The Violent Fae

by Phil Williams

  Letty met his eyes.

  So this was Smark making peace. Coming to protect her? And this whole bar better damned well like it. She said, “Too right I am. Are you gonna drink to it?”

  Dutch McRory caught up to Pax as she started down the stairs, hands in pockets along with £2,300 in cash. Monroe, high on the success of his game, said the profit was all hers. Put that together with the four grand from the tournament and she was on her way. Bills covered for half a year, if she was careful. She could buy proper salmon in Sainsbury’s instead of mangled trimmings. When was the last time she had so much at the same time? Three, four years ago? No more waiting until Christmas for socks . . .

  “Not tempted to push your advantage?” Dutch asked with his genial smile.

  “Not tonight,” Pax told him, trying to look equally pleasant. Lying, because she was desperately tempted to try busting these moneyed bastards. But paranoid with Jones lurking and Fae in the air. “Be careful yourself, Mr McRory.”

  “Dutch, please,” he said. “And careful is how I made my career. We’ll have another game tomorrow, hope to see you there.”

  “I . . .” Pax stalled. Definitely have other commitments. Don’t trust coming near Monroe again, for sure. Don’t trust not blowing this money as quick as it came. But would so like to recreate the joy of seeing Tycho pay out. Ugh. She said, “I’ll see.”

  “Do. You’ve got potential. You play in London?”

  “Not often.”

  “Vegas?”

  “It’s on my list.”

  “You come out there,” McRory said, “you’ve got my number. Out there, someone like you, your wings’ll spread wider.”

  “Someone like me?” A smile tugged at the corners of Pax’s mouth.

  McRory nodded without explanation, patting her arm and bidding her farewell. “Take care, Pax. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Pax didn’t dare say more.

  The warmth of the conversation lasted half an hour, until her taxi crept into her neighbourhood of Hanton. She passed a house party with students spilling onto the street, shouting into each other’s faces as they waved bottles above their heads. Three blocks from home, the taxi stopped at a red light, the driver cursing. A young man was retching into the drain. Another pair pointed and laughed from a wall.

  Without the affluence of a taxi, Pax would be out soaking up such antics. As far from Tycho Duvalier’s incongruous accent and Dutch McRory’s promises of overseas potential as you got. No responsibilities, like the midweek vomiter there. Fuck it, she told the driver she could walk from here. A voice in her head warned her it was this kind of thing that got her drawn into the Sunken City in the first place. But that voice could spin on it. Pax jumped out and breathed in the night air.

  “You looking for the party?” a student called out from the wall.

  The house was alive with flashing lights and throbbing bass, so Pax gave the banal question the raised eyebrows.

  The young man hopped off the wall. “I got beers in the fridge – Peroni, the good stuff?” He was reasonably lucid for a drunk, only his untamed volume giving him away. A slim, dark-skinned guy with a round face and gentle eyes, talking fast and friendly. “What music are you into?” Citing classic hits, Sinatra, Lee Hazlewood, to prove he was deeper than the pop coming from the party. Then from music to films, as Pax silently searched her own feelings. Watching the building. Her warm well-being quietly faded. Her fingers tingled, not unlike the sensation the blue screens gave her.

  Something here, close.

  Shit.

  Not the screens. Something else. In that building? It wasn’t bad, was it? Good energy? Was this what novisan felt like when people partied? Bringing out the best in each other? Pax allowed it. It didn’t have to make sense. It was enough to feel like she wasn’t up against the whole world. Only part of it.

  The student’s chatter demanded her attention. “What do you think of it? I bet you’ve seen it, you have to have.”

  “Huh?” Pax frowned. No idea where his private conversation had taken him.

  “Devilfist Noon. I must’ve watched it twelve times now.”

  The odd title caught Pax’s attention. “Devil what?”

  “Easily Rik Greivous’ best. And that’s saying something, all he touched was gold.”

  Those comments jarred Pax. The beat in the house cut out and another tune came on, more muted, to a few groans inside. With that shift, the energy Pax was on the cusp of feeling was gone. Pax stared numbly at the young man. “Come again?”

  “Greivous? You’re a fan? Oh come on, he was the master.”

  “The film-maker?” Pax ventured, uneasy at hearing this recently-familiar name. Rik Greivous, Apothel and Barton’s friend, had disappeared a long time ago. The name brought the same fears Jones’ hints gave her. Something going on she wasn’t aware of.

  “I could lend you a copy?” her new friend offered.

  Pax turned to leave. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Hey no, wait! You didn’t see the graffiti wall?” The student pointed back towards the party hopefully, not following. Pax pulled her jacket tighter, to feel for the cash and the little comfort it brought. Her life, back on track, soon –

  Another student mocked his friend. “Mate, a woman like that would’ve eaten you alive.”

  Pax froze. Echoes of McRory: someone like you. A woman like that. Palleday afraid she was a monster. She felt the blood turning in her veins. Stirred by the energy of the party, the uncertainty over Duvcorp, the complications of whatever Jones was up to, the monsters wandering the city, the blue screens busy – she felt it in her veins, and fought down a despairing sound. She was the centre, not the screens, not the minotaur or the Fae. She and her unnatural bloody senses. Unable to flee to Vegas leaving Sam Ward and everyone else holding the ball. Unable to be unassuming, unattached, Pax of the shadows.

  She had to own this. Master it, understand it, before shedding it.

  She had to be something.

  But at least she didn’t have to do it alone. Continuing home, Pax wrote Ward a message: Tell your boss we’ll meet in the morning.

  The problem with women, Cano Casaria decided, trekking through the St Alphege’s sewers with only a torch for company, was that they had many problems. Sam Ward, for example, was both arrogant to the point of being above an apology dinner and yet craven enough to roll over for the first boss-figure to come along after she’d usurped control. At once fiercely ambitious and cowardly. Rolling a panel of heavy wooden slats back from a hole in the brickwork, Casaria considered how she revelled in theory but not in action. She probably described imagined dates in her diary rather than ever actually talking to anyone.

  Dates – Casaria admonished himself for the word. He ducked into a tunnel, a small unlit cave, taking care to squat low so his shoulders didn’t brush the ceiling. That’s what she thought he was doing, wasn’t it, asking her on a date. That’s what Pax would say, laughing. Not even considering that he might honestly be remorseful for his actions.

  Fuck the pair of them. And fuck that Barton child for putting such ideas in his head, that he should be clear and straight with any of these women.

  Ward should have been thankful for the offer. It would’ve been punching way above her weight. Or was that it? Was she intimidated? Not from any perceived threat – he had apologised for that, after all – but because she didn’t feel worthy? He smirked. When she went home to scribble about it in her diary, would it make her a little excited?

  The narrow dugout opened onto a wider tunnel, which Casaria scanned with the torch. No lighting here, either; the passages at the edges of town, stretching north and west into St Alphege’s and West Quay, were broadly neglected. Likewise the ones south-west through Nothicker. The praelucente and its horde rarely came to these areas, most likely because the energy above wasn’t a worthy draw. So, in turn, the Ministry left light bulbs unchanged and power lines untended.

  Continuing down a long hallway, Casaria n
oted a similarity to the Ministry’s new office. Older brick tunnels and archways, damp and smelly, fitting to the bloated ogre that had instructed they move. Most likely they had been afraid to give Casaria the new address, knowing he’d disapprove.

  He’d have words with them, alright. When his search reminded everyone how much they needed him. Sam Ward would recall he was a good team player. Hell, she was courting Pax herself, she had to appreciate what he’d done for her . . .

  BGb-57, Casaria was aware, wasn’t much of a place at all. An intersection of a couple of tunnels. He’d reach it soon, see there was nothing, check the batteries on the motion sensor and report back. Quick and simple. Those new agents would probably quake coming down here. Spend all night checking shadows for spiders.

  Sam Ward certainly wouldn’t venture this far alone. She’d been apprehensive even in his company. He sighed. He’d gone about it wrong, hadn’t he, offering himself as supplicant? She needed a guiding hand. He could try again tomorrow. Not ask, but tell her: we’ll go to dinner. For my apology. You’ll enjoy it.

  Women liked that, didn’t they? Being told what –

  Casaria stopped, torchlight hitting a shape where two tunnels crossed ahead. It was big – not quite person-sized but bulging with muscle. Cracked flesh dark all over, the shade of a scorpio mites. A territorial creature that warranted shooting on sight. And Casaria had no gun on him. Only his fists. There were stories that Darren Barton got into fistfights with them, but Casaria had never had the opportunity himself. The Ministry had regulations to prevent that; forms you’d have to fill in. But with the leeway they’d given Barton, they might turn a blind eye for him, too.

  He edged closer, turning his rear foot, ready for action. The creature wasn’t moving. It was slumped against the wall. There was no glow between its muscles. Casaria traced the torchlight up the wall. A dark splatter.

  He approached quickly, then, and checked both directions down the adjoining tunnels. No sign of any other creature. There’d been no reports from Support of any activity here – what did this?

  Casaria lit up the creature’s grotesque face. Just above its crescent eyes, that was where the wound was. There were a handful of creatures in the horde that might make a hole like that. The needle-nose of the corno cattus might – but that speared animals at waist-height. And it wouldn’t leave a corpse untouched. The more logical explanation opened a world of darker possibilities.

  A gunshot wound.

  If a human handgun killed this creature, the Sunken City had been compromised.

  Part 2

  1

  The FTC was stirring.

  The secret was out, after the revelry that left Letty, in the morning, with a headache and red knuckles, and her poncho torn on the floor. Fine by her, she had never been one to hide; she felt better in her short shorts, sheath knife and pistol on show. Between that and the marks from last night, the sight of her gave Edwing and Flynt a start. Edwing was halfway to arranging medical aid when she explained she’d only been drinking. Instead, he called up Newbry to see how much exposure she’d had.

  The story had reached the Fae media. They took enthusiastic bar patrons’ accounts out of context to say Letty had emerged looking for a fight. Defying her exile and their peaceful ways. Smark spoke into cameras saying he didn’t know her whereabouts or plans, but that she was welcome in the East Eight blocks. That focused the Stabilisers’ search, at least. Meanwhile the news anchors questioned his loyalty to Fae security.

  Once Edwing was done taking in Newbry’s report, an index finger tapping his chin, he said, “I intended for Smark to approach this subtly. He shouldn’t have encouraged you. I have my own message, one that doesn’t involve fighting.”

  “It was a bar brawl,” Letty said, sitting on her sponge bed while Flynt watched from the door. “It’s in our blood. Isn’t it?”

  “An outdated concept,” Edwing said.

  “You’re a bloody outdated concept,” Letty said wearily. “No one from that bar’s ratting me out, Edwing. This morning, some bruised punk with a couple teeth missing woke up thankful he ran into me.”

  “Meanwhile the patrols are doubling and they’ll be aware exactly who broke into the vats,” Edwing said. “And any statement I make about the humans will be connected –”

  “To me?” Letty snapped. “Sorry, your majesty, does my name sully yours, when I deliver such things as a healthy contact with a human?”

  Edwing gave her a wary look. “I appreciate it, deeply. I have faith in Pax, and if what she says is true about the Ministry, then there’s hope for everyone. But you have to go to ground until we get there.”

  “I’m not running,” Letty said. “And I wasn’t just boozing. This news is working for us. Smark’s got Stabilisers chasing their tails in the wrong part of the city, while others are willing to help us out. They can get Val’s science prick Nimm’s address. A key to his place, even. While you do your thing, I can do mine.”

  “It has to wait!” Edwing was in danger of showing emotion. “I will make Valoria account for the hiding of the Dispenser, and her false claims about communications with the humans. But targeting her dust facilities and people gives her an opportunity to deflect from those issues. You’ve done plenty, isn’t it our turn to do something for you?”

  “I don’t need anyone to do nothing for me. Never have. Never will.” Letty looked away from them, nothing to fix on but stains. Never needed anyone and where did it get her. Hiding while these morons were talking to Pax? The thought gave her pause. She asked, “How was she?”

  Flynt answered, “I’m not convinced.”

  “We didn’t meet her at the best time,” Edwing explained. “But I trust she is exactly who we need.”

  “She’s safe? Any mention of what the Ministry are doing? Lightgate?”

  Edwing shook his head. “From her situation, she seemed at ease.”

  “I’ve never been that close to a human,” Flynt said. “I can . . .” His nose curled in distaste. “ . . . still smell her. Took a lot of restraint not to hurt her.” Letty’s smile faded. “I don’t get it. What makes you so sure she’s not like the rest of them? She could’ve killed him.”

  “Nonsense,” Edwing replied plainly. “She demonstrated quick-thinking.”

  “What happened?” Letty demanded.

  “A man interrupted us,” Flynt said, “and she threw Edwing in her pocket. I had to pull a –” He stopped, rather than talk over Letty’s laughter.

  Pocketing a Fae councillor? The girl didn’t give a shit. Wiping a tear from her eye, Letty read Flynt’s humourless glower, noting his fear. “Pax is harmless. She’s just a bit handsy.”

  “And you did not need to draw a gun on her,” Edwing admonished. “Clearly she’s given a lot of thought to our people. She asked about our specific energy.”

  This idea again. “Any insights?”

  “I thought it best to leave such discussion for a more formal setting. But I look forward to our next meeting.”

  “Questions about our energy clearly intersects with the Dispenser and Val’s glowing crap in the vats. We could be talking to this Nimm chump already. I can be subtle.”

  Edwing eyed Letty. Surely thinking she was going to do it anyway, wondering how he could prevent a disaster. “I intend to leave Flynt with you. He knows how the city works, how to stay hidden.”

  “While you head into Ordshaw alone?” Flynt said. “No chance.”

  “I’m not the one being hunted,” Edwing said. “The trouble is here, in the FTC, where you’re best able to protect Letty. I’ll be fine.”

  “The hell you will!” Flynt flared. “That human –”

  “Will not hurt me,” Edwing replied calmly. “I want you two safe and ready, for when I return. Letty, if you can only wait –”

  “Like Val will wait?” Letty said. “She’ll be covering shit up, smearing her trail, silencing leads. While I wank in a corner?”

  “Things will change,” Edwing answered calmly, qu
ietly. “Today. I will release a statement, saying I am working with you, and know Pax Kuranes and the MEE intend to vanquish the creatures of the Sunken City. When we address the Council, the FTC will have to act.”

  Unmoved, Letty replied, “You actually going to use that word, vanquish?”

  “Yes,” Edwing told her seriously. “This is a righteous struggle.”

  She went quiet at the gravity of his conviction. Deny it as she might, she couldn’t suppress the hope he exuded. For once, maybe she wasn’t alone. Meaning she’d better listen.

  2

  Pax took in the coffee shop, relieved that they were meeting somewhere welcomingly normal, rather than the tunnel where, according to Sam Ward, the MEE was now based. Apparently that now meant members of the public, or bigwigs out of the government, were greeted in plastic-coated booths over a battered sausage and a milkshake, before the Ministry disappeared back underground like mole people. The waiting staff wore chequered uniforms in the fashion of tea towels, and their customer base comprised paint-splattered labourers whose main criteria for food was maximising calories.

  Strangely, Sam Ward and Wayne Obrington fit in perfectly, as though obvious spooks were the other natural inhabitant of a greasy café. Alongside them and the labourers (on a Sunday morning?), Pax alone stood out in her ordinariness, dressed in her least-stained jeans, a green hoodie and her second-best coat. The suits were huddled together on one side of a booth, waiting for her; this bull of a man could’ve used a bench to himself, and struggled to get around the table to stand and shake her hand. Ward was grinning at Pax, and had probably lost sleep over what they might discuss.

  Obrington introduced himself with a smile, gesturing for Pax to take a seat. “You’ll eat something?” he suggested, squeezing back into place. Ward gave a quiet hello, with a little wave. Obrington passed the menu over. He already had a large plate overflowing with sausages, eggs and beans. “Forgive my appetite.”

  Pax gave the menu the quickest glance, aware of the sort of fare available. If they had salmon, it was better that they keep it. A middle-aged waitress joined them, inviting Pax to order with a cocked eye, and Pax asked for a black coffee and eggs on toast. Ward, she noticed, only had a glass of water. Probably ate a salad before starting work, what, eight hours ago?