The Fiddler's Dagger

by W H Lock

  "That would be a shame, that's for sure," Vinnie said.

  "I do wonder though," Quinn said, letting the thought trail off in the air.

  The brothers didn't reply.

  "I wonder what it would take for anyone looking out for that fellow's interests to look the other way?"

  One brother looked at the ceiling and then the floor. The other rubbed the back of his neck. They clucked their tongues.

  Onnie said, "Oh Geez, I don't know about that. Something like that. Geez. Vinnie, what do you think, can something like that happen around these parts?"

  Vinnie shook his head. "Onnie, you have a point, brother. This fella down in Atlanta, he's real clear about what he wants to happen. He doesn't like it when players come round pissing in his pond. Something like that. Well, geez." The brothers shook their head in time with each other.

  "How does ten grand sound? Does that get the pond filter running?"

  "Each," Vinnie said. "Got to have a taste for me, my little brother here, and a bit to spread around to the boys, yeah?"

  Elly shifted around uncomfortably at the sound of money being offered. She cleared her throat. Quinn ignored her.

  "Ten a piece for a pond filtering?"

  The boys nodded.

  "No. How about ten for you and your brother and ten for your blokes to split. What's your preferred method of payment? Cash?"

  The brothers looked at each other and nodded.

  "Did you ever meet our Nana?" Onnie leaned in and took a shot on the table. The pool balls cracked at the impact.

  Quinn shook his head.

  Vinnie said, "She was from the old country, right? She filled our heads with stories. Stories about leprechauns. She said she could see them, ain't that right, Onnie?"

  Onnie nodded. "She had the eye."

  "And she taught us how to see them that's been touched, you see?"

  Quinn raised an eyebrow.

  "She did, Vinnie," Onnie said. "She said watch for them that's been touched. You can't trust'em because they've been touched, you see."

  Vinnie nodded and said, "What else did she say about them that’s been touched?"

  "Take nothing from them other than gold."

  Vinnie nodded, took a shot at the pool table and then said, "That's right, brother. So for you, Mr. Touched, that will be gold."

  "Cold," Onnie said.

  Vinnie followed with, "Hard."

  "Gold," they finished in unison.

  "Done," Quinn said with a swift finality. "I'll have it here tonight. Me and my crew, we're not to be touched. We don't get interfered with. At all, got it?"

  The boys nodded.

  "You've got two weeks," the younger one said. "Then the filter will need to be changed out."

  Quinn nodded and spun on his heel. He didn't look back on his way out.

  Once they hit the streets, Elly cleared her throat again and said, "What was that all about?"

  Quinn stopped and looked at her. "What? That? I was clearing us a little room." Quinn pulled his phone out and sent a text to Rube to arrange for the gold to be dropped off.

  "I get that, but that touched stuff?"

  Quinn shrugged and said, "They're small-time gangsters that hang out in a shabby bar. Do they need a reason to be a little off? They work for the Dragon of Atlanta, so they take payment in gold. Nothing unusual in that."

  "This city is under Grafvitni? I wouldn't think he'd be concerned about a city of this size."

  "He probably uses it for smuggling. Savannah is a port."

  "Good point," Elly said. "Have you ever seen a Lindworm? I hear they look kinda weird without the wings or back legs."

  Quinn shook his head and said. "I wonder if it's weird for them when they take human form to have legs?"

  Elly's eyes went wide and then she laughed at the thought of the legless Viking dragon stumbling around trying to get used to walking or standing on legs rather than pulling themselves along with front claws.

  "How do you know you can trust them?"

  Quinn turned to Elly and gave her a rather shocked and bewildered look. "Elly! They said they would keep quiet. You have to take a man at his word!"

  Elly just arched a black eyebrow at him.

  Quinn laughed and said, "They'll stay quiet for as long as it's profitable for them to be quiet. The moment it's better to roll over on us to Grafvitni, they'll do it."

  "Nice. What's next?"

  "Next we need to talk to a man about a book!"

  Chapter Eleven

  Antonio Vercelli hated the American south. It was too hot. It was too damp. The food was terrible. It was fried and smothered in some awful white paste everyone insisted was gravy. Sitting in a German car in downtown Savannah wasn't helping his mood in the slightest.

  A block down the street from where Antonio had parked, the man Antonio was following got out of a car from the passenger side. Antonio sneered. There was no respect for a man who allowed a woman to do the driving. To add to that indignity, the woman was neither proper nor decent.

  She wore immodest clothing. Despite the shirt covering her from neck to wrists, it was lascivious and revealing. The leather of her pants clung to every curve of her body. Antonio found it hard to focus on anything when she was in view. A raven settled upon her shoulder as they walked down the street towards a local bar. A witch then. He knew what to do with witches. He leaned forward and pressed the call button on his phone.

  Over the speakers of the car a man's voice said, "Yes?"

  "Commander. I have found the sorcerer and his witch. They are unaware of my presence. I can strike now. You need only give the order." Antonio licked his lips and leaned forward. He squeezed the steering wheel with his hands.

  "Non," the voice of his commander said. "You are to observe and report only."

  Antonio did not respond.

  "Am I understood?"

  He still did not answer.

  "Ho capito?" His American accent drawing out the wrong syllables in the Italian.

  "Si," Antonio said eventually. "Capisco e obbedisco."

  The line disconnected. Sometimes Antonio wondered if doing the Lord's work meant that he should disobey direct orders. The man on the other end was not a Templar, but he spoke with the authority of God and his angels. It was Antonio’s lot to obey.

  But Antonio was a man of action. He had worked his way through the Italian Army to serve in the elite Col Moschin regiment. The Templars had recruited him to serve in their holy mission. He did not enjoy following a sorcerer and his slut-witch. It was beneath him. His hands felt the itch to smite the wicked. But Antonio was a soldier. As much as he burned to punish the couple, he would obey his direct orders and merely observe.

  For now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Quinn loved the bookstore the moment he saw the storefront on Bay Street. Bay Street was the oldest part of Savannah. The bricks that paved the street matched the bricks that made the buildings. The doors were old, solid, and covered with layers of paint with leaded glass window panes. A few of the buildings still had the original gas lamps on the front. The whole district oozed a level of charm that was criminal.

  Quinn had dressed the part. He had circular gold-rimmed glasses. He wore a black suit, electric pink gingham shirt, and a matching black bow tie. The tweed jacket Quinn had picked was frayed at the cuffs and the elbows. He rounded the look with worn blue jeans and brown leather shoes. He carried a vintage yellow leather satchel over his shoulder.

  Quinn turned to Elly. "How do I look?"

  "Like a book nerd. A book nerd who loves reality TV fashion shows."

  "It's the bow tie that does it, right?"

  Gartrell's town car crept down the narrow brick lane of Bay Street. It had dropped off Gartrell about an hour ago.

  "Showtime," Quinn said. He hopped out of the sedan that Rube had found for him. It was a four-door sedan with a large chrome grille up front. From the pained look on Rube's face, Quinn was pretty sure it wasn't a Chevy. Or a Ford. O
r Cadillac. Which is what he'd guessed in succession when Rube had shown it to him. But it was the perfect car for what Quinn needed. It looked good and drove nice. There was a large dent in the back section on the passenger side.

  Quinn pulled a book out of his satchel and flipped it open. He appeared to be deep into the contents as he walked. It was an older book, cloth bound with yellowing pages. He arrived at the bookstore just as the heavy wood door opened. The small cowbell chimed as someone came out of the store. Quinn took an extra wide step to time his turn into the store.

  He ran straight into Jeremiah Beauregard Gartrell the fifth.

  Jeremiah Beauregard Gartrell the fifth was the opposite of everything that his father Jeremiah Beauregard Gartrell the fourth had been. Where the senior Jeremiah had been described as towering, the word most commonly used to describe the junior Jeremiah was slight. Jeremiah the Fifth was several inches below the average height for a man in the US. As a child, his father had refused to buy him knee-high boots because the senior Gartrell claimed they would go past his waist. His mother had always described him as being no bigger than a minute. Due to his slight stature, Jeremiah Beauregard Gartrell had retreated to a world of books and introspection.

  It was this discovery of books and the refuge it offered him from his bombastic father that brought Gartrell to the bay area book store. He came here once or twice a year in search of rare volumes.

  Quinn bobbled the book in the air. He almost caught it with his one hand but somehow managed to flip it up in the air again only to bobble it one more time with his other hand. It flipped away from him, bounced off Gartrell’s chest and dropped right into his hands. It even landed with the cover facing Gartrell. The book was Heredity in Relations to Eugenics by Charles Benedicts Davenport.

  Quinn suppressed a laugh. Things were going his way on this one.

  "Is the book okay?!?" He glared at Gartrell.

  "Everything seems to be in order," Gartrell said. He ran his hands over the gilded cloth of the cover and spine. He paused when he read the title. His eyes flicked up to look at Quinn before going back to examine the book. He carefully opened the book and flipped through the pages. He paused at the publisher page at the front of the book. "It appears to have escaped unscathed, sir. A first edition, I see."

  Quinn gently took the book from Jeremiah’s hands. "Yes, it was a hard find too. It's for a special client of mine." Quinn spoke quietly and urgently as he took the book from Gartrell. He scrutinized the binding of the book and flipped through the pages again to make sure nothing had been bent. He made a show of putting it back into the vintage satchel.

  The car came to a stop beside the two men. The driver got out and hustled around to the side of the car closest to his boss. He opened the door and stepped aside for Gartrell.

  Gartrell brushed his gray-brown hair back from his eyes and looked Quinn up and down for a moment before saying, "You like books such as this?" He gestured at the satchel at Quinn’s side.

  Quinn defensively put a hand on the satchel and looked at Gartrell, "I don't just like books, I love them. I make my living with them."

  "Indeed. I have been called a bibliophile a time or two in my life, sir, so I understand the steadfast devotion to the bound medium. Do you specialize in first editions or other ephemera?"

  Quinn sniffed and pushed the glasses further up his nose. "I deal in books of a particular matter. The sort of things," he paused and looked around the street, "the sort of books that bring to light the right place of European ancestry. If you understand my meaning."

  Gartrell nodded. "I do believe I do understand your meaning, sir. And, furthermore, I believe that you and I are of a similar nature and that we share a common interest. I am always in the market for such materials. I would be delighted to take a peek in the book you have in your possession."

  "This?" Quinn said. "Sadly, it's for someone in Atlanta. I was passing through town and decided to check out a few of the more reliable locations," Quinn leaned in and nodded knowingly at Gartrell. He tucked the book back in the messenger bag. Quinn pulled out a business card. "But I am always looking out for interesting things for my friends."

  "I would love to have you over for dinner...," Gartrell looked at the card, "Mr. Quinn? No last name?”

  Quinn sighed with a touch of regret. “Sadly, I am an orphan, sir. I find myself deficient when it comes to family relations.”

  “I simply must have you over for dinner, Mr. Quinn. When will you find yourself in the environs of this fair city?"

  "Sadly, I am unavailable tonight, of course, as I will be in Atlanta and Texas shortly thereafter on business. But, for the promise of fine company and even finer conversation I imagine that I can be here after that."

  "My! You certainly do put on the miles, sir. I am most interested to hear of your adventures." Gartrell handed Quinn a card. "Yes, I believe you, and I will have much to discuss. Call on me, sir, when you are next in Savannah. You will be my guest, of course."

  Quinn grinned and reached out to shake Jeremiah’s hand. "I look forward to it, sir."

  "Indeed," Despite being in his fifties, Gartrell grinned like a schoolboy. Without a further word, Gartrell abruptly turned and got into the car. The driver nodded to Quinn and scooted around to the front of the car.

  Quinn watched as Gartrell’s car rounded the corner. The moment it was out of sight he did a victory spin. A move straight out of a disco movie that ended in a cocked out hip and arm pointing straight up in the sky. Quinn snapped his fingers and his musical circle popped into existence behind him. He strutted down the street to a groovy seventies tune on his way back to the car.

  "Well," Elly asked, still unimpressed. "How did it go?"

  "Fantastic. I got an invite to dinner."

  "What?" She leaned forward to start the car. “Just like that?”

  Quinn leaned back into the corner created by the car seat and door with a grin. "Hey. I keep telling you; I'm great at this."

  “And humble too. That’s great to see.”

  "Hey, it’s not wrong to know when you’re amazing. I’m amazing. And I know it"

  Elly shook her head and pulled out into the center of the very small road. Even with the bricks, the ride was very smooth. Whatever car Rube had picked out, Quinn liked it.

  "Where to next," she asked.

  "Airport! We've got a plane to catch!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  Austin, TX

  Quinn had always liked Austin. It was a city that just wanted to hang out and have a good time. That was a philosophy Quinn could get behind. But he hadn't come to the capital of the State of Texas for the relaxed atmosphere and flip-flops. He'd come to Austin for the Harry Ransom Book Center.

  The Harry Ransom Center was on the grounds of the University of Texas, close to the major highway that ran through the city. The Center held two specific and important collections. The first, and less related to Quinn's needs was the Lyndon B Johnson Presidential Library. The second, and more important to Quinn's needs, was the rare book collection. An academic once bragged to Quinn that the Center had 'The acquisition budget from God' and wasn't afraid to use it.

  The Center had one of the original Gutenberg Bibles, the original edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland with detailed directions to Wonderland, Aleister Crowley's Liber Al, Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa's De Occulta Philosophia, an early draft of the Threefold Book, and one of the eighteen known surviving copies of the Heptanomicon. But Quinn wasn't there for any of those well known, high profile, and well-guarded magical tomes.

  "The what?" Elly asked as they walked into the Center.

  "The Oera Linda," Quinn said with a smile.

  Elly paused, brushed purple hair behind her ear, and said, "Why do I know that name?"

  "The Oera Linda is one of those medium-known books. Not obscure but not exactly famous. Supposedly, it’s a grimoire written in Old Frisian detailing magical rites going back to Neolithic Europe."

  "No, that's not why I
know the name. There's something else," Elly said.

  Quinn came to a stop in front of a book on a small pedestal encased in bulletproof glass. The book was made of loose pages, large leather front and back and bound by two leather straps driven through holes. The book was open, displaying large runes covering half of the left page, and smaller writing on the right page.

  "It was also super popular with the Nazi's," Quinn said in a hushed tone.

  "That's it," Elly said as she nodded. The Nazi's had used it as a bible for their twisted occult purposes. The Second World War had been a dark time for the world, both mundane and magical.

  "And you're going to steal a Nazi magic bible out of a highly secure book museum?"

  “No!” Quinn looked appalled and shocked. Then he said, "I can't believe you would even suggest that! I don't steal things, Elly. People give me things, sure. I even pay or trade. But I don't steal."

  "Oh yeah? You’re not going to steal it. Okay. If you're not going to steal this book, who is?”

  "Yeah," Quinn said with a grin. He turned at looked at the few members of the staff that could be seen. "Someone here will steal it and then give it to me. But first I have to summon a god."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Savannah, Georgia

  Eno let the bowl drop from his jaw. With his nose, he inched a sign he had written that morning out in front of the bowl. The sign read: Give a dog a bone (or a $1). This was Eno's favorite way of watching a location. People didn't like it when a man just sat around one location for hours at a time. They got nervous. But put a sign in front of a dog doing the occasional trick and no one would look twice.

  Eno’s spot in the park gave him a clear and unobstructed view of the Gartrell house across the street. He sneezed, the allergic reaction causing his whole body to shake. He whined for a moment and itched behind his ear.

  When Eno was chosen to go through the ritual to become a wolf, his mother told him one thing in no uncertain terms: he was going to die. His two older half-brothers, both of them the sons of powerful alphas had died under the Claws of Fenrir. In his mother’s mind, if her two glorious sons had not survived, then her miserable runt of a son stood no chance.