by Hall, Alexis
And I felt it from across the room.
There was no way I letting an incubus drag some poor woman off on the first floor of Foyles. I checked my knife was ready to go. It was, but if I couldn’t get away with stabbing someone outside St. Paul’s, I really couldn’t get away with it in a crowded bookstore at four in the afternoon.
There was only one thing for it.
“Kate, don’t—” called Ashriel, behind me.
“Darling, there you are,” I cried, as I rushed across the floor towards them. I grabbed the incubus in an enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, and you’ve found a book for Isobel. You’re so clever.”
The woman’s hazy eyes cleared. “Um, sorry.” She backed away quickly. “I should leave you guys to it. I hope your goddaughter likes the book.”
Her footsteps clattered on the wooden floor as she retreated in obvious embarrassment.
The demon turned in my arms, sliding his hands around my waist. His body shifted against me, hard planes and muscle fading into softly curving flesh. “Congratulations,” she murmured, “you have my attention.”
She looked a little bit like Eve, a little bit like Julian, and a little bit like every girl I’ve ever wanted to sleep with but not quite managed to. Her eyes were gold like Ashriel’s, but warmer and deeper, pulling me in like a bottle of bad whiskey.
Note to self: never cockblock a sex demon.
Her hand cupped my cheek, turning my lips up to hers. Sex and promises and forevers came rolling off her like scent. I think she was about to kiss me, and I didn’t care. I wanted her to.
I wanted her to take me away.
She could have me.
She could do anything to me.
It would kill me, but I’d beg her for it.
“Gethsemane.” Ashriel? I had a feeling that was good, but I couldn’t remember why.
I leaned up impatiently and curled my fingers into her upper arms, frantic for her touch.
She sighed, and it rippled over my skin like silk. “I hope this is something interesting, Ashriel, otherwise I’m having your pet for dinner.”
And even though I protested, she stepped away.
Suddenly I remembered who I was, and what I was doing, and my all-important don’t fuck demons rule. I went for my knife and Ashriel’s hand closed over mine.
“Don’t do that either,” he whispered. “You’ve fucked this up enough already.”
I really wanted to pull the knife anyway, but I figured there was no way that could end well, so I stood down.
Gethsemane watched me, looking tauntingly hot, and smirking. “What’s this about?”
“I was wondering,” said Ashriel, “if you’d heard anything about a soul box showing up on the market.”
“I’m not precisely in the mood to help you right now. I’d been after that one for weeks.”
“I don’t suppose ‘sorry’ will cut it?”
“You don’t have anything to apologise for.”
Two pairs of golden eyes looked at me expectantly.
“I’m sorry I stopped you from sucking an innocent woman’s soul out of her body?”
Gethsemane curled her lip. “Don’t be passive-aggressive, darling, it doesn’t suit you.”
She was right. I preferred just plain aggressive.
“Look,” I growled. “You fuck with me, and I’ll fuck with you right back, and I fuck harder than you think.”
Okay, that had sounded better in my head.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Careful, you’re almost starting to sound like fun.”
“I promise you, it will not be fun. I don’t like demons, and I don’t like people who fuck with my head, which means I really don’t like you. Tell us what we need to know, and if you’re really, really lucky and I’m feeling really, really generous, I won’t hunt you down and kick you back to hell.”
“Or—” Gethsemane ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth. “—I could just kill you now as I originally intended.”
“Can’t we just talk about this?” tried Ashriel.
“Nothing personal, darling.”
Her power hit me again, but I was ready for it this time. I reached out to the Deepwild and the dark places. My mouth flooded with the taste of blood. I smelled damp earth and broken stone. I let the hunt take over.
There were weaker creatures in the paper tomb, but my quarry was a thing of sulphur and shadow. The knife was in my hand. I sprang. We were pressed against a wall of wood. My knife was at her throat, blood black on the blade.
I scented fear, sweet and seductive.
A voice from behind. “Okay, Kate, you’ve made your point.”
And I remembered I was not here for this.
Slowly, I let it slip away. The strength and the hunger and my mother’s kingdom.
“If you wanted it rough,” she gasped, “you only had to ask.”
I shoved the knife hastily back into its sheath. If anyone had noticed and called the cops, I’d be looking at actual jail time for that little stunt. “Do we have a deal?”
“You mean, I tell you what you want to know, and you don’t kill me?”
“Yep.”
She flicked out a fingertip and ran it across my jaw. “You know, I could almost like you, changeling.”
“You’re not my type.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“Cut the banter and the shape-shifting bullshit. Are you going to help us or not?”
“Fine, since you ask so nicely.”
I stepped clear, and her body flickered, flowing into a new form. He was tall and slender, snow-drop pale with a cascade of silver-blond hair and delicate, androgynous features. He shook his head irritably. “Better?”
“Whatever. Now tell us about the soul box.”
“I heard someone pawned one to the Merchant of Dreams a couple of weeks ago. I went along to see if there was anyone interesting in it, but it was empty.”
“There. Was that so difficult?”
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Can you please go away now? You’re cramping my style.”
“Um, thank you,” added Ashriel.
Gethsemane gave him a look. “Think nothing of it. I do so love meeting new people.”
He sauntered away, hips swaying, hair wafting behind him.
Everyone in my line of work knew about the Merchant of Dreams, the mysterious proprietor of the pawnbrokers on Seven Dials where you could buy or sell basically anything. Old jewellery, memories, years of your life, magic-enchanted demon skulls. I’d never been. I don’t go in much for retail therapy. I headed down there the next morning, leaving Elise to take care of the office.
The shop front was that very specific colour of faded green you only ever see on dingy antique stores. If there’d ever been a sign, it was so worn I couldn’t read it. Only the traditional brass balls hanging over the door told you what you were walking into. Even though the shop was open, there was still a metal grille padlocked over the windows. I peered through the grill at a selection of obscure and dusty artefacts, each accompanied by a neatly handwritten ticket.
Well, there was no point standing outside like an idiot. I pushed open the door and went in.
A narrow aisle led through a labyrinth of teetering merchandise to a glass-fronted cabinet at the back of the shop. Standing behind it was the Merchant of Dreams.
They were small, slight, and angular, dressed in faded black velvet. As I got closer, I realised they were younger than I expected, with tousled just-fucked hair, sharp cheekbones, and thin smiling lips. They watched me through eerie, heterochromatic eyes, one ink-black, one ice-blue.
I was going to go out on a limb and say faery-blooded. “You the Merchant of Dreams?”
“Some people have called me that.” They had a light voice, feminine but slightly husky, with an accent that could have been from anywhere.
“My name’s Kate Kane. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for a soul box.”
“You have expensive tastes.”
> I was getting really sick of people being gnomic at me. “Do you have one?”
“I do.”
“Can I see it?”
They smiled. “Nothing is free, my dear.”
“You want me to pay you to look at it?”
“I am the Merchant of Dreams. Everything is for sale and nothing is free.”
I sighed. “What do you want?”
“The price is in the paying, not the sum.”
“So, you don’t take credit card then?”
“Oh no.” They pointed at the card machine that nestled next to the till. “We accept all major credit cards and traveller’s cheques.”
“Fine. Whatever. How much?”
“The price is in the paying, not the sum.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I dragged a tenner out of my wallet and threw it onto the counter. “Will that do?”
They picked it up with long, agile fingers and rang the amount into an old-fashioned cash register. When that was done, they reached under the counter and produced an ornately carved skull, its eye sockets stoppered with smoked glass. I guess one ornately carved skull looks a lot like another, but I checked it against the catalogue photo and they seemed to match. “Who brought this in?”
The Merchant of Dreams smiled at me again. “Nothing is free, my dear.”
I gave them another tenner.
“A young woman who was running away from something.” They shrugged. “About five foot four, dark hair, big eyes, and a fragile look.”
Yep, that sounded like Corin. “Did she hock anything else?”
I was out of notes. I fished a two pound coin out of the depths of my wallet and slid it across the counter.
“A plaster bust of Napoleon, but that’s not for sale yet.”
I sighed and slapped the last of my change on the counter. “What’s the deal with the bust and what did she trade it for?”
“The bust contains a phial of the Tears of Hypnos, and she pawned it for the sum of one penny.”
That didn’t sound like Corin. She never gave away anything for less than more than it was worth which meant all she wanted was a safe place to put it. She could have stuck it in a locker or a deposit box, but both of those would have been traceable, and nobody stole from the Merchant of Dreams.
“What the hell are the Tears of Hypnos?”
They just smiled at me.
Shit. “Look, I’m out of cash.”
“The price is in the paying, not the sum.”
I patted down my pockets and found a tatty old ballpoint pen in my inside pocket. I hesitated for a moment because giving personal items to a faery is a really bad idea. Honestly, I’d probably stolen this from a hotel, and it didn’t look like I’d chewed or got blood on it. I slid it over.
The Merchant of Dreams picked it up and turned it curiously between their long fingers. “The stuff that dreams are made of.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Nevertheless, it is the answer to your question.”
This was getting me nowhere. I looked at the skull. It was basically my last link to Corin and as close as I was going to get. If I was right, she’d stashed her soul in it before she went tomb raiding. On a hunch, I picked up and sniffed it.
The Merchant of Dreams arched a quizzical eyebrow.
I could definitely sense something. It wasn’t really a scent, more an impression, masked by a trace of sulphur. I’d been using my mother’s powers a lot recently. I got the sense she didn’t mind and that worried me. If I carried on like this, I’d be skinning tourists in Regent’s Park and waking up in strange places with blood on my lips. Still, a half-faery paranormal PI has to do what a half-faery paranormal PI has to do.
I reached out. The Deepwild was waiting for me. I focused on Corin and tried to imagine her standing where I was standing, the skull cupped in her pale, restless hands, looking up at the Merchant of Dreams with those save me eyes of hers.
And then I caught the scent, intense around the skull—sex and fear and Chanel No. 5.
I put down the skull and followed the trail.
I didn’t get very far.
It stopped in front of an old oak wardrobe at the back of the shop. I dragged open the door. A trace of Corin lingered on the old fur coats hanging inside.
Then nothing but the sharp, clean smell of snow.
Well, fuck.
I drew my senses back in and stomped over to the counter.
“Is there, by any chance, a gateway to another world in that wardrobe?”
The Merchant of Dreams grinned. Their teeth looked a little sharp.
“I’m going to take that as yes.” I sighed. “Okay, I’m going to run a scenario past you. This woman comes into your shop. She’s got an armload of magical tat to unload and urgent need for cash and a quick way out of town. There’s scary people following her, so it can’t be anything too ordinary or too obvious, but it just so happens that you’ve got your very own otherworld stashed at the back of the shop.”
“And what if she did?”
“Then I’d say we have a deal to make.”
“Music to my ears, dear.”
“Send me to where you sent her.”
“That won’t be easy. Not for someone like you.”
“Why, have they got a no smoking policy?”
“No, but my patron has a ‘No killing me and annexing my realm into the Deepwild’ policy.”
Guess I’d been right about the eyes. And it was sounding like Corin had got herself a first-class ticket through Faerie. “It was just that one time.”
“A Faerie realm here, a Faerie realm there, sooner or later, it all adds up to real money.”
“Look, can you do it or not?”
“Of course,” said the Merchant of Dreams, twiddling their fingers like a bad stage magician, “but nothing is free.”
“Yeah, I got that memo. What do you want?”
They thought for a moment, head cocked to one side. “This is a special service and requires a special payment.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
They ignored me. “I require a single feather.”
“But not just any feather, right?”
“A feather plucked from the wing of the mad queen of the vampires.”
“Oh, I must have left it in my other pants.”
“Not to worry, dear. Consider it a loan, one you will have thirty days to repay.”
“And if I can’t pay?”
The light left their eyes. “Then you go to debtor’s prison.”
Okay, so my choices were: let Corin escape (again) or cut a deal with a crazy changeling pawnbroker, which would mean I’d have to either get up close and personal with the Morrígan or find myself trapped in some god-awful faery dungeon for all eternity. The smart thing to do was quit while I was ahead, but I wasn’t really ahead and I’ve never been a quitter. “Guess I’m in.”
“Then we have a deal.”
I felt something at the edges of my senses, like when you see lightning out of the corner of your eye. Ah, faery magic. Great. No backing out now then.
“Just one moment.” The Merchant of Dreams slipped out from behind the counter, flipped the Open sign to Closed, and locked the door. They opened the wardrobe, lifted out one of the coats, and put it on. It came down almost all the way to their ankles. “Step this way, dear.”
I followed. First came the ice water rush of walking between worlds, and then it got very, very cold and very, very dark. We were standing in a snowbound forest, thick with shadows. Through the distance, I could just make out the jagged spires of a white palace nestled between two hills.
“Where the fuck are we?”
“I don’t usually give freebies, dear, but since you’ve paid for the tour, I’ll tell you. This is the realm of my patron, the King of Shadows, the Queen of Winter.”
I knew more about Faerie than most people, what with my mother and everything, but it’s not like I’d ever studied it. “Who are the
y then?”
“One and the same.”
Oh, right. That was another thing about faeries, they were basically whoever they wanted to be, even if that meant they were two people.
We trudged along in silence. My feet crunched on the snow. The sky was dead black, scarred with grey clouds. Here and there, lanterns hung from the trees, casting yellowish light and eerie shadows.
“Last time I was in a forest like this,” I said, “I wound up in a fight with a unicorn.”
The Merchant of Dreams nodded. “Ah yes, the Realm of the Pale Stag. We share a border.” As they spoke, the breath coiled silver from their lips and disappeared into the darkness.
That was it for my haunted forest anecdotes. “So you’re a changeling, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you worried you’ll lose yourself?”
“Not all those who wander are lost.”
I gave them a look. “Don’t quote Tolkien at me. I had enough of that with my ex.”
“Then, no, I do not worry. I have always found my way back.”
We walked on a while.
“You’re really into this stuff, aren’t you?” I asked.
They folded their arms across their body like they were suddenly feeling the cold. “I found Faerie kinder than the workhouse.”
“The workhouse? How old are you?”
“As old as my tongue, a little older than my teeth.”
“Is that a perk, then?”
“One of many, dear.” Their smile gleamed through the shadows. “I am the Merchant of Dreams. Everything is for sale and nothing is free and I always get my share.”
“Do you have, y’know, an actual name?”
“Yes.”
“And are you going to, say, tell it to me?”
They were silent. Guess that was a no, then.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but the forest seemed to be getting creepier. A low wind was moaning through the trees, and I kept thinking it was calling to me. Branches clutched at me like fingers of the drowned. Sometimes I’d glimpse faces in the knots in the wood. They didn’t look happy.
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
The Merchant of Dreams had their gaze on the dim horizon. “Debtor’s prison,” they said flatly.