Paper & Blood

by Kevin Hearne

  It was a bittersweet return, therefore, every time. A memory of bliss and a pang of loss. And I got maybe three seconds to experience it before someone tried to kill us.

  A whoosh and a clipped wooden snap followed by the sight of a tumbling stick in the air was my first clue that we were targets. Coriander shouting, “Down!” was my second. Someone had fired a projectile at us, and Coriander’s wards had deflected them.

  “Oi!” Buck said, and he popped out of sight to appear shortly afterward in the branches of an oak tree, attacking a figure of his own diminutive stature. That figure winked out of sight the way Buck often did, indicating that the would-be assassin had been a hobgoblin. We heard Buck curse and then he popped back in front of us.

  “He ported away somewhere. Didnae recognize him, though he had a nose like the Fullbritches, or maybe the Snothouses.”

  “His weapon?” Coriander asked.

  “One of those mini-crossbows.”

  “He could return to try again, so be on your guard, Al.”

  I pointed at myself in surprise, as if to say, Me?

  “Yes, you. You were the target. The bolt glanced off the wards on my shoulder but was aimed over it, at you. No one would try to attack me with such weapons. It is well known that I am invulnerable to them.”

  I grunted and could almost feel the lines in my face carve a little deeper. To set up such an ambush, one would have to know I’d be coming through that particular Old Way. One would have to know I’d be traveling through Tír na nÓg at that time. It seemed likely that it would be someone connected to the disappearances of the sigil agents in Australia.

  “Come, let’s move quickly to the transit point and get you to Australia. Single file, once more. Right foot first this time.”

  This second walk was longer, the path more sinuous, as Coriander led us through a shortcut of Tír na nÓg, a process that I did not understand fully, except that the plane was porous and veiled, the space and time all warped and diaphanous, like a sodden paper towel folded into strange origami. After a few steps we left the sward and saw different landscapes with every footfall, a bog here and an old-growth pine forest there, a vast plain followed by a bramble-choked riverbank, and then a cliff overlooking a stormy sea right before a hill with an easy slope down to a beach with gentle whitecaps lapping at the shore. There we stopped.

  “Excellent. From here we take the Old Way to Melbourne. We will emerge in a green space called Fitzroy Gardens, which I believe is rather popular with the public, and we may be seen. Once there, Al, I will wait just long enough for you to get your mobile device working so you can speak to me, and then I must return to attend to a long list of errands, which has just been made longer. I’ll be reporting to Brighid that a hobgoblin took a shot at you in our lands.”

  “Here’s wot I don’t understand,” Buck said. “He obviously could have teleported behind us tae get a better shot, but he didnae. He took a low-percentage shot instead. Why bother? Was that just a warning?”

  “Perhaps. Or it was meant to be deadly and the hobgoblin wasn’t into it,” Coriander mused. When we gave him blank stares, obviously not following, he explained: “I may have skipped some steps. If we assume that Al was the target, we can also assume the hobgoblin was hired rather than pursuing some personal vendetta. His behavior suggests that he couldn’t refuse the job, but he didn’t want to follow through either. So he took a terrible shot and now he can say he tried but I foiled him. This sort of thing has happened before.”

  “Aye, hobs will do that sometimes,” Buck confirmed. “We’re very reluctant tae be used as assassins. But people try tae rope us intae the job anyway, so we try tae be terrible at it when we cannae say no. Which means the relevant questions are who hired the hob and why—and why would they even go for a hob when we never kill anyone we didnae want tae kill in the first place?”

  “A problem for the road ahead.” Coriander led us a few paces away to a knobby rock outcropping on the hill. “Behind me once more, please, and left foot first this time. Here we go.”

  The path was a rigid one of frequent ninety-degree turns, and after twenty steps or so, the nice hillside overlooking the ocean dissolved in our vision and the silence filled in with the low-level industrial hum of a major city, though the replacement landscape remained at least somewhat bucolic.

  Fitzroy Gardens was a garden in the sense that there were some planted and groomed areas around the walkways crisscrossing the expansive lawns; it was truly more of a park where some people also did a smidgen of gardening. People typically went there to enjoy a picnic and let their children work through their sugar highs so that they’d nap later, a process I thought of as “nap farming.” Before my time, there used to be a bound tree in the park. The Iron Druid had bound the native gum tree to Tír na nÓg in the nineteenth century, but it died in the early twentieth century and a decision was made to create an Old Way that emerged near the old stump instead of binding another tree. The Australians, curiously, had preserved the stump and carved fantastical creatures into it in the 1930s, one artist’s imagining of what fairies must be like. They were cute and friendly-looking and wholly unlike the actual Fae. Coriander laughed out loud when he saw it, for which he apologized.

  “Sorry. It gets me every time. They’re just so adorable and unthreatening.”

  There was a wrought-iron fence surrounding the stump—pretty inconsiderate if the carved figures were supposed to be true Fae—but it was there to prevent vandalization of the artwork.

  We had emerged from Tír na nÓg in a small square of grass near the old tree, a space ringed by hedges and a sidewalk, and there we paused, half-expecting someone to gasp and wonder aloud where we’d come from. But despite it being rather busy with morning joggers and businesspeople urgently muttering into their Bluetooth headsets as they cut through the park on their way to an office, trying to project an aura of wealth and importance, no one appeared to have noted our arrival. Everyone was in their own world, paying attention to their phones or occasionally watching someone else’s dog chase a Frisbee, and therefore not looking in our direction. Since no one saw us actually appear from nothing, when they did notice us, they assumed we had been there all along and hadn’t just come from Glasgow via the Fae planes.

  I immediately powered on the new phone and began the activation process. I wouldn’t be able to talk until it was finished and I had a text-to-speech app installed.

  “Arse biscuits, what’s that thing in the sky?” Buck asked, wincing and holding up his arms to shield his face.

  “That’s the sun,” Coriander explained.

  “Gah! It’s rude and brash here, not shy like it is in Scotland. Do they have a law here against clouds or sumhin?”

  “Opposite seasons. It’s summer here in the southern hemisphere.”

  “Still, it feels like a different summer somehow. And we are unprepared. People are gonnay wonder what ye’re hiding underneath that topcoat, MacBharrais. It’s gonnay get awfully warm.”

  I merely nodded, since I could do little else.

  “What sweet unholy bollocks is that?” the hobgoblin said, pointing across from us to another iron-fenced area, through the bars of which one could see small, brightly colored houses about three or four feet high.

  Coriander snorted. “That’s what the humans call a ‘fairy village.’ Human children are led to believe that the Fae either live there or in homes very similar to it.”

  “And the children believe them? Even I couldnae fit into those things.”

  “It gets better. These modern humans have imagined the fairies to be incredibly small, but then they tell tales of an enormous rabbit that visits one Sunday in spring and hides eggs and chocolate—and sometimes, chocolate eggs—for the children to find. They call this monster the Easter Bunny.”

  “Wot? Now, why would a rabbit take the trouble tae swell up tae such a size and th
en use its time tae hide food for human children?”

  “A crucial question that the children never ask! Especially since the food is so often poorly hidden. But they are feeble-minded when they are young. And—rumor has it—delicious.”

  That sort of conversation was precisely why there were treaties keeping the Fae and humanity apart. The two of them strolled over to the fairy village to take a closer look while keeping a safe distance from the iron, chatting amiably about roast-baby recipes, while I waited for technology to catch up with me.

  Eventually it did, and the clock revealed that it was eight a.m. in Melbourne, two hours after Ya-ping had first contacted me. Not bad.

  I punched in the numbers I’d brought and sent off Signals to Nadia and the other sigil agents that this was my contact info for the near future. I downloaded a speech app after that and moved closer to Coriander.

  [May I send you off with a contract for a barghest?] I asked.

  “To find Shu-hua? I don’t recommend wasting your time,” he replied. “Mei-ling already contracted one and it disappeared. So there won’t be a packmaster willing to send another hound on this mission.”

  I frowned and typed, [Ya-ping didn’t tell me about that.]

  “She may not have known anything about it.”

  [You have been gracious with your time,] I said, because a statement like that was always preferable to saying thank you to the Fae and thereby implying you were in their debt. If you owed them anything, they might just ask for a baby. [Should I need you again, I will call Harrowbean from this number.]

  “I wish you well,” Coriander said, and he turned to leave. I waved to stop him and typed out one more thing.

  [I was told by Ya-ping that the Iron Druid was in the country recently, addressing an extraplanar visitor. Was that true?]

  “Yes. There was an infernal of some sort in the Blue Mountains near the east coast. That was only a day or two ago, I believe.”

  [So he’s still here?]

  The herald shrugged elegantly. “Somewhere on the continent, I’m sure.”

  [Is there any chance you could reach out to him for us? He may be able to help us find Shu-hua or, barring that, eliminate some possibilities.]

  “I could do that. Are you sure you want him to get involved?”

  Buck tore his eyes away from the ridiculous fairy village before I could answer. “Haud the phone, MacBharrais. Are ye havin’ a laugh? Ye’re actually asking for the Iron Druid tae come pal around with us? The Iron Druid whose touch would turn me tae ash?”

  [Not pal around. Help the agents who are basically doing the job Druids should have been doing all along.] I said Druids, plural, but I supposed I was being unfair. Back in the nineteenth century, there had been only the Iron Druid, and he was in hiding and unable to do much of anything without attracting the attention of a deity who wanted him dead. That was why Brighid had bothered to create sigil agents in the first place—she had work that needed doing on earth and no one to do it.

  “Sounds like he’s daein’ his job if he just got rid of an infernal. Let’s let him do his thing in peace.”

  [He might be able to help, Buck, and we need help. Coriander, please contact him.]

  The faery bowed, a small grin on his face. “As you wish.” He turned and strolled down the invisible path that would take him back to Tír na nÓg, and Buck waggled a finger at his fading form.

  “That was some ominous fucking agreement there, ol’ man! Do ye no see how bad this could be? Allow me tae translate: When a faery asks ye if ye’re sure ye want something, he’s flat-out saying that ye really don’t want it but he’s interested tae see if you’ll be daft enough tae insist. And that bit where he gave a tiny smug smile at the end? That smile silently means, You will die a horrible fucking death, but…and then he finishes with As you wish out loud. I feel it’s ma duty tae point out tae ye as yer hob that this is a bad move.”

  [Your concern is noted,] I said. [But if two sigil agents every bit as capable as I am have gone missing, we may be dealing with a problem that requires a heavy hitter. The Iron Druid qualifies.]

  “Sure, he might hit whatever we’re up against. He might hit us too, though.”

  [If it eliminates the threat to sigil agents, that’s fine.]

  “Fine tae put ourselves in an iron hell? Was that in ma contract?”

  [Dangers, many and sundry.]

  “Oh, I’m gettin’ tae hate that phrase. Where are all the fires and the spiders ye promised me, then? It doesnae look so bad here. Lookit all these birds and dugs and people walkin’ about, none of them on fire or being sucked dry of their juices by great bloody arachnids.”

  [Give it time.]

  It was time to contact Chen Ya-ping.

  This is MacBharrais. I’m in Melbourne. Where are you?

  Her reply came quickly. You’re here? Oh. You took the Old Way. Okay. Directions incoming. There was a small pause as she composed her next message. Take Clarendon Street north a couple of blocks until you reach a small café called Square and Compass. It’ll be on your right-hand side. If you reach Victoria Parade, you’ve gone too far. I’ll meet you there.

  I didn’t know where Clarendon Street was in relation to where we stood, but a map app solved that easily enough. I pointed to our right for Buck’s benefit, indicating that we’d be walking that way. My topcoat gathered stares as we walked, and I began to sweat, so I took it off and held it draped over my forearm. We passed an old rotunda that a plaque identified as having been built in the nineteenth century, a white-pillared Greek shrine-like structure that the British seemed incapable of leaving out of green spaces back then. A lawn or two later, a similar period piece advertised itself as a bandstand.

  Once we reached Clarendon Street, we turned left on the advice of my app, and at the intersection that marked the corner of the park, we had to cross the road twice to get to the corner diagonally across from us. Continuing north from there would bring us to our destination, and it hove into view after a couple of blocks, a red-brick establishment sandwiched between others, with large windows and a glass door once we passed a fenced outdoor-seating area. A glass pastry case greeted us when we stepped inside, along with a menu above it and, shortly thereafter, a friendly employee.

  It became apparent that we’d arrived before Chen Ya-ping, since no one hailed us inside. I took the liberty of ordering a flat white for Buck and another for myself. When in Australia or New Zealand, that’s what one does. The flat whites in most of the rest of the world do not fare well by comparison.

  We picked up our order at the counter and had just taken a seat when a young Chinese Australian woman entered. She spied us quickly, as my formal dress and mustache tend to make me stand out somewhat, and Buck stood out even more, being an extraordinarily pink and diminutive person dressed in black. She had her hair pulled back in a simple queue and wore blue jeans, a yellow blouse buttoned up to the neck with a white collar and tiny white flowers all over it, and canvas shoes that I believe are commonly referred to as “Chucks.”

  Before she could say anything, I raised a hand to stop her. She paused with her mouth open and was very patient as I quickly typed into my app.

  “Hi, I’m Buck,” my hobgoblin said into the silence. “He’ll be with you in a moment.”

  She did not respond verbally, I noted, but did give Buck a tight nod and small grin.

  [Hello, Ya-ping. I don’t know if you were going to say this, but I need to warn you: Do not, for any reason, address me as sifu or master, because I am not yours and that may trigger a curse on your head. Call me Al, please.]

  Her eyes widened the tiniest bit in surprise, and then she spoke, thankfully the same voice and accent I had heard on the phone. “No worries. Pleasure to meet you, Al and Buck. Thanks for coming. We should take the train out to Sifu Lin’s place, but maybe first I’ll get a flat white to go. Those
look good.”

  Once we were out the door and happily sipping our coffees, albeit squinting in the sun, Ya-ping led us to Parliament Station, a decent stretch of the legs back along the top of the park and circling around a building until we descended some steps into the underground to get tickets. We had no idea what to do or even where we were going, so I handed over some cash to Ya-ping and she took care of it with her bank card. Then we stepped onto an insanely long pair of escalators—the longest in the southern hemisphere, according to Ya-ping—which conveyed us deep into the bowels of the continent.

  “Glen Waverley, Platform Four. That’s us. About twenty-five minutes or so once we get on, and then a walk to Sifu Lin’s house.”

  [Ah, so that’s where we’re going. I had wondered if we might be going to an office at one of her businesses.]

  “Oh, no. Years ago, before my time, she used to have a sigil room in her laundry and dry-cleaning place but discovered that the steam and general humidity were curling her papers and messing with some of her ingredients. She couldn’t have that, so now she’s got some dedicated space for ink-and-sigil work in her house. It’s really cool, actually—hidden entrance and all that. It’s like going to a mad scientist’s secret laboratory, except with none of the madness or stained surfaces or scraggly whiskers.” She cupped a hand over one side of her mouth, as if to tell me a secret, but whispered it loud enough that anyone could hear if they wished. “Sifu Lin is very tidy. You will find zero whiskers in her sigil room.”

  I chuckled at the absurdity of that—it was such a profound statement of the obvious to anyone who knew Shu-hua, and Ya-ping tittered too, out of fondness for her master’s foibles. But then she gasped and covered her mouth, her expression falling and her eyes downcast.

  “I shouldn’t be making jokes at a time like this. It’s disrespectful. Sifu could be injured or even…worse.”

  “Aw, well, that’s bollocks,” Buck said, and I nodded while I typed up something more and my hobgoblin continued. “That’s about as mild a pisstaking as I’ve ever seen—it doesnae even qualify, really—and it’s yer duty tae shovel a wee bit o’ shite on yer master’s shoes from time tae time. Firstly so they’re reminded they’re no so high and mighty and they’d look good dressed in a bit of humility, and secondly because play is creative and vital to growth and a fairly big reason why we enjoy living at all.”