Hemingway grunted. “Remember his war with the Greeks?”
Othello shuddered. “Of course.”
“Pretty sure that’ll seem like kids playing with sticks and stones by comparison.”
“That bad?” she asked, disbelieving. “What can we do?”
“Sorry,” Hemingway sighed. “I’ve already said too much. If I keep going, War will stop by and drag me off. And he hates the color green.” Hemingway glanced at the walls dispassionately, as if the idea of an offensive color made no sense to him.
I left them to their morbid, but ultimately baffling, conversation—couples were like that, always talking in half-formed sentences that made sense to them and no one else. I headed over to the bar, where Paul was already working on his second Finnish Sledgehammer, a drink Christoff and I had invented for this very occasion. The plan was to get the bridge troll well and truly sloshed. In our experience, a drunk Paul was a chatty Paul, and I had plenty of questions I needed answered.
See, a few weeks ago the Chancery had delivered a letter to my door requesting my appearance at a hearing to discuss my role in the sudden uptick in supernatural activity in Boston. Unfortunately, the letter was vague on the details.
They could have been referring to when I had unleashed—literally—a skinwalker in a public park, or maybe the fallout from a renegade wizard bent on opening a gateway to an alternate universe, or perhaps my little altercation with the Academy’s Justices—elite wizards who represented magical law enforcement in every city except Boston, where the Chancery ruled supreme.
Or, you know, all of the above.
Because all that had happened in like, a two-day span.
The problem was, I had no idea how much the Chancery knew, or what they intended to do with me once they found out. As a Freak—someone with supernatural abilities—living in Boston, I was technically playing in their backyard. While I generally understood the legal system Regulars—those average, everyday people who can’t do excessively cool shit—used, the Fae were a different species altogether. The Chancery’s members included beings who’d lived centuries, even millennia, and came from an alien world.
A girl had to wonder whether innocent until proven guilty even applied.
“Hello, Ruby,” Paul said as I approached. He’d always called me Ruby, probably because he was too dense to remember my name, but also on account of my hair color—a bright, burnished amber. Most men commented on my height first and my hair second, but being six-feet-tall didn’t amount to much next to Paul, who was at least four feet taller and twice as wide. Sometimes the nickname brought unpleasant flashbacks of driving my car into his midsection…but moving on is part of life, right? I pasted a smile on my face and took the drink Christoff poured me with a thankful nod. He and I exchanged a look, which told me all I needed to know about Paul’s state of inebriation.
“So, Paul,” I said, casually, “about this hearing…”
Chapter 3
Paul filled me in between gulps, feeding me everything he knew about the Chancery’s legal system from a plaintiff’s point-of-view. The bridge troll had plenty to say on the subject—he’d been in his fair share of trouble with the Chancery in the past; his explosive temper tantrums had landed him in hot water more than once. According to Paul, I wasn’t in that much trouble, or they’d have already come and thrown me into a deep, dark hole until they felt like letting me out.
Because that’s the sort of thing they did.
“Cold,” he repeated, shivering. “Cold, dark hole. Open sky.” He shuddered. Bridge trolls had a thing about open skies, you see—sort of like claustrophobia in reverse. Supposedly, his kind were raised from birth to believe that if they fell asleep without some sort of roof over their heads, they’d simply float away at night until they got swallowed by the morning sun.
It was a rather horrific bedtime story, but an effective deterrent in Paul’s case. After each incident, the bridge troll had been forced to stay in that hole and—because he refused to sleep the entire time he was down there lest he fly away and die—he’d come away from his hearings both delirious and cowed. I kept my opinions to myself, but his story made me very wary of the Chancery’s stance on cruel and unusual punishment.
The only other assurance he had for me was that, if I was in legal trouble, they’d have found me a lawyer. Since many of the Fae had trouble communicating effectively, the Chancery had mandated a lawyer be present—someone who could speak on the plaintiff’s behalf. I seemed to recall Othello saying something similar when I first met her, but I’d been doped up on painkillers at the time, and most of what had happened during my brief stint among the Justices was a blur.
Come to think of it, Othello had mentioned having a friend in the Chancery, hadn’t she? I left Paul in his cups, deciding to pick Othello’s brain to find out what, if anything, she knew.
I found her on the other side of the room, studying a curiously ornate picture of St. Patrick tucked away in the corner of the larger bar. Hemingway was nowhere to be seen. I strolled up beside her. “Everythin’ alright?” I asked.
Othello nodded, but her ever-present smile had dimmed to something sad and self-pitying. “It is difficult between us sometimes. There are things he can’t tell me, and a great many things he shouldn’t, but could. It’s hard to know when to press and when not to. Harder still not to know if he holds back because he doesn’t trust me, or because he doesn’t trust himself.”
“I’m not entirely sure I follow,” I admitted, “but he seems to like ye. He looks at ye like ye actually exist, which is more than I can say for the rest of us.”
Othello chuckled. “Like I actually exist…that’s one way of saying it.” She cocked her head at an angle to stare up at me. “Don’t take it personally. I don’t think he means to come off so…”
“Dickish?” I offered.
“Distant,” she clarified, nudging me with her elbow. “You have to understand that, for him, getting to know people can be a bit of a drag.”
“Well, except for ye, obviously,” I quipped, winking.
“I’m not the only one who has caught his eye.” Othello bumped me with her hip and wandered away from the painting.
I followed with a grimace on my face, sincerely hoping that wasn’t a subtle threesome invitation. Granted, I liked Othello and had no intention of screwing up our budding friendship—I’d always been one of those girls who craved female friends but got along much better with boys—if she tried to rope me into a three way, though, our friendship would end faster than the Red Sox’s playoff hopes after Damon signed with the Yankees.
Not that I was bitter or anything.
“Not in that way,” Othello said, laughing at the expression on my face. “Hemingway’s not really the type to stray. If anything, he’s all about his commitments. What I mean is, there’s something about you that seems to nag at him.”
I decided not to mention that the feeling was mutual. “Well, ye can let him know that he’s welcome to snoop around if he t’inks it’ll help. I’m not hidin’ anythin’. Not much, anyway.”
Othello nodded. “Speaking of things you are or are not hiding…has the detective called yet?”
I groaned. She was talking of course, about Detective Jimmy Collins, a former friend and lover who’d tried to rescue me from that renegade wizard I mentioned earlier. He’d nearly died in the process, or—to be more accurate—he had died in the process. But had been brought back to life thanks to a rather elaborate ceremony involving the soul of a nine-tailed fox spirit and the intervention of a god. I’d love to say that isn’t as crazy as it sounds…but I’d be lying.
I know, my life is a hot mess.
I’d expected Jimmy to touch base once he recovered from his injuries, but it’d been weeks now and he still hadn’t reached out. Boston PD’s manhunt for the wizard who had attacked us had hit a dead end early on, and now I had more contact with his partner—Maria Machado, a woman I staunchly disliked—than I did with him. She’d ret
urned my gun, personally, with a subtle warning not to use it again without ample provocation. It had taken everything in me not to laugh in her adorable little face; if she knew how often I had cause to draw my gun, she might have come up with a better precondition.
I was wearing my gun tonight, secure at the small of my back in a compression holster that minimized its profile beneath my sweater. The bulge it created earned me weird looks sometimes, but I could handle weird looks if it meant the difference between life and death. I reached back to touch that gun now, sliding my fingers against the slight perforations that improved the grip—sort of like clutching a safety blanket for comfort.
“No,” I said, lowering my hand. “Not a peep.”
“Sorry, Quinn.”
I shrugged. “What can I say? I have a t’ing for emotionally unavailable men with muscles.”
Othello laughed. “I’m sure you aren’t the only woman with that problem. ButI have a favor to ask, you know…since you don’t have any commitments…”
I bumped her with my hip, a little harder than was necessary. “Very funny.”
She giggled. “I’m serious. I have a job for you, if you’re interested. It would require some travel, though.”
“How much travel? And when?” I asked, a little surprised. Othello had never reached out to me in this capacity before. Ever since our initial encounter, we’d kept our careers and our friendship separate. Othello ran one of the largest tech industries in the world—a tech company which so happened to fund magical research, most of which was off-book and confidential in nature.
As a black magic arms dealer, my job was a bit haphazard in comparison; I worked freelance, taking on jobs that promised significant returns on my investment—be that money, goods, or favors. Othello—using her hacking skills to essentially dissect my life before we’d even met—knew precisely what I did for a living, and who I’d done business with. Which meant she had something specific, and probably illegal, in mind. Otherwise there were plenty of other people she could pay to do the job, on the up-and-up.
“To New York, that’s all,” she replied. “In the next few days. There’s an item being brokered that I want. Well, not me, per se. But the person who I want it for won’t dirty his hands unless it involves a book.” Othello’s wry expression betrayed her feelings on the subject. I wondered if it was her boss, the man who had set himself up as the “King of St. Louis.”
Nate Temple.
I’d met the wizard once here in Boston, one of those freak coincidences that could be attributed to equal parts fate and utter cockup. He’d come off as a belligerent buffoon, but now I suspected he’d been putting on a show of sorts—a ridiculous mask meant to keep his real face hidden from the rest of the world.
Like Black Magic Batman.
Aside from that initial meeting and what little I’d gleaned from talking to Othello, all I knew was what I’d scrounged up on Google—newspaper articles which ranged anywhere from “Meet the Imbecilic Playboy Who Screwed St. Louis” to “Orphaned Billionaire Gives Back with School for Troubled Youth.” I’d even run across rumormonger sites that had him listed as one of the world’s foremost experts on the arcane and an advocate of German dungeon porn. Frankly, I was happy to avoid the man; he sounded like all sorts of drama, and I could safely say the only royalty I was interested in was the Crown that came in a purple velvet bag.
“I don’t t’ink I can make that,” I said, regretfully. “I’ve got me hearin’ with the Faerie Chancery this week.”
“A hearing?” Othello raised an eyebrow. “Hold on, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She fetched her phone from the purse she’d left slung on the back of her chair. She attached a device to it that I didn’t recognize, punched in a code, and put the phone to her ear. When she caught me looking, she waved me away. I rolled my eyes, but did as I was told; Othello hoarded her privacy like a dragon hoarded gold…before you start getting ideas, I should mention that I’d never met a dragon and knew nothing about their currency preferences. Personally, I was banking on meeting one who’d offer me half his heart and make me immortal.
This is why I can’t watch nice things.
I wandered back to the bar to get another drink. Paul was already sitting on the floor, humming to himself in a discordant tune that reminded me a lot of overly aggressive punk music. I met Christoff on the opposite end.
“Did you find out what you wanted to know?” he asked.
“Aye. Or, at least, I found out as much as Paul could tell me. I really wish Ryan were here.” Ryan and I had never been extremely close friends, but he’d been one of the few people I’d trusted in this city; his Chancery connections had come in handy more than once. And, although I wouldn’t admit it to anyone but myself, I missed our brunches. Finding a good brunch partner was always a challenge.
“I wish this, too,” Christoff said, mournfully in his stunted English.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” I could tell Christoff was still pretty broken up about Ryan’s abrupt departure. He and Ryan had run this bar together for as long as I’d known them, although I had no idea how long they’d actually known each other before that. Judging from the look on Christoff’s face, I could tell Ryan’s friendship had meant more to him than merely having a business partner.
“How did ye two meet, anyway?” I asked, my insatiable curiosity trumping propriety—nothing new there.
“He was first man I met when I come to this country. Very kind. He knew what I was right away. He knew solitary ways of bear, but became my friend anyway.” He brandished a hand. Fur began to sprout over the back of his palm, spewing forth like a time lapse video of grass growing. Claws the size of steak knives emerged to rap against the bar top. Then, Christoff reached for his drink, and they were gone.
“When was this?” I asked.
Christoff stared at the ceiling in consideration. “I left Russia after first Chechen War. So, this must have been in, what, 1997?”
I did a little mental arithmetic and shook my head. “Well, that answers that question.”
“Which question?”
“I wondered if Faelings age like us in the mortal world. I’d always meant to ask Ryan, but never got around to it.”
Christoff huffed. “No, Ryan looked same always. Always popular with the women, too.” He chuckled. “Not so popular with my wife. She was like you, always teasing him. But she only had eyes for me. And I for her.” Christoff rose, puffing out his chest with pride. I wanted to tease him, but Christoff was right to be pleased with himself; I’d met his wife—a gorgeous brunette in her early forties with an easy smile and vicious frown. They had two kids together, and I’d never met a better, more protective father. There were times that I wished I’d had someone like Christoff in my life when I was a little girl; my dad had been long gone before I was even born.
“Excuse me,” Hemingway interrupted, sliding in beside me at the bar. “May I speak to Miss MacKenna alone for a minute?”
Christoff’s smile fell away, but he nodded good-naturedly. “Of course, be my guest. I will see to our green friend.” Paul had given up on sitting and now lay sprawled out across the floor, snoring loud enough to shake the bar.
I took a bracing sip of my whiskey before turning to face Hemingway, who studied me with a raptorial gaze. I fought the urge to headbutt him, if only to get a reaction for once. There was something about him—and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it—that made my skin crawl. “What are ye lookin’ at?” I asked, finally.
“That’s actually what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Pardon?”
“What you are. I’m still working on it.”
Definitely about to headbutt him.
“Ye do know it’s rude to look at a woman and tell her ye aren’t sure what she is, right?”
He waved that away. “Not what I meant. What I meant was, I’m not sure how to classify what you can do, or the aura you give off.”
“Aura?”<
br />
Hemingway nodded. “Yes. Here, tell me what you feel when I do this.” He raised his hand and eased it towards me, palm up. I could sense he was inches away from my anti-magic field—a magical dead zone that shielded me from the various flavors of Freak out there, though exactly how it functioned was still a bit of a mystery to me. I drew back; I’d always been super self-conscious about my personal space, but, in this case, it wasn’t only my bubble I felt he’d be invading.
“Please,” he insisted, “stay still.”
I ground my teeth but did as he asked. When his hand finally settled against my field, the sensation I felt was surprisingly pleasant. Not pleasurable, mind you, but pleasant. The best way I could describe it was that it felt like stepping outside on a beautiful day right when the sun hits your face—I couldn’t help but bask in that sensation. Then Hemingway thrust his arm forward a few more inches.
The temperature cranked up tremendously. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but if you’ve ever stood directly under an oppressive sun on a beach of white hot sand, you’ll know how I felt. “Easy there!” I hissed.
I must’ve closed my eyes because—when Hemingway groaned—they shot open. Hemingway was sweating, his eyes tight, face pained. I took a step back and his arm fell limply to his side. He shuddered, took a deep breath, and started shaking his arm awkwardly. “Feels like it fell asleep,” he explained.
“Everything alright here?” Othello asked, approaching the two of us with that sultry walk of hers, the clip of her heels pounding against the hardwood. She didn’t seem particularly pleased by what she saw.
“T’wasn’t me fault,” I insisted, hurriedly.
Othello glared at Hemingway, who rolled his eyes. “Thanks for throwing me under the bus there, Quinn,” he grumbled.
“Ye called me a what not five minutes ago,” I reminded him. “I have no sympathy for ye.”
“Spill it,” Othello insisted, folding her arms.
“I wanted to test out her…what did you call it? Her anti-magic field.”
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