A cheap chime sounded in the crowded shop as Misha opened the door. He stepped back as if to let me go first, and I glared at him. Here, we weren’t supposed to be alpha and omega. We were two guys looking to buy some old vinyl records.
It had taken us forever to decide on that cover story. Patrick said we should ask about guns, but Connor had argued that could put the targets on alert, if only because we were looking at higher ticket items that were more likely to be stolen. It was a fair argument.
Misha rolled his eyes as I refused to enter first and went in. The place was half antique store and half used electronics shop. Televisions lined the top shelf behind the counter, and a full rifle rack filled half of the space under them.
“G’day mates. Can we help you find something?”
The speaker was a rumpled, chunky man with stick brown hair that looked like it had tried to be curls once upon a time and had finally given up. The ash scent I’d come to associate with dragons surrounded him, but also sulfur. That horrible rotten eggs scent. Very different from the Chens.
He wore a full beard, about three inches long, that matched his head in unkemptness. His AC/DC tank top was ragged around the arms, which made me think it had probably once been a t-shirt, and he was already drinking a can of Natty Ice. Damn. I hadn’t seen anyone drink that shit since college. And it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet.
While I was busy mentally critiquing his drink choice, Misha stepped in, following the plan. “Yeah, I was wondering if you guys got any old vinyls?”
The guy gulped his beer and nodded. “Yeah, heaps. Anything you’re looking for in particular?”
I peered behind him at the sound of footsteps coming up stairs and saw the edge of a door open and shut. The man who appeared had darker hair, cut in a full ‘80s, Uncle Jesse from Full House mullet. He wore a tight white wife beater and just gave us a nod as he slid past Natty Ice with a heavy cardboard box. The familial resemblance between the two was clear, and it wasn’t just the terrible haircuts.
“Boston. Cheap Trick. Foreigner,” Misha rattled off names of artists or albums easily.
“Ah, the classics. Right. Follow me. It’s a bit of a maze in here.”
It was hard to believe this guy might be the brains behind kidnapping my dad, or even the muscle. But he was definitely Australian.
As Misha focused on his target, I pretended to look at a spinning rack of paperback books. It stood in the middle of the floor, which allowed me to shift around it until Mullet Man was in my view. He set his box on the floor and dug items out. First came a pair of patent leather shoes, which he put in its proper place. Then a couple of gaming controllers. I stopped paying attention to what he was pulling out of the box. It wasn’t important.
Slice their wings. Maybe the dragon meant their arms. But again, that didn’t make sense. Wei’s arms and legs both transformed into their own counterparts on his sinuous body. Why couldn’t he have explained—
I froze as Mullet Man turned his back to me and I clearly saw the edges of his tattoos, peeking out from underneath the back of his wife beater. It hadn’t drawn my attention initially because it was a dark brown, not black, and blended easily into his skin whenever he was turned slightly to the side. I leaned around the books and looked at Misha’s guy. I couldn’t tell for certain, but I was pretty sure he had a back tattoo as well. And I’d bet my entire collection of drunk-Patrick-being-a-dumbass videos that it was the same as what was on Mullet Man’s back. Which was wings. Not fluffy angel wings. More like bat wings.
Slice their wings.
It seemed crazy, and too simple, but the vagueness of Wei’s message seemed to indicate that the answer would be fairly obvious.
I just hoped I was right, because otherwise, Misha and I were in for a world of trouble. Now I just had to let Misha know without alerting either of the dragons. We’d have to attack them simultaneously.
I abandoned the book tower and sauntered toward Misha, watching Mullet Man out of the corner of my eye. “Find anything good, Mario?”
Code names weren’t part of the plan, but they should have been. And I was clearly more of a Luigi than a Mario.
Misha squinted at me in confusion, and the guy next to him looked my way as well. Which meant I couldn’t even mouth my new knowledge to Misha. I stopped behind Mullet Man, surreptitiously caressing the outline of the long knife I’d sheathed inside my waistline. Wei had said we’d need to slice something, so we came prepared.
He lifted a large flat square. “Monolith. Been looking for that for a while.”
I had no idea what band or album he was talking about, but I nodded. “You about ready to make a move? I’m about ready to wing it.” I prayed he understood my on-the-spot, badly concealed suggestions.
His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “I could spend all day looking, but yeah, if you’re ready to go, I’m happy with this. Just gotta pay.”
I smiled thinly, and my brain fired its turbo jets trying to figure out how to tell him about the wings when I realized, I didn’t have to tell Misha, I just had to do it. Tank Top Guy was just passing between us, and I acted as soon as the thought entered my mind. With one rushed sweep, I scored his back with my blade, making sure to cut through the center of the wing. I got his left side, but missed his right as I continued my swing, slamming Mullet Man against the table as he started to turn. I managed to slice through both sides of his back as something crashed behind me.
A giant, red wing crashed into a cabinet, shattering a display of fancy plates and cups. Damn it. That was probably the tattoo I hadn’t hit. But Misha was quick on the uptake, and he jumped onto the half-shifted dragon’s back and drove his knife into the base of the flailing wing. It shrank and disappeared as the man howled.
“Fuck you, you left-sided arsehole!” Mullet Man was struggling against me, but I just pressed my knife against his ribs and smiled viciously.
“A left-sided arsehole, huh? Misha, you ever heard of that? What do you think, is your arsehole right-sided or left-sided?”
“I tend to think mine plays center.” He jerked his captive to his feet. “Where do you think we should put them? Here’s not ideal. Someone could walk up and look through the windows. We’ve gotta secure them before I can get a hand free to call River and Patrick.”
River swung the door open just in time to hear. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” he declared with a flourish.
“Aw, bollocks.” Patrick was right behind him, a giant sword slung over one shoulder. “You gents took all the fun.”
“Why the fuck do you have a sword?” I asked. We ignored the shouts and curses of our captives.
“It’s my cover, innit? I was gonna say I was looking to cash it in. I also figured it might be useful fighting a couple dragons. You know, the knight in shining armor bit.”
I shook my head.
River hoisted a heavy bag that clanked onto the counter beside him, ignoring the knicknacks he knocked to the floor. “I wouldn’t worry about the fun being over, Patrick. I’d say it’s about to begin.” He licked his lips and eyed our captives in a way that made me feel a little queasy. I knew what River was here for. Misha and I had talked it over. I wasn’t against torture. It certainly had its uses, and we needed to know why these guys had kidnapped Da, and we needed to get their tears to cure him. But I wasn’t sure I was up for the methods STAHP tended to employ.