The charms were many, of course: It was Rome. Most of the locals were loaded to the gills on espresso and in a hurry to get somewhere, but in order to do so they had to negotiate a veritable slalom course of slow-moving tourists who were craning their necks around and gawking at the architecture, taking selfies and completely oblivious that they might be hampering anyone.
I was chuckling at a near collision of tourists aiming cameras in different directions, when a man with a simply humongous hound—an Irish wolfhound, I believe—took the small table next to mine, and his dug sat right next to him without having to be told. We made brief eye contact as he sank into a seat, and I saw that he was a young man in his early twenties with wavy red hair. He seemed to be neither a tourist nor a local. I nodded politely at him and he returned it.
“Gorgeous dug,” I said to him, on the off chance that he spoke English.
The hound’s long tail immediately began to wag, and his tongue lolled out in a happy dug smile.
“Grazie,” he replied, and reached for a menu wedged between the salt and pepper shakers. By then I would have turned my eyes away politely to afford him some privacy, except that the tattoos on his right arm were precisely like those of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He had the healing triskele on the back of his right hand and the band that continued up the forearm before wrapping around his biceps and disappearing underneath his shirtsleeve. Either I was sitting next to a god—which happened sometimes, since they sought me out—or I was sitting next to the legendary Iron Druid. A glance at the cold iron amulet hanging around his neck confirmed it.
“I beg your pardon,” I said to him in English, “but your surname wouldnae be O’Sullivan, would it?”
Both he and the huge dug took more than a polite interest in me at that point, sizing me up, and I did the same to them. He had a sword strapped to his back, one of the shorter kinds, like an old Roman gladius. I guessed it was Fragarach, the Answerer, the sword of truth that could cut through any armor. Stealing that was supposedly what had landed him in trouble so many centuries ago.
He certainly didn’t look two thousand years old, and a small ember of fury at that flared up inside me, for getting old is a terrible business, and I resented that he had somehow avoided those particular terrors.
“Who might be asking?” he replied, an American accent to his English.
“Al MacBharrais from Glasgow. I work for Brighid, First among the Fae.”
He blinked and exchanged a glance with his dug, then leaned back in his chair. I wasn’t sure if that meant he was relaxing or preparing to bolt out of his seat.
“Is that so? And what might you do for her?”
“A lot of what used to be your job. A lot of cleaning up after your bollocks, if ye don’t mind me saying. I’m a sigil agent.”
He regarded me evenly for a moment, then repeated, “A sigil agent. I’ve heard of them.”
“Have ye, now?”
“I have. Don’t be waving one around in my direction or I’ll take it unkindly.”
“Ach. Ye need have no worries on that score. Look, it’s an honor to meet ye, sir. That’s all I wanted tae say. I can leave ye alone.”
“No, it’s fine, Al. It’s fine. I am simply wary of strangers. A bit paranoid, perhaps. I’m Atticus O’Sullivan, and this is my friend Oberon.”
I chuckled. “Wariness is easy tae forgive. If you’re even half as old as I’ve heard, I imagine those eyes have seen some shite.”
“Indeed they have. I bet you’ve seen your fair share if you work for Brighid.”
“I have,” I admitted. “Not as much as Gladys, my receptionist, but a fair bit.”
“Your receptionist?”
“She’s Canadian,” I explained.
The Druid’s eyes shifted sideways to his hound, and he grunted in amusement.
“Oberon likes your mustache. He thinks I should grow one just like it.”
I’d heard that Druids could speak with animals, but to have it confirmed like that was wondrous. The hound’s behavior up to that point made much more sense; he could understand everything we said.
“Thank ye kindly, Oberon,” I said. “Ye have some fine fur underneath yer nose as well. Have ye ever asked Atticus tae wax it for ye?”
“He says no,” Atticus relayed after a pause. “He appreciates the small but vital role of a mustache as a flavor saver, and would miss licking his chops and reliving the savory deliciousness of sausages.”
“An excellent point! I had not thought of that.”
A server came over and asked the Druid what he might like to drink, and the old man—I had to remind myself that he was impossibly old—peered at me. “If you don’t have anything pressing, Al, would you like to join us for dinner?”
“I’d be delighted.” I was supposed to meet someone soon, but he can wait.”
Atticus ordered us a bottle of very fine wine and, after the server had poured for each of us, raised a glass to me.
“It’s refreshing to be with someone who knows what I am but doesn’t want to kill me or want any favors. It’s rare, in fact. I’m glad this chance encounter occurred.” He stopped, considering. “It is chance, isn’t it?”
“Oh, aye. A happy coincidence that may not be so coincidental, since there’s this new vampire in charge. Ye may have heard.”
Atticus nodded and Oberon snorted. “Leif Helgarson. Is that who you’re supposed to meet?”
“Aye.”
“Be careful. He’ll follow the letter, not the spirit, of the law, so you must craft your contract precisely.”
“Is he no tae be trusted?”
“He will try to take advantage of you and interpret the law as it suits him. But he will also hold to his word, once given.”
“Like the Fae, then.”
“Aye, like the Fae.”
We passed the most amiable evening together, talking about remarkable meals we’d had elsewhere even as we enjoyed another one. Atticus paid frequent attention to his hound and bought him a full dinner, so it was clear that they were genuine friends, not a pet and a pet owner.
As the evening progressed, I slowly realized that dug was his lifeline. My gods, think of it: two thousand years! What could possibly anchor him to this world when everyone he’d ever known and loved had died, when he must be the loneliest man on the planet? I ask myself sometimes, at the relatively young age of sixty-three, why I yet remain, since my son hates me and my wife has gone on before, as have an alarming number of the fellows with whom I grew up. How much worse must it be for him? And how can he possibly bear it?
The answer sat before me, wagging his tail: He survived because of a very good dug named Oberon. Dugs are beings of pure love and devotion and broadcast hope to those of us who have only memories of such things, for they demonstrate by their existence that love and devotion still walk abroad in the world, and therefore it’s worthwhile to live in it.
I gave him my card at the end of the evening, but I never heard from the Iron Druid afterward. That night of relaxation was the eye of a storm for him, a wee soft place and time in the chaos of his life. I’m fairly certain he was right back in a giant vat of shite just a few hours later.
Coriander tells me that life is very different for him these days, but better in all the ways that matter. He passed through the crucible of Ragnarok and did not escape unscathed, but he’s finally free, no longer a fugitive from the gods, and he now has two very good dugs with him, wherever he is.
Would a dug come to hate me, I wondered, if I got one and the curse on my heid decided I had told him too many times what a good boy he was? Can a dug come to hate a man who loves him?
I didn’t want to find out.
CHAPTER 25
Threats and Biscuits
Buck willingly accepted a sleeping sigil for the flight back across the Atlantic. Not only was he exhausted, but he didn’t want to be conscious of being surrounded by so much steel. I took advantage of the peace to read the book I’d borrowed from the library bu
t got upset about how people were manipulated into lives of forced labor. Upon landing, my cell phone pinged with voicemail messages. Nothing from Eli, however: They were from Nadia and D.I. Munro.
The D.I. did not apologize for planting a bug on me earlier, which I only realized I wanted to hear when I felt disappointed. But she had some relatively welcome news after her greeting.
“My colleagues in the National Human Trafficking Unit tell me that the names you provided are indeed likely involved in trafficking, based on their financial information, and they’re grateful for the tip. However, they haven’t found their victims yet but are relatively certain the suspects are communicating to them via phone. It will take some time to arrange surveillance, and they wondered if you might have any information on the victims’ whereabouts. I wonder how you knew about these men when NHTU did not. Let me know.”
I’d give her a call after I got out of the airport and pass along the addresses I had kept in reserve. Nadia’s voicemail was a bit more urgent, however.
“Al, call me back as soon as ye get this. Someone named Clíodhna of the Tuatha Dé Danann wishes tae meet.”
“Shhhhhite,” I whispered, but it was audible.
“Wot?” Buck said, who was nearly dancing on his seat in his eagerness to deplane.
I typed my response. [Clíodhna wants a meeting.]
The hobgoblin’s eyes nearly started from their spheres. “Is she waiting outside for me? She wants tae kill me, ye know.”
[I do know. But, naw, you will not be meeting her.]
“But I’m tae be the topic of discussion, in’t I? What are ye gonnay tell her when she demands ye give me up?”
[I will tell her you’re under contract.]
“She’s gonnay use some leverage, then. She’ll offer ye gold first. Then she’ll threaten yer friends and family tae get her way. It’s what they do.”
It certainly was. I thought of Durf the ogre, who’d flung himself at Nadia because someone had held his family hostage.
[I am not without leverage myself. But let’s discuss this later.] I added that last bit because people on the plane were starting to turn around and stare at us. Buck continued his nervous dancing on the seat but kept his mouth shut. He knew he couldn’t just pop out of there without causing serious alarm and we didn’t want that, so he had to wait like all the humans.
There is something about getting off a plane that brings out the worst in everyone. Violations of personal space and nudging, utter rudeness and lack of courtesy that sometimes leads to snappish behavior. But since I learned to think of it as arising from a dire need to go to the bathroom, it’s all made sense, and I can empathize and feel compassion for people rather than be annoyed with them when they get too close and huff and whine and so on. I recalled more than a few times in my life when I did not consider the needs of others when I had a dire need not to soil myself, and remembering those times in airports or in traffic has enabled me to entirely eliminate road rage from my life. Whenever someone shoulders past me or cuts me off, I feel like rooting for them instead of getting angry, and I hope they’re able to make it to the toilet before disaster strikes. I cheer for the steadfastness of their sphincters and wish them long life and clean underwear. People think I am patient, but not really; I just get it. We are ruled by our bladders and bowels.
There was no one waiting for us when we got off the plane, and Buck relaxed a tiny bit at that, but then he was anxious to return home to the protection of my wards.
I texted the addresses of the trafficking victims to D.I. Munro and linked each to their respective pimps, reminding her that the victims required help and counseling, not an arrest record, and if all went well in that regard, with the traffickers rather than the trafficked getting a dose of justice, I might be able to help further in the future.
I didn’t reply to Nadia until I had Buck safe at home, where nothing Fae could get to him.
Back in Scotland. Heading to Gin71, I Signaled her. Initiating contact there. That’s where to begin your search if I disappear.
If ye disappear? Is that a thing that could happen, Al?
The Queen of the Bean Sídhe has been up to some naughty shite, and she knows that I know. If I disappear and you want a true challenge of your abilities, try to avenge me.
Ye’d better not die, by Lhurnog.
Sacrifice a bit of whisky to him for me?
Done.
I switched to text-to-speech for Buck. [While I’m gone to meet Clíodhna, it wouldn’t surprise me if she sent another attack at you.]
“Aye, MacBharrais. I’ll stay here.”
[But it might not be Fae coming after you this time. She has the ability to contract with other parties.]
“What other parties?”
[You name it, she can probably find a way to hire them to kill you. It could be a human with a gun. It could be a demon with a five-foot-long spiked tongue.]
“Oh, aye, that’s about as cheerful as a pair of bollocks on a biscuit. Thanks, MacBharrais.”
[Don’t answer the door.]
“I won’t.”
[I mean don’t ask Who’s there? or have the telly on. No sound to let them know ye’re here.]
“What? I cannae watch telly? What am I supposed tae do, then?”
[Read.]
“For fun? Oh, I’ve heard of that.” He waggled a finger at me and grinned knowingly. “That’s kinky, that is. What ye got?”
I gave him my copy of the The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett and hoped he would enjoy it. Then I exited, waited to hear him lock the door behind me, and headed to Gin71.
Harrowbean smiled at me when I entered and made a small jerk of her head to her right. I followed her direction and saw a human male sitting at the bar, his mouth open and just staring at her, besotted.
“He’d rob a bank for me if I told him I needed a few pounds,” she said.
“Too right I would,” the man said.
“Good tae see ye, Al,” she said. “Go ahead and have a seat and I’ll come get yer order.”
I nodded and picked a table far away from the bar. Since the man entranced with her would be paying attention to her every move, she wanted to make sure she could speak to me out of earshot, and I appreciated the quick thinking.
She came over and I explained what I needed via text-to-speech, which I didn’t play out loud but simply held in front of her so she could read it:
Clíodhna has requested a meeting through my office. Please tell her she is awaited here now and escort her if she wishes. Separately— perhaps first—inform Coriander and ask him to bear witness so that Clíodhna doesn’t consider violence.
Harrowbean nodded but then looked back at the man sitting at the bar, whose gaze was firmly affixed to her buttocks. If she exited the building and took the Old Way in Virginia Court to Tír na nÓg, he’d watch every step until she disappeared, and we couldn’t have that.
[Go,] I texted. [I’ll take care of him.]
She exited, and I walked up to the man and held my official ID in front of his eyes, which were still following Harrowbean until I interrupted. If he wanted to obsess over faeries, I’d help him out with that. “Go home and memorize the full text of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You’ve always wanted to. Never come back here. Maybe do a three-day juice cleanse.”
“Great idea,” he said, and he promptly fell off his stool in his haste to leave. But he left out the side door without looking at Harrowbean, so that’s all I needed. I’d settle up his bill later.
It took ten minutes for Harrowbean to return, and when she did, she looked relieved that the man was gone.
[Bill me for his,] I said via text, and a couple of minutes later she came back with my customary Pilgrim’s and Coriander’s favorite as well. The herald himself joined me in my booth less than a minute later.
“Sláinte,” he said, and we drank. “What news? I imagine we have little time.”
[The Fae that Clíodhna has trafficked here are being altered to remove their vu
lnerability to iron. They’re being controlled by a man in the United States named Simon Hatcher. He confirmed that Clíodhna is behind it, through he’s only dealt with bean sídhe gobetweens. But that’s two witnesses naming her in this scheme.]
“Brighid will not be pleased to hear of Fae immune to iron. How are they doing this?”
[We don’t know that, or where they’re doing it, though we suspect it’s somewhere here or in England, since Gordie would have needed to control them until it was done. The American lacks imagination, so he is using them to attack Russian targets. We killed the troll in Virginia, but there’s still a leprechaun, clurichaun, fir darrig, undine, and pixie altered in the same way.]
Coriander opened his mouth to reply but I shook my head, forestalling him, for Clíodhna had stepped into Virginia Court via the Old Way and was approaching the entrance to Gin71.
I had never met her before, but I knew when she appeared in the court that she couldn’t be anyone else. Goddesses do have a tendency to look divine. Plus, in the same way that Harrowbean and Coriander wore clothes more befitting the Victorian era than the modern one, she wore a waistcoat over a long-sleeved shirt with a grey string tie underneath her high collar. The waistcoat was white with a paisley pattern sewn in silver thread that caught the light and winked and shimmered as she moved, and I saw hints that the back was entirely silver. She wore trousers white enough to strike me snow blind, and her high-heeled boots were similarly white and spotless. She looked like she belonged on a runway in Milan, from the black hair artfully arranged to the smoky edges around her glittering dark eyes, including the haughty expression and arched eyebrows. She had three silver rings piercing her right one.
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