by J. F. Holmes
The laughter faded, finally, leaving me weak and drained. What was that quote from Sherlock Holmes? “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” Ok, this was my truth, I would just have to deal with it. When I had got my shit together I watched the airship perform a series of maneuvers above Manhattan, launching and recovering dragons from the sides. Flight workups like a carrier before deployment, which made sense. There’s only so many ways to do a certain thing, magic be damned.
I made the best I could of a final count of the troops, but more importantly I sketched out everything. Someday there would be American troops walking that ground again with guns in their hands and murder in their eyes, and I aimed to make that happen. The climb back down the steps was almost as exhausting as the way up, and I still had a lot to do today and later tonight. First up was the Barrett, and I had a duffle bag for that. I found the car easy enough, covered with a grey coating of ash, and made short work of breaking the gun down and stowing it. Heavy as shit, too. Glancing at my watch I saw that I had twenty minutes to make my RP with O'Neill, so I started a leisurely jog down through back alleys and side streets, avoiding the main avenues. There were more people as the summer afternoon descended towards evening, some abandoning their residences with belongings. Figured as much, a week would be about the time necessities would run out and food spoil with the intermittent power supply. I had noticed that there wasn’t any free food being handed out, at least in this part of Manhattan and I was pretty sure that the Elves wanted to make Midtown their own. No one looked at each other, the usual brusque New York attitude turned more into something like shock. There were few cars, but I did see a city bus crammed with people, windows blown out. It was headed north, and the driver looked like she had a gun to her head. Young, able bodied people headed for the slave pits on some other dimension.
It was actually really weird, but it reminded me of some of the cites I had seen in the middle of wars. People trying to go about their day, cars moving amidst the rubble. Most of the damage had been windows blowing out and there was glass everywhere, but I even saw a city work crew starting to clean up, at least in Midtown. Forced labor, because there were two orcs riding shotgun on them and it was past quitting time. I bet their union shop steward was having a fit.
O'Neill met me at the appointed place and we headed south, always wary before going up the next block. There were no traffic lights working but hardly any cars; I supposed that anyone who could have fled the island in one had done so when they could. “How did it go?” I asked her. She looked tired and dirty; I knew most of her day had been spent walking from place to place to keep attention off of her.
In answer she reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Expensive stuff, meant for sipping, but she expertly took the cap off with one hand and, still driving, took a deep swallow. “That will get me through the rest of the evening, I hope.”
“That bad, huh?” I asked, declining her offer of a swig.
She took a deep breath and slowed to go around a group of people just standing in the middle of the road. “Uh huh. Today they’re collecting pretty people.”
“What?” Whatever she had said made little sense. “Who?”
“The fucking Elves, dipshit. They have roving patrols kicking in doors and taking out any really good looking young women.”
“To the slave portals?” I asked.
She shook her head, still staring straight ahead. “Nope. These are younger Elves, not all from House Tavan. Out picking the spoils of war. Young shitheads out partying. Sometimes, they just rape and then leave.”
“Hey,” and I put my hand on her shoulder. “It’s war. I’ve seen it all over. Don’t take it personally.”
Tears started to roll down her face, but she showed no other emotion. “No, Dave. It might be war, but it’s my fucking city.!” and her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
I said nothing for several blocks, merely watched the devastation grow less as we moved southwards. I would have preferred going north, to have more escape routes, disappearing into the Bronx if we could get across a bridge, but Midtown seemed blocked off. Finally, “Are they going to be there?”
“Yep. Every surviving cop above the rank of Sergeant that I could get the word too. All six of them.” She sounded bitter. “There were more, but they’re fat desk jockeys that are scared shitless.”
“Well, that will do. The less people we have to work through, the better.” Insurgencies were something I knew inside and out, and this was going to have to start small. One problem I foresaw was that these were cops, not soldiers. I was going to rely on them for information more than action. Clark was taking care of the soldier part today, and hopefully Hollis had set up two safehouses so far.
“Where and when are we meeting?” I asked her.
“Zero five tomorrow morning, First Precinct.” She saw the look of alarm on my face and said, “Relax. The Elves told everyone to get back to work. I’ve got you an ID and we’re going to hide right under their goddamn noses. Trust me, before I was Special Unit I did undercover for Manhattan South Vice.”
“OK,” and I trusted her, “and until then?”
“I got a room at the New Yorker. We can grab some sleep and I can screw your brains out, soldier boy.” She looked over at me for a second with a broad smile, a woman who knew what she wanted.
“Nope. I appreciate the offer, Shannon, I really do, but no.” And I regretted saying it. She had the body of a martial artist or dancer, and a beautiful Irish face under all the stress and dirt.
“You married?” she asked.
“Nope. Well, once, but only for a bit.” That brought some painful memories to the surface, and I wondered how my ex was doing. Probably banging an Elf if it gave her a leg up.
“So what? Don’t be all serious, I just need to relieve some stress,” she said, but I could see a bit of hurt behind her eyes.
“Because … I like you, but someday I might have to give you an order or do something where I can’t let feelings get in the way. You and I are soldiers now, until this gets over.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing, soldier boy. Not going to offer again.” She didn’t sound mad, more just disappointed.
“Good, don’t. If I hesitate over emotions, it might get us both killed, or people who are counting on us. Not that I don’t want to, trust me.”
“Suit yourself,” she answered in a neutral tone. We drove in silence the rest of the way.
Chapter 35
“Remember your cover. Anyone asks, you’re a New York City Sheriff's Deputy, normally assigned to Washington Heights. How’s your Spanish?” O'Neill handed me a leather wallet with a badge and an ID in it.
“Fair to middling. I thought the sheriff thing was a myth.” I sort of knew they existed; after all, each of the City boroughs were also counties of the State of NY, but I had never actually seen one.
“Close enough,” she said, “there’s one Sheriff for the entire city with five undersheriffs. You’re just a regular deputy, the kind of guy who throws people out of houses for not paying rent.” She grinned at me as she said it. Last night’s stab at a romantic interlude was forgotten as far as I could tell, though in my experience no woman forgot anything, ever.
“Nice,” I said, not meaning it.
“Just keep your mouth shut around regular cops. As far as I know no one from north of 42nd or the Bronx has checked in, though there have been emails back and forth. Highest surviving guy is an Inspector, but he’s the Chaplain. Next down is an LT and three sergeants.”
“A chaplain? Seriously?” I groaned. “I’m going to ignore him and deal with the Lieutenant.”
She turned and put her hand on my chest, stopping me just outside the doorway. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Father Feradach is the heart and soul of the NYPD and if you’re going to get ANYTHING done, you will do good to listen to him. Matter of fact, I think you
should talk to him ONLY. I’ll go talk to the rest of the brass. They’ll take their orders from the padre. He’s waiting for you two doors down on the right.” Then she slipped in and shut the door in my face.
Well, this had been a setup, and I was a little pissed at her. Still, gotta play the game. I continued down the hall and banged on the door. “Come in,” said a voice inside, and I did. I had expected some ancient grey haired washed up guy in a clerical collar.
Father Feradach, or Mike, as I was to come to know him, was in his early fifties and a hard ass. His grip was sure and callused and he wore a full police dress uniform with gold bars and a gold cross. “Major Kincaid,” he said, “thank God you’re here. Come in, sit down.” His voice had a brogue to it, a New York accent layered over original Irish.
“Let me guess, you’re straight off the boat and you worked construction,” I said, “and you live in Riverdale, in the Bronx.”
“Close. I merely minister to those lads. They’re a tough lot and need a lot of guidance, so far from home. I’m the pastor of St. Brigid’s, assigned there by the grace of the Holy Father.” He smiled when he said it, but there was steel in his eyes. I liked this guy.
“OK, Father. Sergeant O'Neill slipped me in here expressly to talk to you, I think. Pulled a fast one on me.”
“Call me Mike. She’s a slick one, she is. And yes, I wanted to talk with you. There’s a lot you don’t know about what’s going on.” He offered me a chair and I sat, back to the wall.
Father Mike reached into his desk drawer and I tensed for a second, hand on my pistol. He saw me and stopped, then slowly brought a book out. “You’re right to be cautious, the Fae can sometimes take appearances other than what they are. They don’t dare wear the Cross, though.”
“And how do you know this?” I was curious, but it seemed to make sense. In answer, he pushed the book across to me. It was a slim volume with a leather cover, no title. I opened it up and saw a title page with the words “Commentāriī dē Bellō Dryadale.”
“Commentary something something war,” I translated. Underneath was the name ‘Gaius Julius Caesar’ and the Roman numeral DCCI. Year 701 since the founding of the city of Rome. “55 BC in our calendar,” I said, “the year after Caesers’ aborted attempt to invade Britain.”
“Literally, War with the Elves,” he replied. “The rest of the book is in the original Latin, so don’t bother. We keep it that way so nothing is lost in translation. I see you’ve studied your history.”
“Get to the point, padre. This volume of Caesar's commentaries doesn’t exist. Are you saying that there have been wars with the Fae before, and the Church knows about it?”
“Deeper than the Church, Major. My last name is Feradach, and one of my ancestors was a king in Ireland, long before St. Patrick converted us. My family were also priests before Christ died on the cross.”
I sat back, holding the book in my hands. “Druids, huh? Human sacrifices, all that crap?”
“Hardly. Protectors of the people against things in the night, more like. Same as we are today.” His face wore a very serious look, blue eyes boring into me, but he had a slight smile.
“Let me guess, the Pope knew about this and sent you here to help fight the Fae when they invaded.” There was disbelief in my voice, and he heard it. Though why there was disbelief after everything I had gone through recently, even I didn’t know.
“Not really,” he sighed. “The Holy See has always known this would happen, someday. As does the Patriarch of Constantinople, certain more enlightened Mullahs, various Rabbis, the Dalia Lama, many Shinto priests and so on. We just didn’t know when, and as the modern world has progressed, more and more of us lost faith in the reality of it.”
“Well,” I said, irritated, “I watched the reality of it staring at me across the Brooklyn Bridge a few days ago. They bleed, just like we do.”
“Yes, I know. I saw plenty of fighting here in Manhattan.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers. “Let me ask you, Major, what do you know of their magic?”
“Not a whole lot, but I have a source who will be telling me more as soon as I get time to sit and talk with him.” And I proceeded to fill him in on Tor and the dwarves, as well as my orders to the gangs to collect as many items as we could. Then I showed him the ring I had dummy corded to my belt.
He drew back when I placed it on the desk, a look of almost fear on his face. “What does it do?” he asked.
“Run of the mill bullshit translation stuff. When I wear it I can understand all their languages within about a hundred feet or so. Want to try it?” I asked, holding it out.
“No,” he answered nervously. “There are some of their things that get their, well, their power, from being in league with demons and devils. Probably not the more minor things, like these rings, but their more powerful stuff? Powered by Hellfire and pacts with creatures that will rend your soul.”
“Well,” I replied, putting the ring away, “I’ll use whatever I have to in order to get these sons of bitches off American soil. Let me ask you, though, why am I meeting with you, Father? I have an insurgency to run.”
“Because we haven’t been standing by for thousands of years doing nothing, Major Kincaid. There are certain things … that will be useful in your fight. It will take some time to gather them, though, and I don’t know what will be available for New York. Plus,” and he smiled, “I did quite a few things in my youth before I came to New York. Many of them around Dublin.”
“IRA?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“For a while, until one of our operations killed an innocent. Then I swore it off and took the cloth. I have been in repentance for three decades, and I feel the Lord has finally shown me how to find the way and provided me a foe worthy of my talents.”
“I don’t need another bomb maker, padre. I can do that easily enough myself, and there are thousands of veterans in the city who have personal experience with IEDs.” Which was true.
“Oh no,” he said with a grin, “you need an intelligence officer. I’m too old and smart to be running around blowing things up. For example, here is everything I’ve managed to collect on the Elves’ political situation, mostly the ones who are participating in this invasion. That and their recent past history. For example, did you know that many of the Yrch, or ‘orcs’ as people have come to call them, are from independent tribes that were recently defeated in what they call ‘The Winter War’? Their cannon fodder isn’t exactly happy.”
I nodded. “That conforms something that I’ve already been told. OK, I’ll put you on my staff as my intel guru and all around good guy to remind me not to dance with the devil. Good enough?” I needed to get done with this and get to work.
“Three more things. My niece is very fond of you. I would be upset if you broke her heart.”
“Ah, let me guess, Sergeant O'Neill. Who basically tried to jump my bones last night,” I grinned.
“Well, we were all young once. She’s a good woman, David, and love is a powerful force for good and evil. Be kind where you can, it will keep you human. Here’s the second thing,” and he brought out a sword from a box beside his desk. I recognized the short broad blade of a gladius, the rounded handguard and weighted pommel sticking out of a plain leather scabbard.
“Nice, but I can’t walk around with a Gladius Hispaniensis strapped to my waist, can I? I mean, things like this are illegal to open carry in New York City, aren’t they?” I picked it up anyway, lighter than I had expected, and drew the blade partially out. The steel shone like frost in the fluorescent lighting. I had done some fencing in college, and had extensive training in knife work, but this was a piece of brutal killing machinery.
“I’m sure a NYPD Lieutenant can give you a permit,” he said, laughing. “Besides, it goes with the book, and the Elves have run into it before. There is power in blades with names, Major Kincaid.” He looked at me seriously when he said that. “This one was called Agheu Glas, or Grey Death,
hidden when my people buried Prince Nennius of Britani after single combat with Caesar.”
“I thought your ancestors were Irish,” I said, but kept looking at the sword. It felt … right in my hands.
“Many of the Celts fled to Ireland after the Romans conquered us. Or maybe my greatest grandmother slept around,” and he grinned. “This isn’t something like, say, Excalibur or Durendal. Most weapons are tools in the hands of the user, and Caesar wasn’t exactly the best of men. It did far more damage to the Romans when Nennius took it from him.”
I shook my head and smiled. “I came in here to start planning an insurgency and leave with a book that doesn’t exist, Julius Caesar's personal gladius, and a warning from a hot woman’s former terrorist uncle priest not to mess with her heart. And,” I said, looking at my watch, “it’s not even 07:00 yet. You said there was a third thing?”
He looked at me for a long moment, then over at the door, checking to see that it was closed. The priest stood up, looked out the window, then sat down on the edge of the desk. Not any closer to me, more like to just have some room. “You have heard of the Templars, Knights of Malta, Hospitaliers, other militant religious orders of the church?”
“Of course. DaVinci code and all that shit. Stuff, I mean, sorry Father.” I guess you never really do leave your Catholic school education behind.
He smiled. “David, I minister to construction workers. Never worry. Now, there are other, older orders who have lived for a long time waiting. As I said, the Church has been aware of the Fae for a long time. The Magia Exciderunti are certain scholars who, well, look for people with talent. For example…” and he held up his hand, speaking a single word that I couldn’t catch or understand.
In front of us an image flickered into life, a small diorama, looking out over what I recognized as the MCU stadium in Brooklyn, where the Cyclones play. There were hundreds, no, maybe a couple of thousand of statues crowded into the grounds of the ballfield. As we watched, a truck pulled up and humans unloaded more under the lash of an orc overseer. We zoomed in a bit and I could see that the statues were all of soldiers wearing modern military kit. There was an Elf standing off to one side and she suddenly glanced up as if she could see us. The mage turned and extended both hands, a look of pure hatred on her face and hellfire started to glow.