by Ari Marmell
He looked normal. Wrinkled suit so cheap it mighta actually cost less than my socks. Couple gold necklaces hanging off him, ’cause Franky always had something gold. It’s the leprechaun in him.
But his peepers were nearly as round as the glasses in front of ’em. Glazed as a doughnut and focused on what I hadda guess was the twenty-second century. Oh, yeah. Take it from a guy who spends a lotta time plucking the strings in other people’s heads, they don’t come much more entranced than Franky was right then.
I was a bit more concerned with his partner, though.
I could talk about her slim, exquisite features, the gams that’d make a man long to be a stocking, the snow-white dress, all that. But those ain’t the important details.
No, those would be the radiant blond hair—held in place by a gleaming silver comb—that still sluiced water everywhere, even though the rest of her was dry; and the green fire in her eyes that, I realized, was the source of the room’s lighting.
Rusalka.
Call ’em what you want. Siren, river nymph, nereid, mermaid… They’re all the hell over. Little different, one culture or family branch to the next, but all basically the same shtick: hypnotize passersby with song and/or dance, then drown ’em and suck up their life essence in the final bubbles.
Nasty twists, the lot of ’em.
’Cept this rusalka wasn’t looking to drown Franky, not this far from the river. My guess? Once she figured she had him well and truly wrapped up, there’d be a few questions.
About a spear, probably.
I glared at her, and she at me. Gotta admit, to an outsider, her glare probably looked a lot more intimidating. Green fire and all.
She spun, swaying the wrong way and breaking the rhythm of the dance to put Franky between me and her. The poor lug stumbled, almost toppling completely but for her grip on him. He was still pretty well under, though. Guess she’d already been working him a while.
I circled the other way, stepping around or occasionally climbing over the furniture, keeping a close watch on the dame, trying to draw a bead that wouldn’t risk hitting Franky with whatever magics I threw at her.
Her voice rose, shifting from the breathtaking melody into a sustained, high-pitched note. Sharp, piercing. I clutched at my ears—didn’t even mean to, just instinct—and I was actually pretty surprised that they didn’t come away bloody. Someone was hammerin’ a chisel into both sides of my noggin. Thinking was an uphill battle, if you wanna call Everest a hill.
I dunno what it was—maybe a mirror in a nearby room, or some tableware leftover someplace, but I heard glass tremble and crack. Oddly muted, though. Guess my hearing wasn’t gonna be up for a lot more of what she was dishing out.
So, fine, Mick. Don’t think. Just do.
The L&G discharged, not at the rusalka and her meat-puppet, but at the cloth-draped furniture close behind them. Old legs creaked and then snapped as bad luck seeped deep into the wood, wiggling in through a smattering of rot. The whole kit’n caboodle collapsed, sliding and spilling sheets, a couple chairs, and a newly mangled table out onto the makeshift dance floor.
Wasn’t much, really. Slow as the furniture-avalanche was, graceful as she was, it was eggs in the coffee for her to dance through the mess even as it came lapping at her heels.
But it caught her off-guard, startled her, made her split her attention. For about the length of a hiccup, she clammed up.
My Oxfords sounded a lot like a typewriter, pounding against the floor as I took off. Quick as I was, I still almost blew the whole job. She’d caught her breath and kicked up that goddamn screech before I reached her, but by then it was too late. I don’t think I coulda stopped if I’d tried.
Pain lanced through my head, yeah—but then through hers, too. Haymaker to the button’ll do that.
She flew back, stumbling over the same junk she’d just avoided, blood pouring from a schnozz now more crooked than a politician’s smirk. Only sounds the rusalka was makin’ now were an ugly pained gurgle and a few grunts and gasps as she staggered over bits of broken wood.
No chances. I ain’t always sharp as I oughta be, but I’m no idiot. I aimed and fired, blasting power and luck from her aura while pummeling her with the pain she’d inflicted on me with her squealing.
She dropped, limp as—well, as a fish—flopped over the heap of broken furniture, and landed real still on the floor.
I shot her again, just to be sure. Much luck as I’d torn from her now, she’d probably impale herself on a broken table leg if she sneezed hard.
I turned at the sound of a mild thump. Franky was doubled over, one mitt against the wall where he’d caught himself. I’d seen guys hungover after being tight for four days straight who looked better’n he did right about then. If he’d gasped any harder, he coulda gone moonlighting as a vacuum cleaner.
All right, he wasn’t going anywhere. Back to our foreign guest. I wanted her to sing a few verses—uh, not literally—before I got into it with Franky. Figured she might spill something Queen Mob had decided to keep to herself.
Gotta say I was impressed with her gumption. She was struggling to stand, hauling herself upright on the broken furniture. What I at first took to be a low hum of some mechanical gewgaw or other from outside the building turned out to be coming from her, a sorta guttural ululation in the back of her throat.
She was using what she had left of her own mojo to try and gum up mine, or at least ward off the worst of the bad luck. Probably the only reason the whole heap hadn’t collapsed on her at the first tug.
Still, she didn’t have a lot left, and she knew I knew it. She saw me looking, socked me with a glare of pure, contemptuous hatred that somehow struck me as very Russian, and tried to run. More of a staggering limp, really, and I coulda caught up with one foot tied behind my back, but I hadda admire the attempt.
Yeah. Shoulda spent less time admiring. If I had, I mighta been in a position to do something ’bout what happened next.
Or maybe not. She was having a real unlucky night.
Basically, the rusalka sprouted a small flagpole, went briefly stiff, and collapsed bonelessly enough that I didn’t need to be a doctor to know she wasn’t getting up again.
I was at her side in a jiff, not that I thought I could do much. The spear sticking straight up from her chest was old, thick. A whole bundle of trophies or fetishes, bones and teeth and that sort, hung from right below the tip.
Yeah, I thought it, too. But no, I got wise quick that this wasn’t the spear, not what I was looking for. I didn’t feel any magic, any power, from this thing—or at least, none of its own, just some lingering traces it coulda picked up from its owner, nothing close to the aura I’d already sensed hanging around here. Also, I didn’t figure Herne woulda stuck around this burgh once he had what he wanted.
Oh, yeah, didn’t I mention? A glance in the direction the spear’d come from showed me Herne standing in the doorway opposite the one I’d come in through. Big and glowery and real unhappy-like. Dunno if he’d been following the rusalka’s crew, following me, or if he’d felt those same traces of power I had, but either way, he was here.
Just swell.
“They’re easier to put the screws on if they’re alive,” I told him. “Most dead folk don’t talk, and those that do ain’t friendly company. In case you didn’t—”
“I was aiming,” he growled, brow lowering even further, “for her shoulder. Something threw me off.”
Yeah, that’d be an extra dollop of extreme bad luck. Didn’t figure I’d mention that, though.
“Well, goody for us, we still got…”
I turned yet again, but there was no sign of Franky ’cept another door hanging ajar.
“Goddamn it, Franky.” It woulda just been a polite conversation, but now? Now I hadda be mean to him next time we met.
Principle of the thing, savvy?
“Maybe not. All right so we…” I began.
Not sure how to imitate the noise that spear made when
Herne pulled it outta the stiff’s chest. Schleeurchk! maybe comes close.
Which woulda been unpleasant, but not alarming, if he hadn’t then started toward me, leavin’ a trail of spattered, dribbling blood to mark his path.
“Uh…” I said. “So, who leads the Wild Hunt right now? It was Gudrun last I heard, but—”
“You told me you had no involvement in this, Oberon. You told me you were not a competitor.”
“…but none of us really have any idea how you guys cycle in’n out, so—”
“You lied.”
I started backing away, not that I woulda had much success if I tried to run.
“Actually, I didn’t. I sorta got roped into this after we talked.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The spear dripped.
“No, really! I owed people.” I didn’t really want word of my deal getting around, but I wanted Herne’s spear in my heart a whole lot less. “They called it in over this. I can’t begin to tell you how much I don’t wanna be here.”
“Oh, no fear. I’m about to demonstrate.” He did pause, though. “Who?”
Sigh. “The local Unseelie. Eudeagh’s crew.”
A long, slow blink. Like a mickeyed lizard.
“And the fact you’ve debased yourself to serve the Unseelie—” Wow, but he could cram a lotta disdain into that one word. “—is a reason I should spare you? Your logic escapes me, Oberon. Pity you can’t accompany it.”
Somehow, This isn’t my fault, taking it out on me ain’t fair! didn’t seem likely to convince him. But…
“You’re better off with me on this, Herne.”
Again, the hunter stopped. I tried not to sigh with relief—I was runnin’ outta room for retreat. I took that halt as demand for explanation, so I explained.
“How many of the local Unfit do you know by sight?” I asked. “By name?”
“Few, being a stranger to Chicago. As you well know.”
“Exactly! You bump me off, Eudeagh’s just gonna send someone else. You’ll still have just as much competition, only you won’t know who to watch out for. Won’t know how to predict ’em.”
Truth was, I didn’t buy for a second that I was the only one the Unseelie had searching. No way they were gonna put all their eggs in the Mick Oberon basket. But so far as I knew, with genuine certainty, it was just me. So I wasn’t really lying or omitting anything, see?
“And,” I said more softly, “you won’t be able to count on ’em fighting even as fair as me. You know I got lines I won’t cross. You may not think much of where I draw ’em, but I got ’em. You think whoever else the Unseelie might send would say the same?”
“That… is actually a point worth contemplating.” The hunter lowered his weapon just a bit, and I almost sagged in relief.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll kill you after this is all done.”
Less relief-sagging. “Gee, thanks. Your kindness and generosity are truly boundless.”
“Don’t try me, Oberon. And do not dare cast me as the cruel one here.” He pivoted and started to walk away. “I’ve no idea what they hold over you, but the power you seek to put in the hands of the Unseelie is far more damaging than I ever could be!”
I’d caught up to him before he reached the door, and though I thought for a minute he really was gonna off me when I reached out to grab his arm, I stood fast.
“What power? What’re you talking about?”
Again, he seemed to sense that I wasn’t trying to pull anything. His blinkers stretched wide when he realized I really had no idea.
“They didn’t tell you what you’re seeking?”
I shrugged. “Old spear. Enchanted, one of the few remaining.”
“You…” I could see the thoughts chasing each others’ tails around his noggin, watched him consider not telling me, watched him decide otherwise.
“Gods, man, this is not some toy you hunt! Not some curiosity your Unseelie mistress wants for her collection.”
I decided to let that bit pass. I’d already known Eudeagh hadn’t told me everything, but this was starting to put me on edge.
“So, what? What is it, then?”
“Gáe Assail, Oberon. The Spear of Lugh has come to Chicago.
“And you have agreed to deliver it into Unseelie hands.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Spear of what now?” Pete was nearing the bottom of his second mug of joe, and still sounded deeply groggy. Then again, I didn’t think he’d be making a whole lot more sense out of this if he were fully awake. “Spear of Lou?”
“Lugh,” I corrected, even though he probably couldn’t hear the difference. Woulda helped if I hadn’t had my head between my hands like I was trying to compress it into a pancake. With brain jelly. “The Spear of Lugh. Alias Gáe Assail, alias Ahreadbhar. One of the four hallows of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
Pete peered at me through bloodshot peepers.
“Okay, so I know some of that was words…”
Just so you know, you mugs look even sadder when you’re confused in a bathrobe than when you’re just confused.
Pete’s flop was exactly what you’d expect, if you knew the guy. Small but comfy, redolent of cheap aftershave lotion and slightly burnt beef. Spick’n span where it counted—clean kitchen, creased blues hanging behind the wide-open door of the closet—and, ah, let’s call it informal everywhere else. I’d hadda move a pile of books and a light bulb off the chair before I could plant my keister on it, and my heels were resting on a wadded-up pair of pants.
Oh, and the bird himself, of course. Worn grey bathrobe, mustache half-matted to his lip from sleepin’ on his face, and clutching his coffee like a holy icon.
“Okay,” I said. “Short version, since you ain’t gonna live long enough for the unabridged…
“A long time ago—no, longer’n that—longer’n that, too—the aes sidhe and few of the other Fae races were a lot more’n we are now. We were beautiful, and we were powerful.” I wondered if he could hear the regret and resentment. I wondered if I’d ever manage to ditch ’em. “Magics of a sort this world hasn’t seen since. Your ancestors worshiped us as gods, and they had reason to.”
“Well, long as it hasn’t gone to your head…”
“I’m serious here, Pete. You got no idea.”
He blinked over the rim of his mug, nodded, threw back a swig.
“Our power was a lot more concentrated, then. You gotta remember, this is before any significant human technology, before a lotta the Fae and semi-Fae races even exist—”
“‘Semi-Fae’?”
“Damn it, Pete, you wanna hear all this, or don’tcha?”
“You’re the one came to me at four in the A.M., Mick. I think I get as many questions as I want.”
“Yeah, remind me not to do that again.” He was right, though. I’d come knocking ’cause I had to hash out my thinking with someone. (Fact that he’d woken me up the night before had no bearing on it. No payback here. Nuh-uh. None.) He deserved to understand what I was yapping about.
“What you call the supernatural,” I said slowly, trying to couch it all in terms he would understand, “is either human—mortal sorceries, ghosts, whatever—or Fae.”
“Wait, all of it?”
“All of it.”
“Vampires?”
I jerked him a nod. “Fae spirits, real dark ones, inhabiting human corpses.”
“What about… me?”
Shouldn’ta surprised me that he asked. Especially since the full moon wasn’t even two weeks away.
“Creature of the wild, way back when. Primal, savage, from the woods of Elphame. Something in its essence, its blood, corrupted a guy, he carried it to someone else, and… well, Bob’s your uncle.”
“Gotta say, Mick, I’m not sure I buy it. Sounds kinda… propaganda-ish.”
I shrugged. “Could be bunk. It’s how we’re taught, though. Can I get on with it, now?”
Pete wandered into the kitchen, poured himself
a third cup, and strolled on back.
“Now you can go on.”
“Oh, can I? Swell.
“Point is, at the height of our power, the Tuatha Dé Danann crafted a lot of powerful devices and fetishes. When I say we put part of ourselves into it, I mean it. Our power, our essence.
“The greatest of these were the four hallows, and one of those was a spear, granted to one of our finest warriors.”
“That’d be this Lou guy?”
Oh, for… “Lugh. Lugh mac Ethnenn. Lugh of the Long Arm. Father of Cú Chul…” I actually heard Pete’s eyes starting to glaze over. “Ah, nuts. That ‘Lou guy,’ yeah. Anyway, the hallows saw a lotta use for centuries, especially when our other power started to wane. We couldn’ta conquered the Firbolg without ’em. But eventually, after we’d faded to just ‘the people of the mounds,’ the hallows were lost. One or two’ve popped up here’n there—we’re pretty sure Claíomh Solais resurfaced for a while with the name ‘Excalibur’—but never for long.”
He didn’t say anything, do anything, just stood there and held his cup while it steamed. He was wakin’ up fast, though. I could see it in his expression and his aura both.
“All right, so this spear thing’s here. That really such a big deal? What’s it do?”
“Eh, nothing much. Always strikes its mark, punch through any damn thing, returns to the hand that threw it, glows with fire hotter than the forge, no man may stand against its wielder in battle. Focuses and channels the wielder’s own magic in a way that makes it a howitzer if we assume my wand’s a friggin’ Daisy BB gun! That sorta spiel.”
“Is… is all that true?”
I wanted to shrug, decided I couldn’t be bothered.
“Some of it? Nobody ever got the full use outta it that Lugh did. Whether that’s ’cause some of it was him, instead of the spear, or just ’cause nobody else knows properly how to use the dingus… No idea. But even at its weakest, it ain’t something I want the Unseelie getting their grubby mitts on. Or the Seelie, for that matter. Or Herne. Or any-damn-body.”
“Fuck me.” Pete upturned a splash of milk into his joe, then handed me the bottle. Bit chilly for my taste, but I threw back a few slugs anyway. “What’re the Unseelie gonna do if they get hold of it?”