by Ari Marmell
Detectives pushed this way and that through the desks, calling to each other, and a lotta uniforms who shoulda been out walkin’ the beat were loitering here instead. Waiting for instructions, maybe? Pete was one of ’em, but no way could he have heard me if I’d tried shoutin’ across the room, and anyway he was currently busy being harangued by Detective Shaugnessy over something or other.
I also recognized a few other local PIs, jerked them a nod in greeting. Looked like the department was pullin’ out all the stops on this one, whatever this one was.
Kevin Keenan, homicide detective and a friend of Pete’s— and maybe of mine? Acquaintance, anyway—finally waved me over to his desk. It was covered in layers of creased, coffee-stained papers deep enough to bury a body, and had definitely looked better.
He’d looked better, too; the sweat stains on his shirt had probably permanently set the wrinkles, and he had a sorta wild, sleep-deprived edge to his blinkers.
“Slow day, Keenan? Least the peace and quiet’s nice.”
He started to say somethin’, then glared as the cigarette he’d forgotten was hangin’ from his lip tumbled to the floor in a spray of embers. He dug into the coat draped over his chair for a pack of Luckies, pulled one out, and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it.
“Sorry,” he said in a tone that made it sound very much like fuck you. “We’re swamped.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Guess you’re the better detective.”
“You want the job or not, Oberon?”
“All right, sorry. Don’t blow your wig. Why don’tcha tell me what it is, and then I can give you an answer.”
“Couple of assault cases, all in the same tenement. Nothing too serious, but some people got cut up. On any normal day, we’d just assign a junior police detective, but…”
“Yeah. But. What’s up with all this, anyway? What’s going on?”
“Can’t tell you. Chief wants it kept hushed for now.”
Thought about pushing further—or, y’know, pushing—but the poor sap was already a mess, and it wasn’t as though I really needed to know.
And if I decided I did, I had other methods, anyway.
“Okay, I’ll give it a good once-over, see what I can find.”
“Thanks.” He was already movin’ on to other issues, digging through the stack of forms and reports for something or other. “I’ll have Pete show you to the scene. Talk to Sarge up front, he’ll arrange the usual vouchers for the usual amounts.”
I glanced back at the desk sergeant, who was screamin’ himself hoarse at the crowd of angry people who were screamin’ back in turn, until there wasn’t a chance in hell that any of ’em heard a single word of what anyone else was saying.
If I was human, I’da sighed. Me’n Pete weren’t going to be on our way any time soon.
* * *
“So, what’s going on? What’s got everyone so worked up?”
Pete didn’t exactly frown, but he didn’t exactly not frown, either. “I’m not really supposed to say anything about that, Mick.”
“I’m not really supposed to exist, so I’m still one up on you.”
The not-frown deepened, and he checked behind to make sure nobody was listening to us, even though I’d waited until the station was a couple blocks behind us before I’d asked. Then, finally, “I don’t know a lot in the way of details. Something to do with a couple murders. Real bad ones. The kind the newspapers would have a field day with if they found out, and would probably cause genuine panic.”
Wow. They musta been somethin’ else. Chicago ain’t a squeamish city.
We walked on. Pete tilted his cap down to keep the drizzle offa his face. Me, I wasn’t wearing my hat—I don’t care for how it chafes my ears, even if most of you lugs don’t see ’em properly—so I settled for squinting.
We were maybe one more block from the train station when I got my first of the day’s reminders that I was, in fact, a twit.
“We meet again, Oberon.”
I stopped cold, made a real big point of not movin’ my hands or clenching my fists or anything that mighta landed in even the general neighborhood of hostile; since our kind don’t tend to fidget, she’da taken any such move as prelude to an attack. “Most people just say hello these days, doll.”
“I am not most people.” Even at her coldest, her tone was musical, as much an instrument as a voice. Bean sidhe are like that. “Most people these days also say ‘doll.’ When speaking to me, I suggest you not be most people, either.”
“Right.” Still not moving, “Pete, what do you see when you look at her?”
“Uh. Dame in a man’s suit. It’s kinda weird, but nothin’ more.”
I finally turned around, and yep, she had a glamour up if that’s all he saw. I mean, she was wearing a man’s suit. She also had whiskey-gold hair reachin’ down to her knees, and— rather more alarming—eye sockets gaping emptier than a snake’s conscience.
“How’re you doin’, Áebinn? I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Did you not? Or did you just hope I wasn’t?”
“Those ain’t mutually exclusive.”
“Indeed. I’ve been seeking you for some time, Oberon.”
A few pedestrians wandered by, absently steppin’ aside without ever breaking conversation or even seeming to notice. Whatever glamour she was wearin’, it was impacting others even more’n it was Pete. Was that deliberate on her part, I wondered? Or somethin’ to do with his… condition?
“I ain’t hard to dig up. My office is listed in the phone book.”
“It… took some time to convince the necessary people that this was important enough for me to pursue outside Elphame,” she admitted.
“Ah. So you are workin’ on behalf of the Court, not on your own.”
“Everything I do is for the Seelie Court.”
That wasn’t exactly a confirmation, I noticed. But with Áebinn, it was more likely she was bein’ pompous than deliberately cagey, and I really didn’t need her aggravated, so I didn’t press.
“Well, you found me. Congratulations. Whaddaya want?”
I’m not entirely positive how to describe what she did next. You know how, when you’re talkin’ to somebody and they get real intent about somethin’? Excited, obsessive, to the point where they’re more preachin’ at you than jawing with you? Their eyes get wide, kinda bright, maybe even look a bit like they’re gonna bug outta their heads?
Yeah. She did that, only without any eyes.
“There is death in this city, Oberon.”
“This is Chicago, sweetheart. Death’s a tax-paying resident.”
“Do not play the fool with me!”
“What makes you think he’s pla—?”
“Probably not right now, Pete.”
Áebinn ignored him completely, which was absolutely the best possible option. “I’m not speaking of a few paltry mortals perishing! I mean something potent, a true power of decay, dissolution. Corrupt and far-reaching.”
Well, she had my attention. Áebinn wasn’t one to panic too easy, and sensing the coming of death was her bailiwick. If this had her worked up, it was nothin’ to be sneezed at.
“There were those murders…” Pete began.
“Silence your pet, Oberon, or I will.”
“Look here, sister...”
“I just said this goes beyond a few humans! I don’t know yet what we’re dealing with, but it could be dangerous to us.”
I’da almost been more comfortable if she’d flailed or paced or somethin’, the way one of you woulda. But, like me, she lacked a lotta human mannerisms unless she was actively thinkin’ about ’em. Between that and the missing peepers, it was like listening to a real agitated mannequin.
“I hear you. Dangerous. Important. But why come lookin’ for me specifically? It ain’t just for my knowledge of human Chicago, you never had any real respect for—”
“It’s touched you, Oberon.”
For a few seconds, until I could get t
he words out, I swear every sound of the city faded away, until there was nothin’ in my ears but the light drumming of the rain.
“It’s what, now?”
Good thing I took my time thinkin’ that one up.
“I don’t fully understand how or when, but it’s touched you. Or you’re connected to it. I had a sense of you even in my earliest premonitions, and I can smell it on you now.”
Lovely. Just fuckin’ swell. This, I didn’t need.
Orsola? Was it her bad luck curse Áebinn was “smelling”? If so, what in the name of everything holy or even just vaguely pleasant was the old witch up to that had a bean sidhe ready to throw an ing-bing? Or what if—?
“Obviously,” she said, training her empty sockets on Pete as though she’d just piped him for the first time, “I’m going to have to question all your associates, intently. We’ll start with this one here, and then you can provide me a list. We’ll bring them to your office, or go to—”
“Slow it down, doll.” I figured that’d get her attention, even as I stepped between her and Pete. There was plenty room, since he’d wisely started backpedaling as soon as she’d turned his way.
“Out of my way, Oberon!”
“Not happenin’. You wanted my attention, you got it. You want my help, you got that, too, but my way. I’ll definitely be keepin’ a lookout for any trouble, anything hinky. You wanna tell me how to reach you, I’ll put you wise the minute I tumble anything relevant.
“But you wanna put the screws on any of my people, you come through me to do it. Capisce?”
That face swiveled back my way, and I won’t fib, a chill went through me. Those sockets seemed deeper now, darker, and I heard somethin’ in her throat, a second, sonorous tone behind her voice.
“Do you believe I couldn’t, Mick? Or that your relation to the real Oberon would stop me?”
“First, sister, I’m real as he is. And forget about him; he’s only my second cousin. He wouldn’t even notice if anything happened to me, and I don’t need protection in his name.”
I took a step toward her, straightening. The rain around us went colder, almost icy, though it stayed liquid. On the street behind her, a couple cars sputtered to a halt, engines pouring smoke, headlights popping like cheap balloons.
“And second, Áebinn, maybe you could go through me if you tried.” The people gathered around the broken-down flivvers jumped back, crying out, as a radiator burst open, vapor shooting from a maw of suddenly twisted metal. “Then again, when it’s my friends you’re threatening, maybe you couldn’t.” The whistle of the steam grew higher, first like a teapot, then a siren, then a horrified, breathless shriek. “You wanna find out?”
It woulda been more dramatic if we’d gone for the full stare-down after that, but she shook her head almost immediately. Her mug was normal again, or as normal as it could be with those empty pits. I was normal again, too. The various bits and dinguses in the cars went silent, and they’d probably worked just fine again if they hadn’t, y’know, twisted themselves apart.
“Conflict between us serves no one,” she said. Was that really why she’d backed down? Or was she saving face? Who knew, with her? “No, there is no good way for you to reach me, but I will check in with you. You share any information you’ve uncovered, and I shall do the same. Keep alert, Oberon.”
Didn’t even wait for me to agree to her terms, just walked away. Not real courteous of her.
Pete’s own peepers were about as saucer-sized as I’d ever seen ’em. “What…” He waved helplessly at the cars. “What was that?”
“Chest-beating. Nothin’ to worry about.”
“Think maybe I’ll worry a little bit, anyway.”
On the square, I was worried a little, too. I know I’ve told you about those episodes before, times where I get steamed enough I lose control. Thing is, they didn’t use to happen this often; I’d had more in the past couple years than the past few decades. Gettin’ stronger, too. Used to be a few light bulbs might flicker or burst. This, with the cars? This was new.
It mighta just been, in part, Orsola’s hex. I really hoped it was Orsola’s hex.
I only realized we’d walked another half block in silence when Pete spoke again. “Hey, Mick?”
“Yeah?”
“Isn’t it third cousin?”
I stopped. “What?”
“I’ve heard your spiel before. About King Oberon. He’s your third cousin on your mother’s side.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So back there. You said second cousin.”
“Huh.”
Huh.
“She had me rattled,” I admitted. “Musta misspoke.”
I think Pete almost even believed that.
I wasn’t sure that I did.
* * *
The rumbling, rattling, skull-itching L carried us over to Englewood, which is a real prosperous part of the Windy City except for the really poor sections of it—or the other way around, if you prefer. You got real successful department stores almost-but-not-quite within sight of tenements so cheap they won’t even provide decent-quality rats; you gotta import your own.
Hey, guess which parts were mostly Irish, Italian, and Polish, and which parts were mostly good old-fashioned “proper” American white? I’ll wait while you puzzle it through.
We passed a couple of sidewalk vendors right near the border between one sort of neighborhood and the other, with apron-clad shopkeepers callin’ out these wares or those. Pete tossed one of ’em a penny and collected an apple from the table. And yes, it was out of season; most of the fruit I saw here was.
That wasn’t the hinky part. Chicago’s got enough well-to-do who want what they want when they want it, and are willin’ to pay to either have it shipped in or for a few farmers to grow the goods indoors.
If they were sellin’ here, though? This was either a bad lot, or it’d waited around too long, and they were movin’ it on the cheap.
“How is it?” I asked.
Not that I had to. It hadn’t crunched so much as caved in when Pete took his first bite. He chewed once, then actually froze, his face twisted in a pretty close relative of horror.
“That good, huh?”
“I don’t think this apple is made out of apple,” he said around a mouthful of… well, not-apple, according to him.
He took a minute to recover, and we went on. He ditched the thing in the nearest gutter, and we both agreed to swear up and down we knew nothin’ about it if it grew into something monstrous.
Still, the vendors were doin’ brisk business. When you’re poor enough, you buy what you can afford and find a way to make it palatable. Pies, maybe, or jams. Or fermentation.
An intersection, a left turn, another intersection, and Pete checked his notebook for an address. “I know it’s one of the nearby tenements…”
“Hey, I’m just guessin’ here, Pete, but maybe it’s the one with the cops loitering out front?”
He looked up from his notes, down the block, and then at me. “You think you’re so much smarter’n me, don’t you?”
“Well, it ain’t like you make it challenging…”
Place didn’t stand out much. Just another gray brick building, three stories high, dirty and startin’ to get run down and full of people who couldn’t afford better. Just… there.
We ran through quick introductions with the bulls who’d been sittin’ on the place, whose names I won’t even pretend to remember. I had no real interest in becomin’ pals, and they were just as happy to be on their way.
“Seven victims,” one rattled off before he dusted, followed by more names I don’t remember and four apartment numbers. “All of ’em were woken up by slashing wounds to arms or legs, but said they never saw an attacker. Whoever’d done it was gone by the time they finished thrashing around and got to the lights. Doors were still locked. Good luck. Bye.”
Helpful lot, these guys.
And fulla bunk, besides. They hadn’t even given me the
story right, probably because they were only half listening when they heard it.
I’m sure the fact that most of the victims were Italian, and a couple were black, had nothin’ to do with that.
So Pete’n me went around to the different apartments. Poor saps were all waitin’ in the hall, had been for hours. The bulls had told ’em not to go back in until we’d come by to give the place a thorough up’n down. A lot of ’em had bloody bandages wrapped around arms, legs, or both.
Most sang more or less the same song, but one older guy, he told the story different. He hadn’t been the victim, least not initially. Said he’d woken up and heard a scream from the other room, where his daughter sleeps. He’d gone runnin’ in there with a knockoff Louisville Slugger and smashed the place up pretty good, tryin’ to protect his girl. No lights, so he’d never gotten a good view of what’d attacked her, but he swore to me it was some sorta animal.
“If your bosses called me in here after a raccoon,” I told Pete, “I’m never gonna let them, or you, live it down.”
That’s when the old man yanked the bandage from his arm. Injury wasn’t gonna kill him, probably wouldn’t even cost him any strength in the arm as long as he took proper care, but that was sure no raccoon.
The wound was too thick to be the claws of any kinda animal I was familiar with—at least any animal small as what the fella was describing—and way too ragged to be a blade. I’d almost have figured it was some sorta carpentry tool or a trowel or what have you, but not too many stray animals carry those, even in the big city.
Even weirder, the wound had a smell to it. I mean, beyond blood and sweat and the rags he’d used to bandage it. Faint, too faint for even me to identify it, but it nagged at me. It definitely didn’t belong, but more’n that, it was somehow familiar…
I decided we’d try his apartment first.
Ankled down the hall, stepped inside, shut the door behind us ’cause we didn’t want anyone following us in and trying to be “helpful”…
And stopped.
Nothing happened, not a flicker or a spark, when Pete flipped the light switch. Mighta been the middle of the day, but between the autumn overcast and the next tenement over blockin’ most of the window, it was darker’n a dullahan’s neck-hole in here. Pools of shadow and general shapes to my senses; Pete musta been all but blind.