An Erie Operetta by V.L. Locey Page B

a large black trunk with wheels and a trio of formidable locks like I was an old shoe. The lid was shut. I felt the trunk being moved. A door opened with a terrible howl of rusty hinges. I squeaked as loudly as I could and heard the door being closed with attitude. Silence, and some pretty advanced darkness, fell over me. Well, damn. This sucked. But at least I had one solid clue to pass along to Mikel... if I didn’t end up in some mythological singing bird-woman’s gullet.
    Nine
    Things were pretty dire. I tried a variety of options to break free, but none of them worked. Picking the locks, chewing on the locks, cursing the locks. All a no-go. I thought of shifting, but then I would be a full-sized man folded into a travelling trunk. Also, as a skunk I used far less air. As far as I could tell, the tiny openings in the locks were the only means of fresh oxygen. After a small breakdown of sorts I curled into a tight ball, nose tucked under tail, and waited for my fate to befall me. Probably they would eat me. A shudder ran over me from tail tip to pointed ears. Or maybe they would throw the trunk into Lake Erie.
    No, they would just eat me. That would be far less work and far more filling for the bitches. What the hell were sirens even doing here? The last I had heard, they were still resigned to living on small islands somewhere south of Capri. Had they been given leave to move among humans? Elders know the few times these harridans got near men terrible things happened. Luring sailors to their deaths upon jagged rocks. Tempting Jason and Odysseus to come be drained of their life forces. What dolt would give sirens the freedom to play among the mortals? Probably the same dolts who gave that same right to we shifters. The days of being relegated to the mountains of Transylvania -- or the islands of Capri -- were over. I sighed in resignation. It seemed the Sirens weren’t obeying the rules of proper human/mystical interaction, though.
    My mind tumbled over itself furiously for quite some time. How long I can’t say, but I’d imagine it was as long as the second act of The Magic Flute. I really wasn’t in any hurry for the curtain call. I sat up abruptly when I heard muted voices. The talking grew louder, louder, and louder still. Someone had entered the diva’s dressing room. A man, as well as the head siren. It was difficult to make out what was being said through the wall of the trunk as well as the closet door. I sat quietly, head leaned to the right, listening. More voices could be heard. Laughter. Was that a clinking glass? They were celebrating the success of the performance. The nerve of those damned turkey-necked bitches.
    I stewed in that trunk for what seemed to be hours. When the party broke up, I grew tense. I heard the grating sound of that squeaking door hinge. I drew back into one corner of the trunk, showing my teeth as viciously as I could. The trunk wobbled. I smelled myself. Oops. Then the lid flew open. I was momentarily blinded.
    “Templeton?” someone asked. Akio! I blinked rapidly as my sight adjusted. “Oh man, you reek.”
    I climbed out of the trunk. Akio was pinching his nose shut. His eyes were watering. I hit the floor running. The vampire’s chosen followed, coughing and sputtering about my odor.
    “What were you doing in that chest?” Akio asked when we skidded to a halt in the hallway. I glanced up at him then cocked the whiskers over my right eye. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Guess you can’t talk when you’re in skunk mode, huh? Is there a book I can read that will fill me in on all this?”
    I shook my head then tore off down the hallway, Akio tripping over me on occasion. We hit the end and banked a right. This hall led us to another, then another, then some stairs, then more corridors. The damned place was a labyrinth. Pity we wouldn’t stumble across David Bowie in those nothing-left-to-the-imagination, skin-tight grey pants. We did run into a befuddled trio of men standing in the