I crossed my arms, hugging myself a little. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the fact that my field had tried to draw Hemingway in, rather than keep him out, bothered me. I preferred to keep most people at a distance; the idea that certain Freaks might be compelled to reach out and touch me gave me the creeps. “I’m sorry,” I told them both. “I wasn’t tryin’ to do anythin’ like that.”
“Of course not, Quinn,” Othello said, soothingly.
“Not your fault,” Hemingway added. “If anything, it’s mine. You’d think I’d know better than to touch the fence with the ‘Keep Out’ sign on display, especially at my age, but sometimes I can’t help myself.” He grinned, revealing a surprisingly charming smile. “Sorry for pushing. Not many things surprise me, anymore, and excitement is hard to come by.”
“Excuse me?” Othello asked in a cool tone, her eyebrow raised.
Hemingway’s grin widened. “Which is why I started courting Othello, of course.”
“Nice save,” I remarked.
“Very,” Othello replied. She flashed him a dark look that promised all sorts of naughty punishments, then smiled. “So, what do you make of Quinn’s ability?”
Hemingway’s grin faded, and he shook his head. “I have no idea. I’ve never heard of anything quite like it. There are items out there that can shield you from magic, but not to this extent. Plus, her field is erratic. It reacts differently depending on what’s thrown at it. It may not even be stable.”
Well, that didn’t sound ominous or anything. “So, are ye sayin’ I’m like a bomb about to go off?” I asked.
Hemingway shrugged, but I sensed he was holding something back. “I’m saying I don’t know what you are.” He held up his hands. “No offense.” He reached out for Othello’s hand, squeezed it, and smiled. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. I have to start looking into the damage Nate did before he came back from Hell to confront the dragons.”
Right. Because that didn’t scream “let me make up an excuse to leave.”
“Oh, right,” Othello said, nodding as if he hadn’t just uttered the world’s most absurd sentence, “I’d almost forgotten.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Be safe.”
I sighed.
I really needed to make some normal friends.
Chapter 4
Othello helped me into my jacket. “Don’t mind him, he gets gloomy sometimes. He wasn’t trying to freak you out.” She handed over my scarf. I was sure I looked ridiculous all bundled up like this with spring right around the corner, but the weather on the East Coast had been as bipolar as a lovesick teenager this year; it was only a few degrees below freezing outside, but factor in the wind chill and it was practically glacial.
“Don’t ye worry about it,” I said, folding the scarf around my throat and freeing my hair from beneath both it and the lip of my jacket. “Although I t’ink he could have gone with somethin’ other than ‘unstable’ to describe me field,” I added, sarcastically.
Othello folded her arms over her ample chest, smirking. “Yes, well, he isn’t exactly a poet. That, and something about you is nagging at him, throwing him off. I’ve never seen him troubled before. Sad, perhaps, maybe even worried. But solving the mystery that is your power presents yet another problem, and he already has a lot on his plate.”
“What is he?” I asked. “Last time I saw him, he was but a wee lad. He’s aged somethin’ like ten years in a few weeks. And the way he talks…” I drifted off, realizing I was putting Othello in a tough position. Most Freaks liked to keep their identities and abilities a secret—a Darwinian precaution, in my experience. Asking how he was in bed would have been less intrusive.
Not that I was curious or anything.
“Quinn—”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked ye that.”
Othello smiled. “It’s alright. I was only going to say that he will share his role with you one day. You may think it’s for his own protection, but I don’t. I believe, deep down, he likes being treated like…well, like the rest of us.” Othello settled back onto a barstool and looked away. “The world can be an unwelcome place for those who are different. Even among Freaks, there are those who are treated poorly. Some are shunned, others feared. I do not know if he has noticed yet, but he has surrounded himself with those who can see beyond such things. I think that’s why he and Nate have become so close. It helps that Nate’s about as sacrilegious as they come.” Othello turned back to me and raised an eyebrow. “Though, when you start cursing, sometimes I wonder about that.”
I blushed. “Aye, sorry about that. I get carried away sometimes.”
Othello giggled. “Not to worry. I can be plenty expressive, myself. I simply make sure to do it in my language, and to save it for the right times.” She winked meaningfully at me, trying to lighten the mood.
I smiled and studied the street outside through the window, glad to see it wasn’t snowing. My Uber would be here soon, and Othello’s driver had been parked outside waiting this whole time. Paul was passed out on the floor—Christoff often let him sleep it off, then kicked him out before sunrise. I felt like I understood Hemingway a bit better, at least, thanks to Othello’s explanation. After all, I routinely kept people at a distance, worried that they’d judge my lifestyle—that they’d find out about my past and what I’d done to survive. Who was I to judge Hemingway for wanting to keep his secrets?
“Anyway,” Othello said, drawing my attention, “I don’t think he meant to frighten you. He’s merely worried. For you as much as anyone.”
“He’s not the only one,” I said, studying my hands for a moment before putting my gloves on. They were large for a woman’s, the fingers long and tapered, the palms sturdy. I had a good grip; I’d spent years learning martial arts, including grappling. I’d always trusted in my own ability, in what I could achieve with what I had. Finding out I might have some unknown, untapped resource within me bothered me more than I cared to admit. It felt wrong, alien even—like whatever it was, it didn’t really belong to me.
“So, about New York…” Othello said, perhaps sensing a need to change the subject.
“Oh, right. What about it?”
“I spoke with my friend in the Chancery. She said she’d move your hearing to a later date. To be honest, she seemed surprised to hear you’d been summoned at all, so it may be a good time for you to go out of town.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, ignoring the icy shiver that suddenly danced down my spine.
“Because she can be…single-minded in her pursuits. If she finds out someone in the Chancery is gunning for you, things may heat up considerably.”
“Oh. Good to know,” I said, wryly. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the fallout from postponing the hearing, but the idea that I had someone from the Chancery in my corner was a welcome one. Even Ryan hadn’t been able to offer me much protection; he’d been pretty low on their totem pole, from what I gathered.
“So, where should I start lookin’ for this t’ing?” I asked.
“Actually, I know where it is.”
“Alright…” Locating the magical artifact, or charm, or what have you was usually step one in my process. Once I’d managed that, I’d find a way to make sure it fell into my possession. I could usually rely on legal means to do so, but not always. Not surprisingly, it was the not-always situations that earned me the biggest payoffs.
“First, I want you to convince the man who owns it not to sell it to any other interested parties.”
“Aye…”
“Then I need you to find out what he wants for it.”
“Ah.”
“And then I need you to get whatever that is and make a trade.”
I sighed. “You’re not givin’ me a lot to work with, ye know.”
“I know. But from what I recall, you managed to steal an extremely valuable case with little more than an address and a vague description of a target, right? Surely this won’t be too much for you.” Othello’s grin was
predatory. The fact that the case in question had actually belonged to Othello and her company meant she was still a little salty about the whole affair. That, or she had no qualms about using this job to even the score between us. Either way, she was blackmailing me. Nicely.
This was why we were friends.
“I’ll meet you in the city once you have the item,” she said a moment later.
“What is it?” I asked, realizing she’d yet to fill me in on that little detail.
“A seed. Think of it as a genetics experiment with a lot of potential.”
“A seed?” I asked. It was hard to imagine a seed being worth this much trouble, but then I’d seen clients lose their shit over less—my go-to horror story involved a rapper and a pair of Air Jordans signed by Hermes.
What can I say? Everyone has their kinks.
“Yes,” Othello confirmed. “I actually don’t know much more than that. There are rumors about what it can do, but I’m not sure if I can believe anything I’m hearing.”
“So why do ye want it?”
“Because sometimes rumors pan out.”
That made sense. Although it always seemed like a lot of trouble to go through on hearsay alone, some of my best deals had come about thanks to hunches I’d had and risks I’d taken. When artifacts with magical properties were involved, you often found yourself fumbling around blindly, hoping to stumble onto something valuable in the dark. “Alright, I’ll buy that,” I said. “Now the real question…why me?” I waggled my finger at her. “And don’t ye lie to me. I’m sure ye could hire someone else, if ye were so inclined.”
“You mean we could afford to,” Othello said, nodding. “This is true. But the magical community, while quite large and diverse, doesn’t have many neutral parties. Finding someone talented enough who is also unaffiliated would be tough on such short notice, not to mention time-consuming.”
I considered that for a moment. She wasn’t wrong. There were very few independents out there; magical organizations like the vampires’ Sanguine Council, the Faerie Chancery, and the Wizard Academy dotted the landscape. For most Freaks, enlisting was a prerequisite to survival. I’d only managed to avoid conscription thus far because I was so hard to classify—no one could claim sole jurisdiction over me.
It had nothing to do with my sparkling personality, I’m sure.
“So ye need someone ye can rely on not to sell this t’ing out from under ye, is that it?” I asked.
“I need someone I can trust,” Othello clarified. “If it were a problem money could solve, I would not involve you. This is about priorities. I know what makes you tick.” She raised her hand to interrupt my smart-assed retort. “I know who and what you want to protect, Quinn. What drives you. Between that, your background, and your ability, I doubt I could find anyone better suited.”
I bristled somewhat. “Ye aren’t suggestin’ those under my protection are in any danger, I hope?”
Othello looked a little hurt. “No, that wasn’t a threat. What I meant was that you have a good heart, but also that you are not afraid to get your hands dirty. You know how to get a job done with minimal collateral damage. What I’m asking for is discretion.”
I sighed. When she put it like that, it made it really hard to say no—not that I had planned to after she’d gone to bat for me against the Academy last month and the Chancery less than an hour ago. Unfortunately, I had begun to suspect that Othello knew more than she was letting on. “So,” I began, “what aren’t ye tellin’ me?”
Othello smirked. “What makes you think I’m keeping things from you?”
I rolled my eyes and pointed to her bulging cheeks. “Because I t’ink ye can’t help it.”
Othello’s expression turned wry. “All I know is what I’m sending you after, if it actually exists, is considered priceless. Which, ironically, means there are some who would pay a great deal for it.”
“So ye want me to get me hands on it before they do?”
Othello nodded.
“Do ye know who I should be lookin’ out for?”
“I can only guess who the buyers are,” she replied, “but, given its origins, I would caution you to be prepared for anything under the heavens. Or above them, for that matter. The broker who has the seed is one of those super reclusive types with almost no digital footprint, but I’ll forward everything I’ve been able to find so far.”
Chapter 5
The conversation hadn’t gone on long after that, but it was Othello’s description of the would-be buyers that I couldn’t get out of my head. Anything under, or above, the heavens. I’d pressed her about that, but she’d put me off, pledging that she’d already told me everything she knew.
True to her word, she sent the information she’d compiled on the broker, which included a few grainy photos pulled from security cameras, a rough composite garnered from several dubious witnesses, and a confirmed location—a swanky hotel in Manhattan.
Good thing no one did swanky in Manhattan like a mouthy ginger from Southie with a chip on her shoulder.
The rest I could discover for myself.
While packing over the next couple days, I had contemplated how I’d approach the broker; in my experience, one’s outfit could make or break a first impression. I could wear my most flattering dresses, play innocent, and set up an “accidental” encounter—a classic tactic used to con people for centuries. The problem was—despite how Hollywood depicted seduction gimmicks in Bond films—reality was often a lot less convenient. What if tall, leggy redheads weren’t his type? What if he was gay? What if he was one of those men who knew better than to let a random woman get close to him while he had a valuable artifact in his possession? What if he was gay and paranoid?
Besides, I hated dresses.
In the end, I decided I’d rely on my status and experience before relying on my gender. I’d spent a long time in Boston building a reputation for delivering goods that no one else could, and it was that reputation I’d use to develop a relationship with the broker. Don’t get me wrong, there were badass Bond girls out there with some stellar backgrounds: nuclear physicists, assassins, smugglers, spies, and cold-blooded killers. I, however, didn’t need James Bond to validate me.
I could save the day all on my own.
I found Dobby restocking shelves in the warehouse behind Christoff’s bar. Dobby—a spriggan I’d named for his resemblance to the house-elf of Harry Potter fame—barely cleared waist-height when the lights were on, but, when the lights went out, he became a hulking shadow monster capable of dangling men in midair. Fortunately, the warehouse was well lit at the moment. I found him tottering precariously on a barstool, two bottles of Jameson tucked under one arm and counting in Gaelic, when I walked in.
“Oy, Dobby!” I called.
“A moment, my lady,” Dobby replied. His voice, as usual, sent goosebumps up my spine. For a diminutive fellow, he had one of the sultriest, most masculine voices I’d ever heard. Sort of like Vin Diesel meets Barry White. In his shadow monster form, the voice took on a reverberative quality that made the very ground hum.
I sidled up next to him, studying his handiwork. In the weeks since Ryan’s departure, Christoff had given his new ward the task of organizing the warehouse. The plan was originally drawn up to keep the spriggan’s attention occupied—but it turned out the little guy displayed impressive attention to detail despite his occasional memory lapses; he’d had the place completely reorganized, stocked, and even cleaned after the first week. Now Christoff relied on him for all sorts of things, including taking inventory.
“Make sure ye have enough whiskey, alright? Otherwise ye would be the only reason I have to visit,” I joked.
“On the contrary, the Bear Lord would miss you, my lady.” Dobby noted, setting one of the bottles down inside a cabinet. “As he misses the young Fae barkeep.”
“You’re gettin’ better with your English,” I said, avoiding the subject of Ryan’s departure.
“With your nonsense lan
guage? Yes. It is fascinating.” Dobby replaced the second bottle and hopped down from the stool. “You see, I miss someone when I do not hit them,” he said, pounding his fist against the palm of the other hand. “And yet, in your tongue, to miss someone might mean you wish you could see that person again.” He shrugged, good-naturedly. “The Bear Lord visits and brings with him this gift of language. Sometimes he brings the language of the Slavs. They, too, have phrases that mean more than one thing.”
“Oh?” I asked, wondering why Christoff had added Russian to Dobby’s lessons. Who knew why Russians did anything they did?
I mean, meat jelly, people. C’mon.
Dobby nodded, sagely. “Oh yes. There’s one that translates to ‘hold your tail as a weapon’ in your tongue, but which means to never give up in his. I suspect it has to do with the concept of retreat.”
I grunted, marveling at how eloquent the spriggan had become in such a short time. I’d always considered myself intelligent despite my poor grades, but I’d never been very good at expressing myself when speaking. Part of it was the way I talked—my Irish accent had earned me a fair amount of teasing growing up. In a way, that had contributed to the poor grades; getting suspended for knocking the teeth out of my grade school bullies had regularly set me back.
Dobby gave the cabinet a once over before turning to face me, his comically large eyes brighter and more intelligent than they’d seemed when we’d first met. There was something shrewd in them, lurking beneath the surface. “Are you going somewhere, my lady?” Dobby asked.
“What makes ye t’ink that? And d’ye call every woman ye meet lady?” I asked, as an afterthought. It wasn’t like I minded; every girl likes to be called a lady now and then. But, if I was being honest, I’d rather it come from someone my height.
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