“You stayed in the...but that isn’t...I mean...”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Look, I know I’ve been gone for a while...hell, a long while. But ye look like you’ve seen a freakin’ ghost.”
“You are a ghost,” Paul interjected.
“Do I look like a ghost?”
Paul squinted at me, then turned to Gretel for support.
“My experience with ghosts is limited,” Gretel admitted. “But I believe she is a living creature. A doppelganger, perhaps. Or a changeling. One can never be certain.”
“What the hell are ye two on about?” I asked, more amused by their take than anything. “It’s me, Quinn MacKenna! Paul, you’re seriously tellin’ me ye don’t recognize me?”
“Quinn?”
This time my name was whispered, not barked. The bridge troll reached out a hand big enough to squeeze around my entire waist and brushed his fingers against my hair, my fiery tresses flowing over his knuckles. I let him, marveling at how long my hair had gotten since I’d last thought to cut it; I’d been too busy to notice until now. Paul hunkered down and shoved his massive face in close, sniffing at me like a dog. He drew back, flashed me a toothy grin that would have scared the shit out of me had I never seen it before, and roared.
“Quinn is alive!”
The bridge troll picked me up by the waist and crushed me to his chest, squeezing with enough force to make a chiropractor wince. I wheezed out a command to put me down, but he ignored it and began swinging me about the room as though we were dancing. Eventually, he slowed and loosened his grip enough so that I could pat him on his bulky shoulder.
“Glad to see ye, too, big fella. Now, what’s this about me bein’ alive?”
“Ah, well...” Gretel coughed into her fist, her face tight with concern and perhaps a small measure of fear. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Ms. MacKenna, but you are supposed to be dead.”
Chapter 2
Though my experience was admittedly limited, I’d always assumed the difference between filing a missing person’s report and a death certificate was the presence of a corpse—or at the very least an extremely suggestive crime scene. You know, like a carpet stained with more blood than anyone could survive losing or a charred skeleton among the wreckage of a smoldering car. Without one or more of these things, I’d have thought people like me were far more likely to be labeled Missing in Action than Dead on Arrival—our names splashed across milk cartons, not chiseled in stone. And yet, here we were, discussing my existence as though it were up for debate.
“As I told ye before,” I said through gritted teeth, my patience wearing thinner with every fruitless exchange, “the rumors of me death have been greatly exaggerated.”
I took a sip of the earthy tea Gretel had brewed before we “retired” to her office—her word, not mine. For some reason, her use of the expression made me want to curl up and take a nap in the leather armchair she’d offered. Or perhaps the dim lighting was to blame; I could hardly make out a single book title on the shelves that lined the walls. Gretel blamed the gloomy interior on a recent aversion to light—something to do with headaches—but there was a caginess to her explanation, a slight hitch in her body language, that suggested there was more to it. Still, I didn’t pry; given how long I’d gone without makeup, I could appreciate a little mood lighting.
“Yes, that much is obvious, Ms. MacKenna,” Gretel replied, halfheartedly. The old bird slid her dainty glasses up the bridge of her nose, still perusing the folder with my name scribbled across the top. Fortunately, she appeared far less gaunt now that she’d thrown on a plush robe and slippers—thereby completing her Ebenezer Scrooge ensemble just in time to start spewing negativity everywhere she went.
“Then why d’ye keep insistin’ otherwise?”
“Because I have it on good authority that you were sighted on the other side, including confirmation from multiple witnesses. It’s all right here.”
I settled back in my chair and eyed the manila folder, struck by the sheer amount of paperwork it contained. And not just paperwork, either. I’d spotted what looked like a surveillance photo tucked away amongst the detritus. In it, I was crossing the street in an outfit I hadn’t worn since returning from my brief stint in New York City, my hair infested with butterfly clips, the crimped ends descending onto my shrug sweater like crinkle paper at my very own pity party.
“What else does me file say?”
“Nothing that would surprise you.” Gretel snapped the folder shut as though that didn’t send a directly contradictory message, the wrinkled corners of her mouth crinkling in a disapproving scowl. “We like to document the activities of our members and their associates, that’s all.”
“I remember,” I replied, recalling the intelligence gathering role that Robin—a Redcap I’d befriended some time ago—had played when we first met. Of course, that still didn’t explain the potential blackmail material Gretel had in her possession. “Just how long has the Chancery been keepin’ tabs on me, exactly?”
Gretel’s scowl deepened.
“I saw the photo.”
“Ah.” Gretel reopened the file, found the picture, and sighed. “This photograph isn’t what it seems.”
“Then what is it? Because it looks like the Chancery has been spyin’ on me for over a decade and change.”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose that’s correct. But it’s not what you think. Please, allow me to explain.”
I gave her the go ahead with a gesture.
“As I am certain you'll recall, the Huntress once made it her mission to look after you, per an arrangement with your mother. Unfortunately, she had other obligations when you were growing up which made doing so far more difficult than she’d anticipated. Eventually, she enlisted those of us she felt she could trust to keep an eye on you from a distance. Hence the photograph. There’s also the occasional unflattering report card. Oh, and the expulsion letter from your school principal. Is it true you went after your math teacher with a club?”
“Please,” I scoffed. “It was a yardstick, and he deserved it. Now, quit tryin’ to change the subject.”
“Very well. In any case, it wasn’t long afterwards that the Huntress told us to stop. At the time, I thought she’d either fulfilled her bargain, or she’d given up. Later, I realized it was because she wanted you off the Chancery’s radar. And it worked, too, for a time. Which is why the majority of what’s here are simply secondhand accounts of your exploits. News articles, security footage, and witness statements, mostly.”
“News articles?”
“Auction sales. Missing or stolen items. A certain New York City bridge under construction after…” Gretel turned a page in the file and cocked an eyebrow, “an ‘unprecedented’ climate event. Anything we could link to you, either directly or indirectly, is here.”
This was all news to me, and I let it show on my face. Not the bit about Scathach—more commonly known as the Huntress—shielding me from the Chancery’s numerous intrigues; I’d known about that for some time now. But the notion that the Faerie Chancery had been busy cataloguing my failures and achievements felt too much like finding out I’d been spied on in the shower or photographed in my underwear. Did either Scathach or Robin know that the file existed? And where the hell were those two? I’d expected to be reunited with them by now—especially once they realized I’d come to them for help.
“Who were the statements taken from?” I asked half-heartedly in an effort to keep the conversation going while I gathered my thoughts.
“Which ones?”
“All of ‘em? I’m not sure what they say.”
“Let’s see…” Gretel began flipping through the folder’s contents. “Here’s one. Looks like a brief description of what happened in the forest outside Ipswich, taken from a tribe of local dryads. And another from a Russian mavka. Seems you were seen cutting the line of an establishment with direct connections to the Sanguine Council. And o
f course, we have multiple records of the incident during our Highland Games. Your sudden disappearance caused quite a stir.”
“I’ll bet it did.”
“We investigated, of course,” Gretel assured me. “But our agents found no concrete evidence of foul play.”
“Should’ve looked harder,” I grumbled before waving that away; there was no sense getting into what had happened to me immediately after my abduction. First of all, I didn’t owe Gretel an explanation for my disappearance any more than I did for what had gone down between myself and the witches of Ipswich, or why I’d sought out an unsanctioned audience with the Master of Moscow. Secondly, her little dossier made me want to hoard what few secrets I had left—if only to maintain a mere semblance of privacy. “That’s water under an otherworldly bridge.”
“Pardon?”
“Nevermind.” I took a deep breath, “So, accordin’ to your file there, I’m dead. I don’t suppose ye would care to tell me who I have to blame for the mixup?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. MacKenna. That is privileged information.”
“Meanin’ ye have eyes and pointed ears in the underworld, as well,” I replied, thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize the Chancery’s reach extended quite that far.”
Gretel’s polite smile remained fixed, unwavering.
“I’ll admit I did cross over,” I confessed. “But that was more of an...out of body experience than an actual death. I was goin’ after Ryan. Ryan O’Rye.”
“You say that like I should know who that is.”
Now, it was my turn to frown.
“He used to be a Chancery member, before he returned to Fae and became the Winter Queen’s latest Jack Frost.”
“Oh right, yes, that terrible business with the Faenappers. I apologize. My memory is not quite what it once was.”
I cocked an eyebrow, surprised by the admission; Gretel had been the Chancery’s chief litigator for decades, perhaps even centuries. Memory lapses weren’t something an individual in her position suffered from, let alone admitted to. Of course, it was also possible she’d simply blocked it out. The “business” Gretel was referring to had been especially gruesome, including an investigation into the disappearance of Faelings who’d left behind limbs and bodily fluid like gory breadcrumbs. In the end, the whole mess had led me north on a literal witch-hunt that had ended only when Max, myself, and the Faelings who had survived their captivity escaped the clutches of those responsible—namely Ryan and Doctor Victor Frankenstein.
Both had died at my hands recently.
“Ms. MacKenna?”
“Aye?” I perked up, realizing I’d tuned her out. “Sorry, what was that ye were sayin’?”
“I asked if your so-called experience was a pleasant one, but there’s no need to get into all that. I can see by your face that it was not.” Gretel peeled away her glasses and stared at me, weighing me with her gaze. Her crystal blue eyes sat in a nest of wrinkled flesh, and I realized she looked perhaps a decade older than she had when we first met.
On a hunch, I reached out with my senses, channeling that alien part of me which had ascribed sensations to gods and scents to giants. It was harder to do here in the mortal realm than it had been on Circe’s island, but I’d been practicing; I knew it had something to do with peering beyond the veil, that to master it meant peeling away layers of reality. I leaned forward in my chair and tried to see past Gretel. To see through her. In seconds, a peculiar smell rode the air. Something smoky, like the scent of a burning candle wick. I felt dry leaves under my fingertips, brushing my skin like wadded paper set to ignite. The combination of the two sent a shiver up my spine.
“Is everythin’ alright?” I asked.
Gretel’s smile wilted, replaced by the same distressed expression she’d worn when she first saw me. “A great deal has changed since you left, you know.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I admitted. “I need information.”
“Just information? Or shelter? You have an air of homelessness about you.”
“Do I?” I glanced down at myself, then at the sagging guitar case propped against the arm of my chair. “Is it the strugglin’ musician accessory?”
“Not entirely,” Gretel replied, her lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “Mostly it’s intuition. You could not have been in town long, and yet you have come here of all places. What else would bring you to the Chancery’s door so soon?”
“Maybe I just wanted to see some of me friends.”
“If that were true, you would be visiting the Soviet expat whose bar you used to frequent, or perhaps the federal agent you grew up with.”
My eyebrows shot up of their own volition at the mention of Jimmy Collins—an FBI agent and former flame who’d joined up with a task force dedicated to investigating cases that defied human limitations. I hadn’t expected Gretel to make that particular connection, but I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised; if they’d had eyes on me for as long as all that, they’d have evidence linking me to the man.
Assuming you could even call him that, anymore.
After being brought back to life with the help of a god—long story—Jimmy had become something other than human. Not long after, he’d joined up with the Sickos, many of whom were plagued with similar circumstances. Unfortunately, thinking about that ragtag group of misfits reminded me of the clock that had started ticking the second I stepped foot in the mortal realm, of the deal I’d made with a goddess. One month. That’s how long I had to find Hilde, the Valkyrie on loan to the Sicko squad, before I was forced to serve the Norse goddess, Freya, in her stead.
“Ms. MacKenna?”
“Ye know,” I replied, rising out of the mire of my own thoughts, “Robin always praised your information network, but I’m startin’ to t’ink they just had a really capable spymaster.”
Gretel bowed her head.
“Anyway,” I continued, “you’re right. There are others I could turn to. But this is really more of a two birds situation. While I could certainly use a place to stay, I’m also dealin’ with some...growin’ pains that the Fae may be best equipped to handle.”
“Growing pains?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got more power than I know what to do with and could really use some advice. I assumed the Chancery’s got some ancient geezers among its members, which means it’s at least possible someone here has had experience with this sort of t’ing. Plus, without your help, I could cause a bit of a stir here in Boston without meanin’ to.”
“How big of a stir?”
“Depends,” I replied, shrugging. “The last time it got out of control, I started a bar fight in Valhalla. And that’s assumin’ I ever really have it under control, which is a bit of a stretch.”
“And you know how we feel about exposure,” Gretel added, eyes narrowed. “This is beginning to sound more like blackmail than a request.”
“Consider it a request with teeth. Look, I’ve bargained with the Fae before. In my experience, the only way to get what ye want from ‘em is to make sure they feel like they’re gettin’ the better end of the deal. I’m askin’ for sanctuary, but the Chancery should know it’s in their best interest to grant it. How ye spin that decision when ye pass it up the chain is up to ye, but it is the right one.”
“I see,” Gretel replied, steepling her fingers. “Well, Ms. MacKenna, I would be glad to aid you in any way I can. I still owe you a personal debt for agreeing to save the missing Fae. But I am afraid the answer to your request to stay with us is no.”
“No?” I spluttered. “What d’ye mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean we are not in the business of providing sanctuary for fugitives, Ms. MacKenna, no matter who they are or what they’ve done for our organization in the past. We are a small community and taking you in would put us at considerable risk.”
“A fugitive? From whom?” I gripped the leather armchair until it squeaked, outraged by the thought of being turned away. “And what the hell d’ye mean ‘considerab
le risk’?”
“Please keep your voice down,” Gretel hissed, glancing nervously past my shoulder as though she expected some vengeful god to appear at any moment and smite us both for exchanging blasphemous one-liners.
“Tell me why, and maybe I will.”
“Because we would not want anyone getting curious and checking on us, that’s why. As things stand, you are absurdly fortunate Paul was the one who found you knocking on our door. Anyone else, and we would not be having this conversation.”
“And why is that?”
“Because almost anyone else would have contacted the Adjudicators first thing. Paul, however, remains loyal to you, as do several others who feel they owe you their lives.”
“The Adjudicators?” I shook my head to clear it, frustrated to note that every answer Gretel gave only spawned more questions. “Why would lettin’ Scathach and Robin know I’m back be a problem?”
“It wouldn’t, assuming they were still in charge.”
“Wait, what the fuck does that mean?”
Gretel searched my face as if gauging my reaction, unwound her fingers, and sighed. “I did tell you a lot has changed in your absence. Tensions are especially high, right now. Indeed—”
“Hold on, please. None of this is makin’ any sense. Who the hell is in charge, if not those two?” A thought occurred to me. “Don’t tell me Morgause and Sir Bred returned?”
“Sadly, no. We still have no word from either of the Arthurians. Not since they left for Fae, at least. No, the two individuals currently appointed are named Albi and Liam. I believe you’ve met the former.”
Gretel made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, but I was too busy trying to sort through the implications of what she’d told me to comment—though truthfully I felt the same way; Albi was a sleazy, morally bankrupt loan shark who just so happened to look like a clean-cut version of the demented bunny-man from Donnie Darko. Faeling or not, I knew a thug when I met one. Fortunately, Gretel must not have needed to hear me say it out loud to know my thoughts.
Moonshine: Phantom Queen Book 11—A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 2