Ink & Sigil

by Kevin Hearne

  Our food arrived, and Saxon said we should eat first so our appetites wouldn’t be ruined. We fell to and Saxon started talking again after a couple of bites.

  “So ye already know that I’m technically what ye call a sex worker on a part-time basis. I mean, it’s just me, or a part of me, online,” he said, as he gestured significantly to his sausage in a bun, “and I get a modest revenue stream from that. But I’m the exception tae the rule in terms of being in the business voluntarily and completely in charge of my own situation. Or maybe it’s changed and I am part of the rule now—I think that might be true. There are lots of folks like me who just do things on one side of the camera because that’s safe, and there are lots of niche services that fall short of the full shebang, so tae speak, that allows people tae do it as a side gig tae help pay the bills while they keep their day jobs. The thing is, plenty of people are not in it by their own choice, but because some are, people who pay for sex like tae think that everyone’s consenting and that if they’re committing a crime it’s a victimless one. But, no, victims of sex trafficking have been tricked, manipulated, and abused every step of the way, and that’s a situation that’s ongoing. They have little tae no control of their lives, and that’s the way their pimps want it.” He paused, shook his head, and tore into his sausage sandwich. Around a mouthful, he said, “I fucking hate pimps, Al.”

  [Understood.]

  “So I’m going tae give ye two names and two addresses, and you do whatever ye’re going tae do with it. The names are pimps, and I want them tae be punished. The addresses are where their victims are living, and I want them tae be treated like people who need help instead of people who need tae be arrested.”

  [Agreed.]

  He handed over an envelope and I put it into my coat. “I’ll contact ye when I return. If the pimps are in jail and their victims are no, I can give ye more later.”

  [Thanks, Saxon.]

  “Right. Well, I best be off. Need tae stay out of jail ma self. Can ye get the check?”

  I nodded, and he beamed at me before cramming the rest of his food in his mouth.

  [What if your place is raided?]

  He chuckled and swallowed before answering. “I have a Plan B. And also C through Z. Backups for my backups. Good luck, Al,” he said, and unfolded himself from the seat, securing his laptop.

  [You too.]

  “I’ll Signal you from a new number when I’m back.”

  [Okay.]

  He gave me a salute, I tugged my hat brim, and he left first this time. I wondered if it was too soon to contact D.I. Munro with these names. It almost certainly was, but I didn’t want to wait long. Now that I knew where there were people in need of saving, I didn’t want to let them suffer any longer for the sake of appearances with a detective. I scanned the restaurant and discovered that everyone was ignoring the old man in the corner. Public places can be spectacularly private at times.

  I withdrew the envelope, opened it, and read the contents. One of the addresses I recognized: It was Nadia’s tenement. She’d be livid if she knew that there were sex-trafficking victims being housed underneath her nose like that—as livid as I was that Gordie had trafficked Fae under mine.

  It was all around us.

  I took out one of my Retro 51 pens filled with a basic blue ink recipe that had no magical potential; it was for correspondence only. I wrote a note to D.I. Munro:

  Dear Detective Inspector,

  Our brief meeting this morning filled me with boundless civic pride, awe of your commitment to public safety, and admiration for your professionalism. You mentioned that you may be able to pass certain information on to relevant parties in pursuit of human traffickers. The National Human Trafficking Unit, perhaps, as I believe it’s called? Regardless, it is my dearest wish that your colleagues focus on the traffickers and not their victims, who have been trapped and manipulated into most unfortunate circumstances. Below you will find the names of two such traffickers, and I hope your colleagues will move quickly to prove their criminal activity and arrest them so that their victims may be free of their bondage.

  I am trying to discover where these men are housing their victims; should I find out, I will relay the information to you.

  I purposely left out the addresses because I wasn’t sure yet if she’d move on this at all, and I didn’t want the D.I.’s colleagues to begin with the victims. This would be a test for both of us: They had to confirm that my information was true, and I had to confirm that they’d act responsibly.

  Checking the card she gave me, I saw that D.I. Munro was operating out of the Maryhill station. It was a bit out of my way but not difficult to reach via train and a pleasant stretch of the legs. I’d be back home before the close of business, so that worked well.

  I left the letter for the detective inspector at the front desk of the station, wondering if anyone was still listening to the bug I’d left in the coffee shop and if they’d try to retrieve it at some point. I didn’t imagine they had an unlimited budget to burn through those. They had probably already figured out what I’d done, and my name had no doubt been roundly cursed already. Perhaps the note would go some distance toward mending fences.

  When I got home, Buck was in a state, and he immediately yelled at me without saying hello.

  “Why did ye make me watch Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Get Deid?”

  [I didn’t make you do anything.]

  He pointed a pink finger at me. “J’accuse! Ye said it was a comedy!”

  [That’s because I thought there were funny bits.]

  “It’s too close tae the bone, MacBharrais. They were summoned and they came and once they got there they were trapped. There was no exit for them except the final one, and they never figured out why. What if I’m like them?”

  [You’re not, Buck.]

  “But I am! I’m stuck here in this flat and cannae leave. I don’t know why Clíodhna targeted me. I don’t know what she has planned.”

  [I’m working on it.]

  “They were working on it too, ol’ man. It did them no good. Did ye see how Rosencrantz kept discovering scientific principles way before his time? Things that Galileo and Newton got the credit for later?”

  [Yes, I thought those episodes were amusing.]

  “They were no! They were awful! He’s a potential genius in the making if he only has the time, but instead his fate crushes him and all his potential is snuffed! Think of it, ol’ man!”

  [I’ve thought about lost potential more than a little.] Beginning with all my apprentices. [War, disease, famine. They’ve ended so many lives.]

  “I’m no talkin’ about falling tae mischance. This is different. This is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern being targeted and having no help for it. They can sense there’s a big wheel about to roll over them, but they cannae get out of the way. And I feel like that is ma situation here.”

  Brighid had been right: Buck was a rare hobgoblin. They weren’t usually so self-aware.

  [The difference, as I’ve been trying to tell you, is that you have friends. Like me and Nadia. I’d make friends with Nadia if I were you.]

  Buck blanched. “Friends? Why?”

  [She took out an ogre this morning that was sent here to fetch you back to Tír na nÓg.]

  The hobgoblin went a paler shade of pink for a moment but then scoffed. “Ogres aren’t so tough. Big, but easy to handle.”

  [This one had layers of clothes with wards against your magic. I think you might have found him tougher than usual.]

  “Oh. And she took him out, ye say?”

  [Aye.]

  “Do I write her a thank-you card or sumhin?”

  [Some beer and a verbal thank-you would do very well. Speaking of beer, do we have any?]

  “Aye, we do. You sit and relax and let me work. I’ve had nothing tae do all day but worry ma
fool heid.”

  I sat at the kitchen island with a sigh but immediately got up again as I remembered I had a better solution at home for my curse than my phone. I had a laptop with some expensive text-to-speech software on it that actually had a Scottish male voice built in. It was expressive and clear and five billion times less annoying to listen to than the English voice on my phone. It wasn’t a Weegie accent—it sounded more like an Edinburgh man with a roll of paper towels crammed up his anus—but it was a balm to the ears by comparison.

  I typed a sentence in the new Scottish voice, named “Stuart,” as Buck placed a pint of black beer next to my right hand.

  [Thanks, Buck. How does this voice sound? Better?]

  His face split into a perfectly capped grin. “That’s pure dead brilliant, so it is! Why haven’t ye used that before?”

  [This voice is only on my laptop. Can’t get it on my phone. But I can type faster this way and say more too.]

  “I like it. Tell me a story, then, while I fix us some dinner?”

  [Sure. What are you making?]

  “It’s a surprise. I watched a cooking show and realized ye had everything here already.”

  He was getting out the rice cooker, so that gave me a tiny hint. Maybe he was planning a curry. [What kind of story do you want to hear?]

  “I want tae hear how ye met Nadia and she became yer manager, since ye say I need tae befriend the woman who broke ma nose. Make a proper story out of it.”

  [All right. I can do that. Here we go.]

  * * *

  —

  I discovered Nadia by accident on an underground platform of the old abandoned Botanic Gardens railway station. It’s located along a line they closed off decades ago, back when I was wee in the sixties, and the station building itself labored on as a nightclub until it burned down in 1970. They ripped up the tracks to use them elsewhere, so what you see down there now is a cement platform and a wide trough of hardpacked dirt. Plants and trees are growing underneath the ventilation shafts, where the sunlight and the rain drops down. On the walls of the platform, you have these layers of algae and spray paint from rather pedestrian graffiti. It smells of rust and piss and creeping mold.

  It’s not all that difficult to get down there and explore. Bit of a squeeze through some fencing, sure, and you need a flashlight to find your way in the dark, and be ready to fend off anyone who thinks it’s a great place to attack someone else. But you won’t find a lot of law enforcement. That’s why it’s a grand location for the underground pit-fighting circuit, since it’s literally underground and the trough where the tracks used to be makes a great pit while the spectators cheer from the platform.

  But you don’t descend into an abandoned train station if you’re afraid of the dark or what might be hiding in it, or if you’re the sort who will let a fence and a sign stop you from doing what you want to do. Since I needed someone who wasn’t afraid of those things to help me with physical work as I aged, that’s where I went looking for help. Anyone who was there automatically passed my first filter, and anyone who made it past a few rounds in the pit would probably do just fine as my muscle.

  I didn’t have high hopes, however, because I needed a brutally effective fighter who wasn’t also a shite human. I didn’t want or need a paladin, mind; I just needed someone who wasn’t actively evil.

  On my way in, a couple of youngsters tried to mess with me and discovered that my cane was extraordinarily painful when whipped at speed into their bollocks. Further application to their temples prevented them from taking out their frustrations on someone else, and perhaps, when they woke, they would reconsider their lives of assault and petty thievery.

  The excited thrum of voices ahead and dim lights that grew increasingly brighter drew me onward. Eventually, I found the crowd gathering and little knots of people clustered around bookies taking bets and promoters shouting about their fighters. I wound up standing on the periphery nearby two women, waiting for the fights to start. They were dressed entirely in black leather and chrome studs and were having an animated discussion about yogurt. Since everyone else in earshot was talking about this fighter or that and how they would or would not smash faces or eat dirt that evening, I was far more interested in the discussion of dairy products, because it seemed so out of its place and time.

  “Greek yogurt is the best because it has that perfect mix of protein and flavor,” the first one said. She was taller and a bit stouter than Nadia, and of course much younger than me. “And ye can get it low fat.”

  “Who gives a toss about fat? Sugar is the issue,” Nadia replied. “The Icelandic shite is pure dairy gold. They call it skyr. It’s higher in protein and lower in sugar. It’s got a wicked smooth mouthfeel.”

  “The fuck are ye on about mouthfeel for? It’s not a gourmet-coffee tasting profile.”

  “Mouthfeel is a part of everything ye eat, ya cow. There’s taste and smell, aye, but there’s also a tactile component tae eating that most people ignore, and they shouldnae.”

  “So if I’m no thinking about ma yogurt’s mouthfeel, I’m daein’ it wrong? Is that what ye’re sayin’ tae me right now?”

  “Not just yer yogurt. Everything ye cram in yer gob. Yer shite sandwiches and yer thin curries and yer weak tea.”

  The taller woman gasped. “Nadia! You fucking take that back. Ma tea is not weak.”

  That made me chuckle a tiny bit and they heard it, becoming aware of my presence. They turned as one and their eyes traveled up and down, judging and finding me wanting. Nadia spoke first.

  “What are ye, a polis, dressed like that, all proper with yer cashmere topcoat and yer mustache?”

  “Not a polis. An investor.”

  “Investor? Like stocks and that?”

  “In people. I require someone with unique talents and thought I might find one here.”

  “Well, Nadia here is unique as fuck,” the taller woman said.

  “Shut it, you.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? But ye are!” She turned back to me. “Look, ye want tae invest in sumhin? Put yer money on Nadia tonight. She’s gonnay win it all.”

  “Shh!”

  “Ye’re fighting this evening, miss?” I asked.

  She sighed in exasperation and glared at her friend before answering me. “Yeah. Bookies think I’m gonnay die in the first fight, but it’s no gonnay go that way.”

  “Ah. Then they obviously missed something when they assessed yer chances. What did they miss? Are ye proficient in some martial arts, perhaps?”

  “Competent, sure. But I cannae explain why I’m gonnay win. I just will.”

  “Against opponents who are far larger and stronger and perhaps more skilled at martial arts than you?”

  “She’s gonnay kill ’em all,” the tall woman asserted. “And we’ll make a killing on the odds too.” She waggled a finger at me. “I was speakin’ metaphorically there, but we’ll literally be living for months off this.”

  “And ye are confident, I see. Besides risking yer own money and yer health, ye exhibit no nervousness at all about the coming match but rather stand in the back discussing yogurt.”

  Nadia shrugged. “I’m vegetarian, and I take ma protein seriously.”

  “As ye should. May I ask what odds are being given on ye right now?”

  “Depends on the bookie. But I’m the long shot.”

  “What name are ye fighting under?”

  The two women exchanged a glance. “The Weegie Goth,” Nadia said.

  “Excellent. Will ye excuse me? I have a wager to place. I do hope ye win.”

  “If I do and yer wallet gets swole, can I have a piece of yer winnings?”

  “Ye can. If I can treat ye both tae tea afterward. Or yogurt, if ye prefer.”

  Nadia narrowed her eyes. “What are ye after? Are ye a pervert? Because we’re no intae t
hat. We’re no intae men, in fact.”

  “Naw, nothing like that. As I said, I’m an investor. If ye win tonight, I’d like tae invest further. A business meeting only.”

  “Awright, sure.”

  I tipped my hat and moved off to find a bookie. I found an unsavory individual named Georgy Orgy willing to cover a thousand-pound bet at fifteen to one on the Weegie Goth to win the tournament and another thousand at five to one she’d win her first fight against someone named Hammerfist.

  Georgy was a rail-thin sack of bones supporting a large nose and a sharp Adam’s apple shaped like a wedge of cheese. His eyes had bruised purple bags underneath them, and he hadn’t shaved for a few days. A mountainous brown-bearded man, obviously his muscle, stood behind him. Georgy moved and talked fast, like he’d sprinkled his morning muffin with a dollop of fruit compote and a kilo of cocaine.

  “Why only five tae one in the first fight?” I asked him.

  The bookie shrugged. “Just a hunch, ye know? I still think she’s gonnay lose, but I watched her try out, ye know. She’s got some moves and dodges like nothing I’ve seen, but she doesnae hit very hard, and that’s where maybe I think she’s holdin’ sumhin back. I dunno if what she’s got is enough tae win, but I’m no wantin’ tae get soaked by a newcomer. Or by anyone, really. Fuck gettin’ soaked.”

  “Are there any other women in the tournament?” I asked.

  “Aye, there’s one more. The Paisley Terror. Ye want tae bet on her too?”

  “Naw, I was just curious. Who’s the favorite?”

  “Gallowgate Tate. He’s won a couple of tourneys before. Four tae three on him.”

  I had brought the betting money separately and hadn’t thought to go beyond the allotted money I was prepared to lose, but I emptied my wallet and put seventy-five quid on Gallowgate Tate to win the tourney.

  “What, no another thousand?” Georgy teased me.

  “This one’s more of a lesson to me if my long shot doesn’t pay off.”

  “Awright, awright, I gotcha. Here’s yer ticket; come see me after tae settle up if ye win anything.”