by Amy Hoff
“Neither do you,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“You know things about this city and its happenings, more than any of us do. Want to tell us if you've heard anything?”
She shook out her hair, and made a noise of unwilling cooperation. Dorian folded his arms. She put her red lips around her cigarette and inhaled slowly, enjoying Dorian's impatience.
“Not much. I just know someone's angry but I'm still not sure why. Nobody trusts a vampire. You certainly don't trust me.”
“Our kind does not trust yours, obviously,” he replied. He stood there staring for a moment, and seemed to lose some inner battle.
“Will you keep us posted if you do hear anything?” he finally asked.
“Anything you want, gorgeous,” she bit out, flicking the butt of her cigarette into the street. She walked back into the club and slammed the door.
“That went well,” observed Leah.
***
Leah walked home, if a hotel could be called home. She mulled over what she knew, again and again, in her mind. Why use a phrase like Murdering Reality, an anti-human slogan, if the killer was human? From what she understood of folklore, faeries were incredibly resilient, if not immortal. How could a mere human kill them?
She walked along the bridge on Great Western Road, breathing in the city and considering various aspects of the case. She wondered how the killer would be able to access Caledonia, given the difficulty of doing so without magic. This meant that someone within the station was probably at fault, or was somehow related to the killer. She paused underneath one of the sodium lamps that made up the streetlights of the city, casting an orange glow that, from afar, made Glasgow look like it was on fire.
Leah suddenly realised she was merely thinking like a police officer about a case, rather than the fact that she had just learned that Faerie was a real place, and that the various monsters she had spent her life daydreaming about were as real and solid as the bridge beneath her feet.
The air was cool and brisk, a light mist settled against her skin. She stopped to look down into the water of the river. She needed to brush up on her monster lore. And she needed a strong glass of whisky. Maybe a bottle.
Definitely a bottle.
Chapter Three
Leah opened one eye and surveyed the land beyond her pillow. She had the vague sense of a residual hangover, and that something very strange had happened. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, yawning. Suddenly she started. It hadn’t been a dream. She was a detective now – with the monsters of Glasgow. There weren’t a lot of things that could make a difference to her at the moment, but faeries are real has a way of burning through the worst hangover. She made herself tea, and sat down to stare at the wall for a good ten minutes. She caught her reflection in the mirror, and the scar that, starting at her right eye, swept back towards her hairline. She thought of the pains she had taken all her life to hide it. She thought of her memory of how it had happened, back in her childhood; how no one had believed her, and eventually convinced her she’d imagined it all. It had led to her ultimately pursuing a career in folklore.
Leah thought back on what had happened the day before, and smiled. Outside the window, children were playing, shouting and chasing each other in the rain. She realised she had been smiling since she woke up. The feeling was unfamiliar.
Leah drank down the remains of her tea and set the cup back into the saucer. She started the kettle boiling again. Here it was – her dream, fully realised. Had she been aware that there was a career path of ‘faerie police officer’ she was fairly sure she would have signed up years ago. She could think of several other scholars who would have done the same.
As she poured her second cup of tea, she wondered about her future: was it time to be smart? All her life, she could see two paths before her, one dark and uncertain, and another where she lived a common life, with security and stability, and she got a watch at the end.
“No,” she said aloud to herself. “I want more than a watch. I always have.”
Someone knocked on the door.
She crossed the small hotel room and opened the door.
Standing there, in his Victorian splendour, was Dorian Grey. He smiled and offered his arm.
“Care to join me, Miss Bishop?” he asked.
The door closed, and steam rose from the cup of tea, forgotten on the countertop.
***
They went to a local pub for the last hours of serving. Leah sat across from Dorian at a table near the back. This was the pub of choice for those who worked at Caledonia Interpol; it made them feel comfortable. A subterranean treehouse, by the name of Waxy O'Connor's. The labyrinthine rooms and passageways often reminded them of the land of Faerie – their true home, and their eventual destination, once the human world ceased to be. For now, they walked the earth with humans, but Waxy's was a breath of home.
Dorian was a mystery to Leah. Even in the darkness of the pub, she noticed the sadness behind his eyes, a deep ocean chasm. His composure was as supernatural as he was. His refined attitude, dress sense, and gentlemanly demeanour made him undeniably attractive. Yet, he moved through the world as though he never noticed other people at all.
“I hope you don't mind my asking,” she said, “but – it seems you could have anyone you wanted, but you’re alone. Why?”
Dorian looked up from his drink and flashed a rare smile.
“We mate with humans,” he said. “Selkies have two separate purposes, and only two. The first is to find someone who has been disappointed in love, and… comfort them.”
Leah grinned at the implication.
“The second,” he continued, “is to fall in love, with a human. Someone whose heart has been broken can cry seven tears into the sea and call a selkie lover. If this happens, we fall in love, forever.”
“Sounds romantic,” said Leah.
“Does it?” he said. “I suppose it must seem that way, to you. However, there is no getting over it for a seal-man. Once he has fallen, it is for the rest of his life. He cannot love another.”
“I think I can empathise,” Leah said. “So...who was she, your human?”
“A divorcee,” said Dorian. “She cried seven tears into the sea. She didn't even realise she was doing it. I went to her and comforted her. I loved her, as only a selkie can. As you may know, this does not guarantee the love will be returned.”
“Yes,” Leah said dryly. “I know.”
“Once her heart had mended, she left me,” he said. He looked at Leah.
“What about you?” he asked. “I recognise heartbreak when I hear it.”
Leah stared into her pint for a while. She had expected to run away from her past, everything still being so painful. And yet, with this selkie, the story poured out of her, as if her soul would be cleansed in the telling. Maybe this was selkie magic, too.
“He was...the love of my life,” she managed. “I had never met anyone like him before. I was impressed with him. He was so stylish, you know, so at ease with himself and the world. Musical, a great dancer, everything I could ever want in a man. He spent a lot of time away. With work, he said. Then, one day, he just didn't come home. And I found out that he hadn't been away at work.”
Dorian nodded, as though he already knew the story.
“Oldest story in the book, really,” she said, to show she knew it too. “But it's harder when it's your own.”
“Yes,” said Dorian. “The pain never really ends, through the centuries.”
There was a pause. Leah stared at him.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“The seal-folk don't mark age,” he replied, “but for your purposes, I was at the court of Louis XIV.” Leah stared at him.
“And what a pompous arsehole he was,” Dorian added.
Leah laughed. He raised an eyebrow.
“Magnificent, though,” he said. Leah shook her head.
“Isn’t it difficult, working with a human?” she asked
.
“On the contrary, we need humans,” he replied. “Especially humans like yourself, who understand us.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you,” she laughed, and drank her beer.
“More than most,” Dorian said, following suit. His phone buzzed. Leah watched with amusement as the Victorian gentleman pulled a mobile phone out of a pocket in his tailcoat. He looked down at it.
“Time to go,” he said.
“What?” she asked, suddenly alert. “Is there another body?”
“No,” he said, showing her the phone. “The kelpie that lives in the Clyde is being a nuisance, and we have to get it out.”
Leah grabbed her coat and followed Dorian into the rainy night.
***
The night was cloudy and dark beside the river. Leah peered over the side of the wall into the water. She could barely see the ripples on the surface.
“Can you see anything?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Dorian said.
Red eyes appeared beneath the water and were gone in an instant.
“Did you –” Leah began.
“– see that?” Dorian finished.
“Yes,” they both said. Suddenly, there was a loud roar, and a cascade of water.
The monster reared out of the waves, soaking them in a deluge. It roared again, exposing rows of shark-like teeth. It looked like a great black dragon with a serpentine neck. The dull lights of the city glittered off of its black scales. Dorian took a step back. Leah planted her feet on the pavement, determined to stay just where she was.
“What now?” she hissed. And the monster began to sway, side to side. It wheezed, and snuffled loudly, water fountaining from its snout. Dorian stared hard at the creature, and then began to laugh. Leah turned to him in astonishment. The kelpie made some hooting noises that sounded almost musical. It swayed back and forth, ululating and whuffling.
“It's drunk, Miss Bishop,” said Dorian. “It's singing along to the bagpipes.”
“It's...what?” Leah said, looking at the monster, which made a whrrrrrr sound.
“It's drunk,” Dorian repeated, grinning, “and it's purring. I think it needs to sober up, and get out of the river for now.”
“Dorian,” she said quietly. “This is a kelpie, the child-eating monster? Is this...is it safe? Shouldn't we take it out of the river?”
Dorian looked at her and his smile faded.
“You're right, of course,” he said. “It's dangerous, but it has lived in the Clyde since I can remember.”
He sighed, and squared his shoulders.
“Nothing for it, then, is there?” he said.
And he removed his brocade tailcoat, his waistcoat, and his shirt. Leah turned away out of modesty, wondered why she had, and then resolutely turned around again because she pretty much lived for these sorts of opportunities. As a purely aesthetic exercise, of course.
Dorian was in the river. She hadn't seen him move or jump – and she hadn't heard a splash. Still in the shape of a man, he cut through the water as though he were a part of it. He was beside the kelpie in a moment, laying a hand on its hide. It roared, startled, and looked down at the man beneath it, baring its great teeth.
“I wouldn't,” Leah heard Dorian say, and then saw a flash of brilliant blue radiate from his eyes.
He guided its head down towards the water, and whispered drink. Leah thought she would never get used to that, so often she seemed to forget what he truly was.
The kelpie froze, and became as docile as a lamb, drinking the water as directed. When it had finished, Dorian swam alongside it, guiding it to the stairs along the wall. It placed a claw upon the concrete as the selkie hauled himself up onto the stairs.
Leah wasn't sure how it happened. All she saw was the huge dragon-like head flash downwards at Dorian, and she was suddenly right there, her fist connecting with its snout. The kelpie yelped in surprise and pain. It swung its massive head to look down at her. She stared at it, then crossed her arms. Water sluiced down onto her from the great creature's body, and she was completely drenched. Suddenly, she burst out laughing, and laughed loud, a sound of freedom and wonder. Dorian smiled.
He then pulled the creature up the steps along with him. As it stepped onto dry land, its body folded in upon itself. A white horse stood in its place – the most beautiful Leah had ever seen. It swayed a little, and Dorian looked into its eyes.
“Walk it off,” he said softly. “Do not bother the people of this city, or you will have to answer to us. We protect Glasgow. Remember me, and remember her. Be on your best behaviour, or we shall hear of it. You do not want that.”
His eyes flashed that brilliant blue again as he stood there, his hand on the horse's flank. The kelpie looked at Dorian for a long time, and then nickered, nuzzling his side. Dorian slapped the kelpie's flank, and the horse went on its way alone, swaying from side to side as it vanished into the distance.
Beautiful and deadly, thought Leah, both of them.
Then Dorian beamed at her, breaking the spell, and she smiled back. They both began laughing, and he swept a hand through his wet hair, shaking the water out of it. They walked back to Caledonia, talking about many things.
Chapter Four
The neon haze seemed to filter in and out. Dylan stared at the sign. He knew he could read. He could remember reading at some point. Time for the chippy, he thought. Too many £1.99 glasses of wine. He was a self-respecting ned, but he wouldn't say no to a bargain, wine or otherwise. Cheap alcohol was good alcohol, and he didn't care what anyone thought about his choice of beverage. It didn't make him any less of a man, or a ned – it made him resourceful and adaptive. Or so he told himself, anyway. Secretly, he just really liked wine, and even the swill they sold at this pub reminded him of his private love for the finer things.
He felt the soft pockets of his hoodie and was overjoyed to discover there was a packet of Mayfairs in them. He opened it and felt the deep disappointment of a drunk who doesn’t have any more money to spend and has forgotten that he breathed his last smoke a while ago. He’d regret it in the morning, of course. Smoking too many cigarettes while drinking left the worst taste in his mouth, but at the moment he just wanted a fag.
He stared up at the statue of a Highlander, standing in front of him and wearing a puzzled expression. Dylan furrowed his brow, trying to coax forth a memory of this statue. It didn’t work. He couldn’t remember when they had put this statue up, nor why it would have such a strange look on its face. In fact, Dylan was certain he had never seen it before. Especially not right in front of his favourite Wetherspoon’s. It was his favourite because they had the cheapest bottles of wine in Glasgow.
He wasn’t even sure he’d been kicked out of the pub, he just knew that he’d collapsed in the doorway. Or in a doorway. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure where he was. Then the statue spoke to him.
“Pardon me,” said the statue in the thickest teuchter accent Dylan had ever heard. Dylan gaped.
“Aye?” asked Dylan.
“Do you know the way to the cattle market?” the statue asked, in such heavily accented English and in such a carefully pronounced way that Dylan wondered if other countries had teuchters, too. In a flash of drunken brilliance, he realised of course they must and suddenly felt warm and connected to the rest of the world.
“Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate,” Dylan said, then realised the record was skipping, adjusted and reset. “Got a fag, mate?”
The statue didn’t seem to understand him. Dylan sighed theatrically.
“D’you have a cigarette, pal?” he grumbled, enunciating every syllable.
“No…” said the statue, then, pronouncing its words very carefully again, “Do you know the way to the cattle market?”
“Wit?” Dylan began to sober up.
“Cattle market?” Dylan repeated. “There’s no’ been a cattle market in Glasgow since…wull, since Bonnie Prince Charlie died, God rest his soul.”
Dylan felt that a
bit of 3 a.m. patriotism was never amiss. The statue looked startled.
“Charles is dead?!” it shouted.
Dylan peered up at the statue. He now realized that standing in front of him was an honest-to-God Highland swordsman, like the kind he’d once seen on a television programme about the American Highland Games. He stared at the statue again. Flowing hair, strong muscles, a friendly and smiling face that nevertheless said if you make a sudden move I will break you in half.
“I’m Tearlach, of Glengoyne,” said the Highlander, holding out his hand. “I follow Iain.”
Dylan goggled at him. Of course that would be his name. He wondered vaguely who Iain was.
“Dylan,” he said, and shook the other man's hand.
Tearlach took this opportunity to help him up.
“A bit too much drink, Dylan?” he grinned.
Dylan was horrified to note that the man looked like the cover of a romance novel. He was even wearing a kilt. Piercing blue eyes, perfect silhouette, the works. Dylan could only make a low sound in his throat.
“Nothing a good walk won’t cure, let’s go,” Tearlach continued. “You Lowlanders never could hold your liquor.”
In a daze, Dylan let Tearlach lead him down Sauchiehall Street.
Someone was going to have to explain everything to him again when he was sober.
Leaning on Tearlach's shoulder as the sun came up, Dylan led the man through the chain-link gate to his dreary block of council flats. He fished in his pocket for the key, and after a few heroic efforts, snagged it between two fingers. He pushed the door open, past piles of the Sun and the Daily Mail on the floor, and let Tearlach step past him. He stood in the kitchen in awe.
Dylan turned the tap on the sink and Tearlach stared in wonder as the water poured out. Dylan watched his new houseguest as the man hesitantly splashed water on himself from the sink. He seemed to suspect witchcraft. Dylan felt a little threatened in his masculinity by the fantasy Highland warrior in front of him.