by J. C. Staudt
Quim frowns. “Was that worth a whole ‘nother year of service?”
“He tricked me again. It’s okay, though. Once I do him this favor, he’s going to take away the first mark.”
“And you’re sure he isn’t tricking you yet again?”
“Pretty sure,” I say halfheartedly.
“What does he want you to do for him?”
“Break into his ex-girlfriend’s house and steal the ring he gave her.”
“He’s got an ex-girlfriend too, huh?” Quim asks, saddened by the reminder of his heartbreak.
“If it makes you feel any better, her new boyfriend is a fairy. Chances are I’ll meet him today.”
“I have something that’ll help with fairies.” Quim opens a kitchen cabinet and hands me a cast-iron skillet.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s cold iron.”
“In case I need to whack him over the head or something?”
“Cold iron protects you from fairies. Like garlic from vamps, or silver from werewolves. Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t.”
“Everyone besides you.”
“What’s the difference between cold iron and regular iron?”
“None whatsoever. Cold iron is literally any iron that isn’t hot.”
“I’m going to look like a freak walking down the street holding a skillet.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, reaching to take it back.
I pull it away. “Never mind. I’ll keep it.”
“Smart.”
“Now that I’m equipped for a Three-Stooges-style battle with a fairy, will you get on your computer and do your little hacking thing?”
“My little hacking thing. Is that what you think I do all day long?”
“Whatever you call breaking into computers you shouldn’t.”
“Hacking.”
“Alright then. If you would, please check the obituaries of all the local newspapers, Lorne’s social media accounts, every hospital within twenty miles of his penthouse, and the city morgue.”
“None of those things require hacking of any kind,” says Quim. “You can literally go online and find all that information open to the public, including phone numbers so you can call those places and check whether Lorne has been there.”
“This is why we’re friends. Because you know things I don’t. Listen, I really appreciate your help with this.”
“Cade, it’s Monday morning. Those of us who haven’t inherited illicit fortunes need to work.”
“You’ve got to stop calling me that. I’m Arden now. Have been.”
“Yeah, I know. But seriously, Cade. A search like that could take hours.”
“Perfect. I should be just about done by then. Give me a call and let me know what you find. Oh, and also… check the Patent and Trademark Office for Savage Systems, Inc. He just filed on Friday, so it may not have surfaced yet. But check anyway.”
“I don’t have time to do this today.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Bounty hunting isn’t all glitz and glamour and kicking down doors to get the bad guys, QuimTak. It’s phone calls. Lots and lots of phone calls.”
“But—”
“Would you like to be compensated for your time? Should I put you on my payroll as an employee instead of treating you like the best friend I thought you were?”
He groans.
“That’s what I thought. Talk to you soon. You’re the best. I love you.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Hold my emotions for ransom.”
“Someday you’ll thank me.”
“Doubt it.”
“I do love you, though.”
“Get out, Cade.”
“Getting out.” I tip my proverbial hat to him and head for the door.
Chapter 6
Calyxto’s ex-girlfriend and her fairy lover reside in a three-story brownstone whose garden patio reminds me of my former apartment on the other side of town, only this row of snow-encrusted brownstones is well-maintained and doesn’t suck. The home boasts stylish landscaping, clean brick, preserved wrought iron railings, and freshly-painted trim around the windows and doors. It’s broad daylight, and I’d rather not be seen breaking into a house in a neighborhood this nice. Though I’m sure there’s a reason Calyxto wants me to avoid Sildret, I’m confident it’s worth talking to whoever’s home before I resort to anything illegal. Holding Quim’s cold-iron skillet in one hand, I knock three times with the other.
When the door opens, I’m astonished to find I recognize the face on the other side. He’s tall and handsome and topless, wearing low-slung sweatpants over a pair of boxer briefs with EMPORIO ARMANI stitched into the waistband. His abs are a tic tac toe board without the third column, and his long blond hair is tied into a topknot the way Fabio’s usually isn’t. He flutters his translucent blue wings when he sees the iron skillet in my hand. “Can I help you?”
“I know you. You’re the guy from TV. The news anchor on NDN 8.”
“Field reporter,” he corrects. “Yeah, that’s me.”
I snap my fingers, trying to remember his name. “Seth Wilder.”
He nods, fame-weary. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, right.” I try not to act starstruck. “I’m here about a ring. Calyxto sent me. Your real name’s Sildret, right?”
The fairy frowns. He glances again at the skillet. “I don’t know anything about a ring.”
“You sure? Calyxto seems to think it’s a pretty big deal.”
He’s annoyed. “Yeah, I’m sure. And you know something else? Your friend Calyxto is an asshat.”
“He’s not my friend. I just work for him.”
“Still an asshat.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“Then why do you work for him?”
“I’ve got no choice.” I show him the two marks on my palm.
Sildret gives me an understanding look which falls short of sympathy. “You tell Calyxto he’d better find someone else to harass. Helayne’s done with that creep.”
“I’m not here for her. Just the ring.”
“He’d better not be trying to give her his mark again. We struck an honorbound pact. If he violates it, he’ll hear from the Fae Council.”
“Wait a minute. Calyxto marked Helayne?”
“Why else would she hang around with that lowlife?”
“He made it sound like she was his girlfriend.”
Sildret’s wings flutter as he laughs. “You’re kidding, right? The guy’s a fiend. He doesn’t know how to care about anyone but himself. Everything he does is for his own gains. I mean, look at you. He tricked you into being friends with him.”
“I told you, we’re not friends. He helped me with something, and now I’m helping him.”
“Because he’s making you. Like he made Helayne before I stepped in and set her free.”
“Why would Calyxto give Helayne a ring if she wasn’t his girlfriend?”
Sildret scoffs. “Who cares? Maybe he wanted to pretend they were engaged. It’s an ugly ring anyway.”
“So you do know the ring I’m talking about.”
He grunts, rolls his eyes. “Fine. You want it? Hold on.” He slams the door in my face.
I stand on his porch in the snow, breath misting, until he returns.
“All yours,” he says, dropping it into my palm. “On the condition Calyxto never sends anyone here to bother us again.”
Calyxto was right when he said I’d know this ring the moment I saw it. A strip of clear lucite runs through the center of its thick titanium band, a branching red nerve suspended within. I could swear the nerve is pulsing in response to the warmth of my hand. It’s beautiful and grotesque all at once. “What does it do?”
“Helayne calls it the Nerve Ring. She says Calyxto gave it to her when her mother passed away. It defers pain.”
I look at him, awaiting further explanation.
“
When you put it on, it protects you from any pain you might experience until the moment you take it off.”
“So like, if you get punched in the face, you won’t feel it.”
“Right. And if someone you love dies, you won’t feel that either.”
“Emotional pain and physical pain?”
“Pain of any kind. Put it on and hold your hand over an open flame. You’ll smell bacon before you feel it burning. Lose a loved one, and grief becomes stark indifference.”
“What happens when you take it off?”
“A landslide. Everything it saved you from hits you at once. Way more intense, but it passes quicker. Supposedly.”
“Why would anyone want to do that to themselves?”
Sildret shrugs. “Sometimes it’s easier not to feel.”
“Did Helayne ever use this?”
“You said this was about the ring, not Helayne. You have the ring. Now I’d like you to leave.”
“Fine, I’ll go. But answer me one question first. How did you get Helayne out of her deal with Calyxto?”
“I’m a fairy. She was down on her luck, she wished upon a star, and I showed up to lend her a hand. It’s the kind of shit we do.”
“You’re her fairy godfather. That’s like, better than the actual Godfather. Where do I get one? I’d take a mother instead. I’m not picky.”
“No fairy from any clan is getting within a mile of you, bro.”
“I don’t carry iron skillets with me all the time.”
“It’s not the skillet. It’s you.”
“Sounds like you’re breaking up with me.”
“You’ve got this vibe. We call it an aspect. An echo of things to come. All humans have them. Yours is the kind that sends fairies running. Wish on all the stars you want—no one’s coming to help you, even if you were way behind the eight ball. Which you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugs. “It’s a gift. You’ve seen hard times, but the hardest are yet to come. You’re destined to go through hell, bro. Scariest thing is you’ve got no idea what you’re in for.”
“It makes me uncomfortable when you say things like that.”
“I’ll shut up then. Have a nice day.”
He moves to close the door, but I jam a foot in the way. “What do you mean I have no idea what I’m in for?”
Sildret sizes me up. “You’ve got something hanging over you. A calamity waiting to happen. I shouldn’t say more, I’ve already overstepped my boundaries.”
“How can you tell?”
“When I look at you, I get this feeling like I’m watching a mother push her stroller into the street while there’s a car coming.”
“Do you tell people’s fortunes often?”
“I read humans’ aspects all the time. Can’t help it. It’s like trying not to read a highway sign. I just don’t usually tell them.”
“You’re occasionally wrong about them, though… right?”
He thinks. “Haven’t been yet.”
His words freeze my blood. What do you say to a prognosis like that? Thanks for speculating about my imminent doom? Never tell me the odds? Somehow, I don’t think even Han would’ve been keen to ignore the warnings of a fairy news reporter. “Thanks for the ring.”
He nods and shuts the door.
I trudge down his front steps in a stupor. I’ve forgotten where I was headed next or why. Pretty hard to operate while you’re in constant fear of your own future. And here I thought horoscopes were supposed to ease my worries.
I walk down the street with the Nerve Ring resting on my thumb and knuckle, flipping it like a coin. I snatch it from the air each time and reset it. Flip. Catch. Flip. Catch. Flip.
Someone bumps into me. The ring bounces off my hand and rolls down the sidewalk. There’s a sewer drain beside the curb several yards away, the kind with the slotted grate cover, which I’m sure was designed by the same guy who designed the kitchen sink disposal. He laughs maniacally every time someone loses their keys or their wedding ring, or just one earring.
The Nerve Ring jumps off the curb and rolls toward the grate with no signs of stopping. It’s exactly like Sildret said; a calamity waiting to happen. Then a foot smashes the ring flat against the pavement, stopping it six inches from the drain. I follow the foot upwards, my eyes a movie camera hugging the curves of a leading lady.
It’s not a lady, though. Not exactly. “Lose something?” she asks, picking up the ring between her thumb and forefinger and staring at me through it.
“You’re a life-saver,” I say, jogging over to her.
“I saw that guy bump into you back there. That was rude.”
I glance back. “Didn’t see who it was.”
“You should look where you’re going,” she says, handing me the ring.
The slender clawed fingers beneath her sweater’s overhand sleeves are made of dark gray stone. Her chiseled face, framed by a heavy bunched scarf and knit beret, is rather off-putting up close. She looks like one of those carved tribal masks, only without the face paint. Everything about her is exaggerated; histrionic, and a complement to her imposing physical size. I might find it alarming if I’d never seen a gargoyle before.
“Sometimes my mind wanders. I’m a daydreamer. Fidgeting helps me think.”
“You looked very deep in thought.”
She’s fishing for more. I find the comment curious, since she was standing so far down the street she saw not only the guy who bumped into me, but how I looked beforehand. This is the sort of individual I should beware in light of Sildret’s prediction. “I’ll have to be more careful, I guess. Thanks again.”
“That’s the first time you’ve said it.”
“Huh?”
She smiles, a gesture accompanied by the faint sound of grinding stone. “You said thanks again. You didn’t say thanks the first time.”
“Oh. Well, sorry. Thanks the first time.”
I tuck the ring into my pocket and hurry toward the crowd at the next corner. I find the hearse around the block where I parked it and hit the road again, trying to forget the gargoyle and the fairy both. I’m making a quick detour before Lorne’s apartment. My missing brother will have to wait just a little longer.
I stop the hearse behind a familiar abandoned gas station to remove the spellvault belt, twitching painfully into my natural form. I’m Cade Cadigan again. That done, I pull into the strip mall and park in a spot with faded white lines, more pothole than asphalt.
The glass door of Durlan’s Pawn Shop sticks on the threshold as always. The electronic bell chimes half a dozen times during my attempts to close it. I am he for whom the bell tolls—an amateur wizard with a black eye and dubious coordination.
“Morning, Master Cadigan,” Grenda says without looking up from her Beckett catalog.
“Good morning, Grenda. Looking lovely.”
She’s blushing when she looks up. “Hush, you.” Her expression shifts at the sight of me. “Oh, my. What’s happened to your face?”
“Same one I’ve always had.”
She laughs. “I surely hope you’ve not been getting into trouble.”
“You know me, Grenda. I only get into trouble when I absolutely have to.”
A knowing grin. “We haven’t seen you here in a while. What is it I can do for you today?”
“The usual. Wondering if I could have a word with Durlan.”
“You’ll find him in the usual place.” She tilts her head toward the back of the shop.
Behind the cluttered bookcases, I fiddle with the old stereo system and pass into the Between. Durlan is counting stacks of ‘antique’ gold coins, which are actually the gold coins they use as currency on the otherside. He doesn’t appear to notice my black eye in the dim light of the Between-side shop. “Ah, young Master Cadigan. Wonderful to see you, lad.”
“Been too long.” We shake hands.
“What brings you?”
“I need a favor. I’m going to buy something expens
ive from you, but only if you promise not to tell Ersatz.”
Durlan is conflicted. “You know the dragon and I are fast friends. I cannot keep your secrets. Not from him.”
“How about you don’t go out of your way to tell him, then? Only if he asks.”
“What is it you’ll be needing?”
“Demon blood.”
“Demon? What kind?”
“The ill-tempered evil spirit from Satan’s nether regions kind.”
“The dragon doesn’t want you toying with such things, does he?”
“Ersatz has his opinions and I have mine.”
“Were the other vials defective?”
“They’ve all worked great. I’m looking for something with more of a kick to it.”
Durlan hasn’t sold me bad residue in a long time, but even the good stuff falls short of the demon blood I stole from him and injected into my thigh on two occasions last summer. No horsehair bracelet, or pill by mouth, or magic dust snorted like a drug, has ever given me the same euphoric feeling of supremacy. On demon’s blood I feel like I could go toe to toe with any magic user in the city and stand a fighting chance.
The black trails spreading from the injection sites on my thigh have faded, but they’re not gone. I’m convinced they’ll heal eventually, although I’ve been convincing myself of that for months longer than I should. Demon blood is strong, but it isn’t poison. I don’t see anything wrong with dabbling in its occasional use.
Durlan frowns as he lifts his vials onto the counter and begins looking through them. “There was a vial of demon blood in here somewhere. Hard to come by, as you can imagine. Haven’t seen that vial in some time, come to think, though I can’t imagine what’s become of it. I reckon I’ve either sold it or misplaced it. You know these spaces Between. Things go missing. No telling where, sometimes. Shame, that. I paid good money for it, and I don’t recall seeing the profits.”
I feel guilty. Honest businessman, trying to make a living in the supernatural world, and he’s got a bona fide conman for a customer. Quim blames Durlan for the bad batches of residue I’ve bought from him in the past, but I maintain those were the fault of Durlan’s suppliers. I swore to myself I’d pay him back the $1,300 I owe him for the demon blood, but how can I do that without admitting I stole it in the first place?