Before Robin could respond, the doors swung open with a breathy whisper, and he urged me forward…into a different, heavenly world.
That looked remarkably like a bar.
A speakeasy, to be precise. If you’ve never been to or haven’t heard of one, a speakeasy is a bar concept that was incredibly popular during the Prohibition Era—bars hidden in plain sight that could be converted at a moment’s notice. When they weren’t being used, they could look like anything: a gentlemen’s lounge, a sitting room, a barber shop. But add a little liquor and a little music and suddenly you had yourself a speakeasy.
The El Fae had both. A live band played in the far corner of the room and a smoky haze permeated the place, adding to the atmosphere. Stunning—and by that, I mean truly ethereal—waitresses with excessively pierced, pointy ears dropped off drinks at tables whose occupants were hidden within the curve of the booths that encircled them. Clearly, privacy was a priority, here.
For those who preferred social interaction, a bar lined the far-right side, occupied by more than a few patrons, most of whom seemed content to enjoy the music and nurse their drinks, oblivious to Robin and me. A few, however, turned to look our way.
I’ll admit, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
I’d expected to run into a couple of odd-looking Faelings while I was here; they couldn’t all look like Ryan and the waitresses, a shade too beautiful to be entirely human.
But I hadn’t been prepared for this.
“It’s the Irish girl!” a woman at the bar exclaimed, elbowing her companion, although the motion looked especially odd considering the woman’s head hung in the crook of that very arm.
“Cassandra,” I replied, waving slightly, surprisingly relieved to find a friend here. Well, somewhat. I ignored Robin’s piercing stare and the questions warring across his face and focused instead on the headless horsewoman I’d met a few months ago—when she’d helped open the portal to send Ryan back to Fae. Back then, however, she’d been astride a horse. Now she straddled a barstool.
Cassandra hopped off her stool and sauntered over as the doors shut behind us. I noticed two ogres in standard bouncer t-shirts—all black and tight as hell—posted up at the entrance. Cassandra eyed Robin for a moment before dismissing him, turning slightly to introduce her companion, a woman with long, unruly black hair which obscured most of her face, including her eyes. “This is my girlfriend, Barbara. She prefers to go by Barb, though.”
“Pleasure to meet ye, I’m Quinn,” I said.
Barb said nothing. I realized Cassandra was weaving the fingers of one hand in the air, and eventually Barb did the same with two, her hands flying.
“Barb says it’s her pleasure, and to tell you she loves your hair,” Cassandra explained, grinning as she flicked a strand of my hair. “Very fiery.”
“Oh, well, t’anks.”
Cassandra conveyed my response, then turned to me, signing as she went so her girlfriend could follow the conversation. “Barb’s deaf, you see. An occupational hazard that afflicts many Banshees who don’t take their aural care seriously.” Cassandra flashed her girlfriend a chiding look.
A deaf Banshee. A deaf, lesbian Banshee.
Rock on.
“What are ye doin’ here?” I asked. The last time I’d seen Cassandra, she’d been escorting Ryan through a Gateway into Fae. After meeting her, I’d done some research on the Dullahan, the mythical headless horse riders, and discovered they had the unique ability to open portals from one realm to the other. Supposedly, that was their main duty when they weren’t scaring the shit out of people on the Scottish moors. Cassandra, on the other hand, was the closest thing the Fae had to a media liaison; she monitored upticks in Fae and Manling interaction, which included overseeing various social media platforms. But, from what she’d indicated back then, she’d seemed less than impressed by the Chancery. Finding her here was definitely a surprise.
“I was invited, actually,” Cassandra replied.
“I thought Cassandra might be interested to see what passes for entertainment here in the human realm,” a man said, joining our conversation. He was about my height with medium-length, wavy hair, built lean and broad-shouldered, but trapped in the earliest stages of muscle growth—stuck in the body of a high school senior swim prodigy. He wore a thin v-neck cardigan that displayed far too much chest, a pair of light blue slacks, and boating shoes.
Oh, and he was blue.
Not uniformly blue, like a Smurf. But his skin definitely had a bluish tinge. His hair was two tones shy of navy and a full shade lighter than his lips, which were glossy and tinted, like black ice. By far what stood out, however, were his eyes—an icy, electric blue, several shades lighter than Robin’s. He used these to look me up and down in a haughty, disdainful fashion that immediately rankled me.
“Quinn,” Cassandra interjected, indicating the newcomer, “I’d like you to meet Jack.”
“Jack Frost,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
Robin hissed and even Cassandra seemed taken aback. Barb said nothing, but I got the feeling she, too, disapproved. I glanced at them and then at the proffered hand. “Why do I feel like I’m missin’ somethin’?” I asked.
“Jack, that’s very rude,” Cassandra chastised.
Robin leaned in. “It’s his power. He can use it to freeze you, turn you into a statue forever if he wants.” Robin glared at the other man. “It would be very much frowned upon, but not technically violent. The ice would melt…eventually.”
I didn’t know whether or not to believe Robin, but if this really was Jack Frost, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out he had that ability. Sometimes—especially when we’re tucked away beneath blankets in front of a roaring fireplace with a mug of hot chocolate in hand—we forget what it means to freeze. We forget that winter used to be synonymous with death, and that it still is, in many places. That winter kept us locked away in our homes. It starved us out or stole our warmth away. The man in front of me represented all of those things—its cold beauty, yes, but also its cruelty.
I took a deep breath, deciding to give everyone something to talk about…
And accepted the bastard’s freakishly chilly handshake.
Chapter 13
Nothing happened.
Well, nothing happened to me.
Everyone else, Jack included, stared at me like I’d shoved a fork in a light socket. For a brief moment, I considered giving an Oscar worthy performance and acting like his frigid hand had frozen me solid but doubted I could win one by standing perfectly still in a dress. I mean, who was I, Keira Knightley?
“Nice to meet ye, Jack,” I said, grinding his knuckles together for good measure. It was petty, but I’d taken a gamble by shaking the Faeling’s hand, so I was feeling a little giddy, and maybe a little cocky that my field had worked as it usually did, for once. It felt like I’d leapt off a cliff into a frothing ocean and survived. “And to t’ink, I’d expected a chilly greetin’ from ye lot…how silly of me,” I said, eyes roving the room before settling on Jack.
He looked like someone had shoved an icicle up his ass.
Honestly, what I’d done was incredibly risky. But what you have to remember is that the Fae don’t think like we do. Faelings might as well have coined the term “might is right.” They respected one thing: strength. And I was stuck in a dimly lit bar underground with a host of beings whose abilities had earned them leading roles in children’s nightmares.
Without weapons.
To them, I wasn’t a threat. I was an oddity—a cat that could use the toilet. Jack’s offer had revealed not only his disdain, but also what I could expect from many of the Faelings I was bound to run into in a place like this—subtle acts of mischief or malice that skirted the line between tomfoolery and torment. Manlings, even Freaks, were mere playthings to the Fae; our mortality made us cute, precious.
But I was no one’s toy.
And now they knew that.
Jack stared down at our ha
nds, blinking rapidly. Cassandra coughed into her hand. “Well, I’m glad to see the rumors weren’t exaggerated. I’ll admit, after watching Dorian Gray’s latest Fight Night, I had wondered—”
“Wait, that was you?” Robin asked, incredulously, staring me up and down as if only just now recognizing me.
Jack finally pried his hand free and rubbed it self-consciously. “What are you all talking about?” he asked, clearly displeased to be left out, but eager for a change of topic from his frigid impotence. He folded his arms stubbornly—the first and only guest at his very own pity party.
“This young lady, whom I had the pleasure to meet once before,” Cassandra said as she signed, making sure Barb could follow along, “took on Gomorrah. A Biblical entity. One of the Unclean.”
Barb signed back at Cassandra, who nodded and replied with her own fingers, speaking as she went, “Yes, those. There’s at least a dozen of them, from what I understand. Mercenary types. They don’t serve any one individual for very long and can be contacted in various ways.”
That was news to me. Until I’d run across Sodom and Gomorrah in New York City, I’d never even heard of the Unclean. Admittedly, the name sort of did all the work for me, but I’d done some research on my own. In fact, my Google search had netted a ton of results.
That was an hour of my life I would never get back.
At this point, I was simply glad I’d survived. Taking on a giant, millennia-old rock monster in a one-on-one brawl hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park. If it weren’t for the strange fluctuations of my anti-magic field and the overwhelming amount of firepower I’d had at my disposal, I’d be fertilizing a Master vampire’s lawn right now.
“Contacted how?” Jack asked.
“Oh, you know, virgin sacrifices. Massacres. Betrayal of a loved one. Standard ritual procedures,” Cassandra replied offhandedly, then patted Barb—who’d flung her hands about in disgust—on the shoulder. “I know, very barbaric, I agree.”
“Ah,” Jack said, then thumbed at me. “And how did this Manling win against the creature she faced?” he asked in a tone that made it apparent he thought it a fluke—like the Unclean had tripped and knocked himself out by accident.
“I blew apart his leg and made him crawl on his belly,” I replied, choosing to speak for myself. “He was rude and needed to be taught a lesson. Probably a side effect of bein’ an immortal prick. Sound familiar?”
Jack sneered openly, lowering his arms aggressively, hoarfrost suddenly coating his knuckles.
“Quinn,” Robin said eagerly, leaning in, “we should get moving.”
I realized Robin was right; Christoff needed me, and I needed answers. The more time we spent delaying here, the less time my friend had. Besides, if this kept up, I’d be forced to knock Jack Frost flat on his ice-cold ass. “Right, lead on,” I said.
“So soon?” Cassandra asked, pouting. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Surely you don’t make it a habit to visit this establishment.”
“She’s meeting with a Court representative,” Robin replied. “Which means she’s expected.” His tone implied that this reason alone should satisfy Cassandra’s curiosity, or at least convince her to leave us be.
“Oh? Which one?” she asked, unperturbed.
“Which one?” I echoed, suddenly curious.
“Well, yes. The Seelie or the Unseelie Court,” Cassandra replied, as if I should know what that meant.
I turned to Robin, who appeared put-off.
“Oh, I see,” Cassandra said. “You haven’t explained how things work here, I take it?”
Robin grumbled something under his breath that I didn’t catch. I frowned at him, then Cassandra, wondering why everyone was being so fucking weird. I was already here. I’d put on the stupid dress, and I’d pissed off Mr. Freeze. Couldn’t we just cut to the chase already?
I mean, Robin was helping me, sure, but I still hadn’t figured out what he was getting out of it. Meanwhile, Cassandra had already made it pretty clear what she wanted—the pleasure of my company, to put it politely. Of the two, however, she seemed the more straightforward, bordering on blunt.
“Would ye mind fillin’ me in?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Cassandra said, brightening. “As I’m sure you know already, there is a balance of power that must be upheld for any organization to function. Your government, for example, runs on a three-branch, essentially two-party model. The Chancery saw the wisdom of adopting a system to control their wilder impulses and, as a result, chose to mimic the governing arrangement of the Fae realm. Though they’ve done a truly shit job of it, I must say. They’ve become far too much like you Manlings with their politics and their compromising.”
Barb signed something.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Cassandra replied, sighing. “Sorry, I’ll keep my personal opinions to myself. Basically, the Seelie court represents what you might call the ‘good’ Fae. The ones who don’t actively try to eat you or ruin your crops or steal your children. The Unseelie are those you would try to avoid on a moonlit evening, or in a dark cave, or a forest in the middle of nowhere. They are less remorseful. In the Chancery’s case, the two operate on a checks and balances system—all legislation requires a majority vote. In the Fae realm, however, one side or the other holds sway and it generally stays that way for a good long while.”
“Which court is in charge right now?” I asked, curious.
“Mine,” Jack Frost said, puffing out his chest, probably compensating for his weak ass handshake. He’d been surprisingly silent during our exchanges up until now, glancing at the door as if waiting for someone to arrive.
Cassandra eyed Frost skeptically. “At present, I don’t know that either has complete control. As you’ll recall, there has been significant upheaval lately.”
I realized Cassandra was likely referring to the death of Ryan’s father and the defeat of the Faerie Queens, both of which had taken place a few months ago; Ryan had been recalled from exile shortly thereafter as a result. I had no idea what the precedent was for such a thing, but—even glancing around the speakeasy—I could sense the unease, the palpable tension.
Almost like a war was coming.
Jack waved her comment away, leaving a trail of frost glittering in the air. “The Queens have everything in hand. King Oberon’s allegiance has been secured. Soon things will return to normal. Wylde,” Jack spat a phlegm-cicle at the ground as he said the word, “the Manling born in Fae, will be dealt with in due time.”
“That remains to be seen,” a Faeling said from a nearby booth. I noticed the band of musicians had fallen silent, perhaps taking a quick intermission.
Jack stiffened, and both Barb and Cassandra whirled around.
“Regardless,” the interrupting Faeling continued, “the Queens’ servants will find no refuge here, Jack Frost. And neither will you, if you insist on picking fights in the El Fae. Winter has come and gone. No matter how hard you blow, you will not make it come a second time.” The Faeling slid out from the booth, rising in a fluid motion that screamed inhuman.
I lost it, wondering if the double entendre there was intentional. “Please,” I said, trying to contain my laughter, “if his punches are anythin’ like his handshake, I’ll be sure to leave the windows open.”
Jack bowed slightly, lowering his eyes, ignoring me entirely. “That was never my intention, forgive me.”
“It is not my forgiveness you should be asking for,” the Faeling replied.
Jack turned a baleful eye my way and inclined his head. “Please accept my apologies.”
I wavered back and forth; I knew it would feel really good to tell the infamous Jack Frost to go fuck himself, but I needed to cultivate at least a little goodwill if I hoped to find answers and being bitchy wouldn’t do me any favors. “Apology accepted,” I replied.
“Ladies,” Jack continued, dipping his head towards Cassandra and Barb, “you must forgive me, but I believe it’s time I take my leave. I hope you enjoyed your visit
.” He took a shuffling step back, then turned on his heel and rapidly headed for the doors. The ogre bouncers had to rush to let him out.
The Faeling who’d spoken watched Jack leave with half-lidded eyes and pursed lips, which gave me plenty of time to study him. Unlike Jack Frost, this Faeling had the body of a fully grown and powerful man, as aesthetically pleasing and proportionate as any I’d ever seen. He was also green. If Jack’s aspect had been winter, then this Faeling’s was spring; his beard was made of twigs and bushes, each strand of his hair a leaf, his teeth carved from the wood of birch trees. He wore a black button-up beneath green suspenders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, veiny—make that viney—forearms.
“Sir,” Robin said, bowing neatly, one hand securing his fedora, “let me introduce Quinn MacKenna. Quinn, this is the Green Knight.”
The Faeling waved that away. “A pretentious title, from a different time. Please, call me Bred.”
Okay, fangirling in three, two, one…I cut myself short with a quick breath.
Play it cool, Quinn. Play it cool.
Bredbeddle, or Bred for short. The Green Knight. As in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. If you haven’t heard the legend, let’s just say he’s a mysterious and powerful figure who—after interrupting festivities long enough to have his head chopped off—eventually judges the worth and loyalty of Sir Gawain, one of King Arthur’s entourage. I had no idea what he was doing here, of all places, but I had to admit I was incredibly curious.
Unlike many of the myths and legends I’d had to research over the course of my career, I’d grown up on Arthurian tales of heroism and intrigue; while Dez was staunchly Catholic and exceptionally anti-British, she’d always had a soft spot for King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. When I was a little girl, I used to strip the broom down to its handle and jab at the empty air, fighting to defend Camelot from its dastardly enemies. Hell, I had a whole slew of corny King Arthur jokes at my disposal.
Who made the Round Table?
Sir Cumference.
“Sir Bredbeddle is one of the court Adjudicators,” Robin explained. “He represents Fae interests and serves as their voice.”
Old Fashioned_A Temple Verse Series Page 8