by J L Collins
“I was hoping for a drink. And maybe some conversation with a good friend.”
The massive grin that spread across his muzzle was enough to answer me. “Of course. But I’m actually on my way to Denbigh’s. Why don’t you join me?”
I took a step back and stared. “Since when do you go to Denbigh’s? I thought you guys had a falling out years ago?”
Denbigh, the hobgoblin owner of Denbigh’s Cafe was Arcas’ chief competition when it came to Witches and others’ more alcoholic and otherwise habits. Denbigh’s was more of a daytime place though, with more magical menu items, while Arcas had a much more… mature establishment. Namely the saloon-like bar he ran underneath a brothel. Which he owned. I never really brought it up with him since I’d been back, and I wasn’t about to start judging my friend now.
Arcas just shrugged. “Eh, I got over it. We made amends, I guess.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?” He folded his arms across his massive dark chest. “Not all of us hold grudges.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Arcas! You’re the worst at holding grudges. Remember when my cousin Reaghan turned you down when you asked her out? No one was allowed to speak her name in front of you for three years straight.”
He snorted again. “So? She was just playing hard to get. And I didn’t appreciate it.”
The image of Arcas standing at the front gate of the manor house, a raggedy bouquet of antsy almond flowers in his hands, stood out in my mind. “Arcas. She was already engaged!”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, trying his best to sound indifferent. “I’d rather be a handsome bachelor running my own booming business, anyway. Speaking of, I better get going. You coming or not?”
I sighed. “I guess. I swear if Denbigh starts playing the harmonica though, I’m out.” At the very least, I’d be incredibly perturbed while I’m sipping on my lemon and sugared plum shandy.
Inside Denbigh’s was much fuller than I expected on a Sunday afternoon. A couple dozen bored-looking women were spread out across the cafe, talking amongst themselves with drinks and snacks in hand, while the men—probably their husbands judging by the continuous dirty looks from the women—seemed to be standing in an unofficial line waiting to get into the back of the cafe behind a pretty conspicuous black curtain. I turned to Arcas; my brow raised.
“What’s all that about?” I asked, nodding my chin toward the line.
He scratched behind one of his horns, pretending not to notice. “What’s what?”
“Arcas . . .”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. Denbigh’s got a little side gimmick going in the back. That’s all I can say.”
Because of course he does. Denbigh wasn’t one to shy away from controversy. “You worried I’m going to raid the place or something?” I asked with a smirk. “Aren’t you the run who runs a—”
“Okay,” he said through clenched teeth. If he wasn’t an old friend of mine, I might have been a little fearful of the menacing look on his face. “It’s a gambling ring back there. Magic slots, Dice, Bonnabo . . .”
“What’s Bonnabo?”
“You don’t want to know. Believe me.”
Well. That wasn’t at all alarming. As much as I hated to be the kill-joy, I made a mental note to check into it. “Right. Where’s Denbigh anyway? I thought you promised me a drink?”
“Right here, Gwennie-Baby,” the short and hairy hobgoblin leaned against a table, wiggling his fingers at me. “I didn’t realize we’d have the pleasure of your company today.”
“I’m sure. I tagged along with Arcas,” I said, nudging Arcas’ side. “All I want is something to wind down with. It’s been a stressful week, as you can probably imagine.”
His bulbous eyes slid upward to Arcas. “I see. Well then. I can certainly help with that of course. I would . . . just ask that you keep our entertainment to yourself. The MARC laws regarding this sort of venture are a little . . . wobbly and outdated.” He inspected his long shimmery pink nails.
I nodded. “Noted. As long as no one’s getting hurt, I won’t say anything. But I should caution you about having such an obvious venture going on when anyone could walk in. Plenty of the MARC employees enjoy stopping in for a bite to eat. And they may not be so lenient.”
His expression brightened before he bowed his head in my direction. “Much thanks, dearie. And I’ll have one rosewater spritz up and ready for you.”
“Actually Denbigh . . . I think I’d like something a little stronger this time.”
“No problemo, none at all! I’ve got something to whet your whistle, indeed.” He hobbled off before returning moments later with a couple of amber-colored bottles missing their labels. “Just what you need here. Sparkwater. Not too strong, but strong enough. If you don’t mind,” he said, glancing backward to the last of the men walking behind the curtain, “I have some other business to attend to. See you on the other side, friend?” He was looking back up at Arcas.
“Nah. I’ll catch the next run. I’m going to hang out here with Gwen.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a seat at the empty table and gesturing for him to do the same. “Oh wait . . . maybe we should go sit at the bar instead.”
The barstools at Denbigh’s were specially magicked to hold the enormous weight of several of the town’s different inhabitants—Arcas being one of the biggest. We took our seats there and clinked the bottles together.
“Cheers,” I said, eyeing the bottle warily. “I swear if I start seeing things, I’m going after him.”
“I’ve had some before. It’s pretty mild. Nothing like my Wendigo Whisky. Now that’s some strong sipping right there.”
We chatted about how Fiona-Leigh was doing. When I leaned forward and confided in him about the disastrous night with Sully and Marina, he shook his head.
“Humans. More trouble than they’re worth if you ask me.”
“I didn’t. And you’re wrong. Especially those two. I just hate that we have to keep so much from them. It certainly doesn’t make it easy to maintain an open friendship.”
He grunted. “Whatever you say.”
Deciding I did not want to argue, I changed the subject to the only other thing that had been on my mind lately. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything at your bar about what happened with Rourke? I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.”
“The MARC running out of steam?” he asked. Arcas being the only minotaur in town, had his fair number of run-ins with them. Between him being adopted by a Witch family and going through that arduous process, and having his every move tracked as he went through the Danann School of Magical Mastery’s Outer Sanctum at the demand of his adopted family, aside from maybe me, he was generally not a fan of the MARC.
“Not exactly. But I could definitely use the help. No leads on the murder case or the search for the missing spell book. Not that you should repeat any of that,” I quickly added in a whisper. “Most people don’t know the Book of the Wise is missing.”
Arcas, who’d gone through the Outer Sanctum, knew what was at stake just as well as any other Witch. “Hm. I haven’t really heard much. What I know, Zoya told me.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “She’s a pretty regular customer at the bar now.” He smacked the bar top lightly, but still sent everyone else’s drinks shaking. “I’ll take another of these,” he called out, holding up the empty bottle.
“Me too,” I called out, smiling as one of the other bartenders leaned over from the end and slid two more bottles our way. “So, she’s been coming to the bar a lot?” Two things I had not expected to hear together in a sentence—Zoya and bar.
Arcas popped open the top using the tip of his horn, leaning down so I could do the same. “I don’t think she wants everyone to know, so she comes to my place instead of Denbigh’s more . . . populated cafe. She’s been real bent out of shape over Rourke. Everyone knows she was in love with the poor bastard.”
My eyes nearly bugged out of m
y head as I dribbled some of my drink down my chin. “What? I didn’t know that! How come I didn’t know that?”
He shrugged, though he seemed pretty delighted to one-up me on information. “It’s all she ever talked about at the bar. She’s a terrible drunk, you see. Always crying, nearly wailing about unrequited love. And she practically lives at the Athenaeum so . . .”
“Whoa.”
“I’ve had to cut her off plenty of times before, all that wailing. It doesn’t do anything to me but a lot of my patrons had to run out, worried she’d deafen them. Or worse.”
Which made sense considering she was half-banshee and all. I thought about that morning in the Athenaeum, seeing her power really coming to life. I shuddered. “Huh. So, she’s a bit of a blabber-mouth?”
He nodded, downing the contents of his bottle in an easy gulp. “The worst. She’d probably tell anyone anything they wanted to hear. Not ideal, considering her job and all.”
Something tickled at the back of brain, though I wasn’t really sure if it was because I already had a light buzz going or what. The brain fog cleared and I sat straight up.
“You’re right. The Head Librarian knows a lot of the Athenaeum’s secrets. Not ideal at all.”
20
Pixie Dust and a Thief
I thought I was being pretty discreet after meeting back up with Fi and Erie at the library. But apparently my kid was more observant than I gave her credit for. After Erie headed home to check on her many types of pets, I walked with Fi back to the Apothecarium. Even though bright violets and deep oranges lit up the sky at sunset, everything seemed extra bright and still a little fuzzy.
“How ya feeling?” There was no hiding the amusement in her words.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My throbbing head said otherwise.
We hadn’t stepped inside the shop for thirty seconds before Fiona-Leigh rushed down the aisle toward Aunt Bee who was busy securing the lids on all the open barrels. “I don’t suppose you have more of that hangover tonic, do you?” I heard her say.
I hung my head for a moment, rubbing at my eyes.
“Hangover?” The floor creaked as Aunt Bee stood up, her bespectacled glare making even Fiona-Leigh take a few steps back. “I certainly hope you aren’t serious.”
“For me,” I groaned, shuffling down the aisle. “It’s for me,”
Her face brightened instantly. “Oh! Well that’s a different story. Yes, of course dear.”
She went behind the shop counter and bent down, rummaging around, bottles clinking up against one another. “Here you go, Gwennie-Bee. Let me get you a clean glass.” Summoning a glass from a cupboard in the back, she poured the dark liquid into it before handing it to me.
It cooled the burn from the indigestion currently sitting at the top of my stomach, and took the pounding to a dull ache. Even my eyes, which felt blurry and a bit glazed over, seemed to clear up.
“Thanks, Aunt Bee.”
“You’re welcome. Though I would maybe caution against drinking in the middle of the daytime. It doesn’t help to walk outside and be welcomed by the brightness of the sun any.” Both her and Fi snickered.
“Ugh. Yes, yes. I know.” Why had I thought it was a good idea to day-drink? My brain really must be exhausted…
Fiona-Leigh ducked down to inspect a jar of pixie dust. “Aunt Bee?”
“Yes?”
“What exactly does pixie dust do? And how do you go about . . . harvesting it? It doesn’t hurt them, does it?” She looked up; her expression wary.
But Aunt Bee just smiled down at her, shaking her head. “Oh no, nothing like that. I have a few contacts in Arcadia who willingly give it to me for a small trade. And pixie dust is just an accumulation of pixie shavings, ground up into a fine, sparkly powder.”
Fi’s eyes went wide. “Pixie shavings?”
I couldn’t help but add my two cents in, knowing exactly the kind of reaction my daughter would have. “It’s not as extreme as it sounds. Pixie dust is just made from dead skin the pixies slough off into a jar for her. She grinds it up with her mortar and pestle over there,” I said, pointing to one of the smaller-sized marble bowls, “and then you get the dust. Their skin naturally shimmers, hence the sparkles.”
And just as I suspected, her lip curled up. “Um, ew. That is not at all what I imagined.”
I shrugged. “Most of the stories you’ve heard are pretty different from the truth. But that’s humans for you. We keep our secrets well-hidden, and that’s how it works out for the best.”
“Speaking of Arcadia,” Aunt Bee said, fixing the last barrel’s lid on securely. “A few Leprechauns came in here yesterday talking about how the Queen has added a record-amount of new Fairy Knights to her army. If you ask me, that’s a little suspicious.”
That did sound rather suspicious. “Hm. Does Uncle Gardner know about that?”
She nodded. “I brought it up with him earlier while he was grabbing lunch with Ginevra at the Kitty Cauldron. He didn’t seem particularly worried about it.”
Sitting down at the little table set up near the back, I placed my wand on top of it, the exhaustion and day catching up with me. Guilt settled in, cutting at me for not spending more of my time with Fiona-Leigh as I’d promised her. In the back of my mind I knew I needed to make it up to her.
“He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment,” I said, thinking about how maybe he and I weren’t so different. Erie used to complain about how busy Uncle Gardner was even when we were kids. “I don’t doubt he’ll look into it though. But our link to the Fae is all but destroyed with the Queen’s admission. You know they can’t lie, and that short sword didn’t prove to be anything more than a dead-end.”
Aunt Bee sat down across from me, sending a duster around the room, dusting off the tops of all the surfaces. “You know, that thing had me puzzled from the very beginning. Why was it outside of all places? Underneath a bush? It sort of reminds you of the ones they have in those statues on your way into the Arcadian castle, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “I don’t really recall. All I remember is the Queen trying to play mind games with me. Lovely, she is.” The last thing I was thinking about was the Queen’s decorating tastes. And the only statues I’d ever seen of the Fae were located in the Athenaeum.
Then it hit me. There was a statue of a proud and slightly pompous looking Fairy Knight, wielding a very familiar short sword, not far from the main desk, standing at the end of the Recipes section
“I think I want to take another look at that sword,” I said slowly, trying to recall its features in my minds’ eye.
Fi, who was standing behind Aunt Bee listening in, piped up. “Ooh, can I come with you this time?”
“I’m sorry, honey. They won’t let you into the evidence room. I promise I’ll be back soon though. It shouldn’t be long at all.” I stood up, trying to fight off the rising tide of guilt again as I pulled her in for a hug.
With the street lanterns flickering their magic flames to light up the road, there were less people out. Through the windows of some of the shops I could see where people were finishing up for the day and setting their wards back up around their businesses before returning home. The bronze plaque at the entrance of the MARC shimmered underneath the lamplight above it.
I knew that even though most of the MARC offices had emptied out by now, there were still some Witches left inside the looming building, working late into the night. I was sometimes one of them a long time ago. Most of the main offices were empty, and when I checked upstairs for Uncle Gardner, I was surprised to see that even he was gone, at least for now.
“Everyone’s so busy being spread thin over the different cases that no one has time for anything else,” I muttered to myself, deciding to take matters into my own hands. I’m sure Uncle G won’t mind if I re-examine the evidence without him. At least… I hope so.
Letting myself in and down the elevator to the top floor, I pulled out my wand to tap in the
special code at the door to the evidence room. There was the sound of a click, then the door slid open to reveal the dimly-lit room behind it.
Gustavo, the retired Shadow Hand that manned the evidence room, sat up in his chair. “Gwendolyn Brady. What brings you here?”
I gave him a small smile, placing my wand down on the table in front of him as was required. “Just checking out something. About the murder investigation.” I didn’t need to explain any further—there was only one murder case in town since violent offenses in Spell Haven weren’t common.
He tipped his hat at me, gesturing past himself. “By all means. But the locker self-locks after nine o’clock, unless you’re the Inquisitor or the Archmage, so . . . you might want to hurry up in there, Miss Brady.”
I thanked him, walking past into the locked off corridor.
I glanced up, following the labels along each aisle marker. “A-H, I, J, K . . . O! Here we go.” I found the ‘O’ files, trailing my finger along until I saw the most recent box labeled “O’SHEA, ROURKE. MURDER. 3RD QUARTER.” I slowly pulled it out of its space, opening the top.
The inside was of course, pretty empty. The main thing inside the specially-magicked cloth sack was the short sword. But there were prints that had been lifted and placed on identification papers, and some more autopsy reports, too. I slid the bag off, feeling the weight of the short sword in my hands.
Truth be told, it didn’t feel nearly as heavy as it should, and even though it had shone pretty well under the sunlight when I first uncovered it—now it looked dull. How could this thing be a real sword? It was like a weird imitation of one, really, but I couldn’t piece together why it would even exist in the first place.
The statue I’d passed by countless times back at the Athenaeum felt like a faraway memory in my head, like trying to recall something you only vaguely knew about to begin with. I was sobered up enough fine, but I couldn’t seem to picture the sword in my hands and the sword in the statue side-by-side.