by Kevin Hearne
The sigil specifically makes camera lenses black out while the sigil is in the picture. To the observer looking through the lens or at a developed photo or at security footage, it appears to be a glitch, or as if someone had switched off the power—or, in the case of a still photo, poor exposure. It is an aegis of privacy in the era of Big Brother.
I am a normal human with only twenty or thirty years left if I beat the odds, but if I have anything close to a modern-day superpower, it is this: I cannot be surveilled in the surveillance state unless I allow it. The police therefore have no footage of me from yesterday walking into Gordie’s building or out of it, nor of Nadia arriving and then departing with a bag of stolen inks and pens.
Without such evidence—and in the face of the timestamped video footage Nadia would show them of me supposedly fixing a broken press during that time—they’d have no way to prove I was there. They would have to get me to admit I had been in the building, and I wasn’t about to do that.
Not that I expected them to pursue this much longer; Gordie’s death had been an accident, after all, and the Sigil of Porous Mind had affected everyone in the place, making their recollections of what exactly had been in the building a bit fuzzy. They might nibble on the bone of the mystery a bit more, or let it gnaw at them before they went to sleep for a couple of nights, but another case would come their way and they’d forget about me soon enough.
That, or D.I. Munro would outthink me. She clearly had a mind to be feared.
I was making my way to Tartan Greenhouses to check in with Saxon Codpiece when Coriander glided up next to me. He appeared to walk, that is, but his feet didn’t quite touch the ground. He came across as the smoothest walker of all time. His knees must feel amazing, never having to take the impact shock of millions of steps over the years, and I admit that envied him for that.
“Good afternoon, Agent MacBharrais.”
I gave him a nod and then a raised eyebrow as if to say, What news?
“After investigating at your request, it turns out that there have, in fact, been some suspicious disappearances of rather dangerous creatures from the nine planes. A more than usually bloodthirsty leprechaun among them.”
That prompted me to get out my phone. [Aye, we met him last night. He gave my hobgoblin a beating.]
“Indeed? Well, our course of action seems clear. Provide me the contracts and I will send barghests after them.”
[I don’t think that would be wise in this case,] I said. [If your missing Fae have all become like the leprechaun, you won’t be getting your dogs back.]
“What do you mean when you say become like the leprechaun?”
[The leprechaun wasn’t normal. Neither was the clurichaun or the troll that attacked us last night. They were all stronger, meaner somehow. It touches on something I didn’t get to tell you when last we met.] I pressed SEND on that and then held up a finger to indicate that there was more coming. [The hobgoblin is now legally in my service, and he told me that he was lured here under false pretenses. I have a theory that it’s for scientific reasons.]
“Science?” Coriander curled his lip and shuddered.
[I can’t be certain, but I believe that whoever’s behind this is augmenting the Fae somehow. So giving them more Fae in the form of barghests would be a terrible idea. I’m sure they’re going to be waiting for something to come at them—after our encounter, they know that at least one sigil agent is aware of their presence here. If they have half a brain, they’ll have an ambush or a booby trap ready for anything we send their way.]
“So we require reconnaissance only.”
[Aye. And, look, I can’t prove it yet—all I have is the word of a hobgoblin—but he’s saying that Clíodhna is offering fake contracts for domestic service to lure the Fae here.]
“That is…uh…”
[Something I need to prove without a doubt, aye. I’m working on that. Have you got something insubstantial to send after the missing Fae that the bastards can’t turn into a hopped-up monster? A nice phantom, maybe?]
“More insubstantial than a barghest? They’ll forget what they’re after before they’re halfway there.”
[Aye, you’re right.]
Coriander snorted. “We could ask Clíodhna to help and send some of the bean sídhe to look. Her reaction might be instructive.”
[It might at that. Of course, if she agrees, we’d have banshees floating around Glasgow doing who knows what on her behalf and scaring the living shite out of people. And she can simply report to us afterward that the banshees found nothing.]
“I wasn’t being serious.”
I nodded at him by way of saying I knew that and then sighed as I typed my reply. [Brighid should at least be informed.] The Irish goddess of poetry, fire, and the forge carried the title of the First among the Fae and ruled from an iron throne. Or used to. Rumor had it she ruled from a throne of wood now, since the Fae had been offended by the iron and mounted an ill-fated rebellion a while ago.
“Of course. Did you find out if any of your colleagues taught your apprentice the sigils out of turn?”
[I don’t think they did. Clíodhna may or may not be involved in that. But somebody is leaking secrets.]
“The First among the Fae might wish to speak with you in person regarding these matters,” the herald said. “Prepare yourself.”
Suddenly I felt anxious and uncertain. [What do you mean? How do I prepare? Do I need a shave or what?]
Coriander chuckled musically. “I forgot you’ve never actually met Brighid. Preparation is at once simple and impossible: You must be ready to tell the truth and be told it.”
[Do I bring a gift? An Irish whiskey?]
“Not necessary. Bring a healthy sense of wonder and dread. That should be the right frame of mind.”
[So there’s nothing I can do or say to smooth the way?]
“She might appreciate a poem. She is a goddess of poetry, after all, but few honor her that way anymore.”
[I am guessing she would not want to hear a dirty limerick, though.]
“You guess correctly. Something of your own creation would do nicely. An emotional piece.”
[Bollocks. I’m no poet.]
“She will be aware of that, I assure you. But as a gesture she will appreciate it.”
[Shite. How much time do I have?] I felt as if I’d just been given some horrible homework.
“I have no way of knowing. When she wants to set up a meeting, she will of course send me to arrange it. Hopefully you will be available.”
[My schedule is infinitely adjustable to hers.]
“Excellent. We shall speak again soon.”
And then Coriander glided gorgeously away, ignoring all the humans who told him in passing that he was handsome and pretty.
I lifted the circular-saw blade on the wall of the Tartan Greenhouse shed and had my phone say “Urgent Cake” at the hidden intercom.
“Incorrect password,” a smooth female mechanical voice replied. “Tosser,” she added, because of course Saxon Codpiece would have a security system that insulted people.
I checked my Signal app and saw that I’d missed one from Codpiece. There was a new password waiting for me there, and I typed it in.
[Melancholy Charcuterie.]
The secret door opened and I began my descent. The hacker had changed his lighting concept to the violet and magenta end of the spectrum, and a glass disco ball, unseen earlier, had somehow been installed. It spun slowly and threw glimmers of reflected spotlights on the floor below. A groove funk anthem from the seventies was playing loudly, the bass vibrating up through the soles of my shoes, and I paused on the stairs, unsure if I wanted to see what Codpiece was up to at the moment. I might be interrupting something.
I doubted that my ability to shout would be loud enough, and my text-to-speech app definitely wouldn’
t be, so I Signaled him and hoped the phone would light up or vibrate or otherwise catch his attention.
Is it safe to come down? I’m on the stairs, I sent to him. He answered in less than thirty seconds.
Sure, he replied. And then the music turned off and I continued down, the lighting returning to a fluorescent white for business. I didn’t see Codpiece immediately, so I drifted toward the bar, assuming that when I did see him I might be in the mood for a drink.
Sure enough, he emerged from the back of the basement, running long fingers through his hair and his face flushed. I went ahead and pulled myself a pint without asking.
“Awright, Al?” Saxon called. “Glad ye came by. I have news. What did ye learn?”
He entered his half circle of monitors and keyboards and gadgets the way a rock drummer nestles into his trap kit. I drank half the pint before answering.
[Found out that Bastille is definitely doing something to the Fae. Juicing them up somehow, like steroids but more permanent. Augmenting them.]
“Oh, aye? It’s a government ye want for it, then,” Codpiece said. “Bastille’s working for a government.”
[Why a government?]
“Because this in’t mad science being conducted in a misguided attempt tae help the planet, is it? This Bastille guy isnae a tragic Dr. Frankenstein type where a man of lofty ideals thinks he’s daein’ the right thing. Whoever’s daein’ this is up tae evil shite, and they know it. Only way ye get scientists tae do that is with a government behind them. They’ll use carrots or sticks or both tae make ’em work, but regardless it’s gonnay be, Let’s go, lab coats, we have work tae do, your country needs ye, et cetera.”
[Why can’t it be an evil-industrialist type?]
“All kinds of reasons. Ye’ve seen too many Bond films. Look, if ye’re a billionaire oligarch, ye already rule the world, in the sense that ye can go anywhere and do anything ye want. It’s complete freedom. Ye don’t dream of ruling the world if ye already own it—if ye can buy politicians or even entire elections, why do ye need tae do the actual ruling? And why do ye need science tae accomplish yer goals? Ye don’t. Ye just go ’round being fancy and above the law on yer yacht in international waters. There’s even a subgenre of romances dedicated tae how hot and desirable billionaires are—very hot and desirable, in case ye were wondering. I’m a fan. But government employees, mate? They dream of ruling the world. Because their day is full of hierarchies up and down and all around, and they all want tae be on top because they all know how tae fix things, by God.”
[It’s a fair point,] I admitted.
“I’m not saying it’s this president or that prime minister or that royal highness behind it all. But it’s somebody on the spooky side of things with a secret budget, who’s been looking at the world and thinks they can fix it with a few good monsters.”
[But what for?]
“I dunno, MacBharrais. Ye need to ask ’em when ye find ’em.”
[Could it be they want perfect assassins?]
“Naw. Too much attention around assassinations, in’t there? That’s not how ye win. That’ll get people pissed off and shootin’ back, maybe start a war. But I know I’ve never heard of an actual secret organization daein’ shite.”
[Well, if you had, they wouldn’t be secret.]
He snorted derisively. “Awright, let me put it this way: All the truly evil scientific discoveries that we live in fear of—I’m talking nuclear weapons and that—were invented by groups of scientists working at the behest of a government. And a lot of that science is still mostly secret. The things that are actually killing us—plastics and fossil fuels and opioids and so on—were developed for the purpose of profit and sold tae us tae make our lives easier. Either way, it’s not the Masons or the Templar Knights or the Illuminati or whatever criminal organization ye care tae name that’s killin’ us. They don’t do mad science, because they’ve got their rituals and candlesticks and mystical symbols. It’s governments and corporations that do science. And when billionaires want tae rule the world, they don’t bother rounding up a bunch of people with advanced degrees. They just go buy the governments and make their politicians change the laws to suit them. I’m tellin’ ye, it’s a bureaucrat who wants to change things that’s behind this, not one of these oligarchs.”
I nodded because it was the polite thing to do. He might well be right. But there were secret societies out there who did shite. I was in one of them. And there were eccentric billionaires who did something because they could, not because they should, and told themselves they were being philanthropic.
[What’s your news?]
“Got into Gordie’s phone. No calls or texts that scream conspiracy tae me, but he’s got some photos in a hidden album that are unbe-fucking-lievable.”
[How so?]
“Things that are no human. Pretty sure they’re Fae, though I’m no actually sure what I’m looking at.”
[Show me.] I beckoned to him and he came over with the phone while I finished off the pint. The folder had only seven pictures in it, and the last one was of a snarling pink hobgoblin of my recent acquaintance. But I recognized some of the others as well. The leprechaun, clurichaun, and troll, for example. There was also a pixie, presumably the one that had departed shortly before Buck, along with a fir darrig and what I supposed must be an undine. Six portraits of Fae corresponding to six payments in Gordie’s numbered accounts, plus one more that wound up being a failed delivery.
Had they all been offered bogus contracts to serve on earth, as Buck had? And how in the world had Gordie smuggled a troll here without me noticing?
[This is an insufferable pile of mince.]
“No argument here.”
[Where’d you put all those documents I had from his flat?]
“I stashed them out of sight, because I had some other clients coming ’round. Ye want them now?”
I nodded. [I want to take time to go through them more thoroughly, if that’s okay.]
“Nae bother.”
While he disappeared into the bowels of the basement and made rummaging noises, I pulled another pint.
I settled myself at the bar and wondered what kind of poem Brighid might like from an old man she’d never met. Something singing her praises? It couldn’t possibly be genuine. What could I offer that she hadn’t heard before? My observation that iced tea—
[Saxon!] I typed as he approached with a bag of Gordie’s documents.
“Yeah?”
[Have you ever noticed that iced tea creates a stronger, more urgent need to pee than any other drink?]
“Oh, shite yes! That’s why I won’t drink it often. Iced-tea pee is no joke. People tend tae drink lots of it fast, and high quantity combined with the diuretic qualities of caffeine double-team your bladder and create extraordinary urgency.”
[Thanks.] I raised my beer in a salute, a beverage one could hold on to for quite some time before evacuating it. [I’m glad I’m not the only one.]
“Nae damage.”
So iced-tea pee was real. Maybe Brighid hadn’t heard about that in Tír na nÓg. It was an aspect of modern existence that may have eluded her up till now. Maybe I could write a poem about that? Coriander said it should be emotional, though. I didn’t have any emotions associated with peeing except relief. And somehow I didn’t think it was appropriate material to offer to anyone, much less a goddess.
I shook my head as I emptied out the contents of the bag Saxon brought. I was going to be rubbish at poetry if this was all I could think of. Then I remembered something and typed it before I dove in.
[I need Gordie’s phone and sim card utterly destroyed. Computer too. Can’t have the police looking at that.]
“Right ye are. Anything else ye need off it first? Contacts? Recent calls?”
[All of that. And all the passwords and account numbers from the vaul
t, anything about banking information.] Holding up a hand to stay him, I pulled out the proper pens and a card and drew him another Sigil of Sexual Vigor before sealing it for later use.
“Thanks, Al! I’ll put those contacts and calls on a spreadsheet for ye, give ye a flash drive with all the data ye want. Then the evidence will be destroyed and disappeared, no worries, and take all the time ye need there.”
It was slow going, checking all of Gordie’s bills and notebooks for small notes, anything I might have missed before, but it turned out to be worth it. My jaw dropped when I found a small rectangle of paper pressed between the sheets of a cell-phone bill, with the recipe for Manannan’s ink written down—a gigantic no-no in a discipline handled by oral tradition—and it wasn’t in Gordie’s handwriting. This was a transgression beyond unauthorized teaching; it was the sort of thing that could get a sigil agent disappeared.
Manannan’s was the ink that required chambered-nautilus ganglions, and it allowed one to draw the Sigil of Aquatic Breathing—the western variation of it, anyway. Mei-ling and Shu-hua had their own sets of inks and sigils, since they had a different, older system invented by Chinese deities, and their inks were solid ink sticks rather than liquid. To draw their sigils, they had to grind the ink sticks on a stone and mix with water, then use brushes to paint their sigils, always sealing them for later use if they weren’t intended as wards. The disadvantage to their system was that they couldn’t really draw sigils on the fly like I could with my fountain pens. The advantages were that they had a lot of wards and blessings we didn’t have and their ink ingredients weren’t quite as difficult to obtain. Our few overlapping sigils that performed the same functions using nearly identical inks, albeit in solid and liquid forms—like the Sigil of Iron Gall—were treasured bridges across the gap between us. While the Sigil of Aquatic Breathing existed in the Chinese system, its form and its ink were both different from the western one.
Why had Gordie needed that sigil? Ah: The undine, right. So someone had not only helped Gordie with the Fae-trafficking scenario, but they had helped him with the sigils he’d need to pull it off.