by Ari Marmell
“Well, thanks. Now if you could just show me downstairs, I gotta poke around a bit.”
“Well, but… I should probably get one of the curators to—”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Nah, I shouldn’t.”
I thought he’d see it my way.
Gink got me past the “authorized” doors, and a few janitorial staff who mighta looked at me askance if I’d been alone.
I posted him in the hall, to keep me from bein’ bothered, and I told him in no uncertain terms that nothing’d interrupted his day, that when he got back to his rounds he’d forget all of this. I think he mighta drooled in response. Sharp and silver-tongued, this guy.
I had no trouble finding Lydecker’s workspace. Room was bathed in sickly light and an irritating buzz, just as I remembered. A few other people came in’n out, far across the room, but I encouraged ’em to assume I belonged here. Since I’d gotten through the door’n had my security-guard escort, it wasn’t a hard idea to plant.
Lydecker’s table held maybe half the number of tools and fossils it had on my last visit. I dunno if that was because the workload had lightened or just ’cause some bits were actually put away at the end of the workday. And I cared even less than I knew. I wasn’t here to criticize Lydecker’s organizational habits.
I held my hands over the table, shut my eyes, reached out…
Nothing. Just as I’d I remembered it. And that made even less sense than anything else I’d stumbled over on this job.
I felt the cogs startin’ to turn deep in my head again, same as they’d done back in Elphame, but I didn’t try to focus on ’em yet. Didn’t examine what I was thinking too closely. I needed to be absolutely certain before I risked breaking that chain of contemplation.
So, I did more’n just reach out, groping blindly for a lingering aura of magic. I reached into my coat, held the wand, and drew power to me—a lot of it. I was careless with it; a few of the smaller fossils crumbled.
Until, finally, I had enough. That same energy, that same luck I’d just taken in, flowed right back out, carrying my sight with it, my touch, senses you ain’t even got words for. Auras and power far too faint for me to ever normally detect should become clear to me now.
And they did, but not how I expected.
Still no sign of the Spear of Lugh. Nothing even close. Oh, there was a ceremonial bowl and dagger set in the next room that had a minor enchantment on ’em, and there was a remnant of power in a trilobite fossil that I admit confused (to say nothing of worried) the hell outta me. I was almost tempted to pocket that one.
But no trace of the spear.
If it’d been here, it was stupidly well shrouded.
I did, though, glom to something else, something I’d never’ve noticed if I hadn’t been swinging so much mojo right then.
Fae.
Oh, not now. But recently, there’d been another of the Fae in this basement, maybe even this room. Couldn’t say who or when, wouldn’t have even come close to spotting an aura this faint without all the extra power. But there’d definitely been someone from the other side of the tracks in here not too far back.
Fae were here but the spear wasn’t? Or someone could hide the spear but not themselves? Or…?
Goddamn it.
Was useful to know I’d been right, that there’d been no trace of Gáe Assail here, but that didn’t bring me any nearer to understanding what the hell was up with the spear. Or where the hell. Or why the Unfit thought what they were doing was so urgent it was worth losin’ the race we were all running. All I knew was that the room contained absolutely no-room-for-error-zero trace of the spear.
Why? How? I’d sensed it elsewhere; why not here, in the one place we knew it had been?
We did know Gáe Assail had been here… Didn’t we?
Or did we?
Lost in my own labyrinthine thoughts, startin’ to fit all this into my mental puzzle, I collected Officer Moron and made my way back toward the stairs.
* * *
Can I just tell you how very surprised I was, when I got home, to discover my place was bein’ watched? What’s an amount less’n zero?
Wasn’t Sealgaire this time, though I didn’t doubt he was skulking somewhere near. (I could tell by the nine thousand and three spiders crawling along my spine.) Nah, this was a tiny rise, a slight hump in the overgrown, autumn-soaked grasses between two stoops of a neighboring greystone. Hadda be a ghillie dhu—or leshy or green man, if you prefer. Between the leafy skin and the grassy beard, no human woulda noticed him even without the glamour that lay over him, an extra layer of supernatural camouflage. Only reason I made him was that I’d lived here long enough to memorize even the smallest details; once I’d caught the change in the topography, it hadn’t taken much to identify my new frond for what he was.
Yeah, I said it; maybe Pete was rubbing off on me. Deal with it.
He coulda been local, keeping peepers on me for the Chicago Seelie, but probably not. Most ghillie dhu are way too timid to get mixed up in this sorta thing, and I knew from experience that the ones who live around here all more or less fit that stereotype to a T. Odds were this one was an outsider, keeping tabs for one of the bands who’d come hunting the spear.
Either way, though, didn’t really matter. I gave him a jaunty wave—kinda funny watching the lawn twitching in surprise—and headed on in.
I decided then’n there that the gink’s name was “Mow.” Whaddaya want from me? Gotta amuse myself somehow.
What happened after I got inside was a lot less funny.
After all the Colts and Tommies and all that, you wouldn’t figure a twenty-year-old Winchester hunting rifle’d be all that scary.
And I wasn’t scared, really, since I knew it wasn’t gonna kill me. Didn’t really feel inclined to resting up a few days to heal, though, so I was maybe concerned. Worried a touch. Startled, certainly.
Goddamn sick of having heaters stuck in my mug, too.
He’d been lurking in my office when I shoved the door open and flicked on the lights. Standing behind my desk—who the hell knows how long he’d been there?—and, I guess, just waiting for me to show.
Took a moment to chew myself out something good, if only internally. Gink shouldn’ta gotten the drop on me this way. The rifle was freshly oiled and its owner was sweating worse’n a constipated hog. Even stronger were the emotions rolling off him, fear and rage and helplessness and grief thick enough to walk on. I shoulda sensed him from the hallway, maybe even the stairwell, but noooo. Mick’s too busy running through plans and schemes in his noggin, and thinkin’ wildly confused and contradictory thoughts about a certain dame, to pay attention.
I mighta finally begun puttin’ the pieces together, but if I’d seen my own behavior over the last few days, I sure as hell wouldn’ta hired me as a detective.
Anyway, yeah, lights come on and I’m staring down another barrel. Only this one ain’t quite steady. Not shaking so much it’d have much chance of missing me at this range, but not still.
Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t a pro. But then, fact that he’d brought a hunting rifle to shoot me from across the room’d already made that abundantly clear.
Took me a bit to realize I knew the face behind the rifle. Old, worn, grey—more worn and more grey than when I’d first seen him a few weeks before. You coulda packed a vacation for a family of four in the bags under his bloodshot eyes, and if his hair’d even seen a comb in days, it was in a fever dream.
But as I said, I did recognize him.
I hadn’t planned to tell him until everything else was over. Guess I shoulda expected the bulls’d beat me to it.
“Something I can do for you, Mr. Caro?” I asked.
Frank Caro—father of the late (and probably lamented by some) Miles Caro, and the man who’d hired me to find his son—uttered a hoarse, choked sob.
“Can I get you something? Water? Milk?”
“You can get me my son, you fucking bastard!”<
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Oh, brother.
“Sure. You want him in pails, or will wax paper-wrapped parcels suffice?”
I know what you’re thinking, and you ain’t wrong. I’m an ass at times. Poor guy’s in mourning something fierce. What would it’ve cost me to be kind? Sympathetic? It ain’t as though I haven’t grieved my own loved ones often enough.
And that’s not even counting the gat he had aimed at me.
I coulda commiserated with him. Reasoned, maybe. Pointed out all the reasons he didn’t wanna do—and his son wouldn’t have wanted him to do—anything stupid. Or even just stall him long enough to work my way into his head and flip a few switches.
Lots of options, and any one of ’em woulda been kinder, more humane. Woulda taken time, but I had time; nothing else was supposed to go down until later in the day.
But the thing is, it also woulda taken patience. And I was just. Plum. Out of it.
Scheming factions of the Fae. Uncooperative cops. Any number of aches and pains and injuries. And of course, Ramona. My tank was dry as a sand salad.
So while Mr. Caro choked and sputtered and wept and wilted beneath those words, I refused to let up.
“I didn’t kill your boy, pal. I didn’t plant the bomb, and I sure as hell didn’t tell him to get caught up with Mob bootleggers! You got a beef, fine. Plenty of mugs to choose from. I ain’t one of ’em.”
“You were supposed to find him!” He was waving that damn rifle wildly, now, arms flailing and his whole body shaking. “You could’ve prevented this! If you’d done your job, if you’d done what we paid you to do, my son would—!”
“And if you and the missus had bothered keeping up with your son’s life, maybe you coulda told me who Miles was involved with and I mighta had a chance of finding him. Or maybe he wouldn’ta gotten mixed up with the wrong kinda cats in the first place. You sure it’s me you’re sore at?”
If it sounds like I’d gone beyond “mean” to “deliberately pushing,” well… I had. And once he was good and worked up, sputtering and screaming and accusing and sobbing, it was duck soup to step up and yank the Winchester outta his hands. One startled gasp and he went silent, gawping at me, lip trembling.
“You’re angry and frustrated,” I told him more calmly. “But you also know what happened ain’t my fault. You ain’t ever gonna find the bastards who did it—and I’ll tell you, Mr. Caro, even if you did? They wouldn’t defend ’emselves with words. Your wife already lost her boy; you don’t wanna make her a widow, too.”
Not even sure how to describe the sound he made, then. I hefted the rifle, worked the lever a few times until I’d ejected all the slugs, then handed it back to him. He held it like he’d forgotten what it was.
“Don’t ever come back here,” I said, “and I won’t prefer charges over this. Go bury your son, Caro.”
The old man fled, weeping. Me, I shut the office door, slumped down at my desk, and tried to ignore it when, some while later, I finally started feelin’ bad for how I’d talked to him.
* * *
It was past noon, and I’d been mostly sittin’ since Mr. Caro’s little visit. Waiting.
Thinkin’, at first. See, I’d finally pieced it together. I finally had a theory that made it all fit, and oddly, it was Caro’s father who’d given it to me. Or rather, it’d been me rememberin’ back on my encounter with the guy. Thinkin’ about how, once I’d got him all riled, it’d been so easy to take his roscoe away.
You’ll understand why that’s a relevant notion later.
Anyway, yeah, initially I’d been prodding at the theory, poking it, lookin’ for holes. But after that? Just waitin’, tryin’ not to think about much at all. Probably coulda used those couple hours for something more productive, but still, I’d waited.
Hadn’t felt much of anything else was appropriate, and probably wouldn’ta been able to concentrate on it anyway.
And this time, when she slunk into my office, I knew it really was as a snake. Even if it was one I’d almost be willing to let bite me.
“Good morning. I think I’ve… Mick? What’s wrong?”
Heh. Good one. What’s wrong? How about everything, dollface?
I’d spent a lotta time bracing myself for this, even reinforcing my own will with luck and magic, and I still wanted to back out. The smile falling off her face was like the sun going out. Just about every part of me wanted to hold her, stroke her hair, tell her everything was gonna be all right.
But no. Hell, no. Not this time.
I leaned back in my chair, heels crossed and propped up on the desk, next to a mug with a bit of creamy residue slowly congealing on the bottom. (I’d really needed a nip this morning. It was the last of the cream; even cut with milk, it hadn’t gone far.) Point is, all nice and casual, ’cept for the dour expression I couldn’t keep off my mug. Also meant she couldn’t see the L&G in my left hand, hanging loose at my side.
“I been thinkin’, Ramona.”
“Yes?” She stepped closer, hands together—not quite wringing ’em, but near as—concern painted thick on her face like too much makeup.
“Was there actually a Ramona Webb before you came along? You take someone’s place, or just make this grift up outta whole cloth?”
Gotta say, she was impressive. Ain’t easy to go pale on cue.
“What are you talking about?”
“If I’d had half a chance to dig deep enough into your sob story, would there be a real Jeremy? A real Cliff? I’m thinking not, but you got me curious.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
She was starting to go all teary. I wish I could say it didn’t bother me.
“Why are you—?”
“Not why. Who. As in,” I continued, before she could ask what I meant, “Who are you?”
It was kind of a roar, honestly. Suppose I coulda been more subtle about the whole thing, but I was fed up with games.
She broke down, sobbing, begging me to stop it, to make sense, to explain what she’d done wrong. But it wasn’t her words I was focused on… And now, I felt it.
My fascination with her, the need to protect her, my excitement over her; affection, infatuation, lust, all of it: it got stronger. Heavier. A front of pressure, pushing in on me from all sides. From outside.
That’s why it’d been so surprisingly strong, so all-consuming. It wasn’t real. I almost wished it was.
Big bad Mick Oberon. So damn confident, nobody’s gonna mess with his conk without him sensing it. What a joke.
I was real glad I had the wand right then. Made her enchantment a whole lot easier to shrug off.
No. No, that ain’t true. I didn’t shrug it off. Felt it as powerful as ever. Maybe more. What I was able to manage was to put it aside enough to work through it.
I raised my arm, tapped the wand against my chin like I was absently pondering something.
Then, when I was sure she’d not only seen it, but understood the implication, I said, “Not buying what you’re selling, babe. Not anymore.”
Stubborn tomato, Ramona. She gave it one more college try.
“Mick, darling, please. Whatever you think I’ve done—”
“I tailed you downtown yesterday.”
She drew herself up stiff, perfect picture of affronted dignity.
“You what? How dare you? I—”
I frowned around the wand, just givin’ her my level-best stare. Her shoulders slumped.
“Damn sidhe. You always were way too mule-headed for anyone’s good.” Funny how the tears, the hurt, all of it just vanished in that moment. “What gave me away? You didn’t just randomly decide to follow me.”
“Started with the iron stool at Bumpy’s.”
That got a wince out of her.
“I was afraid of that. I wasn’t sure if I’d need to defend myself from those Seelie galoots. I had you hooked good by then, though. You shouldn’t have noticed.”
“Almost didn’t. Took me until after your other fuck-ups to suss it out.”
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“Oh?” She crossed her arms, emphasizing her curves in ways that weren’t helpin’ my focus any. “And what, do tell, were those?”
“First, Pete tells us about a guy following him—a guy who looks just like the mug who’d been following you—and you didn’t utter a peep. Didn’t register at the time, but lookin’ back? Only tracks if you already knew who the gink was.”
“All right, that’s fair—and careless of me—but still pretty thin. There’s got to be more to it.”
“Oh, there is. You were too comfortable searching Rosen’s place. Didn’t quite jive with your hysterics. Still didn’t prove anything, but it was enough for me to spot your slip after the old man’s grandkid showed.”
“Slip? You aren’t…” She abruptly barked something real unladylike. “The spear. You asked her specifically about a spear.”
“And you didn’t bat one pretty eyelash, doll.”
“Goddamn it. I must be more tired than I thought.”
“Tell me about it.”
She turned, grumbling, and plopped herself down in a chair.
“All right. So what now?”
“I just said. Tell me about it.”
“Mick, I actually really do like you. That part wasn’t an act. But if you think—”
I aimed the L&G and let loose. Not at her, at the door. Metal clattered as the lock more or less gave up the ghost, locking us both in here until either I fixed it or someone forced it.
Ramona looked back at the sound. When she turned her attention back to me, I’d wrapped my right mitt around the other surprise I’d had waiting behind the desk. Everything but her breathing froze as I lifted the old Spanish-steel rapier into view.
“You’re good,” I said. “I mean, amazingly good. Impressive enough you managed to whammy me—me—at all, but to keep me from even noticing for days… Damn. If it hadn’t faded a hair anytime you were outta sight, I might never’ve gotten wise.”
“Wouldn’t that have been a shame?” she grumbled.
I kept right on. “I dunno if you’re a mortal who’s picked up some real potent tricks, or one of us. If it’s the latter, congrats on some of the most convincing glamour I’ve ever seen. Either way, I got no intention of killing you unless you make me, but I’m more’n happy—and able—to injure you bad enough that this whole fiasco’ll be long over before you’re shipshape again.”