by Ari Marmell
Yeah, I’d learned something—something important, but not real hopeful. Ylleuwyn’s reaction to the family name… At the very least, it meant that whoever’d taken the kid was someone significant, someone his Honor didn’t want to make any trouble for. And that certainly meant Seelie, since I could imagine pretty easily that the judge’d be quite happy for me and one of the Unseelie to make each other miserable.
And that was a best-case scenario. Worst case was that this was something a lot bigger’n nastier than a normal changeling swap—something that Fae of prominence wouldn’t want to be associated with—and that was why he was keeping his yap shut. I couldn’t be sure what that “something else” might be, but none of the possibilities were pleasant to consider.
Either way, I wasn’t about to get any help from Chicago’s Seelie Court. And that left only one other choice.
I acted before I could take the time to talk myself out of it. There was always a sporadic stream of ’em, coming from the hall: low-ranking Unseelie commoners, taken in for sabotage or theft or spying on the Seelie. Some were getting out after months or years in the cooler, or indentured servitude; others after being grilled for a while and let go.
Petty crooks, the whole lot. But their bosses…
Well, I told you, the Seelie Court of Chicago took after your Chicago’s city government, the cops, and the courts. Whodaya think the Unseelie took after, then?
I darted through the curtain of water at the first Unseelie I saw leaving—a short, big-eared, hairy, wrinkled little goblin wearing nothing but trousers and suspenders. Before he could do more’n grunt, I had him pressed up against the side of the hall’s marble stairs.
“I get it,” he squawked at me. “You bastards lemme go officially so’s you can catch me on the street without the red tape, yeah? Do your worst, copper! I ain’t spilling a word, see?”
“Ah, close your head, you twit.” I stepped back so I wasn’t crowding him. “I ain’t a cop.”
“No?” He squinted and gave me a pretty solid up-and-down. “You look just like ’em.”
“My name’s Mick Oberon. You hearda me?”
“Mighta,” he said. The wrinkles on his face were getting deeper in what I assumed was a thoughtful scowl. “Whatcha want with me?”
“I want you to get her a message.”
His squint got even narrower, even more suspicious, but he didn’t waste both our time by trying to pretend he didn’t know who I meant.
“Yeah? And that’d be…?”
“Just tell her I want a sit-down. At her convenience, just as long as ‘convenient’ is damn soon.” I started to relax my grip, then leaned in, nose-to-really-really-long-nose. This close, even in the rain, I could smell the reek of blood and garbage on him. “And one other thing…”
“Yeah?”
“If you decide not to deliver my message, and she finds out later it was something important… Well, decide ahead of time how much being lazy’s worth to you. Get me?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good. Beat it.” I let go, and just that quick, he was gone.
I coulda hailed a cab without much difficulty—more’n half the horse-buggies on the road around the hall had the checkered stripes around the windows, or other blatant signage—but it was only a few blocks, and even in the rain, I decided it wasn’t worth it. So I trudged those several hundred yards, head down, hands in my pockets. Above me, a few of the clouds glowed, lit from behind by the moon, and a couple times I heard howling in the distance, beyond the city limits.
I wondered if one of those voices might be Pete’s.
In this weather, I couldn’t see much of the building even once I’d arrived and was standing right smack in front of it, but then, I didn’t need to. I’d seen it plenty times before.
The Lambton Worm is the nicest hotel in Chicago’s Otherworld, and one of the few luxuries I permit myself when I’m here. A couple dozen stories—plus the floors inside the earthen mound at its foundation—the Lambton caters to just about every kinda Fae you can imagine. The side of the building facing the main streets is all shiny modern, glass façade with marble columns, and the rooms are straight outta the Morrison, the Drake, or the Lexington in your world. But at the back-right, the support column’s an enormous hawthorn, and the rooms are framed in or carved from its branches; the back-left is a castle tower, with sleeping chambers and ballrooms accordingly. And of course, the lower levels, within the mound, have caves and warrens for those who prefer the underground.
It’s ridiculously huge, since you could fit over half the entire Fae population of our Chicago here, but this is how big snazzy hotels are supposed to be, so this is how big it is.
The whole building’s wrapped in the coils of a great stone serpent. The hotel’s official story is that the thing actually was a dragon, a relative of the legendary Lambton worm for which the place is named, that was petrified by the gaze of a basilisk. But everyone local knows it’s really just a fancy sculpture.
Me, I just wanted a bed, and didn’t care much what kinda room it was in, long as it was quiet. I stepped under the overhang, and just that quick, I was dry. See, that’s what I meant earlier, about Elphame rain. (Or again, rain in parts of Elphame, anyway.) It don’t stick, don’t get absorbed—not into clothes or hair, anyway. Soon as I was sheltered from the constant drenching, the water that was on me pretty much just ran off fast enough to make a duck jealous. It beaded in a few spots, but those were easy to brush away with a flick of the wrist.
That little chore done, I slipped into the glass revolving door and revolved my way inside.
A winding pathway of lush carpeting, framed in white marble, ran through a sparse forest—first of embossed pillars that woulda been the envy of the Parthenon, then actual trees, depending on what part of the cavernous lobby you were standing in. Bobbing balls of glass, sorta phantom light bulbs, floated up by the ceiling, shedding cheerful yellows and pinks. Sitting areas, some of carpet, some of soil, offered tables for a quick nip, or a game of billiards. The entryways to the various “themed” sections of the Lambton were clearly marked, as was the concierge’s counter—marble, again—way the hell on the far end.
Pixies and whatnot flitted around the lights, while nearly every type of Seelie wandered through the magnificent hall—as did smiling, blank-faced humans, toting luggage or delivering drinks.
A leprechaun wearing a red greatcoat and stilts—and no, I’m not making that up—offered to take my coat, or to call someone to lug my bags. Since I was keeping my coat, and didn’t have any bags, he didn’t get a tip. I made my way to the counter, asked for a room overlooking the city—ignoring the brief temptation to get one so deep underground it’d give Hades claustrophobia—and dumped a handful of crumpled sawbucks on the concierge. My last handful until I cashed Bianca’s payday, in fact. (Yeah, we use cash for exchanges and services that don’t warrant political favors and pacts. It’s completely valueless here, of course, ’cept that everyone agrees to honor it ’cause that’s what you people use. I swear, sometimes…)
I got my key from the nice fellow at the desk, wandered past a couple of bean nighe from the Lambton’s cleaning service, and made for the elevators. (Which were raised and lowered by huge cranks in the basement that were hauled by humans completely tight on the delights of Elphame.) I waved once or twice at a few guys who both knew me and didn’t figure I was too scummy, my mind already envisioning a thick mattress and clean sheets.
And if you think it all went that easy for me, you ain’t been paying attention.
I was just passing one of the hotel’s umpteen bars—which, according to a glass-framed poster, served twenty-seven different varieties of mead; Prohibition was one thing we knew better’n to take from you dopes—when I heard a gravelly voice call my name.
A gink wearing a thick red beard, a tan overcoat, and an orange snap-brim (and yeah, it was about as blinding as it sounds) hopped down from one of the bar stools. He was about three feet tall when he p
ushed off his seat, and about six foot six when he landed.
Lousy spriggans. Guess I should be glad he stopped there, instead of going full-on giant. Maybe he figured this’d be intimidating enough without drawing too much attention.
“C’mon and join me, Mr. Oberon,” he grumbled. I was getting more’n a little tired of hearing my name spat like a curse. “Let’s jaw fer a spell.”
I didn’t even try to hide my deep sigh as I wandered over. “How you been, Slachaun?”
“Oh, can’t complain, can’t complain. Place’s been nice’n quiet fer ages, now. Y’know how much I love nice’n quiet, don’tcha, Mr. Oberon?”
I leaned on the bar, put one foot up on the brass railing that ran along the oak paneling near the floor. (It wasn’t just meant to provide a footrest for folks on the stools; some of the bar’s patrons couldn’t reach the stools without a leg-up.) “Yeah, I remember something about that,” I said. “And since I got no intention of starting anything, it’s a lucky day for both of us.”
“Sure it is, at that,” he said, sucking the last bits of mead from the pint sitting in front of him. “’Course, with yer history, y’can understand if I’m a wee bit skeptical.”
Ah, here it is. “I’ve never caused any trouble here wasn’t started by someone else, Slachaun.”
“So y’say. But y’don’t need to start trouble, Mr. Oberon. Y’are trouble. An’ it’s my job to keep all trouble out o’ the hotel, not just trouble Mr. Oberon don’t start.”
“You’ve no right to ask me to leave. I’ve already paid—”
“Wouldn’t dream’ve it, boyo. But I’ll be takin’ that wand until it’s checkout time.”
I froze for a flash, then made a point of slowly glancing around. Looking one way, I could pick out a dozen wands—not to mention several times that many heaters—on the bar patrons alone. The other way, a young couple of aes sidhe strolled past along the carpeted walkway carrying matching Tommy guns, actually inscribed with each other’s names.
Slachaun was grinning openly by the time I got back to him, the thicket of red fur that was his beard split wide by a row of crooked yellow teeth.
“You’re right,” I told him. “You’re gonna have to take it.”
Ooh, this was going to hurt…
If you ever have the opportunity to not get punched by a spriggan, I strongly advise you to take it. Those bastards are strong. And this being Elphame—my natural environment, as it were—I couldn’t just shrug off pain or minor injury the way I can in your world.
I doubled up around his fist like he was folding a towel and hit the floor on my hands and knees—well, mostly the floor; one hand landed on his shoe—coughing and wheezing. Over the sound of my own gasps, I could hear the drinking and conversation around us petering out, and the squeaking of chairs and stools turning my way.
Always happy to be the center of attention, me.
I took a moment to catch my breath and wait for the ache in my stomach to settle into a dull conflagration, and Slachaun was more’n happy to give me all the time in the world. He was enjoying this; in fact, he ordered another round while I was down.
Carefully, doing my damnedest not to shake or wince in any way, I straightened to my full (currently unimpressive) height. His grin got even wider—he was starting to look more redcap than spriggan, with that smile—as he waited for me to take a poke at him.
I stepped back and shook my head. “You still ain’t getting my wand, Slachaun. You got no right.” And I started walking away.
“What? Get back here, y’bastard! I—”
Thud!
I know it woulda been more impressive just to keep going, but I couldn’t help myself. At that sound, and the subsequent guffaws from everyone in the bar, I had to look back.
The spriggan was flat on his face, one foot up in the air—where I’d tied his shoelace to the rail along the bar while I was slumped over his toes.
Slachaun glowered up at me, cheeks blushing apple-red, and tugged perfunctorily on the knots. And then he grew.
In the space of about a heartbeat, he was close to twelve feet tall, and bulky to match. The shoelace snapped with the tiniest tug and he was on his feet, coming for me with big, ponderous, echoing steps.
Nobody was laughing anymore.
But for a change, I’d attracted the kinda attention I wanted. Just as he got within a couple paces, and I was starting to think it was time either to draw the L&G or run as if the Wild Hunt was after me…
“What exactly is going on here, gentlemen? Slachaun! You stop that this instant!”
We both turned, the spriggan shrinking back to about six foot in the process, as a prim aes sidhe—blond hair tied back tight behind her pointed ears, and wearing a grey suit with a long skirt—stalked from a nearby office. And I do mean stalked; her feet hit the floor like she was trying to make sure it stayed dead.
“Hello, Ielveith,” I said. “Been a while.”
“Close your head, Mr. Oberon. Slachaun? Explanation. Now.”
“The guy’s a troublemaker, Mrs. Ielveith. I was just tryin’ to deal with him before it got ugly.”
“I see. And what, precisely, had Mr. Oberon done?”
“He…” The spriggan’s jaw clamped shut as he glared around him, particularly at the score or so of witnesses—some of whom he probably couldn’t intimidate.
“Your house dick might do better,” I said, “if he just looked for problems to solve, instead of trying to make his own.”
Both of them stared daggers at me, but Ielveith nodded. “Apologies on behalf of the Lambton Worm, Mr. Oberon. I assure you, this won’t happen again.” Then, more quietly, “Do you have to cause trouble for me every time you’re here, Mick?”
“I’m sorry, Iel. I didn’t—”
She shook her head at me. “We’ll catch up later.” Then, face going flinty once more, she jabbed a finger at Slachaun. “You! My office.”
It wasn’t until they were both gone, the office door shut firmly behind, that the entire bar broke into applause and the occasional wild cheer.
Slachaun’s actually good at what he does, don’t get me wrong. But “what he does” don’t include making friends.
I grinned back at everyone and finally made my way to the elevators.
The room was nice but simple: writing desk with fountain pen, paper, and a vase of roses by the door; comfy chair to go with the desk; chest of drawers with a big honking mirror; huge window overlooking the city; and of course, the bed, which I swear had heavenly light beaming down on it and a chorus of angels singing behind the headboard. There was an attached bathroom, too, but I ignored it for now.
Despite the ache in my gut, I realized I was starving. I slumped into the bed, reached for the phone on the nightstand, and…
Oh, right. Yeah, I said “starving.” It’s like I told you before, Elphame’s my natural world. In yours, it takes a whole lot to hurt me, and I don’t eat or drink much but milk, ’cause my own nature’s magical enough to sustain me. Here? Nope. We’re still tougher’n you lot, even in the Otherworld, but not by nearly as much. We eat, we sleep, we hurt—and we die a lot easier.
Which, a few hours after I chowed down on my venison steak from room service and fell off to dreamland, I just about found out firsthand when some bastard kicked in my door and started shooting.
CHAPTER NINE
I shoulda had some warning.
See, I wasn’t exactly expecting trouble—not at a place nice as the Lambton, and not from the Seelie, at least not so blatant—but when you deal with the Courts, their politics and their rivalries and their secrets, you get paranoid.
So I’d prepared, just in case. I’d leaned the writing chair precariously against the door, balanced on two legs, and hung the ice bucket from the window latch. If anybody’d tried to jimmy either of ’em, the clatter-thump of falling things woulda woken me.
It just never occurred to me that some palooka would be so direct and so friggin’ loud as to kick the damn door
in. Sure, it woke me as well as the falling chair woulda, but it didn’t gimme much in the way of time, y’know?
The first “shot” fired through the broken, dangling wood wasn’t a bullet at all, but a wave of utter confusion, a charm of disorientation similar to the fear or pain I often shoved through my own wand. It caught me right in the midst of bolting upright and grabbing for the L&G on the nightstand. The entire room tilted sideways and I found I couldn’t quite blink away the sleep and the dreams. You know that moment of faint panic when you first wake up sometimes, when your thoughts are chasing each other like barking dogs and you can’t get ’em in any kinda order? Yeah, I was there. I distinctly remember fretting over how badly the noise would upset the neighbors.
It wasn’t until the second or third shot—real shots, now, with very real bullets—that I could make myself stop woolgathering long enough to actually move.
Two or three shots that, honestly, shoulda been more’n enough to kill me dead as a eunuch’s libido—except for one last bit of preparation I’d taken before dropping into bed. A moment of concentration, a quick tap with the wand, and I’d wrapped myself in a few tiny scraps of extra luck to go along with the hotel’s blankets. Just in case.
It wasn’t a lot, and I’d already completely burned through it, but it kept me alive, kept me outta the path of what shoulda been easy shots until I shook off the worst of my disorientation.
At which point, I gotta admit I may’ve squeaked a bit as I dove aside and rolled off the side of the bed. The roscoe kept right on spitting and the bullets chased me across the mattress, stitching .45-caliber holes into the fabric; each of ’em coughed a single breath of stuffing, as if the bed itself was dying.