by Kevin Hearne
The gnome nodded and turned back to the stage without another word. He didn’t say he’d Facebook me or anything.
We have to hide. I’m going to camouflage you.
A god, a faery, and whatever Kohleherz is.
Because I’m curious. I cast camouflage on Oberon and he melted from sight as the spell bound the pigments of his surroundings to his own. It wasn’t perfect invisibility, especially when he moved, but it was good enough. I then cast it on myself and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. A couple of passersby did a double take in my direction, but they shook it off quickly, consumed as they were with consumerism. Convinced that Oberon and I were out of sight, I walked slowly across the cobbled intersection to the building catercorner to San Felipe’s. Finding a low-traffic area, I stripped and asked Oberon to guard my clothes. I placed them under his front paws.
Right above you on the roof. We’re going to people-watch for a while. Let me know if you smell anything else that isn’t human.
Try to bear it with patience, Oberon. I’ll buy you a steak when we’re finished.
No fooling. You did a great job alerting me to the gnomes, so you can have a filet wrapped in bacon if you want.
I smiled and bound myself to the form of a great horned owl. It was one of four animal shapes I could take, and ideal for surreptitiously observing skulduggery on a late-autumn night. I don’t think the gnome-filet exchange rate is one-to-one.
Less than five minutes after establishing a perch on the roof, I saw Goibhniu stride into the square from the west. His hair wasn’t as red as mine; it was more of a burnt auburn shade, and he wore it down to his shoulders, parted in the middle. He was dressed in jeans and an Irish sweater that covered up most of his tattoos. He paused in front of the stage, smiled wryly, and nodded at the gnomes, and they nodded back, visibly relieved to see him. He carried a stainless-steel thermos in his left hand and kept his right hand in his pocket as he headed for the entrance to San Felipe’s. He disappeared for a few moments, but reappeared soon on the periphery across from the stage, except inside the fence. All the tables along the edge were occupied because they afforded the best chance to see and be seen. Goibhniu strode confidently to one table of four, pulled something out of his pocket, and laid it down. It was four Benjamins. He offered one each to the patrons; they immediately took their drinks and left.
Now in sole possession of a prime table, he sat on a high stool and set his thermos prominently in the center. A svelte waitress appeared to ask his pleasure, and he ordered a drink that he would probably never touch.
Shortly thereafter, I could sense tension build in the area like a subwoofer crescendo, seismic and inescapable. I’ll admit that it ruffled my feathers. Someone down there was causing it, but I couldn’t tell who. It was time to look at things a bit differently. I activated the charm on my necklace that bound my sight to the magical spectrum. I try not to use it too often, because seeing how all things are bound together is a recipe for sensory overload. Still, it’s invaluable for seeing through the glamours of faeries, and it’s for that reason that I call the spell “faery specs.”
The source of the magical mojo was indeed a faery, or rather it was something he carried on his back. The faery was posing as a dark-haired emo boy, with a shaggy haircut obscuring half his face and what looked like extremely uncomfortable skinny jeans. In reality he was blond and athletic and a bit taller. A large burlap sack was slung over his back, the size of those garbage bags used for lawn clippings. The drawstring had nearly closed the contents away from my sight, but inside I could tell there was a dark and roiling magic waiting to get out, magic of the deep earth that was better left buried.
Because something wicked this way comes.
The faery spied Goibhniu and moved to the entrance of San Felipe’s to join him. The gnomes saw the faery and went about their business, but it was clear they were all distracted now.
The waitress returned to Goibhniu’s table and deposited a pint of beer and two empty shot glasses. He thanked her and she left. The faery slouched into view afterward and nodded once to Goibhniu, making no move to sit down or lay down his burden. Goibhniu nodded back solemnly. I wondered if they were related, and if he’d brought that steel thermos purposely to taunt the faery.
All faeries—I mean the real Irish ones, not the cute winged horrors of Disney—are descendants of the Tuatha Dé Danann, born in Tír na nÓg. Unlike their sires, faeries are beings of pure magic, and as such cannot stand the touch of iron. Steel is very bad. Wrought iron is worse. And cold iron—or rather iron from meteorites, unbound from the world’s magic—is the worst. That’s why I wear a cold iron amulet in the center of my necklace: It’s Grade-A faery repellent.
Without speaking, Goibhniu reached for the steel thermos and unscrewed the lid. He poured a measure of amber liquid into one of the shot glasses, then screwed the lid back on and set it down on the table. At this point my vision began to show me two different things.
What the human eye could see remained the same: The dark-haired emo boy just stood there, looking at the shot glasses and the table, and the bag hung motionless across his back. But in the magical spectrum—a better reflection of reality that appeared like a green overlay in my sight—the blond faery picked up the empty shot glass and held it near the top of his right shoulder. A thin black arm, its skin like chiseled charcoal, snaked out of the burlap bag and reached for the glass with a three-fingered hand. The drawstring loosened, the bag rippled, and an ugly black head and shoulders emerged, a cruel grin of teeth like cooled lava rocks splitting the face. The gnomes saw this, too, their magical sight as good as mine, and they stiffened. This must be Kohleherz, the source of all that bad mojo, and though I’d never seen one of his kind before, he could be nothing else but a kobold of the darkest mines and subterranean caves.
Kobolds are to gnomes as the Sith are to the Jedi—or even as yin is to yang. They are both wee species of bipeds who wield earth magic and whose faces cry out for rhinoplasty, but kobolds are bound to the deeper forces of violence and upheaval in the earth, whereas the gnomes serve the forces of growth and nurturing. If the legends about them are true, kobolds have fantastic resistance to heat and pressure. Show a kobold a lake of lava and he’ll wade into it like it’s a Jacuzzi, maybe even order a drink with an umbrella and a piece of fruit on the rim. Then he’ll calmly, cavalierly plot some really evil shit, like an encore for Krakatoa.
The creature’s left hand produced a golden flask from the bag—not merely gold-plated but solid gold, stamped on the outside with gnomish script and encrusted with glea
ming gems. He poured a smaller measure of a silvery liquid, thick and viscous, into the shot glass and put it back into the faery’s upraised hand. The faery put it down on the table and then picked up the shot glass full of Goibhniu’s brew. Goibhniu, in turn, picked up the glass full of Clan Rathskeller’s magnum opus. It was like a drug deal, with both sides sampling the product before the exchange.
The kobold tossed back the amber shot and coughed, then nodded appreciatively. Goibhniu savored his wee sip of gnomish brew, clearly a rare moment of bliss in his long life. At last he nodded and set down the glass. I couldn’t really hear anything over the noise of the mall, but I imagined a hiss of pleasure coming from the kobold. He leaned out of the bag, proffering the flask. Goibhniu picked up the steel thermos since the faery could not, and rose from his chair. He took the flask from the kobold; he gave the steel thermos in exchange, careful not to touch the faery with it. The kobold grinned wickedly and melted back into the bag with his prize.
The parties did not shake hands and wish each other well. Goibhniu casually took a step toward the fence and stretched out his hand, dangling the golden flask out into space. This, apparently, was a signal. The gnomes shouted “Rathskeller!” in a decidedly un-elvish register, ceased all pretense of being Santa’s helpers, and sprinted off the stage, much to the confusion of Santa and much to the trauma of all the good little boys and girls.
Sweet! He’s giving the hooch right back to the gnomes! He’s totally screwing the kobold!
Gods can screw anything and anybody. For reference, see history.
The faery’s jaw dropped as he saw the gnomes rushing his way, their noses red and their mustaches aquiver with righteous fury. The kobold’s dark silhouette popped out of the bag briefly to see what was going on and his loud cry of dismay shuddered through the square. Clearly he and the faery were as surprised as I to see gnomes mixing with humans. People stopped in their tracks, shut their mouths, and turned to stare as the elves charged the fence of San Felipe’s. The kobold screeched at the faery to flee in Old High German, a raspy, keening noise that scraped across the nerves and yanked everybody out of their happy place. Nobody could see what was making that noise, and I’m fairly certain nobody wanted to see it. Children began to scream, and the first fingers of panic began to trace shivering paths down the spines of the adults. The faery bolted for the exit as Goibhniu grinned at Clan Rathskeller. The gnome who’d been helping Santa took possession of the Draught of Unending Strength, and they all bowed in thanks to him.
Goibhniu said something to them—probably “you’re welcome”—and bid them farewell with a wave. He vaulted the fence effortlessly and began to jog west toward the bookstore, the direction from whence he came, leaving his untouched drink on the table. The gnomes formed a wedge and began to trot around San Felipe’s fence to cut off the faery and Kohleherz. I didn’t think they’d make it; the faery was almost to the door, and then he’d head south for the parking lot. There was no way those short gnomish legs could keep up with the strides of a long-legged faery. The kobold would get away if I didn’t intervene—and I had good reasons to let it go. It really wasn’t my affair, for one thing. And I had a good gig going here: I’d managed to stay in one place for more than ten years, I had a thriving business, and no one suspected that I was older than three major religions and spoke forty-two languages. If I stuck my nose into this and either the faery or the kobold escaped, I’d have to work hard to disappear again.
On the other hand, I knew I’d feel guilty if I let the kobold go. They possessed a profound lack of redeeming features, from all I’d ever heard or read. They were kind of like mosquitoes that way—they’re pests capable of inflicting serious harm, and whenever I see one I have to kill it as a community service. Pompeii, if the stories were true, hadn’t been a natural eruption, but spawned by a trio of kobolds who had a beef with a warlock in the town. It was lucky for us that they rarely bothered with humans.
Stay there, I told Oberon. I’m going to make sure the bad guys don’t get away.
Fine, but you’re not allowed to help them drop it. I spread my wings and sailed silently toward the entrance to San Felipe’s just as the faery and his malevolent friend burst through it. They collided with a mother and her two children making their way toward the stage, bowling them over and forever associating Santa with violent falls in the minds of those poor kids. The faery quickly found his legs again and put them to excellent use as the wailing began. Clan Rathskeller turned the corner and spied him, but a quick glance told me that they’d never close the distance without some help.
I wondered what their escape plan was as the faery ran south and the kobold surveyed their pursuit, his coal-black eyes peeking out from the top of the sack. Indeed, why had they chosen Tempe to make this bizarre exchange in the first place? Faeries can’t shift to Tír na nÓg without oak, ash, and thorn to aid their journey, and those trees were in short supply in the Phoenix metro area. Ah, but kobolds—especially the black, sunless ones like Kohleherz—they knew their way around underground. And a peculiar feature of the Tempe Marketplace is its close proximity to a sand-and-rock quarry based in the bed of the Salt River. I concluded that the kobold had gotten them here, and the kobold would get them out.
They were indeed heading in that direction, directly east along the northern throughway once they hit the lot, the gnomes in pursuit but falling behind. If I waited until they got to the bare earth of the quarry, I’d have access to all the power I’d need—but then, as earth-based magic users themselves, so would they. And there’d be no stopping the kobold once he got to some earth he could sink into. If my skills at moving dirt were like a kid with a plastic shovel, gnomes and kobolds were like Caterpillar hydraulic excavators. On asphalt, all of us would be working with limited power—but me especially, since the shift back to human would drain me further. My defenses would have to hold until the gnomes in their silly platform shoes could catch up.
The lot wasn’t particularly busy with comings and goings at the moment—a small blessing. If I could take care of this without ruining anyone else’s Monday, that would be a victory. I spiraled down in front of the faery’s path and dissolved my camouflage. The sudden appearance of an owl in the parking lot startled and slowed him a bit, but he didn’t brake fully; he simply tacked left to run around me. He skidded to an alarmed halt, however, once I shifted to human form in front of him. I purposely presented my right side so that he could see the Druidic tattoos that covered me in a continuous band from my heel to the back of my right hand. If he looked at me in the magical spectrum, he’d see them backlit as the energy from the shift spent itself among the knots and recycled. He’d also see something else. I was counting on it.
He cursed in surprise, and so did the kobold riding on his back. A querulous bark in Old High German demanded to know why he’d stopped.
The faery’s eyes widened as it sank in that I wasn’t one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. To him, I was a spooky story told round the campfire come to life.
“He’s made of iron!” he squealed.
I smiled at his mistake—though perhaps, from his perspective, it was entirely accurate. I had bound my cold iron amulet to my aura, so to him I looked like naked death. I used some of my dwindling supply of energy to quicken my reflexes and scare the faery even more; he’d see the white flash of the energy course through me in the magical spectrum and wonder what I’d just done.
“Just keep going! We have to get to the quarry!” the kobold’s voice grated.
The faery tried to obey, feinting first to the left and then to the right to get around me, but I matched his moves and he knew he couldn’t get around without me touching him. The game we were playing was Tag, You’re Dead; my aura would dissolve his very substance. I lunged toward him, hand outstretched, and he backpedaled frantically to avoid me. He even turned and began to flee, b
lindly, back toward the gnomes.
But he’d forgotten he was in the parking lot of one of the most popular shopping destinations in the Phoenix metro area. As he fled, the kobold cursing him, he ran right into one of those giant, manly trucks with a steel ribbon in front of the grille and a chrome steel bumper. Both he and the truck were going perhaps five miles an hour, not normally life-threatening, but all that steel coming into contact with the faery walloped him forcefully, and he fell backward on top of his dark passenger, unconscious before he hit the ground.
At that point, Kohleherz decided that there was nothing more to be gained by stealth and subterfuge. Using the inhuman strength of the earthborn, he kicked the faery off him and then tore through the fabric of the bag. He immediately seized the faery in both hands and threw him up over the hood of the truck to land sickeningly against its windshield. The driver of said truck, already traumatized by thoughts of how much his insurance premiums would go up after this accident, was now nearly apoplexed. He thundered out of the cab, cursing and looking for someone to blame. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off; he was one of those people who think their arms constitute a “gun show.” He saw me standing there, naked, but missed the kobold, who was after all much closer to the ground and had skin the color of asphalt anyway. He immediately concluded that the skinny emo boy who’d run into his truck—and then somehow leapt back onto it from the surface of the parking lot—had been trying to escape my unwanted sexual advances.
“What the hell did you do, you pervert? You mighta killed this poor kid! They oughtta lock you away and ’lectrocute your nads!”
I didn’t respond, because naked people never win arguments. They get yelled at, arrested, and Tasered, but nobody ever listens to them. Besides, I had smaller, more dangerous fish to fry. I couldn’t let Kohleherz escape. He’d snatched up the steel thermos and was now checking on the location of Clan Rathskeller. The gnomes were huffing and puffing their way toward us, getting closer, but it was clear that they wished they had some cross-trainers on instead of clunky elf risers.