I shot Heather a desperate glance. I had reached the limit of my tolerance.
She shrugged. “Love isn’t a game, remember?” she said.
“Clever,” I said, annoyed. “But you didn’t seem to think that when you seduced me for Grayson.” I winced inside as soon as I said it. I knew it was a jerk thing to say.
Heather stiffened. “Hey, potion pusher,” she said without turning her face from me. “Your wards only work against feybloods?”
“The ones I have up, yes,” Ralph said.
“Great. Good luck,” she said to me, then turned and left.
“Heather, wait! I’m sorry—” I moved to follow.
“Let her go,” Ralph said, and grabbed my arm again. “She’s obviously high maintenance.”
I shrugged off his hand. Guilt, weariness, and irritation all conspired to put patience in a choke hold. “Bad news,” I said. “I called 1-900 Corey and Corey, and they’re my new best friends, so we’ll have to take a rain check on the whole lunch thing.”
“What?” Anger swelled up in Ralph’s voice. “You can’t just go changing plans like that.”
“Watch me.” I turned to exit the shop.
“No, I—!” Ralph grabbed me again, spun me around, and kissed me.
He smelled of cigars and love potion, and tasted like ashes.
I jerked away, and wiped at my mouth.
He fell back a step, a confusion of emotions warring across his expression. “I—excuse me.” He fled through the doorway to the hidden back of his shop.
*Shame, I thought things were about to get interesting at last,* Alynon said.
Now is not the time for your jokes, I thought.
*I was not joking. Far as I have observed, sex is sex and it all feels good. Don’t be so repressed.*
I’m not repressed. I’m worried he is.
As a rule, arcana weren’t particularly religious, but that didn’t mean we were immune to all the other ways in which people were made to feel shameful of their natures.
Throw in a love potion, and things could get ugly. If someone had been repressing certain urges they thought were “wrong” or “sick,” and the love potion caused them to act on those urges, then when the potion wore off they could experience the kind of deep shame and self-loathing that results at worst in serial killings, and at best in fanatical campaigning against any sex that didn’t involve the missionary position between a married man and woman for the sole purpose of procreation (and possibly birthdays).
I sighed, and headed to the back room to reassure Ralph he’d done nothing wrong.
Ralph stood with tears streaming down his jowls, his head tilted back as he drank milky fluid from an hourglass-shaped bottle. A forgetting potion.
It probably wouldn’t counter the lingering power of the love potion. But it might reset the effects, so that Ralph would fall in love with the first person he saw after forgetting about me.
I quickly closed the curtain, dropped payment for the potion on his counter, and flipped the OPEN sign around to CLOSED on his door. Hopefully, he wouldn’t go out, and nobody would come in, until the love potion wore off.
I stepped out into the early evening light, the jorōgumo potion held ready.
Unfortunately, Heather was nowhere to be seen. Phew! Fortunately, neither was the jorōgumo.
* * *
I called Reggie on the drive home.
“Finn?” he said.
“Yeah, hi. I—”
“Son, I think you must’ve been cursed at birth or something the way you attract trouble.”
“I see you heard about the fun at the DFM holding area,” I replied.
“For starters. Someone also just called in an incident with some Greek Fire over by an alchemist’s shop—the same alchemist involved with your feyblood friends. Please tell me that’s a coincidence?”
“Well, I can tell you I didn’t throw any Greek Fire,” I dissembled.
*Indeed,* Alynon said. *You would throw Geek Fire, inflaming a burning desire to play those terrible fantasy movies and computer games you inflict upon me.*
“That’s a pretty specific answer,” Reggie said. “Which tells me you’re hiding something.”
“And that’s why you’re an enforcer,” I replied. “I was attacked again by the jorōgumo.”
“Damn it. We’ve been trying to locate her, but shapeshifters are hard to get a lock on normally, and this one, well, for some reason she’s more slippery than most. She may even be unregistered.”
I told him about her being Romey, and of my need to question her.
“Well,” Reggie said, “that explains some things. And she seems keen on you. Maybe she wants to make you her next slave.”
“Slave?”
“Yeah. Remember Enforcer Cousar? She must have black-widowed him. Well, jorōgumo-style anyway. That explains why he attacked you all like that.”
Of course. Jorōgumo were rumored to be masters at conditioning men and women to be their slaves. It usually involved seduction, though sometimes it was more a case of torture, and either way was said to include using their venom somehow to enhance the effects.
“I don’t think she wants to make me her slave. I think she just wants me dead.”
“Well, then, maybe we should set a trap.”
“With me as bait?” I said. “Um, I was more hoping you could check out the local Shadows steading for me and see if you can get a lead or something?”
“I tried that and didn’t get far. But with you there, we might get lucky.”
“We?” The Shadows brightbloods would be even less happy to see me than the Silver had been. Words like “evisceration” and “marrow-sucking” ran through my head, leaving little bloody footprints and the echo of mad laughter behind.
“You’ve seen the jorōgumo. If you’re there to stand as witness, I can justify really questioning them, and I can do an unmasking to see if she’s hiding among them.”
“Of course.” I sighed. “Fine, let me stop home and grab a couple things. Where should we meet?”
“The Shadows steading nearest to you is out on Bainbridge.”
“Okay. See you there in … two hours?” That would give me time to eat some dinner at least.
“So if you didn’t throw the Greek Fire, who did?” Reggie asked.
“What?”
“You were clearly avoiding my question earlier. What aren’t you telling me?”
“How about you ask me that question in, say, two days?”
Reggie was silent for a long moment, then said, “Fine. Probably better for my blood pressure if I don’t know anyway. Certainly better for the paperwork. See you soon.”
I touched my coat pocket for the hundredth time to confirm the anti-jorōgumo potion had not somehow disappeared. I regretted for a second leaving payment for it. If Heather turned Ralph in like she’d said, it wasn’t like my forty bucks was going to help him much. But I still felt better knowing I hadn’t cheated him.
Even fake love was complicated.
* * *
It was just shy of five thirty when I entered the house through the back entrance and into the smell of hot oil and garlic.
My stomach growled.
I strode up the hall and pushed my way through the swinging kitchen door.
Mort flipped a perfectly golden tortilla in a cast-iron pan. It took me a second to understand what I was seeing, but he was actually up, dressed, and cooking food.
“Uh, hi!” I said. “What’s cookin’, doc?”
“Me,” Mort said. “And don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Okay, I lied. Wow, this is kind of a big deal! I don’t think I’ve seen you cook once since I’ve been back.”
“I’m making vegetable quesadillas, with Mother’s tortilla recipe. They’re Mattie’s favorite.”
I don’t know why, but I was surprised that Mort was actually right about that.
“That’s awesome,” I replied. “She’ll love that.
Though I’m not sure she likes huitlacoche.” I nodded at the opened can on the counter.
“The huitlacoche’s for me and Petey,” he said while sautéing vegetables in a second pan. “And I’m so glad I have your approval.”
“Look, I’m not the one—”
The door to the dining room swung open, and Mattie fairly bounced into the kitchen. “Hey Uncle Finn! Wow, smells good, Dad. So what are you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” Mort said.
“Uh huh. You two should totally go out soon and do something together.”
“Like what?” Mort asked, obviously not thrilled at the suggestion.
“I don’t know,” Mattie said. “Brother stuff! What do brothers do?”
“Ruin your fun,” Mort said.
“Bully you,” I replied. “Until Kelly Lebrock turns him into a pile of poo.”
“Plot to seize the throne from you,” Mort said.
“Or seize control of your starship to visit God at the center of the universe,” I added.
Mattie rolled her eyes. “Maybe you two should watch some different movies. Like … Step Brothers, or Darjeeling Limited. Have you ever done mini golf?”
“No,” Mort and I said at the same time.
“All right then, I’m going to look up the closest mini-golf place while you finish making dinner.”
“It’s almost ready,” Mort replied.
“Did you make enough for Uncle Finn?”
Mort sighed as Mattie bounced back out of the room.
“She seems back to her normal self,” I said. I wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. It made me wonder how much of her “normal” self had always been a mask.
“Yep. What do you want on your quesadilla?”
“The works, no epazote, thanks,” I said. “So … you’re down here hanging with the living. Does that mean you diffused Brianne’s spirit?”
“I noticed you’re running around with Heather,” Mort said without turning around. “Does that mean you’re going to have Dawn’s memories wiped?”
“What? I— How do you know who I’ve been running around with?”
“I saw you two, in the garden, out my window.”
“Well, there’s nothing going on anyway. I just needed her help with something.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“It’s not like that. Not that it’s any of your business, but—”
“Exactly!” Mort said. “Just like Brianne is none of your business. So why don’t you stop getting in my business, and I won’t share yours with Dawn.”
I sighed. “Look, I’m just trying to help. Honest, bro. You know how succubi work.”
“She’s not a succubi. And I’m not addicted.”
“All I’m asking is that you take a step back and just consider the possibility that you can’t see things clearly, not where Brianne is concerned. And that you might be in danger.”
Mort did not respond, did not look at me, but just continued his cooking.
*I understand sibling rivalry. Believe me,* Alynon said. *But can you two not engage in a fistfight or something more interesting? All of this trying to help someone who does not wish your help, ’tis boring.*
Well good thing I’m not here to entertain you then, I responded.
*Apologies. You are right. I could be more helpful, I suppose.*
That might be a nice change.
*La. Then here is my advice. You sleep with Brianne. Then Mort will see her for what she truly is.*
I sighed. Nice try.
“Maybe,” Mort agreed finally. “Maybe things have gotten a little out of control with Brianne. I’ll consider it.”
I stared. Wow.
“That’s all we’re asking,” I said.
“Dinner is ready,” he replied. “You can do the dishes, since I cooked.”
I rolled my eyes. “So great to have you back.”
16
Who’s That Girl
The local Forest of Shadows steading was an estate lurking about an hour and a half’s drive south on Bainbridge Island.
From Dawn’s description, Bainbridge had become a forested island struggling to retain its soul. Located a ferry ride away from the heart of downtown Seattle, it attracted commuters and retirees, and others torn between the desire to get away from the bustle of the city versus the need or desire for the city’s amenities. Mansions dotted the hillsides, their perfectly landscaped and decorated façades often inhabited by lonely women whose husbands lived and worked in the city in order to afford the house, the landscaping, and the decorations. A small native presence, a well-supported artist community, and the “locals” filled modest homes, apartments, and trailers tucked back in forested vales and side roads, well hidden yet slowly being pushed out by the effects of gentrification and development.
I arrived at the Shadows steading at about a quarter after seven, less than two hours before sunset. Secluded back in the forest surrounding the Gazzam Lake Preserve, the steading held an old barn-like home with outbuildings, and easy access to woods, lake, and the Puget Sound for the brightbloods whose natures required it. I stopped by the side of the forest road, and parked behind Reggie at the foot of the driveway leading up to the steading’s buildings.
Reggie dismounted his Harley, a fancy beast with more chrome and detailed flare than a disco ball falling into a supernova.
“Let me do the talking, Gramaraye,” he said as he pulled off his helmet and ran a hand across his bald head. A middle-aged black man dressed FBI-style with the attitude to match, Reggie wore the traditional enforcer moustache with silver beads woven into the ends, and had a pale scar across his scalp from the battle three months ago in which he lost both his rookie partner, Jo, and his ex-partner (and ex-lover), Zeke.
That had not been a great day.
“Please, talk away,” I replied. “Just, uh, maybe don’t mention my last name in front of them.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”
“The Gramaraye name seems to be unpopular among the brightbloods these days. I’m trying to change that, though.”
“Brightbloods, huh?” He set the helmet on his motorcycle, and we strode up the driveway. “Well, let’s go make some new friends.”
A Japanese girl, maybe ten years old and wearing a dress printed with butterflies, jumped rope at the top of the drive as we approached.
“She could be Romey,” I whispered.
“Close,” Reggie whispered back. “She is jorōgumo, and she’s had a number of complaints. Name’s Kaminari though, and she’s the one that gave me the runaround last time.”
The girl smiled as we drew closer, and started speaking to the rhythm of her jumps, “One, two, three, four, why’d you come back for?”
“I want to talk to whoever’s in charge here,” Reggie replied.
She gave me a quick glance, then looked Reggie up and down, her eyes lingering on his enforcer moustache.
“I’m the girl who’s on top. Whatchu want, Tootsie Pop?”
“Great,” Reggie muttered. His right hand pushed back the edge of his leather jacket and came to rest on the baton holstered at his hip. “What I want is to know why one of your fellow jorōgumo’s been running around causing trouble, and why I shouldn’t just stomp on her spider ass?”
Kaminari smiled, her mouth stretching just a bit too wide. In a voice as sweet and chilling as an Icee brain freeze, she said, “Harm my sister and I’ll kill you, mister.”
Sister? Awesome.
Not.
“Well, that’s progress,” Reggie said. “Thanks for confirming she comes from your steading. Now maybe you can tell me why your sister has been attacking arcana, or tried to sabotage a feyblood protest at an alchemist’s shop?”
“Cin-der-ella, dressed in yella,” she replied. “Take off or I’ll kiss you fella.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Reggie said.
The girl blinked, and her eyes went all black.
Crap.
I clapped my hands to the rhythm of her jumps, and said, “I went downtown, to see Miss Brown. She gave me a nickel, to buy a pickle.” Kaminari looked at me and blinked as though surprised, and her eyes returned to human. “Uh … your sister’s no bug, but she’s in danger, she might be drugged, and—” I looked at Reggie. One of his wizard tattoos peeked out from beneath his shirt. “He’s quick to anger.”
Kaminari laughed, and continued skipping rope. “I like you, arcana, you’ve got style. But my sister’s been gone a while. She broke all ties with our clan, so really I can’t help you, man!”
I exchanged looks with Reggie. He gave a slight nod. She was telling the truth.
It was extremely rare for a brightblood to break allegiance with a Demesne once they’d pledged. There were the occasional Romeo and Juliet cross-clan affairs, or Falcon and the Snowman cases of disillusioned brightbloods acting out. But the costs were usually too high to the brightblood, not just in lost protections and mana, but in lost trust and companionship, and any real break always required the permission of their Fey patrons.
“Why’d she leave?” I asked, forgetting to rhyme.
“Dum Dum dodo, catch her if you can, she’ll stick you and lick you and make you her fan.”
We clearly weren’t going to get any more out of Little Morphin’ Canny here.
Reggie said, “I come with a witness and claim the right of inspection. We’re going to take a quick, quiet look around, just to make sure your sister’s not hiding here. Give us any trouble, and this place will be swarming with enforcers.”
“Big wizard with a little gun,” Kaminari said. “Just hurry up and be done.”
Reggie pulled what looked like a small eight-sided mirror out of his pocket and held it up, facing Kaminari. “Detego!” he said.
Kaminari wavered as if seen through a heat wave, and I saw her true form—a young Japanese woman with spider legs coming out of her back. But she was not the jorōgumo I’d seen at the post office.
“That’s not her,” I said.
Reggie nodded, and we proceeded up the drive to the main building. Reggie swung the small mirror around like a flashlight, revealing the true forms of the feybloods we encountered, and unveiling some who’d attempted to mask themselves entirely from sight. We moved quickly so that Romey would, hopefully, not be warned of our coming, though I had little hope we’d actually find her.
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