The Fiddler's Dagger

by W H Lock

  The Fiddler’s Dagger

  Book II of the Quinn Chronicle: An Urban Fantasy Heist series

  W.H. Lock

  Copyright © 2019 by W.H. Lock

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Tweek the cat

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  What Happened in Cleveland?

  Acknowledgments

  URGENT MESSAGE

  About the Author

  Also by W.H. Lock

  Chapter One

  Quinn looked at Special Agent in Charge Nelson, a special agent from the magical division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. To Quinn, Nelson looked as if he'd been born fully adult with thinning hair while wearing a white button-down shirt, black tie, brown slacks, and brown leather wing-tipped shoes. Nelson sat across the round table from Quinn. As far as Quinn knew, they were alone.

  "She played you like a fiddle, Quinn. I have to admit, it was something to watch too."

  Nelson pulled more pictures out of the folder. They were a nice black and white series of Gwen and Quinn meeting for dinner in Las Vegas. Standing together and holding binoculars as they overlooked the necromancer's estate. They even had pictures of them holding hands as they walked into the hotel where she was staying. They'd been on his tail the whole time, and Quinn hadn't noticed.

  "I mean, watching the, what did you call yourself?” Nelson snapped his fingers and pointed at Quinn. "The Crown Prince of Crime? Yeah, that was it, watching the Crown Prince of Crime get played like a mark was amazing. She was the all-business ice queen who had her heart melted by the charming rogue," Nelson said with a laugh. "She was playing you by your dick from the jump, kid."

  Quinn sneered and said, "What's your point, Nelson? Did you come here to harass me or do you have something useful to say?"

  "Quinn," Nelson said as he leaned in over the table. "I've got a laundry list of things that I could use to send you back to Blackrock. Don’t make me do it."

  Behind Quinn, the Circle of Cerddoriaeth, the semi-intelligent magical circle that Quinn had uploaded all his music to respond to his mood and changed the music it was playing to a somber instrumental filled with deep trombones.

  Nelson ticked off points as he said, "Operating a retail store without proper licensing, using Vampire Charm without prior consent, intent to defraud, intent to steal from a banking institution, arson by dragon, theft--."

  "Ah, I have a license to run a small retail shop, it wasn't my plan to steal from any bank I'm just a simple shop owner being coerced by criminal elements, I can't control when or what a dragon will do, and I didn't steal anything."

  "Convincing a rookie cop to hand over the skull of a Catholic saint to a guy in a raincoat is theft, Quinn. That may satisfy the exact wording of your oath to Asbiel, but the Department of Justice calls it racketeering. It’s still theft, Quinn."

  Quinn shrugged. The circle played a trombone sound blat with a comedic slide that sounded like it was deflating. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the magical circle playing music behind him. Maybe having it tied to his emotions hadn't been the best idea.

  "But I'll be honest," the federal agent said. "It's not my job to clean up after the local cops. My job is to stop this woman," Nelson slid the picture of Gwen and Oscar walking through LAX hand in hand out from the pile of papers. "It's my job to stop this woman from doing whatever she's planning."

  "What's it to me?" Quinn pulled the picture of his oldest and closest friend and Gwen closer to himself. From how they were dressed, the picture had been taken within the last few hours. He picked at the edge of the glossy photograph. Without thought, he tore off a small piece and shredded it. He wasn’t mad, he told himself. The job was done. Gwen and Oscar were free to do whatever they wanted. Good for them, he thought. It’s just great they’re together. Just. Great. With no conscious thought, Quinn shredded more of the picture.

  "You don't think saving the world is in your best interest?"

  Quinn arched an eyebrow at the federal agent. "You want me to be honest?"

  "I'd appreciate it, yeah," Nelson said.

  "I don't believe it for a second. How did we go from stealing from a crusty necromancer to the end of the world? Why would anyone do that? It's nonsense. People are stupid, but they're not that stupid."

  "Oh, you think someone wouldn't want to end the world?"

  "The end of the world is a nice con," Quinn said. He leaned back in the steel folding chair. He balled up the bits he'd torn from the photograph and flicked it into the darkness. Each tiny ball ignited as they flew into the darkness. He draped his arm over the back of the chair and looked at Nelson. "But that's just it; a con. No one would end the world. Not really."

  Nelson looked at Quinn in the eyes. It was short of a glare but more than a stare. After a moment of silence, Nelson said, "You wouldn't think parents could believe their child was so evil they had to sew her mouth and eyes shut to save her," Nelson gave air quotes around the save her. "She killed them in their sleep, then animated their corpses to use as her eyes and mouth. I’ve seen that. People are boundlessly cruel, Quinn. When you've walked what I've had to walk through, ending the world doesn't sound like a bad idea."

  Quinn waved his hands in the air and ignored the sick feeling in his stomach. “Then why are you trying to stop it?”

  Nelson said, “Because it’s my job. Now, the eggheads are sure she's working with an angel to end the world. About two years ago, Gwen joined the Cyprians as an aspirant. She made it to novitiate quickly.” Nelson pulled a picture out of the folder. It was a picture of Gwen dressed as a nun. She was different. She was shy and withdrawn in the picture. She stood with a few other novices, each one wearing the simple black dress and hood of a nun. In the picture, Gwen had been in the act of pushing up overly large glasses.

  Despite his instincts, Quinn looked through the pictures that Nelson kept sliding out of the thin folder. They were another series of Gwen. She was almost unrecognizable to Quinn. The woman in these photographs was clearly shy and vulnerable. She wore no makeup. Her hair was pulled into a simple bun but even that was under threat of exploding into a frizzy mess. This wasn’t the poised and controlled Gwen that Quinn had waited hours in a dark warehouse to meet.

  Nelson continued, “About three months ago, she dropped out and disappeared. She was a week or two away from taking her final vows to join the order. There is no
record of where she went or what she did. She dropped off the grid. A few weeks ago she showed up at the Vatican.”

  Nelson slid yet another picture of the too-thin file folder. Quinn couldn’t stop himself from pulling the picture over to himself. This was a picture of the Gwen he’d known. She was dressed in white. Her hair glossy and pulled into a tasteful style that swept around behind her. She was moving through the crowd with confidence.

  “She walked into one of the Vatican’s vaults and came out with this.” Nelson pulled yet another picture out of his file. This was of a simple iron lantern. “This is Pizarro’s Lantern. It reveals hidden pathways. Pizarro used it to loot El Dorado. It’s been in the Vatican’s possession ever since. She strolled in and just walked out with it."

  Quinn pulled the picture of Gwen in a crowd of tourists going through the Vatican. "Look, Nelson, it's cute you're trying to run a con on me, but your premise is flawed. No one would believe an angel and a nun want to destroy the world." Quinn stood up and stepped away from the table. He didn’t want to see anymore. Trying to reconcile the woman he’d seen in the pictures with the woman he knew was causing him to lose focus. "I mean, sure maybe they would believe that someone who worked for a devil seduced a nun. And there’s this mask-wearing sex cult where everyone walks around naked. Devils and sex cults trying to bring about the end of the world? That reads."

  Nelson watched Quinn with no expression. There was no hint of what he was thinking.

  "But a nice girl who only wanted to be a nun and then bails on her vows just like that?" Quinn shrugged. "Sorry, pal, I'm not buying what you're selling."

  Nelson pulled out more pictures from the file. These were pictures of different daggers. He said, "We think she will try for one of these next. Apparently after getting a Lantern and a skull she needs something to stab?"

  Quinn rolled his eyes.

  Nelson slid the pictures out. The first was a Japanese tanto. A master craftsman had carved the handle from jade to look like a dragon twisting in on itself. The blade emerged from the dragon’s open mouth. "This was the dagger of Matsuri, the famed sword maker from the Edo period. It's rumored to be so sharp it can cut the air. This one is on display at a national museum in Tokyo." Nelson pulled the next photo out. This was a simple dagger, utilitarian in its construction and design.

  Quinn looked at the second knife. It was plain when compared to the masterpiece of the Japanese dagger. The metal of the second dagger was pitted and dulled from use. The wooden handle was worn. One of the crosspieces had a slight bend to it.

  Nelson said, "The Conquistador's Dagger, the one that Cortez used to carve the heart out of Cuauhtémoc, the last emperor of the Aztecs. It's in a private collection in Savannah, Georgia.

  Quinn shrugged and dismissed the idea by flicking the picture away from him. It slid back over to Nelson.

  “The eggheads say the one she is most likely to go after is Finger of Kali."

  Quinn glanced at the last picture Nelson pulled out. Whoever crafted this dagger enjoyed cruelty. The pommel of the dagger was the six-armed goddess with her hands holding the blade above her head. The blade snaked back and forth in a classic wave pattern. The edges were serrated. The blade was made to cause as much pain as possible on the way in and on the way out.

  Quinn buried the pictures of Gwen and pushed the pile away.

  "My money is on this one," Nelson said. He pulled the picture of the Finger of Kali out and placed it on top. "It looks like the dagger you'd need to end the world. This one is on display at the British Museum of History in London. She has the skull. She has Pizarro’s Lantern. She needs a knife next. I need your help, Quinn. Did she say anything? Did she hint at anything while you were together?"

  "Am I under arrest?"

  Nelson shook his head no.

  "Make sure you hit the Palms Thai and see the Thai Elvis impersonator while you're here in Los Angeles. I hear he will go back to Thailand soon, and it's a good show," Quinn said with a smile as he walked away.

  Quinn slid the picture of Gwen and Oscar into his pocket as he walked out. Once he was out of the warehouse, he stopped and looked at the picture. Then he tore the picture apart. First, he tore it in half and then halved it again and again and again and again. When there was nothing left of the woman he had cared for and the man Quinn had called his brother, Quinn threw the scraps into the air. Each one ignited and turned to ash as they floated away in the night air.

  Good for them, Quinn thought. He hoped they had fun together. Everything was fine, he told himself. Everything was fine. Everything. Was. Fine.

  Chapter Two

  Agent Nelson watched Quinn walk into the Los Angeles night. Nelson tapped his fingers on the table, giving the kid a chance to come back. When it became clear Quinn wasn't coming back Nelson packed up the papers and pictures.

  "I want to know where he goes and who he talks to. He's still our best lead on what will happen next," Nelson said to the empty room. He knew his team had focused spells and equipment on the building that picked up his voice. "Emily, I want your team to go to Savannah. Tucker, talk to your contact at the MDF in Japan. I'll reach out to the MI8 in London again. We'll need eyes on the ground. I want all the bases covered."

  While Quinn was Nelson's best way into knowing where Gwen would show up next, he wasn't the only way.

  Chapter Three

  Leslie thought about cleaning the glasses again. The bar had been empty when she’d taken over from the night shift, and it hadn’t gotten any busier. The place didn't have a name. Or if it did, no one had ever told Leslie what the name was. The only sign the place existed was a neon yellow and red arrow over a steel door. A steel door around the corner of a dead-end alley and hidden between two dumpsters.

  Leslie had learned a lot working the bar. She'd learned not to look vampires in the eyes. She’d learned to always look werewolves in the eyes. She’d learned that magic was real. She'd learned only to take payment in gold and in advance. She'd learned that her coworker Bria was half-ogre.

  Bria was big by any measure. She was over six foot and packed solid. To Leslie, even Bria’s boobs looked like they were made of muscle. Leslie was disappointed to find out that Bria didn’t have an underbite with small tusks protruding up over her top lip. Bria was the muscle for the bar. Bria wasn’t a bouncer. She didn’t bounce. She muscled people. If anyone got out of line, Bria put them back in line or put them even further out. Sometimes permanently.

  Bria pointed at an article on the front page of her newspaper. She said, "This is what I'm talking about, Les. If a coach had pulled this kind of crap back home, they'd have cut her tits off."

  Leslie looked at the paper. The picture was of a woman in a blazer yelling at another woman in a black-and-white striped shirt. Leslie nodded as if she cared.

  "That's their whole problem," Leslie said. "They think they can just walk it in."

  "That's what I'm talking about," Bria said. "You have to play aggressive defense. Make them afraid of your end of the field."

  Leslie wasn't sure what an ogre was, but she was sure being one wasn't fun. Or at least Bria wasn't. Leslie wanted to go into the back room to get away from Bria when the lights in the bar dimmed. She stood stock still. Leslie had seen odd things happen in this bar and she'd been trained not to panic when something weird happened.

  A man in a white suit stood in front of the door. A spotlight framed him. He looked up and brushed his tousled black hair with one hand. He pulled a coin out of his pocket. With a smirk, he flicked the coin out into the air. Leslie watched as the coin impossibly flew across the length of the bar to land perfectly in the coin slot of the jute box in the corner. The box immediately played one of those classic pop songs from the eighties. Leslie wasn't sure which one it was, but she knew it from her mother's CDs.

  Then the guy danced down the stairs. He would spin; move his body to give the impression of rapid movement without going anywhere. He danced back up again. The spotlight stayed centered on him the e
ntire time, tracking his movements perfectly. When he made it to the bar, Leslie was impressed with the spin that ended with their eyes meeting. His ultra-blue eyes were the same color as the sky after a spring storm.

  "You know what I'm in the mood for," he asked.

  "No one cares," Bria answered.

  With no reaction to Bria the blue-eyed stranger said, "One of those hamburgers with a fried egg on top, Applewood smoked bacon and blue cheese. Maybe with the crunchy fried onion bits on top?"

  Leslie nodded.

  The stranger nodded and pulled up a bar stool. "I love those," he said.

  "Can I get you something to drink?"

  "Sure. Whatever is dark, malty, and local." He turned and looked at Bria with a smile and a wink.

  She spit on the floor in response.

  "So it's that kind of place, gotcha," he said without missing a beat. "Say, ladies. Maybe you can help me out?"

  Leslie didn't bother to respond or look up from the screen where she typed in his order. Bria snorted and went back to reading.

  "My name is Quinn," he said. He paused as if he had expected to be recognized.

  Bria and Leslie very carefully didn't react to his name.

  After a beat, Leslie said, "Great. I'd love to start you a tab, Quinn, but the boss says you've got to pay up front." She spun the screen around to show him the total he owed.