by James Hunter
“The disappearance was a big deal,” I continued after a moment, “because this operative held classified Guild secrets, lots of ’em. Agent names, Guild pass codes, Council safe house locations. All kinds of sensitive info. A recovery order dropped, Ailia was tasked with the investigation, and James and I were attached as her security detail. The three of us went in, things went south fast, James and I made it out. Ailia didn’t. And that spiteful bitch, Morrigan, took her just because she could. Just to piss me off over some imagined slight I’d dealt her.”
“And the Guild didn’t do anything about it?” Ferraro asked.
I shook my head. “No. The Guild refused to do a fucking thing. Chalked it up as a bad op and washed their collective hands of it. And I guess, in a way, that’s the real point. I’ve opened myself up to a lot of people and I’ve been burned, bad and often. By the Marine Corps. By the Guild. By close friends. But not James.
“James recruited me. Trained me. Helped me when no one else would. I would’ve fought the Morrigan to the death, would’ve burned the world down to save Ailia. He pulled my ass outta the fire and saved me from my own stupidity. And when the Guild turned its back on me? James stood by my side. I want to call him, but I don’t really want to know the truth. Once I know the truth I’ll have to do something about it, and I just want things to be okay.”
“Yancy, listen—”
“Look,” I cut her off. “I don’t want to hear any trite, bullshit answers, alright. I’ve heard it all before.”
She laughed at me, a rueful sound which spoke volumes. It’s high time you pull your head out of your ass, partner, it said. “I wasn’t going to give you any trite answers, Yancy. You act like you’re the only person who’s ever experienced heartache. You pretend no one else in the world could possibly understand what it’s like to lose someone they love, or to have their boss make a bad call, or to have someone they care for betray them. Here’s a hard truth you should hear: you’re not some special snowflake.
“You know what your real problem is, Yancy? You’ve got the emotional depth of a wading pool. It doesn’t even make sense to me. I’ve personally seen you go up against opponents who are bigger, stronger, and smarter than you and you didn’t quit. I don’t think quitting ever crossed your mind. I saw Fast Hands sink four bullets into you, and that still didn’t keep you down. You pushed through the pain, got back on your feet, gritted your teeth, and kept going. You saved me. You saved Sir Gal. When you’re fighting a physical enemy, it’s like you have a broken switch in your head which won’t let you stop. That doesn’t know how to give up.
“But when responsibility rears its head?” she said. “You run scared. I’ve seen elementary-school children handle emotional and interpersonal conflict better than you. If someone wrongs you, do you work it out like a regular, reasonable adult? No, not Yancy Lazarus. You flip it the bird and walk away. But you know what? That doesn’t make you tough. Real adults deal with their problems, Yancy, they don’t run from them. So here’s my advice: stop acting like a child and handle your business.”
I clenched my jaw in reflex and balled up my fists, anger forging a tight, hot knot in my belly. Who the hell was she to judge me? She didn’t know me, didn’t know what I’d been through, what I’d experienced. I saw my friends murdered by the Viet Cong—shot to pieces, blown into little chunks of flesh and blood and bone. I’d stood witness to friends sacrificing themselves for me, burning for me, so I could live.
I’d watched monsters murder children—ripping apart small limbs and bathing in their young blood—and dark gods tear apart families for sport and pleasure. I’d also been part of terrible atrocities, playing the fix-it man for an organization that was only marginally better than the evils it was supposed to police and prevent. I’d been betrayed a thousand times, by a thousand different people. So what did Ferraro know? Giving me an ass chewing like some green recruit, fresh to the Fleet. What gave her the right?
Because it’s the truth, a voice whispered in the back of my mind, it’s the truth and you know it. The thought lingered like an unwelcome guest, playing over and over again on a loop. Was it the truth?
I sighed in resignation and held up the orb, opening myself to the Vis and conjuring a fine flow of spirit. I manipulated the weave until it thrummed with a familiar buzz, then pushed the energy into the scrying stone. The crystal lit up with an opalescent light as it vibrated in my palm like a cell phone on discreet. The construct was reaching out across time and space, searching for the frequency I’d uploaded. There were a few moments of empty silence, followed by a soft click.
“Is that you, Yancy?” James Sullivan said, his voice smooth and cultured, a character right out of the Great Gatsby.
“Yeah it’s me. Is it safe to talk?” I asked.
“Good grief, man. You should know better than that—I wouldn’t have picked up if I weren’t in a position to talk.” There was a pause on the other end. “It’s good to hear from you, old boy, I was starting to worry.”
“Good to hear from you too, douchewaffle.”
He chuckled on the other end, his laugh a deep baritone. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“I need a favor, James. Kind of a big one.”
A tight pause. “All right, I’m all ears.”
“I can’t tell you everything, I’m playing this one close to the chest, but here’s what I can tell you. I’ve found the Sirens.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. He dropped to a whisper. “Is this related to the business with the traitor?”
“I’m not sure,” I lied. “But it’s a solid lead and even if nothing comes of it, I can’t pass by an opportunity like this—might not ever get another shot at the Sirens. Not like this. But the window’s narrow and there’s a damn good chance we won’t come back. The ladies are playing a gig at the Black Lodge.”
Silence hung in the air like thick perfume. “Well,” he said after a time, “no one can ever accuse you of cowardice, I’ll give you that much.”
His remark hit uncomfortably close to home and stung more than a little bit, since that was almost exactly what Ferraro had accused me of a few scant minutes ago.
“If it’s at the Lodge,” he said, more for his benefit than mine, “we’ll have to assume most of the high nobles of the Unfettered Court will be present. What’s the timetable look like and what do you need from me?”
“The party starts seven sharp tomorrow morning,” I said. “That’d be 8:00 PM Anwnn time, which gives us just shy of twelve hours.”
“Well that’s a fool’s errand. It could take us a week to get to Annwn proper by regular means—have you even considered that?”
“Think I don’t know how far Annwn is, asswad? I’m not a friggin’ moron, and I wouldn’t call if I didn’t already have a way in. I’ve got a ride on lock.” Well, assuming I’d understood Fortuna’s cryptic clue correctly and Harold could actually get us there … but James didn’t need to know about the nitty-gritties. It’d all work out. “Look, leave the logistics to me. I’ll get us where we need to be. But I need extra muscle on this one. Just bring your A-game. I’m also gonna need you to swing by California and pick up Greg Chandler. I tried to get him on the horn, but he’s not answering his phone—”
“Are you quite sure he’ll be willing to accompany us?” James asked. “In all likelihood, this is a suicide mission.”
“Of course he’ll be on board,” I replied, filling my words with a confidence I didn’t actually feel. It was an old leadership trick: act calm, keep your bearing, and pretend you know what the hell you’re doing even if you don’t have a clue. Generally, if you act confident, those following your lead will be more confident in turn. “Just tell him I need the help, then tell him who the target is—I promise you he’ll be on board. You got a pen and some paper on you? I need you to take down an address.”
“Hold on a minute.” I heard the muffled sounds of him pulling open a drawer and digging through the contents. “Okay, I’
m ready.”
“765 Brockham Street—it’s a dumpy townhouse over in the Hub. Remington corridor. Place looks abandoned, but it’s not. It’s the Mange’s pad, but I’ve got access codes to get past the wards”—mostly because I’d been the one to install the wards, per the terms of our last arrangement. “Snatch up Greg and meet us over there in”—I looked at the clock set into the dashboard and did some quick math in my head—“ten hours. And dress fancy. You and Greg both. Dressed to the friggin’ nines, you got it?”
“I’m offended,” he said.
“About which part? Playing the errand boy or asking you to dress up?”
“I’m offended you assumed I wouldn’t be dressed to the nines in the first place. Unlike you, I don’t shop for my clothes out of the dumpster behind Goodwill. Everything I wear is impeccable, and I always dress appropriately for any given occasion.”
“Asshole,” I muttered. Ferraro nodded in agreement.
“I’ll get everything buttoned up on my end.” He stopped for a beat. “Are you sure everything’s all right? You’ve always been a passable liar, but I’ve been around you long enough to know when things aren’t as they should be.”
“It’s nothing,” I lied again. “Just been a long couple of days.”
I could almost see him frowning at me through the orb, his 1920s ’do rakishly combed to the side as he regarded me with an arched eyebrow and a half-grin. “You’re playing it close to the chest, I understand. Just play it safe, too. I’ll see you Hub side.” The connection died and the orb’s luminescence faded until it was once more a plain piece of glass.
“Nice work,” Ferraro said, the ghost of a smile appearing on her lips as we cruised through the night, en route for Missoula.
TWENTY:
Details
Ferraro and I sat in a McDonalds parking lot in Missoula, munching on greasy, delicious fast food. It wasn’t slow-cooked ribs, but after hours and hours without so much as a friggin’ nibble, it felt like a banquet, a feast fit for a king. The car idled beneath us, pumping out warm air as we ate. The town, and the artificial glow from the street lamps, was a welcome sight after spending what seemed like a lifetime in the dark, bleak wilderness. Cars dotted the roadways—red taillights like glowing, monstrous eyes in the night—as people, bundled up against the chill of the night in light jackets, shuffled along sidewalks. Some made their way into shops, while others waited at enclosed bus stops.
I swallowed a huge chunk of burger and smiled as I watched men and women amble along, oblivious and unconcerned about the hidden terrors lurking all around them. It was damn good to be back among humanity, made me feel safe. Sure, that safety was only an illusion, but it was a comfort nonetheless. Individually we humans aren’t so dangerous, but as a collective, there’s no greater force in the world.
Preternatural creatures may look on humanity with scorn, viewing us as sheep or cattle—prey animals for the hunt—but, in reality, mankind is far more formidable than the most fearsome creatures of Outworld, and they all knew it. The monsters were relegated to the shadows for a good reason. Sitting in the light, watching humanity trickle by, reminded me of that fact.
“Where to now?” Ferraro asked, crumpling up her burger wrapper and shoving it into a white, paper to-go bag.
I glanced down at the digital dashboard clock, then shoved a heap of fries into my mouth and chomped down. The savory ketchup and the bitter salt twirled together and boogied across my taste buds. God that was good. It was already 6:10, which didn’t leave us much time. “We gotta find a formalwear rental shop,” I mumbled around my mouthful of food. “That’s our number one concern.”
“Formalwear,” Ferraro said. It wasn’t a question, more of a dry, mocking statement of disbelief. “We have a mad scientist, a maniac planning to make himself into a god, a cannibal Bigfoot, and a party to crash, but formalwear is our biggest problem.”
I gulped down my fries and took a swig of soda, sharp against my throat. “Do you know who Arawn the Horned is?”
She shook her head, a weary cast to her features. “Maybe I would know who he is,” she said, “if I hadn’t been dragged into the supernatural world by an irresponsible man-child. A man-child who ditched me at the first possible opportunity without putting me in touch with the people who could’ve equipped me to handle all the supernatural threats out there. Wonder how that could’ve happened.”
Her tone was frosty enough to chill a pitcher of beer.
“Yeah …” I cleared my throat and scooted toward the door, ready to make a break for it. She had a nasty glint in her eye, a look that said she might slug me in the nose if I didn’t tread carefully. “Well,” I said, trying to sound a tad less caustic than usual, “let me update your education a bit. You’ve already had the unfortunate displeasure of meeting Old Man Winter, the deposed ruler of the Winter Court. There are three other formal Fae Courts—Spring, Summer, and Autumn—each ruled by a monarch responsible for governing the creatures of their court and maintaining the delicate balance of nature. It’s not rocket science, am I right?”
She nodded. “So where does Arawn fit into the picture? Which court does he rule?”
“Arawn the Horned presides over the fifth court.”
“You just said there are only four courts,” she replied.
“I said there are four formal courts. The fifth is an unofficial court—the black sheep of the family. The fifth court is home to the Unfettered Fae: the outcasts from every other region in Outworld. Creatures who refused to bend knee to any ruler, or were banished from the civilized world for being too vile and destructive. And bear in mind ‘the civilized world’ consists of monsters who regularly torture, maim, and eat people—like the Metus we fought in Wyoming. The fifth court is like the Island of Misfit Toys meets Lord of the Flies.”
“Sounds like you’d fit right in,” Ferraro said, before taking a long, slurping sip from her Coke.
“Laugh all you want, but this is heavy shit. Arawn holds the allegiance of the most badass, dastardly fairies in the whole of the Endless Wood—he’s like the friggin’ Lex Luther of fairies. And Annwn, the land of the Unfettered, borders the only entrance to the bottomless Pits of Hell. Just to give you a frame of reference for Arawn’s badassery, this guy was commissioned by God, with capital G, to stand guard over the gates of Hell and drag wayward demons—demons, Ferraro—back down to the Pit. Once a year Arawn throws open the gates of Hell and lets damned souls try to make a break for it, just so he can hunt them down for fun.”
“Old Man Winter didn’t seem so tough,” she replied, “and he was King of Winter, right?”
I shook my head. “You tangled with Winter after I’d already beat the crap out of him and stolen the mantle of his power—and I only managed that by playing dirty as hell. Arawn’s in a different league than the Winter we faced. At the height of his power, Winter might’ve stood a chance against Arawn. But the truth is, no one in the Fae Courts wants to dick around with this guy. The last person to piss him off was a schmuck named Nwython. Arawn murdered him, chopped him into itty-bitty pieces, then fed his beating heart to his son, Cyledr.”
Ferraro stared, her mouth slightly agape, her skin pale and waxy. “Seriously?”
“No, I’m making this shit up. Of course I’m serious. The guy’s crazier than a warehouse full of college kids tripping on bath salts. Anything could set the nutbag off. Now, let me ask you another question. Do you have formalwear?” I eyed her blood-splattered suit. “’Cause I sure as shit don’t. But if throwing on some fancy clothes increases our chances of not being tortured by Arawn for the next thousand years and tossed into the Lake of Fire, then I’m just gonna mosey on over and rent a friggin’ tux.”
Without a word, Ferraro dropped the car into drive and pulled out onto the street. “Just tell me where to go,” she said. I brought up Google maps on my phone and searched for the nearest tuxedo rental store.
It took us a couple of hours, a double fistful of Benjamins, and several well plac
ed glamour constructs to scrounge up a tux for me and a smoking-hot dress for Ferraro. Explaining away all the blood and gore decorating our clothes to the clerks at the rental shops was not an easy-breezy beach walk. If it hadn’t been for Ferraro’s FBI badge, someone would’ve definitely called the cops.
By the time we met up with Winona outside of Lolo it was well past eleven, leaving us only a handful of hours before we needed to be Hub side. I hadn’t been this worn-out since my Marine Corps days, back when I was in a combat zone, doing twenty-mile humps through thick, unruly jungle, then standing double or triple fire-watch shifts. Man, getting old sucks.
Winona looked surprisingly spry and refreshed for a lady who’d fought her way through a horde of insane snake-men, not but a couple hours ago. The blood was gone, and her thick coat was clean and gleaming in the moonlight, effectively hiding any trace of the wounds she’d suffered.
“Don’t you look a damn bit better,” I noted.
She smiled, the grin big and goofy, almost bashful. “The cave has natural hot springs, which encourages healing. I’m also a skilled herbalist.”
“Gee, you don’t say,” I replied, recalling the Little Brother snack-platter she’d served up. “Well, maybe you can work some of your hoodoo on us once we get back to the hideout, but let’s save the chitchat for then. We’ve got a metric-shit-ton to do yet, and the clock is ticking.”
“Of course,” she said, offering a nod. “Before we go, I—I must apologize to you.” Her broad shoulders slumped and her head bowed. She looked as guilty as a dog caught picking through an overturned trashcan. “I am sorry for the deception my father and I have perpetrated. We should have told you the whole truth, perhaps it would have prevented some of this hardship. We did not, and this is a thing that cannot be changed. Yet, despite our conduct, you have proven to be trustworthy and capable. You are the Hand of Fate, even, which speaks to your character. The Wyrd would not choose one of an unworthy nature.”