by Kevin Hearne
“No, I don’t. You do. That little dude’s gonna ruin your blood pressure, man.”
Eli had a point. As sigil agents, we were supposed to first minimize what was revealed of the magical world, minimize what was recorded if the first couldn’t be prevented, and then minimize what was remembered. My hobgoblin would have me struggling with all three.
We got Buck onto the train and settled into a quad seat arrangement, with his bag of stolen miniatures on the fourth seat. He was tired after his shenanigans in the station and the fight with the troll, so he was quiet during the ride, examining Hatcher’s paint jobs on the stolen miniatures, a great relief to Eli and me. We got out our phones and Signaled a conversation so no one could listen in.
Any thoughts on how to stop Clíodhna without getting our asses killed? Eli began.
We can’t stop her, I replied. Brighid won’t intervene on a human’s and hobgoblin’s say-so.
We’ll never get solid proof, Al.
No, we won’t. Checking her is going to be a next-level problem. All we can do for now is shut down things on this side.
Well, we kinda have, Eli said. I mean, your apprentice shut it down by choking. He was the link.
Aye. But why was he the link? Why did they come through Glasgow instead of here?
Because your boy Gordie was willing to use the sigils. There’s no way a human’s going to contain a pixie or a leprechaun or any of the Fae otherwise. And I’ll add something else. He sent the first Signal and typed out another, his thumbs flying. Coming through Glasgow was clever because the other sigil agents would assume you were on top of it. Even if we got alarms about Fae crossing over there, we wouldn’t pursue it, because it was your territory.
I nodded, mulling over the problem of the lab’s location, then sent a Signal to Buck. He checked his phone when it buzzed and then looked over at me.
“I’m right bloody here, MacBharrais,” he said.
I just chucked my chin at the message. It said, That pixie you were trapped with: Did you ever get a chance to talk to her?
Buck read it and responded, thankfully keeping his voice low. “Naw, Gordie had her knocked out the whole time. I just kept ma eyes closed once I figured out his sigil game and gave him pelters till he left me alone in that room.”
Did he tell you anything about where you might be going? Any sense that you were staying in country or coming over to this one?
“I got the feeling I’d be staying nearby, but I don’t know if I was right about that.”
Eli said aloud to me, “All right, let’s think this through,” and then he began to type. I waited until the Signal pinged on my phone.
On the one hand, shipping the Fae across to the United States for science would make sense because Hatcher would want to be nearby to check on progress. But on the other, it’s impractical when they have to come to this plane through Glasgow. Since we know Gordie was keeping them imprisoned with sigils, he’d probably need to accompany them if they were doing any lengthy travel. Did he ever leave the country while under your apprenticeship?
I just shook my head in reply, thinking he’d made a good point, and then I piggybacked on it. They could shift using the network of bound trees, of course, but Hatcher wouldn’t allow that until he could be sure he had control of them. Otherwise, they’d just take off to Tír na nÓg and not come back.
Eli nodded. Right. So they have to be doing their science in Scotland, or maybe England.
Which means Buck and I will be catching the first flight back to find this lab. We’ll just head to the airport from the train station. Thanks for your help, Eli.
Welcome. I’ll monitor the plane-shifting around D.C. and see if I can catch them doing something. The troll might be taken care of, but we still have to find those other Fae.
The clurichaun might be providing clues if you look for them. Check for liquor heists in the D.C./Reston area. Especially near the river. They need a place for the undine to hang out.
“Oi, did I just see ye type liquor heist, MacBharrais?” Buck whispered. “Because I’m in. I wannay make Buck Foi’s Best Boosted Spirits, like ye suggested. Let’s get one of those motorcycles with a sidecar. We’ll make it a wizard sidecar.”
Too much attention, Buck. And those sidecars are rare enough that it makes them very easy to track down.
The hobgoblin blinked at me, uncomprehending. “Track how?”
When you buy a vehicle, it gets registered in your name, and the police use that to track them as necessary.
“Buy?” he scoffed. “We’re not gonnay buy the sidecar, ya gormless bastard. We’re gonnay steal that too.”
I sighed in exasperation and Eli chuckled. “See? Told you your blood pressure was going to be a problem.”
I met the Druid who’d made sigil agents necessary just once, quite by accident, some while ago. I was in Rome to consult the new leader of the vampire underworld on how he might best avoid confrontation with the world’s pantheons, but it was twilight and he hadn’t risen for the evening yet, which left me some time to myself. I chose to spend it enjoying a carafe of wine along with a board of cheese, fruit, and miniature sandwiches at the Piazza della Repubblica. The Caffè Piccarozzi had put out a few bistro tables and canvas umbrellas that afforded an ideal view of the Fountain of the Naiads, and so long as one was wary of pigeons and assorted pickpockets who were preying on tourists, it was an ideal place to relax and enjoy the charms of the city.
The charms were many, of course: It was Rome. Most of the locals were loaded to the gills on espresso and in a hurry to get somewhere, but in order to do so they had to negotiate a veritable slalom course of slow-moving tourists who were craning their necks around and gawking at the architecture, taking selfies and completely oblivious that they might be hampering anyone.
I was chuckling at a near collision of tourists aiming cameras in different directions, when a man with a simply humongous hound—an Irish wolfhound, I believe—took the small table next to mine, and his dug sat right next to him without having to be told. We made brief eye contact as he sank into a seat, and I saw that he was a young man in his early twenties with wavy red hair. He seemed to be neither a tourist nor a local. I nodded politely at him and he returned it.
“Gorgeous dug,” I said to him, on the off chance that he spoke English.
The hound’s long tail immediately began to wag, and his tongue lolled out in a happy dug smile.
“Grazie,” he replied, and reached for a menu wedged between the salt and pepper shakers. By then I would have turned my eyes away politely to afford him some privacy, except that the tattoos on his right arm were precisely like those of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He had the healing triskele on the back of his right hand and the band that continued up the forearm before wrapping around his biceps and disappearing underneath his shirtsleeve. Either I was sitting next to a god—which happened sometimes, since they sought me out—or I was sitting next to the legendary Iron Druid. A glance at the cold iron amulet hanging around his neck confirmed it.
“I beg your pardon,” I said to him in English, “but your surname wouldnae be O’Sullivan, would it?”
Both he and the huge dug took more than a polite interest in me at that point, sizing me up, and I did the same to them. He had a sword strapped to his back, one of the shorter kinds, like an old Roman gladius. I guessed it was Fragarach, the Answerer, the sword of truth that could cut through any armor. Stealing that was supposedly what had landed him in trouble so many centuries ago.
He certainly didn’t look two thousand years old, and a small ember of fury at that flared up inside me, for getting old is a terrible business, and I resented that he had somehow avoided those particular terrors.
“Who might be asking?” he replied, an American accent to his English.
“Al MacBharrais from Glasgow. I work for Brighid, First among the Fae.”
He blinked and exchanged a glance with his dug, then leaned back in his chair. I wasn’t sure if that meant he was relaxing or preparing to bolt out of his seat.
“Is that so? And what might you do for her?”
“A lot of what used to be your job. A lot of cleaning up after your bollocks, if ye don’t mind me saying. I’m a sigil agent.”
He regarded me evenly for a moment, then repeated, “A sigil agent. I’ve heard of them.”
“Have ye, now?”
“I have. Don’t be waving one around in my direction or I’ll take it unkindly.”
“Ach. Ye need have no worries on that score. Look, it’s an honor to meet ye, sir. That’s all I wanted tae say. I can leave ye alone.”
“No, it’s fine, Al. It’s fine. I am simply wary of strangers. A bit paranoid, perhaps. I’m Atticus O’Sullivan, and this is my friend Oberon.”
I chuckled. “Wariness is easy tae forgive. If you’re even half as old as I’ve heard, I imagine those eyes have seen some shite.”
“Indeed they have. I bet you’ve seen your fair share if you work for Brighid.”
“I have,” I admitted. “Not as much as Gladys, my receptionist, but a fair bit.”
“Your receptionist?”
“She’s Canadian,” I explained.
The Druid’s eyes shifted sideways to his hound, and he grunted in amusement.
“Oberon likes your mustache. He thinks I should grow one just like it.”
I’d heard that Druids could speak with animals, but to have it confirmed like that was wondrous. The hound’s behavior up to that point made much more sense; he could understand everything we said.
“Thank ye kindly, Oberon,” I said. “Ye have some fine fur underneath yer nose as well. Have ye ever asked Atticus tae wax it for ye?”
“He says no,” Atticus relayed after a pause. “He appreciates the small but vital role of a mustache as a flavor saver, and would miss licking his chops and reliving the savory deliciousness of sausages.”
“An excellent point! I had not thought of that.”
A server came over and asked the Druid what he might like to drink, and the old man—I had to remind myself that he was impossibly old—peered at me. “If you don’t have anything pressing, Al, would you like to join us for dinner?”
“I’d be delighted.” I was supposed to meet someone soon, but he can wait.”
Atticus ordered us a bottle of very fine wine and, after the server had poured for each of us, raised a glass to me.
“It’s refreshing to be with someone who knows what I am but doesn’t want to kill me or want any favors. It’s rare, in fact. I’m glad this chance encounter occurred.” He stopped, considering. “It is chance, isn’t it?”
“Oh, aye. A happy coincidence that may not be so coincidental, since there’s this new vampire in charge. Ye may have heard.”
Atticus nodded and Oberon snorted. “Leif Helgarson. Is that who you’re supposed to meet?”
“Aye.”
“Be careful. He’ll follow the letter, not the spirit, of the law, so you must craft your contract precisely.”
“Is he no tae be trusted?”
“He will try to take advantage of you and interpret the law as it suits him. But he will also hold to his word, once given.”
“Like the Fae, then.”
“Aye, like the Fae.”
We passed the most amiable evening together, talking about remarkable meals we’d had elsewhere even as we enjoyed another one. Atticus paid frequent attention to his hound and bought him a full dinner, so it was clear that they were genuine friends, not a pet and a pet owner.
As the evening progressed, I slowly realized that dug was his lifeline. My gods, think of it: two thousand years! What could possibly anchor him to this world when everyone he’d ever known and loved had died, when he must be the loneliest man on the planet? I ask myself sometimes, at the relatively young age of sixty-three, why I yet remain, since my son hates me and my wife has gone on before, as have an alarming number of the fellows with whom I grew up. How much worse must it be for him? And how can he possibly bear it?
The answer sat before me, wagging his tail: He survived because of a very good dug named Oberon. Dugs are beings of pure love and devotion and broadcast hope to those of us who have only memories of such things, for they demonstrate by their existence that love and devotion still walk abroad in the world, and therefore it’s worthwhile to live in it.
I gave him my card at the end of the evening, but I never heard from the Iron Druid afterward. That night of relaxation was the eye of a storm for him, a wee soft place and time in the chaos of his life. I’m fairly certain he was right back in a giant vat of shite just a few hours later.
Coriander tells me that life is very different for him these days, but better in all the ways that matter. He passed through the crucible of Ragnarok and did not escape unscathed, but he’s finally free, no longer a fugitive from the gods, and he now has two very good dugs with him, wherever he is.
Would a dug come to hate me, I wondered, if I got one and the curse on my heid decided I had told him too many times what a good boy he was? Can a dug come to hate a man who loves him?
I didn’t want to find out.
Buck willingly accepted a sleeping sigil for the flight back across the Atlantic. Not only was he exhausted, but he didn’t want to be conscious of being surrounded by so much steel. I took advantage of the peace to read the book I’d borrowed from the library but got upset about how people were manipulated into lives of forced labor. Upon landing, my cell phone pinged with voicemail messages. Nothing from Eli, however: They were from Nadia and D.I. Munro.
The D.I. did not apologize for planting a bug on me earlier, which I only realized I wanted to hear when I felt disappointed. But she had some relatively welcome news after her greeting.
“My colleagues in the National Human Trafficking Unit tell me that the names you provided are indeed likely involved in trafficking, based on their financial information, and they’re grateful for the tip. However, they haven’t found their victims yet but are relatively certain the suspects are communicating to them via phone. It will take some time to arrange surveillance, and they wondered if you might have any information on the victims’ whereabouts. I wonder how you knew about these men when NHTU did not. Let me know.”
I’d give her a call after I got out of the airport and pass along the addresses I had kept in reserve. Nadia’s voicemail was a bit more urgent, however.
“Al, call me back as soon as ye get this. Someone named Clíodhna of the Tuatha Dé Danann wishes tae meet.”
“Shhhhhite,” I whispered, but it was audible.
“Wot?” Buck said, who was nearly dancing on his seat in his eagerness to deplane.
I typed my response. [Clíodhna wants a meeting.]
The hobgoblin’s eyes nearly started from their spheres. “Is she waiting outside for me? She wants tae kill me, ye know.”
[I do know. But, naw, you will not be meeting her.]
“But I’m tae be the topic of discussion, in’t I? What are ye gonnay tell her when she demands ye give me up?”
[I will tell her you’re under contract.]
“She’s gonnay use some leverage, then. She’ll offer ye gold first. Then she’ll threaten yer friends and family tae get her way. It’s what they do.”
It certainly was. I thought of Durf the ogre, who’d flung himself at Nadia because someone had held his family hostage.
[I am not without leverage myself. But let’s discuss this later.] I added that last bit because people on the plane were starting to turn around and stare at us. Buck continued his nervous dancing on the seat but kept his mouth shut. He knew he couldn’t just pop out of there without causing serious alarm and we didn’t want that, so he had to wait like all the hum
ans.
There is something about getting off a plane that brings out the worst in everyone. Violations of personal space and nudging, utter rudeness and lack of courtesy that sometimes leads to snappish behavior. But since I learned to think of it as arising from a dire need to go to the bathroom, it’s all made sense, and I can empathize and feel compassion for people rather than be annoyed with them when they get too close and huff and whine and so on. I recalled more than a few times in my life when I did not consider the needs of others when I had a dire need not to soil myself, and remembering those times in airports or in traffic has enabled me to entirely eliminate road rage from my life. Whenever someone shoulders past me or cuts me off, I feel like rooting for them instead of getting angry, and I hope they’re able to make it to the toilet before disaster strikes. I cheer for the steadfastness of their sphincters and wish them long life and clean underwear. People think I am patient, but not really; I just get it. We are ruled by our bladders and bowels.
There was no one waiting for us when we got off the plane, and Buck relaxed a tiny bit at that, but then he was anxious to return home to the protection of my wards.
I texted the addresses of the trafficking victims to D.I. Munro and linked each to their respective pimps, reminding her that the victims required help and counseling, not an arrest record, and if all went well in that regard, with the traffickers rather than the trafficked getting a dose of justice, I might be able to help further in the future.
I didn’t reply to Nadia until I had Buck safe at home, where nothing Fae could get to him.
Back in Scotland. Heading to Gin71, I Signaled her. Initiating contact there. That’s where to begin your search if I disappear.
If ye disappear? Is that a thing that could happen, Al?
The Queen of the Bean Sídhe has been up to some naughty shite, and she knows that I know. If I disappear and you want a true challenge of your abilities, try to avenge me.