Ink & Sigil

by Hearne, Kevin

  “Buck! Get his gun.”

  “On it, boss.” The air displaced behind him as he popped away and shortly returned with the gun in hand, a semiautomatic job. We heard someone howling inside the house.

  “What’d you do to him?” Eli asked.

  “Broke his nose. Don’t worry, he can still talk.”

  “Good.”

  I got to my feet and used a Sigil of Knit Flesh on myself to stop the bleeding. That didn’t stop it from hurting, so I was rather glad Buck had dished out a little punishment in return.

  When we burst through the door, we discovered that it was indeed Hatcher and not another bodyguard who’d shot at us. He was a slightly sunburnt man with sandy hair and a middle-aged spread concealed under his powder-blue pajamas. His eyebrows were sun-bleached blond and kind of glowed against his flushed face. His teeth were abnormally bright as well, obviously having undergone a whitening treatment. But his combat training had been years ago and he hadn’t been in the field for years, if ever, so he was no match for Eli. We had him zip-tied and bleeding on his living room carpet inside of two minutes. We let him say things like we had made a fatal mistake and we had no idea who we were dealing with and so on. That was all fine, because we needed to establish a baseline of behavior before we employed a sigil on him. I got out my phone and asked Buck to look around.

  [Search for anything Fae, but carefully. He might have some dangerous shite.]

  “Can I steal anything?”

  [Maybe. Clear it with me first.]

  “I love this job.” He disappeared and Hatcher objected loudly. I wondered why he bothered, and Eli spoke aloud what I was thinking.

  “Man, if we didn’t stop at the troll on the back porch and the gun you shot at us, what makes you think we’re gonna stop because you tell us to when you’re tied up and on your knees? Where’s your situational awareness?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck me, huh? Hmm. Is this a performative thing? The room is bugged and you know it, so you gotta act like you’re not seconds away from shitting yourself?”

  “Just know that anything you do to me is going to be paid back with interest.”

  “You’d have to remember it to get revenge, and you’re not gonna remember any of this. Look, we know you’re Bastille. We know you’ve been trafficking the Fae and doing something to them, and you’ve sold this whole business somehow to your superiors. What we want to know is exactly what you’re doing to them and why.”

  Hatcher blinked a few times, clearly taken aback, though I wasn’t sure which part had slowed him. That we knew he was Bastille? Or that we knew of his Fae experiments?

  “I’m not telling you shit.”

  “Come on, man. We know about your secret op, we tracked your doughy ass down, and we handled your troll. We’re not your typical home invaders. We can do things to your head to get the answers we need, but it’ll leave some damage behind. We’d rather not do that. You come clean with us voluntarily and you’ll wake up confused but otherwise of sound mind. That’s a very good deal and you should take it.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  “We work for Brighid, First among the Fae. She knows what you’ve been up to.”

  “Bullshit. You’re Russian.”

  Eli blinked and looked down at himself to make sure he still appeared as he had that morning.

  “Russia can do some impressive shit, I’ll grant you,” Eli said. “Steal-our-elections-and-install-a-puppet-and-get-away-with-it kind of shit. But I don’t think they have many brothers on their list of sleeper agents.” He looked over at me. “I gave it a try. I think it’s time.”

  I nodded my assent but typed a question. [You’re clear on what we need to get in the short window we have?]

  “Yeah, man. I’m clear.”

  Hatcher’s eyes narrowed at me. “Why are you using a UK voice on your speech app? Are you from there?” His eyes popped wide open. “You’re the asshole who called about Gordie, aren’t you? That bullshit memorial in Edinburgh.”

  I didn’t bother answering. Eli pulled out the prepared Sigil of Reckoning Truth and opened it in front of Hatcher’s eyes. He flinched once, but then his eyes went glassy and unblinking.

  “You’re going to answer all my questions, aren’t you, Simon?”

  He gulped and then said, “Yes.”

  This sigil, my master taught me, was a variation on an enchantment applied to a sword the Iron Druid possessed, a legendary Irish weapon named Fragarach, the Answerer. That could compel truthful answers indefinitely and leave the subject unharmed, but our sigil was more of a spoon than a scalpel and was only effective for a limited time, so Eli dove right into it.

  “Did you arrange the trafficking of Fae?”

  “No, but I was involved.”

  “Who else was involved?”

  “Gordie and Clíodhna of the Tuatha Dé Danann. And her intermediaries.”

  “Can you prove Clíodhna was involved?”

  “No. She always worked through banshees.”

  “What are you doing to the Fae?”

  “We’re taking away their fatal flaw. Removing their vulnerability to iron. It disfigures them and drives them a bit crazy, but it works.” We’d just confirmed that independently with the troll, so I knew we were getting good intel.

  “And this is Clíodhna’s idea?” Eli continued.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she give you an ink recipe to deliver to Gordie?”

  “Yes, a few of them.” That was interesting. I’d only found the one. If there were other written recipes still around, I’d need to destroy them.

  “Why does she want Fae immune to iron?”

  Hatcher shrugged. “I guess she has enemies who use iron against the Fae. I don’t care as long as I get to use them.”

  “Use them how?”

  “Counterintelligence. Hit the Russians with monsters so they don’t know how to hit back. It’s all proof of concept at this stage, but so far, so . . . good.”

  That pause at the end was ominous, and Eli asked the next vital question quickly. “Where are you turning the Fae into these monsters?”

  Hatcher blinked once, then a few more times in rapid succession, and my shoulders slumped. That was all we were going to get.

  “Hey, what?” he said. “Hey. What’d you do to me?”

  “Where are you turning the Fae into monsters?” Eli repeated.

  “Fuck you, man. My head hurts. Jesus, what did you do?”

  “Shit. Come on, get up,” Eli said, lifting Hatcher by the crook of his arm so he could get to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Hatcher tried kicking Eli as soon as he was up, but Eli had been expecting that. He blocked it and sank his fist into Hatcher’s gut. The agent doubled over with a wheeze and fell down.

  “Dumbass,” Eli said. “I’m tryna leave you here peacefully and you have to start your shit again. Let’s try this one more time. You keep cool and I’ll do the same.”

  Hatcher kept a steady stream of curses and dire promises of revenge going as Eli led him to the master bedroom, which turned out to be a spacious yet execrably appointed space. Had the man never watched a single interior-design show? He had a hunter-green futon sitting next to a turquoise armoire. He should spend an hour with the Property Brothers, for crying out loud; there was no reason for such barbarism. I hoped he had real furniture on order somewhere.

  Eli got him lying down on his side on the futon—which Dhanya definitely would have set on fire—and then opened two sigils in front of his eyes in quick succession: a Sigil of Lethe River, which would erase the past hour from his memory, followed by a Sigil of Restful Sleep. Eli cut his zip ties once he’d nodded off.

  “Well, at least it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Eli said. “We don’t have proof, but we know more than we did before.”

  I nodded, but there was still plenty we didn’t know. Like where my hobgoblin was. I exited the room to go look for him. I heard some noises behind a door
in the hallway and opened it to investigate. My hobgoblin was in there, perched on top of a glass display case and reaching into it.

  [Buck, what are you doing? Let’s go.]

  The case was full of painted miniatures of the kind one uses in fantasy games like Dungeons & Dragons and Warmachine, and the desk in the room was clearly a hobbyist’s work space. There was a spotlight lamp and a magnifying glass mounted on an extendable arm for detail work, a cup full of brushes, and little plastic bottles of acrylic paints. Buck was stuffing a canvas bag he’d found somewhere full of Hatcher’s painted miniatures. “He was stealing Fae and doing science tae them. I want tae steal these and do magic tae them. It’s only fair, right?”

  [I’m too worried about Clíodhna to debate the morality of it with you. Congratulations on making a vaguely parallel argument. Did you find anything Fae in the house?]

  “Naw. Just this wild shite here. He has a goblin army, can ye believe it? Painted their skin green and gave them these rubbish nonsense tattoos, the cheeky bastard! I’m gonnay have me a laugh with this and he’ll be havin’ a scream.”

  [Hurry up. We need to get in the taxi.]

  “That’s just wrong, that is. We should be getting in the van. The wizard van. Much as it pains me tae say it, I miss Nadia right now and wish she was here. Can we get a wizard van?”

  I shook my head. [They draw too much attention, and I don’t want any. That’s why I try to look as boring as possible.]

  “Except for yer mustache, eh, MacBharrais? That’s well trimmed and memorable, like yer maw.”

  I left the doorway, and his cackling followed me. Eli was in the kitchen, wiping down Hatcher’s gun to erase any fingerprints.

  “I already got the doorknobs. You touch anything else?” he asked me.

  I shook my head, and then he rifled through kitchen drawers until he found where Hatcher kept his sandwich bags. He put the gun inside one and then tossed it to me. “Hide that shit in your bigass coat and dump it at the station. With any luck, that’s his service weapon and he’ll get in trouble for losing it.”

  Hatcher was not going to enjoy waking up. We’d sent him to sleep with a broken nose, and he wouldn’t remember who had socked him. Nor would he be able to explain the broken window he’d shot out, his missing gun, or the dead troll at the bottom of his swimming pool. Best of all—for us, anyway—Hatcher wouldn’t remember that he’d been discovered and that he’d told us what he was doing and who was in on it.

  Before we left, I peeked outside and turned on the pool lights to confirm that the troll’s body was still in one piece. Normally the troll would have dissolved into a pile of ashes upon death, but apparently removing a Fae creature’s vulnerability to iron also removed their convenient disposal. I worried briefly that we’d have to get rid of it, but then reasoned that Hatcher would have enough shady contacts to make sure it got taken care of.

  “Gods below, MacBharrais,” Buck said, appearing at my side and staring down into the pool. “He’s uglier than a splash of bird-shite on yer sandwich, in’t he?”

  [Aye, but I’m sorry he had to come to such an end,] I told him. [I don’t know what makes trolls happy in Tír na nÓg, but I have to think he would have been happier had he never met Hatcher and his crew.]

  “That’s true. The answer is screaming, by the way.”

  [What?]

  “What makes trolls happy. Screaming in terror, anger, anything. They’re happiest when others are upset.”

  [Sounds about right.]

  We didn’t talk on the taxi ride back to the station, except to answer Buck’s questions about what he saw out the window. We tipped the driver well and then popped a Sigil of Lethe River in front of his eyes so he’d forget the last hour. He’d probably remember us getting in his cab originally, since that had been more than an hour ago, but he wouldn’t remember where he took us, our field trip to Hatcher’s backyard, or us emerging from the house via the front door later on with what looked suspiciously like a bag of loot in the hand of the small pink fellow.

  Eli and I thought we’d have some time to talk at the station while waiting for the train back to Philadelphia, but it turned into a nightmare of trying to corral Buck: The hob had taken it into his head that the best way to spend a few idle minutes was to steal powdered donuts from the convenience store and then throw them at security guards, the pillowy soft thumps against their torsos leaving white impact strikes of confectioners’ sugar.

  “What the actual fuck, Al?” Eli growled at me. “Can’t you control him?”

  [Remember he blinded the troll and took Hatcher’s gun away,] I said after I dumped the gun into a bin. Everyone was distracted by security officers rushing about, searching for whoever’d nailed them and then howled with mocking laughter, so no one was watching us. [You have to take the bad with the good.]

  “No, I don’t. You do. That little dude’s gonna ruin your blood pressure, man.”

  Eli had a point. As sigil agents, we were supposed to first minimize what was revealed of the magical world, minimize what was recorded if the first couldn’t be prevented, and then minimize what was remembered. My hobgoblin would have me struggling with all three.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Secret Lab

  We got Buck onto the train and settled into a quad seat arrangement, with his bag of stolen miniatures on the fourth seat. He was tired after his shenanigans in the station and the fight with the troll, so he was quiet during the ride, examining Hatcher’s paint jobs on the stolen miniatures, a great relief to Eli and me. We got out our phones and Signaled a conversation so no one could listen in.

  Any thoughts on how to stop Clíodhna without getting our asses killed? Eli began.

  We can’t stop her, I replied. Brighid won’t intervene on a human’s and hobgoblin’s say-so.

  We’ll never get solid proof, Al.

  No, we won’t. Checking her is going to be a next-level problem. All we can do for now is shut down things on this side.

  Well, we kinda have, Eli said. I mean, your apprentice shut it down by choking. He was the link.

  Aye. But why was he the link? Why did they come through Glasgow instead of here?

  Because your boy Gordie was willing to use the sigils. There’s no way a human’s going to contain a pixie or a leprechaun or any of the Fae otherwise. And I’ll add something else. He sent the first Signal and typed out another, his thumbs flying. Coming through Glasgow was clever because the other sigil agents would assume you were on top of it. Even if we got alarms about Fae crossing over there, we wouldn’t pursue it, because it was your territory.

  I nodded, mulling over the problem of the lab’s location, then sent a Signal to Buck. He checked his phone when it buzzed and then looked over at me.

  “I’m right bloody here, MacBharrais,” he said.

  I just chucked my chin at the message. It said, That pixie you were trapped with: Did you ever get a chance to talk to her?

  Buck read it and responded, thankfully keeping his voice low. “Naw, Gordie had her knocked out the whole time. I just kept ma eyes closed once I figured out his sigil game and gave him pelters till he left me alone in that room.”

  Did he tell you anything about where you might be going? Any sense that you were staying in country or coming over to this one?

  “I got the feeling I’d be staying nearby, but I don’t know if I was right about that.”

  Eli said aloud to me, “All right, let’s think this through,” and then he began to type. I waited until the Signal pinged on my phone.

  On the one hand, shipping the Fae across to the United States for science would make sense because Hatcher would want to be nearby to check on progress. But on the other, it’s impractical when they have to come to this plane through Glasgow. Since we know Gordie was keeping them imprisoned with sigils, he’d probably need to accompany them if they were doing any lengthy travel. Did he ever leave the country while under your apprenticeship?

  I just shook my head in reply, think
ing he’d made a good point, and then I piggybacked on it. They could shift using the network of bound trees, of course, but Hatcher wouldn’t allow that until he could be sure he had control of them. Otherwise, they’d just take off to Tír na nÓg and not come back.

  Eli nodded. Right. So they have to be doing their science in Scotland, or maybe England.

  Which means Buck and I will be catching the first flight back to find this lab. We’ll just head to the airport from the train station. Thanks for your help, Eli.

  Welcome. I’ll monitor the plane-shifting around D.C. and see if I can catch them doing something. The troll might be taken care of, but we still have to find those other Fae.

  The clurichaun might be providing clues if you look for them. Check for liquor heists in the D.C./Reston area. Especially near the river. They need a place for the undine to hang out.

  “Oi, did I just see ye type liquor heist, MacBharrais?” Buck whispered. “Because I’m in. I wannay make Buck Foi’s Best Boosted Spirits, like ye suggested. Let’s get one of those motorcycles with a sidecar. We’ll make it a wizard sidecar.”

  Too much attention, Buck. And those sidecars are rare enough that it makes them very easy to track down.

  The hobgoblin blinked at me, uncomprehending. “Track how?”

  When you buy a vehicle, it gets registered in your name, and the police use that to track them as necessary.

  “Buy?” he scoffed. “We’re not gonnay buy the sidecar, ya gormless bastard. We’re gonnay steal that too.”

  I sighed in exasperation and Eli chuckled. “See? Told you your blood pressure was going to be a problem.”

  INTERLUDE

  A Very Good Dug

  I met the Druid who’d made sigil agents necessary just once, quite by accident, some while ago. I was in Rome to consult the new leader of the vampire underworld on how he might best avoid confrontation with the world’s pantheons, but it was twilight and he hadn’t risen for the evening yet, which left me some time to myself. I chose to spend it enjoying a carafe of wine along with a board of cheese, fruit, and miniature sandwiches at the Piazza della Repubblica. The Caffè Piccarozzi had put out a few bistro tables and canvas umbrellas that afforded an ideal view of the Fountain of the Naiads, and so long as one was wary of pigeons and assorted pickpockets who were preying on tourists, it was an ideal place to relax and enjoy the charms of the city.