by Ari Marmell
“Not really a whole lotta help, Hruotlundt.”
“Good thing I never promised I’d be helpful then, isn’t it? Now I think it’s time for you to go. As you’ve proved my guard to be less than effective, I think I’d just as soon pack up and leave town until this is over with.”
“Could you at least tell me who else has—?”
“You know I don’t discuss clients with clients.”
“But—”
“It is time. For you to go.”
My turn to sigh. I stood, tipped my hat, and—
“Wait.”
I froze, fingers caressing the doorknob as though I were tryin’ to get her back to my place. “Yeah?”
“48th and Loomis. There’s a payphone. Got a call from there asking about all this.”
I didn’t even ask how he knew where the call’d come from. Who knows what sorta improvements he’d made to his office equipment? “I thought you didn’t discuss clients.”
“This was no client of mine. I didn’t know the voice. And before you tell me it could’ve been a new client, I don’t want any new clients who are dumb enough to ask me sensitive questions over the phone! And I don’t much care for the fact that they somehow got my number in the first place.”
Made sense. Guess he figured either I’d hafta tune them up, or they’d tune me up, and either way made his day better.
“48th and Loomis,” I repeated.
“Right. Now, you were in the process of going?”
I went.
* * *
Horsefeathers. The whole crummy lot of it, horsefeathers, and enough of ’em to build your own hippogriff. Vague rumors of relics from the Old World? Nuh-uh. No way he’da brought ’em up if he wasn’t pretty sure they were connected, and definitely no way that was all he knew. A fly couldn’t break wind in this town Hruotlundt didn’t hear about it—not if it happened anywhere near a valuable heirloom or artifact, anyway.
So what the hell was he holdin’ back? Why wouldn’t anyone, even the people who supposedly wanted me to come out ahead on this, put me wise? Me’n paranoia were startin’ to get real friendly.
Well, open and honest or not, my dvergr pal had narrowed it down nicely, but I still had a lotta burning shoe leather ahead. Fact that they’d chosen that particular blower to call from probably meant they were holed up nearby—but “nearby” still left me more’n a few city blocks to cover. I knew the right pond, but I was still gonna have to go fishing for some real skittish fish. In other words, the next few hours of the night were spent wandering around one of Chicago’s less refined neighborhoods, looking for the sorts of people who don’t care to be found.
You’d be surprised, considering how often I do it, but it ain’t actually all that fun.
I did give a few minutes’ consideration to taking the run-out, heading over to Ramona’s place like I wanted—uh, was supposed to have done. Ain’t like I hadn’t already put in some work here on Eudeagh’s behalf.
’Cept… Could I be sure the Unfit didn’t still have peepers on me? I hadn’t given ’em her name, I sure wasn’t gonna lead ’em right to her doorstep now.
So all I could do was keep on keepin’ on.
It was just breezy enough to be chilly, just drizzly enough to be damp. The hem of my flogger and the occasional paper kept huggin’ my ankles, maybe welcoming me to the neighborhood. Most of the people I passed were less friendly, keepin’ their heads down and their dogs stepping. Couldn’t blame ’em. Odds were most had perfectly good reasons for being out and about this late, but it wasn’t like they knew that I did.
Lights and wires hummed in the rain, resonating with the buzz in my head anytime I got too near or passed under one. I don’t agree with Eudeagh on much of anything, but she’s onto something about your world being all kinds of irritating.
Passed back by the phone booth at one point, and I suddenly felt stupider’n I had in a real long while.
The idea that I mighta left her in danger, or even just let her down, had been sittin’ like lead in my gut all night, and it’d never once occurred to me that I had options besides hoofin’ it on over. I dove into the phone booth like it was a bomb shelter, and damn near snapped the horn off its cord in my hurry. Much as I hate using the damn contraption, I had the blower in one hand and a nickel in my fingers… And then I felt so much more foolish, it made the me of a minute ago look like King Solomon.
She’d had me so dizzy that morning that I hadn’t gotten her damn number when she gave me her address!
Smooth, Mick. I was starting to wish I actually was the amateur I was acting like. Least then I’d have an excuse other’n “I’m dumb.”
Hands stuck in my pockets, head down, and worried as much about Ramona’s reaction now as I was about my investigation, I went back to roaming.
And whaddaya know? Hruotlundt’s tip—and maybe some of that luck I’d doused myself with—finally paid off.
CHAPTER SIX
The waxing moon winked up at me from every puddle, bright even behind the clouds. Branches, half bare of leaves, swayed in the wind, and the nearby buildings grinned at me through mouths of window with teeth of broken wooden boards. Everything that didn’t smell of old dust smelled of old garbage.
Did I mention this wasn’t the nicest neighborhood?
Without Hruotlundt’s pointer, I might not’ve searched this area close enough, mighta missed this particular street. Now? Now I was finally gettin’ somewhere. My first clue that things’d gone hinky was the vagrants. Or rather, my first clue wasn’t the vagrants.
See, Chicago’s inner-city homeless—and there were a lot of ’em—had all been thrown into disarray when the city cleaned up downtown for the Dems’ National Convention back in summer. Dunno why they bothered; it ain’t as though the politicos, the newshawks, or the listeners at home don’t know ’bout the Depression. But they did bother, and a lotta the outer neighborhoods, like this one, got a whole new influx of citizens without addresses.
Most of that had reversed itself in the few months since, but a small chunk of ’em hadn’t bothered wandering back to their old haunts. Not like living in a downtown box was so much ritzier. So these other shabby streets still had some pretty hefty vagabond populations.
’Cept this one didn’t. Last block or two, the number of mugs huddled up in alley corners or snoozing under blankets of wet newspaper totaled zip, give or take a zero.
So when I started seeing them again, I knew I’d gone too far and turned back. It was very specifically these couple blocks that’d been emptied, which meant that’s where I needed to be.
Oh, and there was a lot to see. More puddles. More sodden trash. More boarded-up windows and buildings sagging like they’d tied on one too many the night before. Good place, overall, if you’re the sort who prefers bad places.
If it hadn’t been for the frickin’ rain, I mighta spotted ’em a lot sooner than I did. As it was, that huge heap of good fortune I’d glommed from my surroundings was still only just enough to put me wise.
Footprints. Sorta.
Hardly visible, they were puddles in puddles, tiny spots where an oil or muck of some kind hadn’t quite mixed with the water. Only when the light hit ’em just right was it possible to get any vague slant on ’em, and they vanished if you glanced away or blinked. But they left a decent trail, once I knew what to look for, and it was easy enough to noodle out which way they were headed: Go in the direction they get heavier, not lighter.
Keen detective work, huh?
Took me a touch longer to figure out what I was following. Don’t gotta be an ancient Fae to guess it won’t wind up being anything good.
I wrapped the shadows around me, huddling under ’em like a cloak, and shushing ’em when they complained, and peeked around one last corner. Peeked, and then stared, lamps about goggling out of my skull.
The whole street stank like a catfish in a sweatbox. The creature looked for all the world as if someone’d taken a man and a mackerel and just smashed
’em together over and over until they blended. Its skin was a noxious green-grey, fingers were flippery and sharp, its hair and beard looked like weeds in need of a good barber, and its nostrils were two tiny pits directly between its wide, rolling, fishy peepers.
You ever hear of bagienniks? Nah, didn’t figure most of you would’ve. Eastern European. Slavic. River Fae. Homely as Medusa’s prom date, and while they ain’t malicious in any real sense, it don’t take much to get ’em stirred up and hopping mad. They got tempers short as… Well, short as you would, if you looked like that.
We didn’t have any in Chicago. Oh, they mighta liked the river well enough, but we didn’t have many Slavic Fae of any kind here. A few in and around Pilsen, ever since so many Czechs moved in. I’d worked with one for a few days, way back when I was tryin’ to suss out what happened to Mr. Soucek’s wife. I knew all the other Slavs, at least in passing.
And none of ’em were bagienniks.
Now I was ogling a trio of ’em, lurking around an abandoned building no different from any of the other abandoned buildings.
And that told me three things.
One, we had outsiders, plural, in town. Herne wasn’t the only guy come to the Windy City in search of this goddamn spear.
Which led to two, Eudeagh had sold me a bill of goods. (No big surprise, there.) People wanted this dingus for more’n just “keeping their rivals from having it.” There was something special about it. Above and beyond being magic, I mean, which—let’s face it—don’t automatically make it all that special to us.
And three, Oh, shit! Duck!
Not sure how he made me—maybe I’d burned too much of my good luck in tracking ’em—but the one on the left spun and spurted a boiling, sizzling stream of oil at me from its nostrils.
Yeah, they do that. Supposedly, if you let the gunk cool and harden a little, the paste is good for muscle aches and excess rheum.
You let it hit you fresh? It’ll burn you so bad your shadow’ll start peeling.
I dropped and twisted, letting the corner of the building take the brunt. The oil blasted the brick clean and polished, and the few drops that managed to spatter me hurt bad enough I wanted to scream.
I didn’t. I whirled back around the corner and broke into a sprint, drawing the L&G from my coat as I went.
They were all coming my way now, burbling and blithering, sounding like a small dog throwing an ing-bing underwater. But for just a few, burbling was about all they could do. See, I dunno how often they can pull that searing sneeze thing, but I was sure Fishface Number One would need some time to recover. Gotta build up the mucus, yeah? And he was between me and the others.
So for just a couple blinks, I was heading straight at ’em. Figured they wouldn’t try to hose me down while their buddy was in the line of fi—water. Even if it wouldn’t hurt him much—something else I didn’t know, and wished I did—it’d be a wasted shot.
They started moving, orbiting each other, but they hadn’t figured on me charging out like a rhino with piles. I was on ’em before their footwork did ’em any good.
First shot was a wand-thrust to the breadbasket—or fishfoodbasket, or whatever. I hit hard, more a stab than a prod, and fired off the L&G soon as I felt resistance. Traded him a whole bunch of his own luck and energy for the weight of my anger and the pain from his splattering snot.
He gurgled and knifed forward at the waist, spitting up watery blood. He was probably already out, but I caught him with a sharp left to the chin, just to be sure.
Then I literally caught him, with both hands—wand hooked through one finger—and, using my own strength and some extra oomf I’d just ripped from his aura, tossed him at his buddies.
They scattered quick, giving me the opening to take shelter in an old, cobweb-choked doorway. I leaned out, ready to squeeze off some more magic…
No bunnies, these lugs.
The two of ’em spread out, both facing my doorway but far enough apart that I couldn’t have gotten ’em both, even with a chopper. Not before one of ’em could turn me into a lobster dinner.
Even worse, two more of the scaly bastards came flop-stomping from around the building their pals had been guarding. Guess they were standing watch on the other side.
Four-on-one odds. Didn’t suit me very well. I could try to pick ’em off one by one, but I didn’t think I could keep ’em at bay that long. Hadda deal with the whole crew in one throw.
I chuckled to myself. I was so far behind the eight ball, I could actually have used some of those “resources” Téimhneach said I’d have at my…
Huh. Now there was a notion.
Follow me on this. Bagienniks don’t spent a lotta time away from their rivers. They dry out something ugly. Night like this, though? No big deal. They just absorb the moisture they need from the rain and humidity. Be out here ’til the cows come home, wouldn’t bother ’em.
Know what we got a lot of here in Chicago, though? Whole heaps of pollution. Crap gumming up the air so you wouldn’t believe. Car exhausts, factories belching up God-knows-what… It’s all over.
Odds of any thick pocket of it gathering overhead right here and now, heavy enough to seriously taint the rain falling through it? Not good. Real not good.
But not impossible. Would just take some wacky amount of luck.
Got the idea from the sluagh in the storm. Thanks, Eudeagh.
They closed slow, unsure what I might do or what I could throw at ’em. That did me just fine, since I needed every second I could get. The amount of chance and fortune I was playin’ with, they’d have been able to fight me off if I tried glomming it all from them, and I didn’t want any of these buildings teetering over and collapsing, so…
Yep. I had long enough.
My whole body was tense and quivering as I concentrated through the L&G.
Two of the fishfaces had just gotten me in their sights and prepared to—uh, blow—when the weather took on a faintly greasy smell.
Not a lot, not strong. Dunno if I’d even have noticed if I hadn’t been looking for it. Smelling for it. Whatever.
Don’t get the wrong notion, it ain’t as though the bagienniks suddenly dropped or anything. It’d take a lot more’n an extra-thick layer of pollution to really poison ’em, and it’d take a much longer exposure for ’em to absorb enough to be real harmful.
But if you suddenly sucked down an unexpected mouthful of gasoline, you’d be sick pretty quick, even if you spat it back out. Same here. The fishfaces reeled, staggered, started to look—if you’ll excuse me putting it this way—kinda green around the gills.
No need for a play-by-play at this point. I had one of ’em down before I even got up close, draining enough from his aura to put him out hard. I won’t say the last three were duck soup, but when it was over the only pains I had to handle were a couple claw-tracks on one arm and an ache in my knuckles.
Hem of my flogger was oily and hot to the touch, where it took a splatter meant for me, and it reeked like a seagull’s leftovers. I’ll tell ya, though, grease aside, it probably hadn’t been that clean in weeks.
No sign of who or what they were protecting. Not outside, anyway. Which left the obvious option. L&G held ready, stepping lightly enough I don’t suppose a leaf woulda crinkled underfoot, I moved through the shadowy doorway into the building they’d been guarding.
* * *
Dust. Cobwebs. Carpet made outta more mildew than actual carpet. Smelled like a leshy’s bathroom after the morning fertilizer.
Some of that dust and mildew was scattered, some of those cobwebs broken and dangling. No big shock there; I’d already guessed somebody else had come this way.
But then there was the singing.
High, crisp, clear. This canary had a set of pipes, for sure. Even without any kinda musical accompaniment, she was flawless. Every note, every trill. No words, just melody, beautiful and distinctive enough to make Blanche Calloway give up in disgust and go learn to type.
This? This was
a bad thing. When the Fae are involved and you hear someone belting it out that way, it’s always a bad thing.
I felt it tug at me. Velvet fingers reaching through my ears, gently cupping my thoughts and trying to drag ’em forward—and the rest of me along with. It was a real pleasant touch, soothing, promising to brush all your troubles away like so much lint, if you’d just let it…
Nuts to that. I been around too long to fall for it. Ain’t nobody capable of making all my troubles go poof.
It wasn’t the only magic I felt, though. Behind the song was something else, something faint and lingering, like old cigar smoke. Whoever my songbird was, she hadn’t picked this building by chance. Spear or not, something with genuine mojo had been here recently, though it was up and gone now, and I couldn’t figure why it mighta been here at all.
Well, I’d work that part out later. First, I hadda face the music.
I followed the tune, yeah, but fast, at a hard run, wand at the ready. Dust and spores kicked up behind me in a filthy wake. Webs flexed, stretched, and fell apart, never meant to hold back anything resembling the L&G or the meathook holding it.
Shabby door up ahead. Old wood, rotted and sagging, rusty hinges, screws hangin’ onto the frame mostly through determination and habit.
Didn’t need the mojo for this one. I just turned a shoulder into it. Didn’t even really break stride.
Big open room that stank just like the hall. Old, stained sheets flopped like lazy ghosts over decrepit chairs and a table or two. Whole room was lit by a soft, somehow aquatic glow, not coming from any lamp or bulb or even magic gewgaw that I could see.
In the middle of it all, a couple danced. Slow, graceful steps, old steps, nothing you’ll find cutting a rug today.
And shoot my hat off and call me a dandelion if one of the pair wasn’t Four-Leaf himself!
You remember how Franky was on the bad end of a broderick when I first dug him up during the Ottati gig? Yeah, that ain’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. Franky got himself beat more’n your average bongo.
This time, though, he’d caught something worse than a few bruises from a thug trying to collect his dough.