greeted Xavier inside the restaurant. “Welcome to Patni, Mr. Hill. Your party is waiting for you.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “If it’s about the sign, it says Fine Indian Cuisine in both English and Hindi. At least that’s what we paid the sign company to print.”

  “But it makes people react like those two?”

  “Only when Mother is here. We’ve had people suffer coronaries right outside the door. The City decided to remove all the ticket meters and mailboxes
because of the auto accidents that kept occurring.”

  “Is your mother here now?”

  “Please follow me.”

  She escorted Xavier into an opulent dining area with more than fifty tables. Only a single diner was present.

  Carlos rose to greet Xavier with a handshake. “Try the lamb vindaloo. It’s amazing.”

  “What do they have that’s not spicy?”

  “Water.”

  After they had enjoyed their meals, Xavier asked, “Did you have me come all the way here just to read the sign outside or was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

  Carlos slid a manila folder across the table.

  The folder contained a set of 8x10 photographs. The photo on top depicted a young woman floating in the waters of a small inlet. The fins of her tail were clearly visible. There was a small typewritten inscription on the photo that read Weepecket Sound, 4/17.

  The next photo showed a young woman emerging from a shoe store with an arm full of shopping bags. Its inscription read Boston, 5/3. It was the same woman, except with legs.

  “I assume these weren’t photoshopped,” Xavier said.

  “My life would be a whole lot easier if they had been,” Carlos said.

  “I’ve never heard of a mermaid species that can grow legs.”

  “That’s because there are none. Some types of sea women have legs and some don’t, but none of them have both. Or at least that was the case up until a few months ago.”

  They went through the rest of the photos, most of which depicted supernatural beings doing things they had never been known to do.

  “If I had an explanation I would give it to you,” Xavier said. “All I know is that one werewolf supposedly experienced a genetic mutation.”

  “Yes,” Carlos said. “I’m looking forward to reading that report. By the way, what did you think of Agent Lathan?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Will she grow a tail if I put her in a hot tub?” Xavier joked.

  Carlos smiled, but it wasn’t friendly.

  “Got it,” Xavier said.

  “Great,” Carlos said. “I’m fully aware you don’t have any direct knowledge about these phenomena, but I invited you here to tell you that needs to change. It’s in your best interest.”

  Xavier mentally prepared himself for yet another threat to terminate the SGZ, which would render every supernatural being living within its borders a wanted fugitive. “Why is that?”

  “Remember the photo of the necromancer in the cemetery?”

  “Yes.”

  “The empty grave he was standing next to was where Senator Corman’s ex-wife had been buried.”

  Xavier groaned. Glen Corman was a senator from the great state of Mississippi and one of the hundred or so government officials with the security clearance to know about the DSO. He also happened to be the world’s fiercest opponent of rights for supers.

  “One of the true American patriots in our Enforcement Division sent him a copy of that photo along with the rest of our file. Corman’s been burning up the phone lines to the Pentagon and Elaine’s office since then.”

  “And crap rolls downhill.”

  “And gets smellier as it goes. Bob Landon assured Corman he’d have me replaced if I don’t get to the bottom of this before Congress gets back in session.”

  “Which is when?”

  “They take off the month of August every year, so about forty days.”

  “Okay, I’m on it.”

  “I knew our talk would be productive,” Carlos said, removing one of the photos and sliding it back across the table.

  It depicted a shirtless man sunbathing on a beach.

  “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Show it to Stefan.”

  Xavier tried to mask his surprise. “Okay.”

  “He’ll tell you things he would never share with my side.”

  Xavier sensed someone behind his chair. He turned to find a regal Indian woman in her thirties who was even more lovely than the hostess. She was dressed in an exquisite white sari with sparkling gold stitching.

  She didn’t have a scent.

  “Xavier it is my humble honor to introduce you to Saraswa—”

  “You may call me Maha,” she said.

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” Xavier said.

  “Is this the one who shall return the water to the oceans and the clouds to the sky?” she asked Carlos.

  “He is the one we spoke of,” Carlos said.

  She touched two fingers to the space between Xavier’s eyebrows. “Your chakra burns bright like many suns,” she said.

  Xavier surprised Carlos by thanking her in Sanskrit.

  She smiled down at him.

  Then Carlos’s phone started buzzing.

  Carlos picked it up from the table and laughed out loud after reading the screen.

  “I like a good joke,” Xavier said.

  He showed Xavier his phone. The screen had a picture of a priest behind a message that read Missed Calling”.

  Xavier turned to commend her, but she was gone.

  Carlos checked his smartwatch and then stood. “I have to get going, but I think Maha wants you to stay for dessert.”

  “So lunch is on you?” Xavier asked.

  “Millionaires who don’t pay for lunch should be flogged in the public square whenever they check their bank statements.”

  Xavier, a millionaire many times over from compound interest on mysterious bank accounts opened in his name hundreds of years ago, laughed and pulled out his Centurion card.

  “Someone named Howling will be getting in touch with you to offer his assistance. Accept it.”

  “Who is he?”

  “All I can tell you is that he’s a real blowhard.”

  Then the man who had the authority to call in a nuclear strike if monsters got out control left the restaurant.

  Xavier sat scrolling through social media updates on his phone when someone tossed a bowl onto his table so brusquely that a dollop of cream sauce sloshed over the rim and splashed onto his jeans.

  He looked up to find a heavyset young Indian woman in a stained sous chef smock giving him the evil eye. She had an acne breakout on her forehead and several clumps of her frizzy black hair refused to cooperate with her half-hearted attempt at a ponytail.

  “Are you done with your glass or do you plan to sit here until dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m done with it.”

  She snatched the glass and turned toward the kitchen.

  “What is this called?” he asked, nodding at the bowl.

  “Rasmalai.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “It’s kind of like cheesecake,” she said in a curt tone that made it clear she wasn’t open to more questions.

  He noticed something about her. “Is that a Norm City Triple Crown patch?”

  Norm City was an online role-playing game that was wildly popular within the supernatural community, especially among those whose physical appearance prevented them from moving about in public. Unlike similar games which allowed players to adopt fantastical personas and set out on extraordinary adventures, every Norm City avatar was a standard human in a common human society. The object of the game was to become a Norm—someone who blends into human society so well that the other players could no longer distinguish them from the general population.

  The woman peeked down at the patch on her smock then squinted at him. “You play?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  “Which clan are you in?”

  “Everyday People.”

  Her jawline loosened a bit. “What’s your handle?”

  “Nobody Knows I’m A Dog,” he said proudly.

  She burst into a fit of giggles.

  “What?” he asked. “That’s the coolest handle ever.”

  When she stopped laughing, she said, “No, I love your handle. It’s just that we quest
ed against your clan last week. That was me who snatched your house key.”

  He thought back. “Wait, you’re Riva The Diva?”

  “Guilty,” she said. “That was so epic what we did to you. I played that clip back on Twitch for three days.”

  The online avatar for Riva The Diva was a slender Indian woman who was always dressed in skintight clothing with a bandolier of shotgun shells crossed over her ample cleavage. An avatar like that had no chance of blending into any of the game’s levels, but she succeeded nonetheless by using strategy. Her hallmark tactic was having her avatar do something outlandish to grab the attention of the other players while her clan mates snatched the real prize and then merged back into the crowd. She had blown up water towers, held peevish librarians at gunpoint and jumped in front of speeding subway trains. RTD, as she was known in gamer forums, did things you just could not look away from. And no one Xavier knew could figure out where her avatar got weapons and explosives. She was a legend in the online world of the game.

  Her real name was Sajala. Offline she was every bit as shy as her virtual alter ego was bold. But what a mind she possessed. She and Xavier talked for nearly an hour in a wide-ranging conversation that was regularly punctuated by Sajala’s chittering laughter and enthusiastic repetitions of her favorite phrase: “I know, right.”

  Eventually, the hostess interrupted them. “Anish needs you in the kitchen,” she said to Sajala with an apologetic smile.

  “Reality bites,” the game master said to him as she scribbled something on a menu pad that she then tore off and passed over.

  “I’ll catch you online,” he said.

  “If you can,” she said with a departing wink.

  When Sajala disappeared into the kitchen, the hostess said, “I can’t remember the last time I saw my sister smile, let alone laugh.”

  “Your sister? I guess good looks run in the family.”

  The restaurant greeter who might have been a runway model dramatically whipped her hair to one side, revealing a tattoo on her neck. “How many pickup lines would you guess I hear in a typical week?”

  He appraised her. “A hundred when it’s raining and two hundred when it’s not.”

  “The correct answer is so many that I’m an expert at telling when a man is interested in a woman for something other than how she looks.”