by M. D. Massey
Pity, that.
The door opened just as I was about to knock. Speak of the devil.
“Well, if it isn’t our resident druid and expert on junk automobiles.”
Siobhan wore a little black dress that would seem out of place on anyone else this time of day, a saucy silk number with a hemline that hit at mid-thigh. She somehow pulled it off without looking trashy—the simple but elegant look of a bored, moneyed strumpet. She’d let down her long blonde hair, wearing it straight so it fell across her shoulders and framed her fine, pert features. Her bright green eyes looked me up and down, and she sniffed contemptuously.
“You smell of troll musk and dead things,” she stated simply, before walking off into the house.
Since she’d left the door open, I took it as my cue to follow. I shut the door behind me and hurried after her, never losing sight of my guide. I didn’t want to get lost in Maeve’s home—that would be inviting disaster. So, I stuck close to Siobhan out of self-preservation. And if I noticed the strappy black heels she wore, and the tone of her long, slender legs, it was only because I didn’t want to get lost in Maeve’s great big interdimensional doorway of a house. Or so I told myself.
“Maeve has been waiting for you to show. It appears you serve some purpose in her grand scheme.” She tossed her hair back and glanced at me over her shoulder. “I, however, remain unimpressed.”
I tsked. “Maeve might not appreciate you sharing her secrets, Siobhan.”
She paused in mid-stride. “Oh, it’s hardly a secret how Maeve has you tangled in her web. Still, consider this a friendly warning to watch yourself as you go about her business. One never knows what they might step into, doing the dirty work of the fae.”
She sniffed again. Her expression soured slightly, then she resumed her steady march through as yet undiscovered parts of Maeve’s ever-shifting manse.
Our path led into the same study I’d found Maeve in the last time I visited, just after my battle with the fachen and Crowley. However, the route we’d taken was completely unfamiliar. I doubted I could find my way back to the front door if my life depended on it. Fae homes were tricky, and rooms in Maeve’s house seemed to shift places constantly; in the times I’d been here, I’d never walked through her home the same way twice.
Siobhan curtsied as she approached her queen, a reminder that I was in the presence of fae royalty—albeit royalty who looked like nothing more than an attractive, well-heeled soccer mom. That guise was pure deception; Maeve put on a great show about being a harmless society hostess, but in fact she was queen of the Austin fae, as dangerous as a hat full of rattlesnakes on a hot summer day. The last time I had entered this room, she’d been studying some arcane tome that had given me a headache when I stared at it. Today, she was reading an ancient-looking illuminated Bible. Revelation, if I had to guess.
“That’ll be all, Siobhan. Thank you.”
Maeve dismissed her great-granddaughter with a wave of her hand. Siobhan curtsied again and left the room, giving me a brief warning look as she departed. I didn’t know what she was playing at, but based on my previous if limited experiences with Siobhan, her “friendly warning” had been anything but.
I turned my attention to the fae queen and her current studies. “The Bible, Maeve? Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type.”
She arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips slightly. “‘Devils also believe, and tremble,’” she stated simply, closing the huge, leather-bound book and setting it aside. “You’re no stranger to it, from what I gather.”
That was true, but I stood as far from mainstream faith as you could get. My mom had raised me Protestant, but after my first glimpse into the world beneath, you could say I’d had a crisis of faith. However, my therapist Dr. Larsen had insisted I needed a spiritual community for support and encouragement during my recovery. Instead of returning to those saccharine sweet rock concert churches my mom seemed to favor, I’d ended up at the Eastern Orthodox Church downtown, the polar opposite of the evangelical churches of my youth.
Many of the parishioners there were either refugees from religious persecution overseas, or they had relatives suffering the same. I felt more at home around folks who prayed their relatives wouldn’t starve to death, or that they’d be spared execution just one more day, than I did around people who prayed for things like a better job or that Johnny would pop the question. It was petty and judgmental of me, without a doubt, but the best I could manage most days.
I cleared my throat. “I came to you today because Finn suggested I might need your—advice—on a certain matter I’m dealing with.”
She smiled briefly, as if she’d gained some minor victory. Whether it was due to my discomfort regarding the topic of my faith, or being forced to ask for her assistance, I wasn’t sure. I assumed both. With Maeve, a razor’s edge was all she needed to turn things in her favor.
“You’ve come across the work of a necromancer. And you need my advice on how to stop this person, before they cause Luther any serious trouble.”
“Have you been spying on me, Maeve?”
She chuckled. “Of course, my boy. Of course I have. But I smelled it on you when you walked in—I mean, you absolutely reek of necromancy. If I didn’t know any better, I might say you had been participating in a ritual yourself.”
I resisted the urge to sniff my pits, and decided I’d take her word for it. As had happened with Finn back at the condemned house, I was somehow inured to the scent and effects of the necromancer’s magic. I hoped that wouldn’t cause me any trouble in tracking this person down, and decided I should focus my query on that very topic.
“Well, it’s good to know you care. Now, are you aware of any means I might use to track this individual down? So far I’ve killed two ghouls, and I suspect there will be more showing up soon. Imagine if one got loose in Zilker with the music festival in full tilt. One ghoul among 100,000 people could do a lot of damage.”
She sat back and clasped her hands in her lap, careful not to wrinkle her white linen pants. It might have been after Labor Day, but this was the South, and ladies wore white all the way until Thanksgiving. Maeve, being the epitome of understated fashion she was, wore it with aplomb.
“Impossible for that to happen. We long ago warded the park to keep the undead out, for fear they’d hunt humans after dark. This was before your time, and well before the Circle and Luther’s kin had hammered out their truce.”
“You decided to keep those wards in place, even after the city had achieved a relatively stable peace?”
She arched one eyebrow and slightly closed her eyes.
“We fae aren’t eternal, but we come close. After you’ve seen factions come and go over the millennia, and witnessed wars between those factions and the relatively short-lived times of peace that always follow, you learn to be skeptical about such matters.”
Maeve straightened her pant leg and her expression darkened.
“War will return to this city. When it does, the fae will be ready.” She leaned forward and crossed her legs, resting her hands on one knee. “Now, as for your immediate situation, I would advise you to seek the knowledge of someone who is familiar with the act of reanimating the dead. And, in doing so, perhaps you might even find your necromancer, hmm?”
“Sounds reasonable. Who would you suggest?”
She reached into the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a business card. Maeve always seemed to have someone’s business card handy, like some supernatural majordomo who specialized in making connections between wizards, witches, and things that went bump in the night. She handed a cheap, multicolored card to me.
“Here. This is the person you need to speak with.”
“Madame Rousseau’s palm and tarot readings?” I sighed and slipped the card in my pocket. “If you say so. But I fail to see how some third-rate shyster is going to help me find a necromancer.”
“Madame Rousseau—not her real name, obviously—is a vodoun priestess, and per
haps the area’s chief expert on magical zombism. If anyone should know how to track down a necromancer, she will.”
I nodded. “And you think she might be connected in some way?”
Maeve tilted her head. “Unless you wish to have another curse placed on you, I suggest you don’t insinuate anything of the kind when meeting her. But yes, there’s a possibility—necromancy is a very small world. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to which I must attend.”
She favored me with a glance, then turned her attention to the ancient tome once more.
“Um, there is one more thing.” I cringed as I said it.
“Yes?” She looked smug as she waited for me to elaborate.
“I have this friend who needs an attorney—someone who can be discreet regarding supernatural affairs.”
“I know just the person.” She reached into her magical business card drawer and pulled out another, this one printed on thick white linen paper.
I read the card. “‘Borovitz and Feldstein, Attorneys at Law.’ Can I trust them to be discreet?”
“In all matters, mundane and supernatural. If your friend is having legal troubles that are due to magical complications, well—they’ll be in good hands.”
I tucked the card safely away. “You’ve been a great help.” I turned to leave, but paused. My eyes narrowed. “Alright, what’s the catch?”
“The catch? You mean in exchange for my advice, or for the Maori’s legal fees?”
I tried not to let my surprise show. Damn it, but she knew everything.
“Both, I suppose.”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something. No need to worry about it this very moment, however. You do have a necromancer to catch, do you not?”
At that, she waved me off like she had with Siobhan, returning to her reading without so much as a goodbye. The moment she dismissed me, Siobhan appeared in the doorway. I followed her out of the study and into yet another unfamiliar passage, one completely different from our earlier route.
“I trust your conversation with Maeve was enlightening?”
She spoke without bothering to look at me, as we strolled into a room I’d never seen on any of my previous visits. This one was some sort of trophy room, with antique firearms in glass cases, suits of armor on display, and weaponry on the walls. I wondered where they’d come from, since fae weren’t known to use iron weapons. Then I realized they were actual trophies. Maeve would never be so gauche as to hang a human’s head on the parlor wall.
“It was helpful, I think. At least now I have something to go on.”
Abruptly, we arrived at the front entrance. Our journey out had taken much less time than our journey in; I decided not to dwell on how we’d done it. Siobhan opened the door for me, leaning on it languidly as I exited.
“Just remember what I said, druid. False steps are easy to come by when you’re dealing with the fae.”
I paused on the doorstep and tipped an imaginary hat to her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.” She smiled, not in a friendly way, and shut the door in my face. I swore the gargoyles laughed at me as I walked off.
Chapter Eight
Things were about to get serious, so I decided to get my shit in order before I really stepped in it. My priorities were first, to get Hemi released, and second, to follow up on this vodoun priestess Maeve wanted me to see. But before that, I needed to make sure I was ready for things to get ugly.
I kept most of my gear and weapons in my Craneskin Bag, a magical artifact of no small importance handed down through the MacCumhaill family since the days of Fionn himself. The bag had some very peculiar properties, and I suspected its magic had grown over the centuries. For one, it acted as a portal of sorts to a pocket dimension, one accessible only to me. As far as I could tell, it was capable of holding an infinite number of items, so long as they fit through the bag’s opening. This meant I could store any manner of handheld tool or weapon inside. Since items inside the bag resided elsewhere in time and space, the bag never increased in size or mass—no matter how much I put in it.
An important characteristic of the bag was how it worked, which also limited its utility quite a bit. When you stored something inside, somehow the bag would mark its “place” so you’d know where to find it again when you needed it. Unfortunately, the bag worked a lot like a computer, having only so much short-term “memory” available for immediate access, while storing the remainder of its contents in long-term storage. Meaning, I could only place so many items in quick access inside the bag. Seven, to be exact. This forced me to be very judicious with my gear selection and how I arranged everything.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t access the other items inside; it just took a great deal of concentration and rummaging to do so. Not to mention that it was generally unpleasant, as I had to communicate with the bag’s intelligence to locate what I wanted. I found the sentience it possessed to be altogether creepy and alien, so I avoided digging around inside the bag whenever possible. I was pretty sure its sentience was Lugh’s doing. No one, not even Finn, had ever been able to confirm or deny my suspicions.
This was also the primary reason I kept the bag within arm’s reach at all times. Like all powerful magic items, it was both a blessing and a curse, because the thing was ornery as hell. One of its favorite “tricks” was letting semi-sentient objects loose from within its depths, which I supposed it did just to see what would happen. That was another mystery of the bag; no one really knew everything it held. Considering that some seventy generations of MacCumhaills had carried this bag, and knowing all the trouble they’d seen, it was a foregone conclusion that the bag held things better left alone. More than once when I’d neglected the bag for an extended period, it had released magical items that caused no small amount of grief.
Like I said, it was a blessing and burden both.
Whatever eldritch magics had been used by the Tuatha Dé Danann to create it, the actual mechanics of how it worked were a mystery. Knowing the fae, I wouldn’t have been surprised if there was an entire world on the other side of the bag, with little alien people running around dusting my belongings and handing them to me when needed. I’d never worked up enough courage to stick my head inside the bag to find out, fearing I’d see the vast emptiness of the Nameless Depths and lose my sanity, or have my head bitten off by some Elder Thing. Certain mysteries were better left unanswered, and even a fool like me knew when to leave well enough alone.
Despite how I dreaded digging around inside the bag, I needed to make sure I was prepared for any emergency. I reluctantly spent a few minutes rummaging around inside, with that alien intelligence plucking information from my mind all the while. Often, the bag would show me an image of what I wanted before the thought had fully formed.
Damned creepy, that.
I tried to be as quick as possible, grabbing useful items and placing them within easy reach. Med kit? Check. Short sword? Check. Possibles bag full of various useful spells I’d prepared? Check, even though the concept of a magic bag inside a magic bag seemed a bit ridiculous. Spare change of clothes? Never left home without them. That left three slots.
Since I’d shredded my urban hunting uniform when my ríastrad had taken over during my fight with the fachen, I definitely needed some protective gear. That meant pulling out an old set of armor from my days with Jesse, and dragging out old memories as well. But it couldn’t be helped; it’d take too long to ward a new outfit, and I simply didn’t have the time to spare. So, I snagged a set of my old motorcycle leathers from long-term storage, placing them within easy reach.
Two slots left. Time to pick an equalizer or two.
My first selection was an easy choice, a silenced Glock with a thirty-round magazine. Sure, I was druid-trained, but I’d also been taught to use modern technology when it suited the job better than magic. And few magic spells were as quick and sure as a 9mm hollow-point round to the head, especially where the undead were concerned. I made
a note to load it with silver-tipped ammo when I had time, just in case. It paid to be careful in this line of work.
Finally, I’d need something for hand-to-hand combat with a little more oomph than a mundane short sword. Good old cold iron was fine for most creatures, but it never hurt to have something with extra juice as back-up. At first I reached for my enchanted, always-returning spear, but then I decided against it. It was too long for working in close quarters, and I was most certainly going to be doing some of that before this job was through. Instead, I hesitantly reached for an old standby, the perfect tool for the job even though I had reservations about using it.
All set. It was time to recruit some backup.
I called Belladonna and told her what I intended, and despite her protests she agreed to set the meeting up with Gunnarson for me. I sipped a cup of cold brew in a secluded corner of Luther’s coffee shop, waiting for her to show up and wondering whether this was a good idea. For a moment I considered calling the meeting off, then I heard the barista greet Bells by name. Too late to change your mind now, McCool.
I stood and extended my hand as they entered, attempting to be as cordial as possible. “Commander Gunnarson, thanks for coming.”
He regarded my hand as if I carried leprosy, and his Sam Elliott mustache twitched as he sneered.
“I’m not here to make friends with you, McCool. Becerra already filled me in on this potential ghoul infestation. Why don’t you just give me your pitch, I’ll hear you out, and then we can both agree not to see each other until I attend your funeral. Deal?”
I held my tongue and nodded, then took a seat. Bells stood loosely at parade rest behind her commander. Gunnarson sat opposite of me, arms crossed while he fixed me with a steely gaze. This was going to be a tough sell.