by Ari Marmell
“Right, ’cause he ain’t ever heard that one before.”
I already knew which door was hers, but even if I hadn’t, I would’ve. Not even ’cause Fino always had one of his torpedoes standing guard outside, just in case. I felt it. An aura, a presence. Fae, sure, but not any kinda Fae I could recall ever meeting.
Last couple times I’d set foot in here, I’d almost thought of something. Something about that sensation poked at the ol’ grey cells. Not a memory, even, but a casual thought about a memory. I felt it trying to catch my attention; trying to catch my eyes across a crowded ballroom, sorta.
But I never could grasp it. Couldn’t even be sure it was real; the “memory” might not exist at all. Might just be that the familiar-yet-alien feeling was mucking with me, makin’ me think I recognized something I didn’t.
I dunno. Whatever. I nodded to today’s gorilla and pushed the door open.
Place was neater’n when I’d first seen it. Emptier, too. All the books and stuffed animals and other girl stuff had been picked up and put away. Big honkin’ radio was gone, at my suggestion—Adalina didn’t need anything that technologically advanced lurking nearby while she recuperated.
Bianca hadn’t wanted her to be without music, though, so she’d replaced the radio with an old wind-up music box. Most days, she was the only one who bothered to key it up.
And there in bed, surrounded by pink and lacy everything, was Adalina.
She’d seemed human, once. Not what you’d call a looker, but not abnormal. Now? Her eye-sockets had drifted to either side of her head, her lips thinned to almost nothin’, her skin tight and whiter than any stiff in the morgue. Her hair was still healthy’n thick, oddly. I think that made it worse.
Oh, and the stink. Not bad—you hadda be close, or have the senses of a Fae, to notice—but definitely there. Fishy and fruity. And lately kinda burning, like alcohol fumes.
Already told you that Adalina was a changeling, left with the Ottatis almost seventeen years ago, now. What I still didn’t know was what the hell she was turnin’ into. It didn’t resemble any kinda Fae I knew, and it wasn’t followin’ the pattern of those swaps where the “kid” is just an enchanted doll or a lump of wood.
She’d been ensorcelled to hide her nature, exposed to Orsola Maldera’s witchcraft, and God knew what else. I couldn’t even be sure this is what she was supposed to look like. For all I knew, all the competing magics had queered each other until nothin’ was working right anymore.
I pulled back the sheets for a quick up-and-down. Physically, she was good, healing. Months ago, she’d almost died. Shoulda died. Her body’d been scoured by dust and sand and iron filings, in some places to the bone. I don’t think I’d have survived it.
Now? No trace of it, ’cept for a couple light spots where the skin still looked new. (Yeah, light spots, pale as she already was. They were more or less translucent.)
But she would. Not. Wake. Up.
She tossed. She turned. She muttered in her sleep. Like the Ottatis said, she ate when you fed her. But no more.
We’d long since tried all the herbal remedies, and I even snuck an elixir or two outta Elphame that weren’t ever supposed to cross to the mortal world.
Nada. Zip. Jack and bupkis.
I’d told the Ottatis I was still workin’ on it, and that was basically square. I was still lookin’, still listening, when I could.
What I hadn’t told ’em was that I was hunting blind. I’d long since run outta ideas.
I put one mitt on her forehead: she was cold and wet, almost slick, like even her sweat was sick. Nothin’ new there. She turned at my touch, flopping over on one side, kicking her feet under the blankets. Her muttering rose almost to a shout for a minute, before it faded again.
And I almost fell back from the bed, startled like I ain’t been in some time. Not by the shout.
By the words.
We’d all thought she was muttering bunk, but now I heard it clearly…
She was speaking Old Gaelic!
Which didn’t automatically make it any less bunk. Nonsense in an ancient language the speaker’s got no business knowing is still nonsense, and most of what she was spouting made about as much sense as a glass cabbage. After a short while listening, I was about ready to chalk it all up to just another curiosity on the grocery list that was Adalina; fascinating, maybe a potential clue, but nothing of any immediate use.
And then, “Ahreadbhar…”
Plain as day and twice as clear. Maybe five or six times as clear, given the weather we been having.
I leaned in, whole body rigid, probably close enough that it coulda given anyone who happened to barge in a really wrong idea. Absolutely still: I didn’t fidget, didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe.
Just listened.
Not a mistake, not a coincidence. It surfaced again, and again, one bit of value in the flotsam of her delirious nonsense.
“Ahreadbhar,” multiple times; “Gáe Assail” once or twice. Enough so I couldn’t doubt it if I wanted to.
She felt it. Deep in a sleep she hadn’t come outta for months, across Danu only knew how much of the city, while the damn thing was veiled from mystical detection… She knew. The Spear of Lugh was near, and through all that, she sensed it.
“What are you, doll?” I ran a gentle palm over her forehead, brushing some stray, clinging hairs back into place. I dunno, but I like to think it calmed her a little, that she wasn’t muttering and tossing quite so much after.
From a flogger pocket, I came up with the reel and string from an old fishing rod. That was what I’d grabbed outta my drawer, back when Ramona and I left my office. See, I’d picked it up on a case where… Eh, don’t matter. Point is, guy who owned this is dead—twice—but during his life, fishing had been his only escape from the rest of the world. It’d brought peace, and a lot of it, to a troubled man.
Powerful symbolism, that.
I put the old hunk of junk on Adalina’s night table, held a hand over it, and let just a bit of magic flow through it. Sorta crank-starting the symbolic power it held, if you wanna think of it that way. Still no guarantee it’d do squat, but just maybe she’d sleep a bit more soundly.
But me, I didn’t look to have any rest in my immediate future. All this new stuff I’d learned about the girl was amazing, and maybe useful in the future, but for now? Now I still had a job to do, and this wasn’t gettin’ me any closer to done.
* * *
“Look, Ramona…”
“No, you were right.” She sounded distant as we walked through the blustery gusts back toward the L. Distant, but not angry.
My heart sank. Think I mighta preferred angry, frankly.
“We’ve only just met, really,” she continued, makin’ a real close study of the sidewalk ahead—obviously too important for her to look at me. “And while we may… understand each other… Or I thought we did…”
My gut made like I just got punched. With a tree trunk.
Don’t think she noticed.
“…you don’t have good cause to trust me yet. I shouldn’t have expected it of you.”
Oh, shit…
“Ramona, sweetheart, we just need a little more time to—”
“Isn’t this the station? We wouldn’t want to miss our train.”
I bet you can guess how pleasant the ride was for me, so I ain’t goin’ into it. Suffice to say, we got where we were going.
CHAPTER TEN
Between multiple hops on the L, and some deliberate stalling on my part—cat I was searching for wasn’t gonna be as easy to find in the daylight—the sun pulled the western horizon up to its chin like a blanket before me’n Ramona reached our next real stop. And lemme tell you, she was just thrilled as all get-out when I put her wise to where that was.
“Wonderful. More gangsters. Do you protect all your clients this way, Mick? Or are you charging me the Judas goat special rate?”
“Relax, doll. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
&
nbsp; “Oh, I’m so relieved. Was it the guns or the criminal records that convinced you?”
I decided nothin’ I might say was gonna make the situation any better. Though sarcastic humor was still an improvement from the no humor she’d been tossin’ my way.
I’d been here before. Kenson’s Fine Smokes, which was exactly as much of a cigar vendor and club as I’m a human. We swept past the cases and containers of cigars, cigarettes, and enough pipes to build an organ. A few of the rooms off to the side even had people actually smoking.
Not fooling anyone, though.
Last time I was here, with a slightly different face, there’d been a line to get through the seriously heavy door in the back of the shop. It was a lot earlier in the evening this time around, and on a weeknight, so Ramona and I just strolled right on up to the two lunks in off-the-rack suits standing nearby.
I dunno, maybe the Mob buys ’em wholesale. And no, I don’t mean the suits.
“Once we’re inside,” I whispered, “follow my lead. Don’t make like you like me too well. And if anything goes down, don’t try’n help me. Just get outta the way. Most trouble boys won’t treat a skirt as an enemy unless you give ’em real good reason.”
Her blinkers were big as doorknobs. “What happened to ‘nobody here will hurt you’?”
“That’s what I’m making sure of. Ain’t you been listening?”
“I should have hired a Pinkerton.”
Since I couldn’t tell if she was putting me on or not, I decided to assume it was a joke. Safer for me that way.
I was all ready to crawl into their heads if I had to, but for the most part it wasn’t necessary. They asked the usual (and the same as they’d asked me last time): who I was, how I’d heard about the place, was I packing, and so on.
They found my wand when they patted me down, of course, and then I did fiddle with their thoughts a bit, just to make ’em a tad more gullible. I fed ’em my usual spiel—about how I don’t carry heat, but use the “stick” to fill out the holster so it bulges as if I did—which is really pretty dumb.
Course, this was also the first time Ramona’d seen that what I had in the harness wasn’t exactly a roscoe. She couldn’t seem to settle on any one expression.
“What?” I asked as we stepped on through.
“I… you…”
“Both of us, yeah. You havin’ second thoughts?”
“Mick, I passed ‘second’ so long ago, I’m well into double digits.”
Real encouraging, I found that.
Wasn’t much happening on the dance floor, this early. They didn’t even have anyone actually playing yet, just an old record-player blurting out some Wayne King for about three couples to romp to.
The bar, though, was already flowin’ strong with people and hooch.
Imagine that.
I felt fingers tighten around my arm, and tried to think through the faint electric hum that seemed to flow through me at the touch.
“You okay, doll?” Then, when she didn’t answer, “Don’t tell me this is your first time in a speakeasy?”
“No,” she breathed, clearly distracted. “Not first, but… first since I was a girl. What if there’s a raid?”
“Won’t be.”
“How do you know?”
Not sure I bothered to shrug. “Just know.”
“Anyone tell you lately that you can be surprisingly reassuring?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Do you suppose there might be a reason for that?”
Couple minutes spent wandering the place made it pretty plain the boss was out. I figured as much when I saw his private booth was empty, but wanted to be positive.
I watched everyone, for a while. Dancers danced, drinkers drank and waiters waited. Finally spotted an older guy dressed a lot like the servers, but better, and figured he might be important enough to know something from nothing.
“Hey! Bo!” I called out to him. Then, as he sniffed and turned, “They train you on the job for that sneer, or is it a required skill for being hired?”
He sniffed again. “Can I help you… sir?”
“Yeah.”
He waited. Gink was irritating, so I waited, too.
“Well?” he finally demanded.
“Well, what?”
“How can I help you?” It wasn’t loud enough to be a shout, but it had enough volume, if you dig what I mean.
“Thought you’d never ask. Mr. Scola gonna be in tonight? And if so, you know when?”
“Mister…”
Huh. It was mister now, not sir.
“Even if I was privy to my employer’s schedule, I don’t see how it would be any business of—”
Sigh. Into the noggin I go, then.
I asked him again, this time with more’n just words.
“He told us to have his table ready at half past ten, though it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s a bit later than that.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
I left him wondering why the hell he’d just sang to me like that. Then again, I didn’t want him noodling too hard on it, and he was an obnoxious son of a bitch, so before I’d completely withdrawn from his mind, I planted a convincing image of a dribbled wine stain down the front of his coat.
Have fun washin’ that out, pal.
“You dance, sweetheart?” I asked as I took Ramona’s arm.
“Uh, not often…”
“Good thing I ain’t askin’ you to do it often, then.”
I half guided her, half pulled her out onto the carpet. Current tune was pretty soft, and there didn’t look to be any musicians winding up anytime soon, so we kept to slow, simple steps.
Just as well. Not sure I coulda concentrated on complex with an arm around her and her hair against my face.
Then she turned her head just a bit, her cheek against mine, lips right by my ear, and yeah, then I knew any kinda concentration was a losing proposition.
“What are we doing, Mick?” she whispered.
I lost a step and almost stumbled. Asking her if she could dance, and I was the one making a cement mixer of myself.
“What?”
“Here. Dancing. Why?”
Oh. Not sure if I was relieved or sad that that’s what she’d meant.
“Waiting. Couple of tunes, and we’ll grab ourselves a table and a cheap snort. Gives us an excuse to be here.” Then, lying through my teeth, “It’s just to help our cover, that’s all.”
“How long?”
“Maybe ’til ten-thirty. Maybe later. Long as it takes, doll.”
She sighed and said nothing more. When she tightened her grip, round about the third song, I hadda bite my tongue to keep from asking some fool questions I knew I’d regret.
Yeah, I know, I’d said we were only gonna cut the rug for two or three tunes. Wound up being, I think, seven. Whaddaya want from me?
Right about the time the last record stopped with a quick scratch, and a stocky but graceful black woman in a sapphire-blue dress started makin’ love to the microphone, I saw him walk in.
Looked much as he had last time, though his tux jacket was tabby-cat grey instead of the white he’d worn then. Same rodent-tail mustache, and while I ain’t sure if it was the same ceremonial blondes on his arms or the same Mob soldiers around him, they were damn close enough.
I barely waited until they’d planted themselves in the booth and ordered a round.
“Go sit over there,” I said to Ramona, pointing to an empty table. “Don’t come near that booth.”
“But—”
“Ramona, I told you nobody’d hurt you, and I hate being made a liar. So go already! Please.”
You know how to scowl at someone with concern? Not sure I do. She did, though. She muttered something I didn’t catch, on account of the noises the musicians were makin’ as they set up shop—all black, of course, ’cause God forbid a white man play backup to a black woman in this day and age—and stomped off, lighting up and taking a deep puff f
rom an Old Gold as she went. Seemed to be heading for the bar, not the table. But hell, maybe she just needed a shot or a sandwich.
I wasn’t halfway to the corner booth when two of Scola’s boys got up and cut me off.
“Private,” one of ’em rumbled at me.
See, when I’d done this months ago, I’d had this whole rigmarole planned out to gimme an excuse to see the guy. It was real clever and everything. Tonight? Tonight I was gonna have to be more direct with the big fish, so I figured I might as well start with the small ones.
Soon as I was sure the first gorilla was looking at me real good, I sucker-punched him. In the brain. A quick meeting of the eyes, a shove of willpower and magic—not to convince him of anything or make him see what ain’t there, just to overwhelm him a few ticks. Didn’t much wanna have to bother finessing both of ’em. Gink rocked on his heels and proceeded to drool some.
Now, the second goon, he got a more controlled dosage. I shuffled his feelings, sliding suspicion to the bottom of the deck and the boredom and monotony of standing guard in this speakeasy—night after night after night, where nothing happened and he almost never had cause to give any troublemakers the bum’s rush—to the top.
Then I just smiled politely and walked on by. He acknowledged me with a grunt that woulda had to pack on twenty pounds to qualify as a syllable, only just remembering to walk with me back toward the table.
“Hell is this, Donny?” Scola asked, scowling. “I been here ninety seconds, and already you let someone in here to bother me? Didn’t even see you pat ’im down.”
I didn’t have to look close to see that he and his other guys’d taken precautions ’cause the first mook hadn’t. Figured at least three heaters were aimed my way under the table. Maybe four or five, if either of the girls was carrying.
“Don’t give him too hard a time, Bumpy,” I said, taking a seat opposite him. Every one of ’em had that “guy’s scrambled worse than an egg” look on their mugs now. “I just convinced him how important it was that you and me barber some.”
“That right? So why don’tcha convince me?”
Quick sideways glance, and down, and sure enough, he was wearing that same charm—slender chain with silver’n iron tokens—on his left wrist. Didn’t figure it was too strong, or I’d have felt more from it, so I could probably get into his head anyway, but… I didn’t much care for that “probably.” I was sure I could poke on through with the help of the L&G, but if I went for something under my jacket, the joint was gonna have a sudden surge in the slug population.