Ink & Sigil

by Hearne, Kevin

  “Two places. Sigils of power were originally invented in China by the Taoists, and they were primarily sigils of protection that we now simply call wards. But in the early nineteenth century, Brighid of the Tuatha Dé Danann—are ye familiar with her?”

  “Aye,” the women said in unison.

  “Brighid added tae the Taoist sigils with a new set that had more active applications and were based off Druidic bindings. So, if ye’ll forgive an analogy tae video games, it was like an expansion set. She introduced new mechanics, but the Chinese system still worked; they can use the new sigils and we can still use the old ones. Taken together, it’s a system of knowledge that provides its very few practitioners extraordinary power. Those practitioners are called sigil agents.”

  “And you’re a sigil agent?” Nadia said.

  “Correct.”

  “Brilliant. Ya jammy bastard,” Dhanya said, smiling.

  I needed to check. “Are ye okay with this so far?”

  Nadia gave a tiny shrug. “Well, I have questions, and I’m not sure I quite believe all the gods are real, but that sigil was real enough, so I’m willing to suspend disbelief for a little while, at least.”

  “Fair enough. Fire one of yer questions at me.”

  “Why did Brighid make all the new sigils in the nineteenth century? Why not earlier, or later?”

  “Ah, excellent. A couple of reasons. First, there was a problem with the Druids at the time. There was only one of the old ones left, ye see, and he was in hiding until very recently.”

  “Hold up. This Druid who was in hiding in the early nineteenth century is still alive? He’s two hundred years old?”

  “More like two thousand, and he was hiding from a god for nearly all of that time. Brighid and the Tuatha Dé Danann needed some work done on this plane and couldn’t get the Druid to do it, so she saw the sigils as a work-around. A few humans could get the basic work she needed done and the training time would not be as long or as intense as a Druid’s would—the Druids take twelve years. These humans would necessarily have fewer powers and the potency of the sigils would last for only a limited time, but it solved a lot of issues.”

  “What issues? And are the Druids gone now?”

  “I’m told there are a total of three Druids now and six more in training, but I only met the really old one once, by accident.”

  “He must have an epic case of arthritis,” Dhanya said.

  “Not at all. He looks younger than you, in fact. As for the issues, much of it had tae do with the advent of the Industrial Age. For the Fae, specifically, there was a lot more iron and steel around, and the earth simply wasnae safe anymore. But that brings us to the second reason Brighid initiated the system: photography. Gods didn’t want there to be any evidence of other gods or pantheons being real, because that might weaken the faith of their followers. It was best for everyone if the gods stayed off earth—or, failing that, stayed off camera—so that people could continue to have their faiths and thereby fuel the gods’ lives. So Brighid needed the Fae tae stay in the Fae planes, and all the other gods needed earth to remain evidence-free if not god-free, and sigil agents helped make that happen.”

  “How do ye make that happen, exactly?”

  “The contracts I mentioned earlier require the gods to stay away except under very specific conditions, and they contain sigils of consequence that punish the gods who break them. I’m not sure what they feel, but I’m assured it’s very unpleasant. They are also supposed to keep their attendants away, but that punishment is less severe or nonexistent, so that’s where sigil agents are often expected to enforce the contract by other means.”

  “Awright, I’m gonnay need an example.”

  “Let’s say a demon escapes from hell and wants to create a little hell on earth. Lucifer or whichever of his many names you prefer is bound by contract not to manifest here, but the innumerable demons of hell are not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because contracts are negotiated. Lucifer refused to take any responsibility for the actions of demons. And that is a common contractual dealbreaker among the gods; they all want some ability to visit the plane by proxy, so they give up their personal presence for the most part but steadfastly refuse to take any responsibility for their underlings. Their demons or angels or hobgoblins or faeries therefore make appearances on their behalf, but there’s deniability built in. We can’t really hold the gods responsible for the actions of an underling, because they always deny responsibility. But it works the other way too: We are free to capture or destroy those underlings when they appear, take any of their possessions, and so on, without fear of reprisal. Because if the deities get mad at us for defending our turf, then they’re accepting responsibility for that underling’s actions and are therefore in breach of contract. So, to return to the example, if a demon is found here on this plane, there is a Sigil of Cold Fire that will destroy them. It’s a Druidic binding and it’s much safer for a Druid to engage them, but we have that in our arsenal.”

  “You’ve slain demons?”

  “A couple. It’s rare. Mostly I deal with Fae of various kinds. The Irish, Scottish, and English varieties are all in my territory and present their own unique challenges, and the Germans have a set of interesting ones, and the Polish have a few nightmares, believe it or not.”

  “What is your territory?”

  “The European continent, the Middle East, and the various countries that comprise Northern Africa.”

  “Holy shite. How do you take care of all this out of a print-shop?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid. I’m barely hanging on. I could use a manager who knows her way around the tax laws and can handle herself in a fight if need be.”

  “Whaaat?”

  “I ask nothing right now except for the chance tae tell ye more and make ye a lucrative offer.”

  “You’re able tae make me a lucrative offer? I just made a fuck-ton of cash.”

  “As did I. But didnae I hear ye say ye wouldnae be getting a score like that again? A salary commensurate tae yer skills would be nice. Printing is a booming business when ye can run all sorts of other income through the books.”

  “What, ye’re—ye’re laundering sumhin?”

  “Inefficiently and inexpertly, but yes. I have otherworldly revenue streams.”

  “So ye want me to cook yer books for ye?”

  “And fight the occasional monster, yes, for a salary well above the industry average for a CMA. I think ye will find working for me exciting, challenging, and rewarding. A job like no other.”

  Nadia exchanged a significant glance with Dhanya, who shrugged, leaving it up to her.

  “Awright, I’ll hear more and take a look at yer offer. No promises.”

  “That’s perfectly agreeable. Are you two partners, by any chance?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Excellent. Well, then.” I withdrew an entirely normal business card and handed it to Nadia. “Please call as soon as ye can tae arrange an office visit. In the meantime, I’ll give ye both a parting gift.” I pulled out the proper pens, two cards, and my seal. I drew them two Sigils of Sexual Vigor and prepared them for later use, then pushed them across the table. “The next time ye’re in the mood tae enjoy each other’s intimate company, unseal these sigils and look at them beforehand. You’ll have an amazing experience.”

  Dhanya snorted. “What is this bollocks? Some kind o’ sex magic?”

  “Yes. Do not unseal those in public. Trust me.”

  I knew that they’d not be able to resist that temptation for long. Nadia called me after noon the very next day, and though it took a few visits to cement the deal, that was how we met and I recruited her to be my manager.

  “That is a fine story, MacBharrais, but I have tae know: Does she still have the wizard van?”

  [She does, and she still drives it. She completely replaced the engine and electrical system about three years ago and made some other improvements, but the paintings inside and out r
emain as magnificent as they were the night we met.]

  “Will I get tae see it?”

  [If we ever make it safe for you to leave the flat, absolutely.]

  “Right. When are we gonnay do that, by the way?”

  My phone buzzed with a text from Eli Robicheaux in Philadelphia.

  The text read, Can confirm S. Hatcher is Bastille. You’d better get over here and deal with it as soon as you can.

  [We’ll start tomorrow. Fancy a plane flight to America?]

  “I heard flying is a terrible way to both live and die.”

  [It is. But it’s much faster than taking a ship.]

  “Do I no need some kind of identification to fly?”

  [Let me worry about that. You worry about being in a metal tube and wearing a seatbelt with a buckle made of steel.]

  “Fuck no! Forget it, MacBharrais.”

  [I need ye with me, Buck.]

  “I cannae stay here and watch the telly?”

  [I need ye,] I repeated.

  “Will there be snacks, at least?”

  [Yes. Terrible ones.]

  CHAPTER 22

  The Secret of Salsa

  I bought Buck a ticket to Philadelphia using Gordie’s passport. Getting him through security, however, would require at least two sigils and maybe more, because there was no way anyone would look at the passport and then look at Buck and conclude that he was a wee sunburnt Gordie. Fortunately, Brighid had come up with something because all the sigil agents had to occasionally take flights with beings who had no government-issued ID and in fact were thought not to exist at all.

  I wore a hat emblazoned with the Sigil of Seeming Absence and gave one to Buck as well, with the strict instruction not to remove it. It’s a different effect than the Sigil of Swallowed Light. We’d appear on cameras, and we’d appear briefly in the vision of anyone in front of us, but then we’d disappear once the sigil took effect in their minds. People would see us at first and avoid the space we occupied but not be able to process that we were still actually there after a moment. The visual evidence that we were there would still be in effect, but they’d be unable to remember or process it. They’d blink and we’d be gone, and they’d see only whatever had been behind us before, because the brain is fantastic at supplying information like that and filling gaps. We had no luggage to check and I printed our boarding passes ahead of time. On a separate card— all black and about the size of a cell phone—I had drawn a Sigil of Swallowed Light and kept that in my pocket. I couldn’t walk in and just take out the cameras: If security saw that their surveillance wasn’t working, then they’d shut the checkpoints down. I needed them open just long enough to get on the other side of them.

  So we walked up to security and scoped it out. I pointed out the X-ray machines and the metal detectors and the security personnel we’d have to slip past.

  [There are cameras everywhere too,] I told Buck, [and somebody is supposedly watching them. If they’re on top of things, they’ll see us walk by security without them checking us and make a fuss. But do not respond. Once they’re not looking at the cameras, they won’t be able to see us either. Just keep walking.]

  The true beauty of Seeming Absence was that not only did we sail past security without presenting passports or boarding passes, we didn’t anger anyone who saw us queue-jumping, because once they blinked, we weren’t ahead of them anymore.

  Someone was watching monitors, to the airport’s credit: a white man that I guessed was in his forties, with brown muttonchops connecting to his mustache but a clean-shaven chin.

  “Oi, why did ye let them pass?” he shouted at the security guard as he emerged from behind a console to the rear of the security area and moved to block our path.

  The bewildered security guard, who had blinked and ignored us breezing by, swung around. “Who?”

  Muttonchops blinked and pointed at where he had seen us a moment ago. “These . . .”

  “Where?”

  Buck and I were already past him, and Muttonchops raced back to his console. I pulled out the card with the Sigil of Swallowed Light on it, and now they wouldn’t be able to find us on camera again. I didn’t want to cause a panic, however, so we moved quickly to our gate area and then ducked into a bathroom, putting the Swallowed Light away. Their cameras would turn back on now, and they could grouse about it but ultimately wouldn’t ground any flights over it. We kept our Seeming Absence hats on once we took a seat in the waiting area, successfully escaping the notice of a couple of security guards making a sweep of all the gates. When it was time to board, we took our hats off and I used my official ID to get a command obeyed. I had to do this because if we just snuck past and pressed our boarding passes to the scanner, there was a good chance they’d think it was a glitch if each beep of the machine didn’t match to a person.

  “We don’t need to show our passports,” I told the flight attendant. “Just take our boarding passes.”

  She blinked and tried to shake it off and nearly did, but I kept the sigils in her face and repeated myself. “Of course, sir. Enjoy your flight.”

  Once at our assigned seats, we tore open a package containing a blanket and fastened the buckle on top of it to keep the steel safely insulated away from Buck’s person. Once we got in the air, I unbuckled it for him and he relaxed.

  We waltzed through customs in Philadelphia and met Eli Robicheaux outside of baggage claim, since it was a good rendezvous point. We took off our hats as we exited so that he’d be able to see us. He was dressed sharply now in a grey pinstripe suit and entirely unnecessary sunglasses, and a toothpick lolled in one corner of his mouth. His eyebrows rose above the glasses in disbelief as he took in Buck.

  “Really? You contracted a hobgoblin?”

  [Hi, Eli. Yes, I did.]

  “Aren’t they . . . ?”

  “Wot? Small and pink?” Buck supplied.

  “More trouble than they’re worth?” Eli finished.

  “Oi, I’m worth a bloody lot.”

  “I hope so. I imagine you’re hungry for some real food?”

  We were. Eli led us to the parking garage and loaded our carryons into his car, a nondescript sedan, and drove us to a Mexican restaurant called El Vez. Such establishments were scarce in Scotland and Eli knew it, so he was making an effort to give us a rare experience.

  “Can’t walk away hungry from a place like this. The chips and salsa will take care of you before you even get to the main course.”

  The interior of El Vez immediately delighted Buck.

  “Wow, what is that thing on top of that thing?” he asked, pointing toward the bar. “Whatever it is, can I have one?”

  The bar was circular, and rising from the ranks of tequila bottles and other liquors in the center of it, a pedestal at head height displayed a magnificent bicycle designed like a low-rider chopper, the frame a hot pink with a golden banana boat seat and gold handlebars and wheels. There was even a tube of white neon in the center of the frame to really make it pop.

  [Maybe,] I said. A hobgoblin on a bicycle might be amusing.

  We were led to a booth against the wall opposite the door, and said wall supported hundreds of small dioramas filled with Día de los Muertos scenes. Tiny figures of skeletons dressed in clothing, all of them singing or dancing, holding instruments or flowers or any number of things. All were exquisitely painted in great detail.

  “I don’t understand what I’m looking at here,” Buck said. He was standing in the booth as we sat, because if he sat down, he’d probably disappear underneath the top of the table. “How did these tiny humans die?”

  “They’re not real,” Eli explained. “That’s art. It has to do with honoring one’s ancestors in Mexican culture.”

  [You did a contract with them, didn’t you?] I asked Eli.

  “You mean Santa Muerte and the government of Mexico? Yeah, I renewed that recently.” Eli’s territory was all of North America except for the southern states; Diego took care of the South plus the Caribbean
nations, Central and South America.

  El Vez offered many different guacamoles, so we ordered three to start plus some chips and salsa and a round of margaritas.

  “What am I lookin’ at now?” Buck said, eyeing everything uncertainly since the cuisine was entirely foreign to him. “Is that green stuff smashed peas?”

  “Smashed avocados. It’s called guacamole. Take a chip and scoop up some and eat it.” Eli demonstrated. Buck watched us carefully, wary of a trick, then he tried it and his eyes lit up.

  “Hey, it’s no bad.”

  “Right?” Eli said.

  “Wot’s the red shite there with bits in it? Chunky pasta sauce?”

  “No, that’s salsa. Tomato-based, but with peppers, onions, and cilantro, usually, instead of basil, garlic, and oregano.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  “It’s not. Try some on a chip.”

  [Just a bit, now,] I typed, because he probably wasn’t used to jalapeños, but I was too late. He had loaded up a chip with salsa and crammed it into his mouth as I hit playback.

  After the first couple of crunches, when the flavor hit his tongue, Buck looked pleased. But then horror suffused his features as the capsaicin in the peppers took effect and began to burn the tissues of his mouth and throat. I’d tried to warn him, because he’d probably never had anything with a little bit of spice to it, and moderation would have been wise.

  He coughed and grasped for his water glass, his wee hands shaking, and some of it spilled and leaked down his chin and neck as he tried to put out the fire in his mouth.

  “Gods below!” he gasped, slamming down the water, then fell back into the booth, his eyes rolling up. “Aww, yess. Aye. That’s. That’s the. Stuff.”

  “Holy shit, what is happening right now?” Eli said. Buck’s skin had turned red instead of pink and he was sweating and trembling a bit, but now he had a faint smile on his face as he kept mumbling affirmations.

  “This is beautiful. You’re beautiful. I’m beautiful. I mean, pure beauty, right? Full of it.”

  [I think he might be high on salsa,] I said.