The Violent Fae

by Phil Williams

  “How fortuitous,” Obrington said. “Guess you recalled him at the right time. Agent Casaria, are you up for some redemptive casual reconnaissance?” His eyes stayed on Sam, weighing her up. “Assuming that’s what this is? A rallying of the troops?”

  Sam stared back. Definitely not what this was. But she had to get her report written, and this potential confusion certainly needed investigating. Casaria looked hopeful, to the point of restraining himself from speaking. He did know his job, despite his faults. And it would keep him away from her. Sam said, “Yes. Let him go. Just for this.”

  Casaria’s grin returned. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “No weapons, no heroics,” Obrington ordered. “Get eyes on it, that’s all. I don’t want any extra crap hanging over us tomorrow.”

  Casaria was already halfway across the room, eager to prove himself, limp conspicuously gone. Obrington turned back to Sam. “I appreciate you being proactive, we might need him for Protocol 38. But you’ve got a screw loose if you were flirting with that one.”

  Sam could have screamed, but chose not to. Casaria was out the door. Everyone would be going home soon, tomorrow was a new day. Best, she calmly told herself, to complete this report.

  15

  Pax leant on the marble counter of the sink unit, staring in the mirror. A little more exhaustion and she’d be wearing panda eyes. She splashed icy water from a gold tap over her face. Her brain warned her it wouldn’t actually help her stay awake. She groaned, piss off brain. She was having fun, making money in a place where, with these opulent toilets, they literally threw their money down the shitter. The potential danger of Tycho Duvalier had wandered into the night and even if Monroe took back half Pax’s earnings it would be a profitable evening.

  But wasn’t there something else?

  “Excuse me, please don’t be alarmed,” a polite voice said, and Pax turned to search for its source. She was vaguely aware that this was a unisex toilet, but it had definitely been empty. And the timbre of that voice, well-spoken as it was, carried a quiet pitch that she’d been getting used to. She lowered her eyes.

  Oh yes. There was something else.

  A tiny man stood next to the faucet, hands clasped genially across his waist, lacy wings up over his shoulders. Holding onto the counter, Pax bent to bring her face down to his level, a little too quick in her slightly inebriated state. He took a step back, but just one.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “Hey. Are you wearing glasses?”

  She gripped the counter tighter to resist the temptation to poke him. He offered an uncertain smile. A businessman of a fairy, he would’ve fit in at the club.

  “Is that a real tie?” Pax squinted. “That knot must be tiny.”

  “Yes.” The fairy adjusted the tie. “I understand you proposed a little talk.”

  “Well, it’ll have to be, won’t it?” Pax’s hand was up near him, then, thumb and index finger held apart in an estimation of his size. “Little, I mean.”

  The fairy looked from her fingers back up to her face. Hearing her own words confirmed again that the whisky had been a bad idea. Her attempt at an encouraging smile didn’t seem to help, so she tried to shake herself out of inebriation, only making him retreat from the flailing hair that came loose from her ponytail. Pax backed off, centring herself, before trying again. “Palleday got a message to you? Wait – where’s Letty?”

  “Yes – I’m afraid until our political situation changes, she is stuck in the FTC.”

  “So you’ve brought me a plan to bust her out?”

  “I have a plan to bring change. My name is Edwing, I’m a member of the Fae Council. I don’t know how much Letty shared with you, but our governor, Valoria, has institutionalised a fear and hatred of humans, promoting peace as zero human contact. You said –”

  “Peace?” Pax said. “She tried to kill me!”

  “She’s spun many lies. But I believe in the sort of connection you formed with Letty. In an openness that can benefit us all. I believe human and Fae can work together.” He finished with a proud, upturned head.

  “And” – Pax couldn’t help it – “you said you’re called Edwing?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. My parents were patriots.”

  Pax offered silence to that. Fuck, she really shouldn’t have had that whisky. Or spent all day playing poker or delegated anything to Sam Ward – this was the important stuff, fuck. “We need to get clear of here for a proper chat. Let me make an exit, we –”

  The door creaked on its hinges. Too late.

  Without thinking, Pax spun to shield the counter and threw her hand back, closing it over the tiny man. Just in time, as a newcomer strode into the washroom and paused. Jones, hulking in with his shit-eating grin. Acting like she was turning off the tap, Pax moved her hand from the sink to her trouser pocket, Edwing rigid in her loose fist, not struggling. She held him there, keeping her wide eyes on Jones.

  “Thought I heard you talking?” he said, brightly.

  “What if I was?” Pax answered.

  He scanned the room, as if to say: there’s no one else around. She let her eyes talk, too: figure it out for yourself. With no explanation forthcoming, Jones took a big step closer. His lopsided grin, she saw now, was uneven from cuts and bruises, concealed with makeup. He said, “I don’t mean to intrude, you know, it’s technically not even a ladies’, this place. Not sure they have a ladies’. I read it wasn’t until the ’90s that Baudelaire first let a woman through the doors. I swear.”

  “So who cleared up after them before? Black folk?”

  Jones laughed, in a measured way, not his usual whoop. “Stinks, don’t it? I said to the boss, he wants to hook us up with this room and swanky company, we oughta take extra for our efforts, right? Bet some of them decanters are worth a boatload.”

  “Except the game is legal,” Pax said. She shifted, trying to relax the hand in her pocket without drawing attention to it. Edwing wasn’t moving. Hopefully out of caution, not because she’d hurt him.

  “Those guys in there,” Jones said, “you think they made their fortunes paying taxes? You, schmoozing with Tycho fucking Duvalier? Heir to that corrupt throne? What’d he want with you?”

  “A goodnight kiss, what do you think?”

  “You entertained him? Billionaires on the backs of paupers, Pax, you want to talk criminals, give me strength.”

  “I don’t especially want to talk at all, to be honest,” Pax said, meaning with you.

  “Yeah, you see…” Jones sidled closer, approaching the counter, and Pax took a step back. He was bigger than ever in this space, an impassable obstacle between her and the door. “I thought there might be bad blood between us. The boss, he says don’t bother Pax, for the sake of the game and all. But we need to clear the air, don’t we, you and me? How am I gonna serve drinks smiling like a prat with you thinking I’m some kind of asshole?”

  “Shit, Jones.” Pax sidestepped, an eye on the door. “That never bothered you before.”

  “Ouch!” Jones whooped. “See, I don’t want to lose that! You are special, Pax, you’re one of us.”

  That rooted her to the spot. She’d imagined threats, mild intimidation or knowing remarks. Not camaraderie. She didn’t want that, and was shaking her head to say so. But Jones nodded more vigorously.

  “Come on, by now we must be practically family. We work well together, don’t we? Holy fuck, we torture a guy and you get us off the hook?”

  Pax felt Edwing shift. “That wasn’t me.”

  “Alright, look.” Jones held up big, calloused hands. “I get it. You’re cautious and that’s good. And the boss, he’s super cautious too, so he says, leave Pax be, I do it. This conversation never happened. But I gotta speak, and you know Bees would say the damn same. I’m giving you space, right.” Jones moved towards the door. Hands still up. “But I’ll give it to you straight, too. Come in, you get compensated good. Real good. You already earned it.”

  “I don’t need space,
” Pax said. “It’s already a no.”

  “It’s already a go.” Jones winked. “Just a question of you getting paid or not.”

  Her face twisted in confusion. He wasn’t talking about what they’d already been through, but something new. Together with how well-meaning Monroe had been, with his hand-on-his-heart shit, this didn’t sit right. “This game is legal, isn’t it?”

  “Hell yes.” Jones dropped his hands, suddenly serious. “Fuck, don’t even joke on that, we’re on a serious earner tonight. And here’s me not rocking the boat, right? But be in touch. I feel rotten the way we left things, don’t I? You know Bees does, too.”

  The mention of Bees only made her more uneasy. “Where is he?”

  Jones stared for a second, then his goofy grin was back and he ran two fingers over his mouth to imitate a zip closing. He continued talking anyway. “You know me, I care about careless talk. Enjoy the evening, Pax. I’m rooting for you.”

  Pax took a step after him as he made an exit, wanting to know more but remembering the rather more pressing concern of the fairy in her hand. As the door swung shut, something light brushed the back of her hair. Her spare hand was halfway up to swiping at it when she felt a pinprick of pressure at the top of her neck and a harsh male voice snarled, “You let him go right now.”

  Ah shit, another one. And what, a gun to her head?

  Holding up her free hand, Pax slowly drew Edwing out of her pocket, lifting him as gently as she could. “I was trying to protect him.”

  “A human, protect him?” the man snapped. Young, edgy. “Don’t ever touch him.”

  Pax uncurled her hand and Edwing stood out of it. He straightened his jacket and trousers. Then his tie, and finally his glasses. Unhurried, if a little nervous.

  “You okay?” his unseen companion asked.

  “It’s fine, Flynt,” Edwing said. “She meant well. Didn’t know any better.”

  He beat his wings, lifting gracefully to float back from Pax. The pressure was relieved from the back of her head, a little breeze hinting the other one had taken off. Pax half-twisted but didn’t see him. She said, “Sorry. I do know better. You guys can hide like magic, can’t you? With that dust of yours –”

  “Most humans don’t notice us,” Edwing agreed. “There are exceptions. So thank you for trying. I apologise for my brother’s enthusiasm.”

  “I’m used to it. Last time I touched Letty I got pistol-whipped.” She indicated the tiny cut above her eyebrow. “Deservedly so.”

  “Well. Where were we?”

  “Not somewhere good,” Pax replied, Jones’ words hanging over her. “You’ve got somewhere else we can meet? I’ll go straight there.”

  Edwing considered their options. “I’d like only a small concession from you today, to take back to my people. You told Letty the Ministry sought peace with us. Valoria Magnus claims otherwise, that there is no safety in trusting them. They’ve even been spotted near us, unannounced. Can you see a way forward?”

  “Absolutely.” Pax nodded. “I’m sure they were announced, your people must’ve hidden that. The Ministry are trying to get their act together and them being in your area was nothing to do with you. Talk to them – I can call them now.”

  “I’m our Chair of Information,” Edwing said, “and I cannot guarantee the security of our electronic communications. But if you could arrange a meeting in person, then I can take that to my people, for sure. You have someone that you trust, from the Ministry? We could meet tomorrow – would midday give you enough time to arrange this?”

  “It’s a date. The Ministry want it, too.” Pax paused. It meant another half day of waiting for answers – surely she could get something now? How to quickly explain the blue screens situation? Or that Pax wanted to know everything about the Fae. The whisky helped. “You know what makes your energy special? The Sunken City and you all, the Fae, there’s something going on there.”

  Edwing gave it a moment’s quiet thought. “We have much to discuss. Tomorrow. Come to the Tupsom lido.”

  Fresko watched Lightgate’s face as the toilet meeting drew to a close. The white-suited fairy kept drinking from her noxious flask and betrayed no clue as to what she was thinking. There were a couple of bombshells in there: this young suit was undermining Val, and Letty was working with him. With Pax and Edwing going their separate ways, Fresko asked, “Our turn?”

  “Next time,” Lightgate said. “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of this.”

  “Think that square can make a difference?”

  “I told him –” Lightgate choked mid-sentence. She turned away, covering her mouth, and shook her head at her inability to talk. She finished, “I gave him ideas. Ways we might screw with the FTC. With these disruptive humans. We’ll see what he comes up with. How close to revolution he can take us.”

  The way she said it, Fresko knew she had a different idea to what Edwing was planning. He was only a disruptive councillor; this woman thirsted for something Edwing had never dreamed of. It was all getting too much; no clear lines in this sand, and Fresko only wished someone would’ve simply asked him to shoot the human.

  16

  It took all Letty’s nerve to sit doing nothing. They were out there talking to Pax, making plans, and Valoria was scheming, pulling apart the weapon she’d worked so long to find. A city on edge, and people like Lightgate taking advantage on mad whims. But Edwing was right – this was complicated and breaking into the vats had been reckless. On the slightest excuse, Valoria might start randomly executing people.

  No, Letty couldn’t interfere. But she couldn’t stay put.

  Pushing aside their warnings, she donned the poncho disguise and slipped out between shadows, off to find Flynt’s Bloodtooth Bar. It had a big neon fang flashing on one side, no windows, and inside were grimy, mottled metal walls hung with faded bottle-caps. Heavy metal music played quietly from a jukebox, with scarcely a dozen Fae there, divided between old overweight bruisers and young posers too clean to have ever done anything of worth. A long way from the debauched chambers of FTC revelry Letty used to promise the boys. Euphoric dancing, fistfights at midnight, they used to have that at the Rullion. Now the whole city was stuffy as a fart in a box.

  At least the whisky was fine; incredibly smooth. Fae culture wasn’t a total bust. She chased that with a mug of mead and slipped into a corner booth, hood up, no one looking her way. She listened in on three old boys grumbling about a lottery of locations permitted for scouting. If they reopened the gates. When they lamented not having won the storage facility ticket, the nearest active human building, Letty couldn’t hold back. “Are you fucking crying about getting permission to scavenge?”

  “What’s this?” the one doing most of the talking said. He had long wiry hair and a big old mole on his cheek. “Cocky young blood, thinks she knows better?”

  “You might have longer teeth than me,” Letty said, “but you ain’t got half the experience. We’re Fae, we take what we need; you don’t get told where not to go.”

  “We’re Layer Fae, not Rostov madmen. We work within the guidelines.”

  “Like fucking cowards,” Letty scoffed.

  “Who you calling a coward?” The man moved to stand but didn’t actually rise.

  Letty did, hood falling back. “You, you geriatric wart.”

  The room got two shades quieter, all eyes on Letty.

  “You want to – you want to watch it,” the old boy said, hands up off the table, away from the gun at his hip. Showing her with his body he didn’t want trouble, even if he said otherwise.

  “Yeah?” Letty swept her eyes across the room. “You can all have a go.” No one moved. A guy near the bar had a bottle half-raised to his mouth, mid-tilt. “What’s happened to this place? You still call it a night out going home without a black eye?”

  “Some say it,” a single confident voice replied. Coming from the shade of the entrance. Letty narrowed her eyes at Smark, the bald bastard plodding in with two burly Fae at his shoul
ders. His minions weren’t dressed in ragged junker getup, but in thick, familiar armour. The bar got impossibly quieter. Letty hadn’t sensed she was being followed. Seeing the pair of Stabilisers explained why.

  “You all recognise her?” Smark said, moving into the room. Letty’s hand drifted towards her pistol as the Stabilisers fanned out to the sides. The two men had the utterly impassive expressions of career killers. Smark pointed. “That’s Letty. The troublemaker.” He looked at each Stabiliser for confirmation. Then met the eyes of others in the bar. “Very much alive, and very much still a believer that the Fae can work for something better.”

  Unsure if it was her mistake coming here or Edwing’s for trusting this bastard, Letty figured it didn’t matter either way. She told the room, defiantly, “Yeah, it’s me. What are you gonna do about it?”

  Men exchanged glances, hands hesitantly hovering over guns. One of the Stabilisers drew something like a cattle prod, a stick that suddenly crackled with electricity.

  “How many here think someone like Letty should be cut down?” Smark asked.

  No one dared answer as Letty’s eyes bored into the crowd.

  “You’re all scouts,” Smark continued. “You’ve seen something of the human world. Or want to. How many of you think we’re where we belong? That our doors should be locked?”

  Again, there was silence. His eyes fell on the closest scout, a young guy, staring at the crackling electric baton, unsure how Smark wanted him to answer. Letty wasn’t sure, either.

  “I got word from Edwing,” Smark told Letty. “I gather the meeting pleased him. Confident we’ll find human allies.”

  “And you?” Letty asked.

  Smark indicated the Stabilisers, to let them answer for him. One of them said, loudly, “My uncle died out in the warehouse plains. Because Valoria wasn’t prepared. You gonna stop that happening again?”