I rode the tram to the nearest substation and took the escalator up to San Francisco. It was late and the streets of the city were quiet, almost empty. The lights of the skyscrapers downtown peeked out through the mist, twinkling like Christmas trees. Stoplights flashed in the darkness and the sound of a diesel engine rumbled in the distance. A foghorn blared up from the bay and echoed up and down the hills. I took a deep breath, sucking in the smell of the ocean.
I like the undercity just fine, but it’s a bit stuffy for me. I prefer the open sky and fresh air. I suppose that’s why I live topside. That, and the fact that I’m not one of the fae. Not really. I may look a bit like them with my green skin and hair, but sometimes I think I fit in worse among the fae than I do among humans. I’m a genuine loner.
I stood there for a few minutes, soaking it all in. There’s nothing like San Francisco at night. Most big cities never get quiet, but this one does. It gets quiet and the fog rolls in and the lights flicker and glow. It’s almost like you’re not in a human city at all. It’s almost like the undercity, but topside. Sometimes it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine because it’s so magical. No, San Francisco’s not like a human city at all. Until it is.
I hailed a cab and crawled into the backseat. “Where to?” the cabby said. He was an older man with a gray beard and, judging by the smell, a cigarette addiction. I don’t mind the smell of burning tobacco. I actually enjoy a cigar from time to time if I can get my hands on a good one. It’s the chemicals that get to me. For the life of me, I can’t understand how humans can’t smell them. They pump the tobacco full of chemicals just like they do with their food and clothing and their homes; even their drinking water. And then they wonder why they’re all dying of cancer. Not the smartest race I’ve come across, to be sure.
“Downtown,” I said, staring absently out the window. “The Sentinel Building.”
“Sure thing.”
Chapter 3
The Sentinel is one of the older buildings in the downtown area. It’s not nearly as big as the surrounding skyscrapers but it has roots going all the way back to the great quake of 1906 that leveled most of the city. As buildings go, the Sentinel’s a modern work of art. It’s shaped like a triangle and covered in green copper tiles. The front of the building has a turret, and there’s a sort of a dome on top that reminds me of the pinnacles on the Taj Mahal or a Russian palace. In a way, the place looks less like human architecture and more like that of the fae. Who knows, maybe the place wasn’t even designed by humans at all. The fae were here long before the great quake.
What I do know is that for as long as I’ve been alive, the Sentinel Building has been home to The Sentinel, the most successful of all the fae newspapers. That was where Flick had worked, and it was the best place for me to get the background on his investigation without sticking my nose directly into the mayor’s business. It was no coincidence that Flick had been investigating those weapons before he was killed, and there was a reason the killer had taken Flick’s notebook. I wanted to know why.
The cabby dropped me off out front and I tipped him a couple bucks before I went into the building. My wallet was feeling pretty light after dishing out his tip plus the fifty bucks I gave to Jewel. As Steward I earn a small salary, but it’s not much and I only get paid once a month. At the moment, payday was about three weeks out and I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it. I shoved my wallet in my pocket trying not to think about it, and headed inside.
As late as it was, things were pretty quiet. There was a hobgoblin security guard sitting in the corner reading a paper, and a young male elf at the front counter. I didn’t know him, but he seemed to know me. “Steward!” he said, jumping to his feet as I approached the desk. “Are you here about Flick?”
That’s the way it is, being the Steward. The job comes with a certain notoriety. Love me or hate me, just about everybody knows who I am. I pushed my hat back and leaned up against the counter. “You know what happened to Flick?” I said cautiously.
“Yes, the police have been here. They told us everything. I can’t believe it!”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, they said that he was part of a ring of thieves. They said he’d been stealing artifacts.”
I frowned. “Malone’s acting like it’s an open and shut case, going around slandering Flick like that. What else did they say?”
“Only that Flick had been murdered, and that he had stolen property in his possession.”
“In his possession?” I snarled. “Is that what they call it now, when you’ve got a sword rammed though your guts?”
A worried look swept over his face and he took a step back. “I don’t know, it’s just what they said.”
I set my jaw, trying to hold back my anger. “Is that what’s going in the paper?”
“I don’t know… I imagine so.”
“I need to talk to the boss. The big boss.”
“Of course. Top floor. I’ll tell him your coming.”
I nodded and stepped over to the elevator while he picked up the phone. I felt bad about frightening him like that. When I’m angry I can be a little intimidating, even for people who aren’t the subject of my anger. If I had to get by on charm alone, I wouldn’t get very far.
A few seconds later, I stepped out onto the top floor. I expected to find a lobby and a secretary, all the usual big-business frills, but to my surprise it was just a big open office. The entire floor was just one big room. Past issues of The Sentinel hung in frames on the walls. There was a bar at the far end of the room, and a pool table by the front windows. Off to my right a four-foot tall goblin sat behind a massive mahogany desk. He looked like a child sitting behind that thing.
“Just a second,” he said as I stepped into the room.
I eyed him up and down. Goblins are unattractive creatures. They have pale gray skin, big dark eyes, and pointed ears like elves, but covered in thick ratty hairs. They also tend to have narrow features and long, pointy chins. In this case, his chin was covered by a short, thin goatee. I could tell he was getting on in years because his beard was turning blue. When goblins age they go blue instead of silver. I couldn’t tell about his hair because it was slicked back with oil.
After a few seconds, he rose from his desk and extended his hand. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Final edits on a story that’s going live in just a few minutes. I’m Pol Wurzt.”
“I see,” I said, shaking his hand. “Are you the editor?”
“Editor, manager, owner… you name it, I do it.”
“Sounds like a handful,” I said.
“And then some.” He gave me an exhausted smile. “I took this company over thirty years ago and I’ve kept it afloat all this time. Twenty years ago the price of paper exploded, but we survived. Cable TV dominated the business with twenty-four hour news cycles, but we survived. And then along came the internet. Thousands of papers went out of business. Thousands. But I’m still here. In fact, with my instant-replay audio and video technology circulation is higher than ever.”
“Good for you,” I said. “You must be a smart businessman.” That’s about the highest compliment you can pay to a goblin. They’re not terribly smart but they are shrewd, and they’re obsessed with wealth. If they don’t have money they want it, if they have it, they want more. Compliment a goblin on his business sense and you’ve just made a friend for life.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the compliment with a smile. “What can I do for you, Steward?”
“I’m here about your reporter, Flick Hunter.”
He sighed. “I know, I heard. The police have been here already.”
“I guess you’ve known Flick for a long time.”
He settled back into his chair. “Yeah, sad story that one. Whose side are you on?”
“Side?” I said. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when Detective Malone came in here a couple hours ago ranting about how Flick was fencing stolen artifacts, I told him he was cra
zy.”
“You don’t believe it, then?”
“Of course not. Flick wouldn’t even have been researching those artifacts if I hadn’t assigned him the story. In a way, I kind of feel like all this is my fault.”
“I see… and what was that story, exactly?”
Pol shook his head sadly. “Flick was an idealistic kid. You know, he was one of those young reporters who wants to change the world. He used to see a conspiracy everywhere he looked. He spent months researching the safety of the undercity zoning laws on his own time, looking for some sort of safety hazard. Of course, it came to nothing. He sampled the water in the lake, trying to figure out the source of the pollution and got nothing. Then he spent a month analyzing the tram system’s accident records. All of these crazy ideas he had in his head, and none of it ever went anywhere.
“Then he came to me with this weapons thing. He told me some people very high up were dealing in stolen artifacts… enchanted weapons. I told him who cares? It’s not like anybody uses those things anymore. But he was sure there was something there, some big conspiracy. He nagged me about it for a month until I finally let him look into it. And now he’s dead.”
Pol spun around in his chair and pulled open one of the long drawers of his filing cabinet. He yanked out a file and tossed it on the desk in front of me. “Flick got an anonymous tip a couple weeks ago about these so-called artifacts. The guy said somebody was manufacturing counterfeits.”
“Counterfeits? You mean somebody is making copies of real artifacts? Why would they do that?”
He laughed. “You should know why people commit crimes like this, Steward. What do humans say? Follow the money! It’s been against the law to manufacture enchanted weapons for centuries. There aren’t many of ‘em left. That means they’re collectors’ items and they’re very valuable. Some people would pay anything to get one.”
“But how can they be valuable if they’re not real?” I said.
He tilted his head to the side, smirking. “Who’s to say they’re not real? If it’s a real weapon, and it’s really enchanted, who’s to say it’s not the original? Especially if the original doesn’t exist anymore.”
I pulled out my phone and pulled up an image of Excalibur. I showed it to him. “What do you think of that?” I said.
He examined the image. “That’s the sword, huh? That’s the one that killed Flick?”
I nodded gravely.
“I don’t know… I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or counterfeit, but I might be able to point you in the right direction.”
“Where’s that?”
He flipped through the pages of the file until he located what he was looking for, and then wrote something down on a sticky note. He handed it to me. “This is the name of Flick’s contact. The guy’s a scumbag, but he’s connected. He led us to the breakthrough on the stolen fairy crowns a few years back.”
“I remember that. Big story. So this character knows something about these artifacts?”
“I honestly don’t know what Flick learned from him. I put Flick on the case and he pretty much disappeared, until this morning.”
I looked at the name. “Castle O’Rourke. That sounds dwarvish?”
“Dwarvish grandparents. Castle is mostly goblin, though. You know how the blood runs these days.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” What Pol meant was that fae creatures have the ability to crossbreed almost infinitely. Occasional pairings between different races are the norm. Sometimes you get trends, and the pairings become so common that the descendents form an entirely new race, like the delvers and hobgoblins. But mostly you just get hundreds of weird combinations. Fae blood isn’t picky. Still, there is sometimes tension between those that consider themselves pure-bloods and the other mixed-blood races. Especially high-elves. They’re the worst, because they’re already completely convinced that they’re better than everyone else. A high-elf who mingled blood with a common fae would be beneath contempt.
I thanked Pol and left, not sure what I was going to do next. It was still the middle of the night and I was exhausted. There was a slim chance I’d be able to track down Castle O’Rourke, but I was tired and dawn was only a couple hours away. I decided to go home and crash for a few hours.
The cold gray sky was turning red with dawn when I finally staggered into the Treetop apartment building at the edge of the Business District. That’s where the Mother Tree is. She’s one of the last of her kind, and it’s very important to the fae to keep her safe. The Mother Trees have always been here, since the very beginning. They were the first noble creatures to rise out of the primordial ooze and turn their faces towards the sun, and they’ll be the last to fall. The Mother Trees carry the seed for all of the other trees. They are the origin of every great forest, and without the forests, life would not have been possible. All other foolishness aside, the trees must be protected at all costs.
I woke a few hours later to the sound of the phone ringing. I glanced at my alarm clock and saw that it was ten a.m. I picked it up on the third ring. “Yeah?” I said sleepily.
“Hank, do you know what time it is?”
It was my girlfriend, Annie. “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. “I had a rough night.”
“You always do. Is there something you’re forgetting?”
I searched my memory. “About Flick?” I said.
“No, silly. About Butch!”
My eyes widened. “Oh, yeah, Butch’s wedding… Two O’clock, right?”
“Yes, don’t forget. I’ve got to help Talia get ready. I’ll see you there.”
“Sure thing.” I hung up and let out a deep sigh. My mind started working on everything: Flick, Castle O’Rourke, Butch’s wedding … It wasn’t working.
“Coffee,” I grumbled, stumbling for the shower.
One hour and almost a whole pot of coffee later, I was a whole new ogre. I had a few hours to spare before the wedding, so I decided I should probably use the time to track down Flick’s contact. Pol’s note had said Castle O’Rourke liked to hang out in the Tenderloin District at a seedy bar called Curly’s. I didn’t know the place, which was surprising because most of the bars in that part of town are downright notorious.
You don’t have to be a cop to know about the bar fights, drug deals, and murders that happen in the area on a daily basis. Most people attribute these things to the high rates of homelessness and drug use in the Tenderloin. The truth is, it all has more to do with the gremlins than anything. The area is infested with them. Humans can’t do anything about the problem because they can’t (or choose not to) see them, and the fae don’t really care because it’s a human neighborhood. It’s not their problem. They figure the humans can deal with them on their own, which is a ridiculous sentiment, but that’s the way it is.
I took a cab because I knew I wouldn’t want to park in that neighborhood, and I figured I’d be doing some legwork anyway. I left my old rusted-out Blazer parked in the relative safety of my own neighborhood, and had the cabby drop me off at the corner nearest Curly’s bar. The sign on the door said the place didn’t open until noon, so I spent half an hour combing the neighborhood.
It was cool and foggy; cold enough that most of the homeless people were still sleeping in their makeshift cardboard and newspaper encampments, or in their rusted old vehicles. The neighborhood was downright quiet, except for the gremlins. They never sleep. I asked around a little, trying to find if anyone knew O’Rourke by name. A few did and they all pointed me in the same direction. They said he’d be around as soon as Curly’s opened.
During my stroll, I came across a homeless man and his young daughter outside their broken-down van. He was playing guitar, she the harmonica and singing. They were good, but nobody had given them any money. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a twenty. It was a bit more than I wanted to give, but I didn’t have anything smaller and I doubted they had change. That brought my total down to one hundred bucks to get through the rest of the month. I dropped the twenty int
o the guitar case.
“Thanks, sir,” the man said with a slight southern accent. “If more people were like you, we’d be on our way back to Kentucky.”
I looked up at his van and saw half a dozen gremlins crawling around, some inside, some on the roof, one peeking out from under the front fenders. I pulled my eyes back, looking at his guitar. “You’re good,” I said. “You’re from Kentucky? How’d you end up here?”
“We were visiting a relative in Oregon. On the way back, my van broke down and we got robbed. We’ve been living here for a couple weeks, trying to save up enough to get it fixed. I’ve got no credit cards or anything like that, so we’re pretty much stuck.”
“How’d it break down?” I said, even though I already had a pretty good idea.
“I don’t know. We stopped at a store and it was running fine. Then it just died. Some of the locals tried to help us get it running, but nobody knows what’s wrong. It’s got gas, the spark plugs are firing… we’re stumped.”
“Do you mind if I take a look?” I said.
“Help yourself.” He opened the door and popped the hood. I glanced inside the engine compartment and saw three more gremlins chewing on the spark plug wires and toying with the motor. I reached in and grabbed one by the throat. Its eyes boggled. The others bared their fangs and hissed menacingly at me.
“Fix it,” I whispered. “Now.” Just to prove I was serious I gave the gremlin’s neck a good squeeze. Then I set him loose. I didn’t hold onto him long because I knew that he’d pass out if I did. As it was, he kind of lolled around for a few seconds in a daze and then fell over backwards, clutching at his throat. That was enough to put the fear into the others.
They snarled and hissed at each other, but started plugging things back together. I glanced around the hood and saw the man standing by the driver’s door. “Give it a try,” I said. He reached inside and turned the key. Instantly, the engine fired up.
I looked back at the gremlins and whispered, “Now beat it. I want every one of you out of this van by the count of three. One… Two…” And by that time, they were gone. I slammed the hood shut and found myself face to face with the father. He was giving me a perplexed look. I could tell that he’d heard me talking.
Death in the Hallows (Hank Mossberg, Private Ogre Book 2) Page 4