“I’m, ah, gonna head down to the gas station for a Coke,” Archer said. The only thing that would piss Kerry off more than losing the apprenticeship would be having an audience.
Kerry wasn’t around through the afternoon, and Jensen wasn’t offering to talk about it. They finished off the wall, tapering up to a line of round stones that formed an almost perfect level line. It was maybe forty-five minutes after knocking-off time when they both stood back and looked at the finished job. Archer took one deep breath and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile at seeing the job done. He turned to see the old man doing about the same.
“Drop me at the pub?” Archer asked.
He’d meant to meet Ingrid there about an hour ago, but he wasn’t going to break the little riff he had going with the boss man. And besides, he’d wanted to finish the wall. It was ridiculous how he felt, looking at that orderly, imprisoned lattice of stone. In building part of a carport, he felt like he’d done more than he had in years.
You’re young. You could go back to school, get an education, develop your interests and your mind.
Archer shook off the unwelcome echo. So Roman had a point. Roman had points like Giffen had premonitions. Being right most of the time just made him more annoying.
Jensen drove in his usual sedate way. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but Archer didn’t really make an opening, keeping his gaze out the window. Jensen turned down the cobbled lane the old pub was on, even though it would have been much easier to drop Archer off on the corner. He pulled to a stop.
“Come up the office Monday morning,” he said. “We’ll sort out the paperwork for you, good and proper. Bring along your national insurance number and so on, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Jensen gave him a nod and a smile. He was reaching out with a bit more than an employer’s interest, but Archer really wasn’t in the market for the father he’d never had. Which was a pity, really, because there was no doubt Jensen would be up to the job.
It was about half past six as he waved and stepped into the pub. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places decked out with beveled mirrors and dark, lacquered wood. There was already a crowd, with all the tables taken and no spaces at the bar.
He could see Ingrid at the back, sitting at one of the little round tables. His relieved smile froze when he saw who she was with. Kerry was hunched over a half-full pint glass like a dog with a bone, and there were a couple of empties next to his elbow. Ingrid gave him a look that said he might do better to turn around and go back again.
Archer put his smile back in place, although he’d bet it wasn’t so convincing now, and went to join them. That was the devil in him, again.
“Hey, Ingrid, Kerry. I could really go for a beer now, I can tell you. Can I get you anything?”
“Hey, faggot,” Kerry replied belligerently.
“Well, I see Kerry’s probably had enough. How about you, Ingrid girl?”
Ingrid had that ‘oh, my god’ look people get when they’re just smart enough to see trouble coming, but not enough to think of a way out of it.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Kerry pressed.
“Yes, I did, and although that isn’t the word I’d use, it is surprisingly perceptive of you.”
“So you are a faggot, then, faggot.”
Oh, bloody hell.
“Really?” Ingrid added.
“Yeah, well. I’ve been meaning to make that clear just in case you, you know, missed it. But girls tend to know, don’t you find?”
“I didn’t.”
Oh, shit.
“Ah’m onto you, Archer,” Kerry slurred. “Grabbed that ’prenticeship right out from under my nose. And after I got you the job in the first place.”
“What? I mean, you didn’t exactly ...”
Kerry reared up, upsetting the table with his bulging stomach. Beer and glasses flew into the air, and just as the glasses hit the floor, Kerry’s fist appeared and hit with what seemed like a crystalline shattering sound.
Archer took a long step back and a deep breath in through his mouth, then looked at Kerry. The pub was suddenly very quiet.
“I’m going to explain this to you, Kerry,” Archer said thickly, resisting the urge to put a hand up to his face. It didn’t feel like Kerry had done a lot of damage. “I got the job by luck; you lost the apprenticeship by screwing up too many times and not showing enough respect to the boss; and I am signing up with Jensen as a laborer, not an apprentice. Now, I can buy us all a round and we can put this behind us, okay?”
Kerry just swung at him again, a stupid, swinging punch that broadcast its target and lost most of its impetus just getting where it was going. Archer punched a short blow through the middle of it, using the palm of his hand to hit Kerry just hard enough on the chin to knock him right off his feet and onto the floor.
A guy came from behind the bar and hauled Kerry to his feet. “Let’s call that even. You started it, so you’re out.” He turned to Archer. “Am I gonna have any trouble from you?”
“No, sir.”
There was a laugh somewhere at the back of the room, and conversation started up again as Kerry got himself dragged to the door and put out like an unwelcome cat.
Archer set the table upright again. Ingrid was still sitting on the bench against the wall, with her knees drawn up out of the way. She helped pick up the chairs, and an efficient barmaid scooped up the broken glass with a plastic brush and shovel. Before she left, she leaned over. “What can I get’cha, love?”
“A pint of lager, thanks. Ingrid?”
“White wine, thanks.”
There was a weird pause, and then Ingrid said, “He was also pretty pissed because he thought you stole his girl, too.”
“His girl?”
“Heh, that was me, I think. Kerry is plenty delusional. But he got one thing right. Jensen’s going to offer you that apprenticeship. He’s had his eye on you.”
Archer sat back. “Well that’s just, um ... not right.”
Their drinks arrived, and Archer handed over ten quid. They let things sit, waiting for the change. After he got it, Archer leaned forward.
“You’re the one that should get the apprenticeship. You’re smart, strong, you’ve got a feel for it, and you’ve been at it longer. Besides, you’re gonna stay in town, so you could take over from him.”
Ingrid stared at him. “You actually see it,” she said. “I was starting to think ...”
“It’s, um, well, Jensen might have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to you, being a Tyg druid and all.”
“Who being a what?”
“Oh, he doesn’t ... bloody hell, forget I said that.” Archer rested his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. Suddenly it struck him that when Ingrid had oh-so-casually suggested they meet up for drink later, she might have had a little more in mind than he’d realized.
“Yeah. I mean, this wasn’t a date or something,” he ventured.
“It’s just as well it wasn’t. Because you’d be in a lot of trouble being this late for a date. But as we’re just good friends, these things happen.” Ingrid laughed. “You oughtta take it, when he offers. I’ll understand.”
“I wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”
He looked across into Ingrid’s eyes. They were wide and brown in her square, pretty face.
“You’re quite sure you’re gay?” she said wryly.
They both smiled. Friends, then.
“You’re looking a bit red, there on the cheek.”
“Oh.” He reached up. It was nothing. He’d had the crap kicked out of him by men, elves, and a few creatures that must have been something else entirely -- this didn’t even come close. “That. It’s nothing. I’ve had this insect bite here on the back of my neck that bothers me more.”
“Yeah, you know, maybe you ought to have that checked out. I had this little bump on the back of my neck, just like a big freckle or a mole, and it itched like crazy. Turned out
it was a melanoma. They took it out and everything’s fine, but if I’d left it a wee bit longer, I might be dead now.”
“Oh, well, thanks for scaring the shit out of me, girl.”
“Let’s have a look.”
“No, get off,” he protested as she leaned over the table, showing an ample amount of cleavage.
She grabbed his shoulder with one hand and pulled up his hair. “Ick.”
“What? What?!”
“You’ve got something infected there, like a splinter. You really gotta go to the doctor with that. It’s gross.” Despite that, she seemed to be taking a good long time to let go of him.
“Bloody hell, Ingrid,” he said, pulling away again. “I mentioned the gay thing, right?”
“Get over yourself, Archer boy. And do something about the mullet-type thing you’ve got going on. How’s a girl meant to know when you’re walking around with a half-Bolton like that?”
Archer rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar tender lump. Maybe it was about time he did something about that.
“So what are you going to say to the old man?” she asked.
Archer shook his head. “I dunno. I can’t tell him what to do, and when it comes to getting a message across without just saying it, I’m bloody useless and always have been. But I’m not looking for something like that. I ...” And he realized as he said it, it was true. “I’m not seeing myself staying here long term. It’s not like I’m leaving tomorrow or next month, but I’m not signing up to be Jensen junior, either. Laborer’s about my speed.”
“You shouldn’t be down on yourself, Archer. You could do it.”
He grinned. “But if I took that apprenticeship ...”
“Oh, I’d probably claw your eyes out.”
Chapter Nine: Cross to Bear
In the back of his mind, Archer was still feeling pretty bad for Kerry, but otherwise it was a good night. A few drinks, a friend, a bit of muted respect from the guys at the bar. He waited with Ingrid for her bus and then headed back to his room. About an hour later, he got a call from Ingrid just so he knew she’d got in okay.
He lay back on his bed in the empty room, wishing he’d bought a paper or something, but couldn’t be bothered walking four blocks to the corner shop to get one. There wasn’t a TV in this room, and it was a bit late to go down to the common room. There was a guy who had a room right next to it, and a ventilation grid ran right from one room to the other, so he got pretty riled up if anyone went in there late and started making noise.
But Archer couldn’t sleep.
His memories slid around and kept reminding him of Roman’s touch. Flashes almost so vivid as to be real, that way Roman had of licking him in small, darting gestures, the way Roman’s fingers curled under Archer’s butt, the way Roman put his hand under his cheek before bending to kiss him.
Heron raised his other arm. His hand gripped Archer firmly just behind his left ear. Archer felt each fingertip press firmly against his scalp and the just above the hinge of his jaw.
Pain stabbed at the back of his neck. Archer curled on his side. What the hell?! Either Heron really did have something to do with Archer’s downfall, or he was starting to go 24-carat insane.
* * * * *
On Saturday morning, Archer went out and got a phone card. He sat down in the foyer, flipping through the yellow pages and placing calls until he found a doctor’s surgery that he could get to and that had a free appointment that day. He had to jog to get there in time, and then they made him wait.
He fidgeted on the seat. There was an old lady and a woman with a couple of kids, both watching him like they were expecting him to pull a revolver and rob the place. He tried to keep a lid on his fidgeting, but it was a good forty-five minutes later before an old guy in a crumpled white coat ambled out, a clipboard in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
“Mr., ah, Archer?” He looked around the small waiting room as if expecting some other Mr. Archer might be hiding behind the fichus.
Archer stood up, and they went through into the consultation room. This guy didn’t quite say ick, but for a man of sixty, there’s a certain way of saying hmmm that’s just about the same thing.
“Do you, ah, remember anything happening to this area before you developed the irritation? Perhaps something hit you, or a burn?”
“No.”
“No? Well, it seems to me that there was a cut or burn, and now an infection has developed and the skin has closed over it, forming a pustule. This would probably heal up on its own, but just to be safe, we should clean it up and put a dressing over it. Could you come back next week?”
“Couldn’t you just do it now?”
“Well, I suppose -- just give me a moment.”
He came back with a liquid-filled kidney dish that he put down on the desk. A wad of cotton buds bobbed and slowly sank in the liquid as he opened a paper package to reveal a small, plastic-handled scalpel.
“Scoot up on the table for me, on your front.” He waited for Archer to crawl awkwardly on the narrow couch and lie with his head on his crossed hands, over the paper cover. “Comfy?”
“Fine, yeah.”
“Now keep still.”
There was a cool, wet feeling on the back of his neck, and the smell was unmistakably ethanol. He couldn’t help but flinch at the next touch, but it was mainly at the thought of the scalpel, as it was nothing more than a touch.
“Ah, there we are. Looks like you have some kind of splinter in there. Give me a moment, please.”
He stepped away and returned, then fiddled around back there with what felt like pliers. Finally he swabbed the area again. Someone else stepped into the room. There was a rustling sound as the doctor fastened some kind of sticking plaster tightly over the back of Archer’s neck.
Archer sat up cautiously. As he stood, he could see the kidney dish and used cotton wool, along with a tiny dark shape.
“Is that it? Can I have a look?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Archer dipped his fingers in and pulled out a small, dark piece of metal.
“You mind if I hang on to this?”
“As you please. Now, you keep that cut clean, but try not to disturb it too much. Change the plaster in a few days.”
The doctor held out his arm in that guiding gesture that suggested Archer’s time was more than up.
Archer’s heart was thumping as he went through the reception area. He went out the heavy glass door and stepped just to the side before holding the tiny splinter up to the light. It was metal, tiny, no bigger than a grain of rice, but it had a shape. He brushed it gently with his fingertip. It was in the shape of a cross.
Half-formed theories all floated to the top of his mind, crowding each other incoherently. He cursed, folded the small scrap in an old grocery store receipt, and shoved it in his pocket.
“New twist on the same old fucking trick,” he muttered to himself.
The League of Maewyn had done this sort of thing before -- Catholic alchemy. If they could get a piece of enchanted metal against your skin, they could use a man like a doll. But the question was, could they do it without the man in question even knowing it was happening?
For a sickening moment, he wondered if this was real, or if this was his mind’s sick way of grabbing the last chance to disbelieve, to pretend he couldn’t have used his magic to attack his lover, his best friend, his ... Roman. But how had the League got the damn thing in him? How had they controlled him, with none of their people in the house? And why, why, would they want to do this to him when there were people and elves in Scott House far more important than some foot soldier?
Even if it was a Maewyn cross, he couldn’t be sure that it was them, not him, who had made him act the way he had at that moment, that instant. But even as he doubted, it fell into place. He hadn’t meant to.
He had remembered, relived that moment a thousand times, and he’d thought it must have been him, that he’d done it, that on some level he
must have wanted to do it. But he hadn’t meant to do it. He had just done it, his body as his mind watched on, appalled.
He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t done it.
He wandered the streets, mind numb. What was he supposed to do now? He felt the paper-wrapped lump in his pocket; desperate not to lose it, he checked it was there over and over.
It had to be Heron. Archer sat in a 24-hour McDonald’s, watching a cup of coffee grow cold and picking over an egg McMuffin that looked about as edible as the paper it came in. It had to be Heron. But why would Heron be using a Maewyn trick? The League of Maewyn thought of all elves as evil, almost demons. And why would Heron attack him?
He traced every moment from the second he’d come back from the mission with Veleur. There was this weird, disjointed feeling in his memories between that night and the next morning. Smudged images floated without any place to exist in that order. Heron’s voice, “Archer, then. Whatever you might think of me, you must know that I would never hurt you, if only for one reason. There is nobody I care for more than Roman, and to harm you in any way at all would inevitably hurt him, too. His love for you is quite absolute, and I don’t suppose that will ever be a source of joy for me, but I respect it.”
When had he said that? When could he have possibly said that? But, then, how could an elf who barely left Underhill be using a technology of the League, and why? Certainly not to maim himself -- Heron could easily have died in that conflagration.
Archer chased the problem around and around like a dog after its tail and never got any closer to the solution. But who could he go to, to try and work this out? Not the House, nor anyone in it. For a moment he thought of Giffen in London -- if anyone would hear him out, it was Giffen -- but the second he left Ireland, he would be tracked down. And without his fire, he would be defenseless against whoever found him first.
Perhaps the answer wasn’t in the past; perhaps it was right here in Dublin.
Maewyn's Prophecy: A Heart Aflame Page 8