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Authors: Kristi Charish
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Nadya’s particular brand of standoffish aloofness and verbal abuse. I began to pour my champagne on a plant.
“Drink!” I heard Nadya yell over her shoulder. “You need better alcohol tolerance.”
“That’s the last thing I need.”
Nadya whirled on the heels of her spiked stilettos as if they’d been ballet slippers, just so I’d have the benefit of seeing her glare.
“Drink it! We’re going out after this.”
I shot her a dirty look before she turned her back on me. Well, I’d worry how to get out of that later.
I pulled the folder back and opened it to the pages that referenced the Bali tablet chamber. I still hadn’t worked out exactly why the file was so sparse—I mean, obviously to hide something supernatural, but there were none of the usual hints dropped for archaeologists as to what.
It was a dual thesis project, meaning it had been written by two individual students from different faculties; in this case, physics and archaeology had teamed up. I’d bet the physics PhD had been brought on to do some fancy carbon dating, maybe even some fancy laser imaging of the rooms. Nothing more fun than pissing off old archaeology professors with hard, scientific facts. Used to be one of my favorite stunts. But if that was the case, where the hell was the carbon dating? And pictures of the dig site?
I closed the file. If anyone could tell me, it was Nuroshi. The old man reminded me of a turnip; sickly white, rotund, with puffy eyes that constantly watered. Whereas most men go bald from the center out, Nuroshi was balding from the outside in. All that was left now was a tuft of black hair. Like I said, turnip. He was also a low-level curator for the Japanese Museum of Antiquities, attached to the University of Tokyo. High enough up the ladder to have privileged information and access to the storage rooms, old enough and close enough to retirement not to garner any attention. He also knew his stuff, even though I had a hard time stomaching his particular brand of dirty old man antics. Nadya had dug him up when a few of her high-end clientele had found out she’d been an archaeologist and subtly hinted they were interested in “acquiring” pieces.
The Space Station Deluxe kept filling up as people got off work for the day. A handsome businessman in a really nice suit took the barstool beside me, smiled, and said something in Japanese. It took me a moment to realize he’d mistaken me for one of Nadya’s hostesses. I felt my face flush red. The last thing I needed was someoneasking me to make them drinks in Japanese. I try not to speak foreign languages—ever. I have a knack for saying the wrong thing. It’s somewhat embarrassing. I can read and write ten languages, including Japanese, fluently. Two of them are even dead. I just can’t speak or understand a word of any of them—except English, in which my spoken fluency is debatable.
I shrugged and smiled at the businessman, attempting to convey my obliviousness. I then tried to catch the attention of one of Nadya’s girls as she dipped behind the bar to grab drinks. The desperation on my face must have been bad, because she dropped what she was doing and seamlessly took over. I let out a breath and kept my eyes down and on my champagne, hoping the customer caught on I wasn’t an employee. My presence sucks and I know it. Plus Nadya would kill me if I messed up business.
As far as hostess bars go, the Space Station Deluxe is on the lighter, younger, more fashionable end of the spectrum. For instance, the staff, from the girls Nadya hires all the way up to the house band, knows how to throw one hell of a party. But the seedier, sex work stuff, like creepy old men chasing girls young enough to be their granddaughters? Let’s just say Nadya discourages that. The men coming here are paying to be in Nadya and her girls’ presence. You want something more? Go find the nearest soap club.
“You haven’t been in Tokyo for a while,” Nadya said, coming
“Drink!” I heard Nadya yell over her shoulder. “You need better alcohol tolerance.”
“That’s the last thing I need.”
Nadya whirled on the heels of her spiked stilettos as if they’d been ballet slippers, just so I’d have the benefit of seeing her glare.
“Drink it! We’re going out after this.”
I shot her a dirty look before she turned her back on me. Well, I’d worry how to get out of that later.
I pulled the folder back and opened it to the pages that referenced the Bali tablet chamber. I still hadn’t worked out exactly why the file was so sparse—I mean, obviously to hide something supernatural, but there were none of the usual hints dropped for archaeologists as to what.
It was a dual thesis project, meaning it had been written by two individual students from different faculties; in this case, physics and archaeology had teamed up. I’d bet the physics PhD had been brought on to do some fancy carbon dating, maybe even some fancy laser imaging of the rooms. Nothing more fun than pissing off old archaeology professors with hard, scientific facts. Used to be one of my favorite stunts. But if that was the case, where the hell was the carbon dating? And pictures of the dig site?
I closed the file. If anyone could tell me, it was Nuroshi. The old man reminded me of a turnip; sickly white, rotund, with puffy eyes that constantly watered. Whereas most men go bald from the center out, Nuroshi was balding from the outside in. All that was left now was a tuft of black hair. Like I said, turnip. He was also a low-level curator for the Japanese Museum of Antiquities, attached to the University of Tokyo. High enough up the ladder to have privileged information and access to the storage rooms, old enough and close enough to retirement not to garner any attention. He also knew his stuff, even though I had a hard time stomaching his particular brand of dirty old man antics. Nadya had dug him up when a few of her high-end clientele had found out she’d been an archaeologist and subtly hinted they were interested in “acquiring” pieces.
The Space Station Deluxe kept filling up as people got off work for the day. A handsome businessman in a really nice suit took the barstool beside me, smiled, and said something in Japanese. It took me a moment to realize he’d mistaken me for one of Nadya’s hostesses. I felt my face flush red. The last thing I needed was someoneasking me to make them drinks in Japanese. I try not to speak foreign languages—ever. I have a knack for saying the wrong thing. It’s somewhat embarrassing. I can read and write ten languages, including Japanese, fluently. Two of them are even dead. I just can’t speak or understand a word of any of them—except English, in which my spoken fluency is debatable.
I shrugged and smiled at the businessman, attempting to convey my obliviousness. I then tried to catch the attention of one of Nadya’s girls as she dipped behind the bar to grab drinks. The desperation on my face must have been bad, because she dropped what she was doing and seamlessly took over. I let out a breath and kept my eyes down and on my champagne, hoping the customer caught on I wasn’t an employee. My presence sucks and I know it. Plus Nadya would kill me if I messed up business.
As far as hostess bars go, the Space Station Deluxe is on the lighter, younger, more fashionable end of the spectrum. For instance, the staff, from the girls Nadya hires all the way up to the house band, knows how to throw one hell of a party. But the seedier, sex work stuff, like creepy old men chasing girls young enough to be their granddaughters? Let’s just say Nadya discourages that. The men coming here are paying to be in Nadya and her girls’ presence. You want something more? Go find the nearest soap club.
“You haven’t been in Tokyo for a while,” Nadya said, coming
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