While the rest of us regarded them with varying degrees of shock, Myrtle replied with equal enthusiasm, “Reuben! I see you are maintaining your usual healthy appetite. Does my spot on the dart team remain open?”
“Absolutely, Mert!” Rube said. “Usual time on Wednesday nights. We need you back. The fairies tried to run in a ringer. Some pixie from Philly. Great bod, but if you don’t keep an eye on her she cheats like a banshee.”
Then realizing what he’d just said, Rube turned to Greer, who was seated by the fire and added apologetically, “Not meaning no implication about present company, Red.”
Greer nodded tolerantly. “I am only distantly related to the banshees,” she said. “As a rule, we baobhan sith have a reputation for more forthright dealings. I personally find all that banshee wailing to be rather melodramatic.”
“My point exactly,” Rube enthused, approaching Myrtle. They exchanged an elaborate handshake complete with a synchronized elbow bump.
That’s when Rube realized we were all staring at them. “What?” he asked indignantly. “I can’t hang out with the big dogs? Speaking with metaphors, of course.”
“Reuben,” Greer said drily, “you wouldn’t recognize a metaphor if it walked up and slapped your charmingly insolent face.”
“Not true,” Rube countered, “I talk immaculate English.”
We all laughed at that. Shrugging, Rube took a bite out of his sandwich. Then, shifting the half-chewed salami to one side of his mouth, he said, “Tell’em about you and me Mert.”
Myrtle seemed to be enjoying our reaction to the whole exchange enormously. “Reuben and his wrecking crew have been of use to me through the years,” she said. “I have always found their lack of awe for my status rather refreshing.”
“In other words,” Tori said with a grin, “you like slumming with them.”
“Hey!” Rube protested. “We don’t hang out in no slums.”
“You work in sewers,” Tori pointed out.
“Hazard of the profession,” Rube said. “Besides, Mert always has a blast with us. Everybody around here treats her like this big deal Fae. She can be a dame with us.”
Smiling tolerantly, Barnaby said, “Need I point out that Myrtle is a ‘big deal Fae?’”
At that, Moira and I exchanged a glance that was not lost on my grandfather. “What?” he said suspiciously. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”
Myrtle stepped in smoothly. “Perhaps we can retire to your study for a few minutes, Barnaby?” she suggested. “There are some matters I would like to discuss with you in private, at least initially.”
Mom shot me a questioning look. I mouthed “it’s okay,” before following Myrtle and Moira into the small room off the parlor.
It didn’t take long for Moira to deliver the results of her assessment of Myrtle’s altered abilities to Barnaby. He listened without interrupting. When the Alchemist finished, he turned to Myrtle, “How are you taking this news?” he asked.
“I somewhat regret the loss of my transmogrification,” she admitted, “but I believe I am still in possession of adequate abilities to be of use to our cause.”
Barnaby laughed. “My dear, Myrtle,” he said, “at even half of your original capacity, you are more naturally powerful than any of us, not to mention the benefit to be derived from your vast experience.”
Inclining her head in what might have been embarrassment, Myrtle said, “Thank you. I do hope that proves to be the case. We’ve rather underestimated Chesterfield, haven’t we?”
Scrubbing tiredly at his face with his hand, Barnaby said, “I am afraid my brother has been underestimated since the day of his birth. The strain of that disparagement twisted what is, undeniably, a brilliant mind.”
Myrtle frowned. “You have revealed the truth of your identity to Jinx?” she asked.
“To Jinx and to the others in her immediate circle,” Barnaby said. “During your absence, Festus in particular expressed suspicion about my decisions regarding Irenaeus following the incident in 1936. It was best for the half truths and obfuscations to end.”
“Agreed,” Myrtle said. “We must all learn as much as we possibly can about your brother’s motivations if we are to stop him.”
“I should have stopped him after he killed Adeline,” Barnaby said bitterly.
That was the first time I’d ever heard my grandfather admit that his younger brother was a murderer.
Moira laid her hand on Barnaby’s arm. “At the time you had no conclusive proof that Irenaeus was the killer.”
“I could have gained that conclusive proof had I been less a coward,” he said tiredly.
They were doing it again.
Raising my hand, I said, “Hold on. I realize this is a highly sensitive subject, but I need you guys to fill in some of these gaps for me.”
My grandfather turned uncertain eyes to Myrtle and then to Moira. The Alchemist leaned forward and ran her fingers soothingly through the graying hair at his temple. “Tell her, darling,” she said softly. “She will not think less of you.”
The tenderness of that gesture alone indicated to me how hard this conversation was for Barnaby. He and Moira never display their affection for one another in front of witnesses.
When Barnaby caught hold of her hand, Moira entwined their fingers and drew him out of his chair to sit beside her on the settee. The proximity seemed to give him the resolve he needed.
“You know the story of my first wife’s murder?” he asked me.
“Most of it,” I admitted. “Chase told me. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Barnaby said. “I rarely speak of those days, so your foreknowledge saves us considerable time. In the wake of Adeline’s death, I used my power of transmogrification to travel in disguise throughout the Continent seeking her killer. In Brussels, I cornered a young apprentice wizard who had been seen in the vicinity of our home in Kent the day of the killing. When I located him, he was in the company of Brenna Sinclair.”
Chase told me that part as well, but at the time, the full implication of it didn’t dawn on me. Now, especially in light of my dreams and my conversation with Greer, I understood perfectly, but I let my grandfather tell his story.
“The Norman Templar Knight to whom my brother apprenticed himself during the Second Crusade was Brenna’s father, Henri de St. Clair. Our families enjoy a long, convoluted history,” Barnaby said. “That day, Brenna would have been quite happy had I forgotten my principles and, like my brother, forfeited my soul.”
He turned his eyes toward the fire in the grate, but his true vision went inward to the landscape of a painful memory. “I intimidated that apprentice — that boy — through every magical means possible. Transmogrification allowed me to wear the face of another man. I could do as I pleased without sullying my reputation in the Fae world — or so I thought until Brenna revealed herself. My focus had been so intent, I did not feel her presence concealed in an antechamber. She had more than enough information with which to damn me and aggrandize herself, but she sought to deliver the coup de grâce, goading me to tighten my fingers on the boy’s neck and wring the life from him. It mattered not to her, or to me, that he withheld nothing. He simply had no information to give. By that time my rage and grief consumed me to the brink of madness.”
“What happened?” I asked softly.
“Moira arrived,” Barnaby said, slipping his arm around the Alchemist’s shoulder and drawing her closer.
“Adeline was my dearest friend,” Moira explained. “She would not have wanted Barnaby to commit a murder to avenge her death. When I learned that he had gone to Brussels to confront the apprentice, I went after him.”
“And I thank the Blessed Universe that you did,” Barnaby said. “Yours was the voice of reason.”
“So that’s why you don’t use your transmogrification,” I said.
My grandfather nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I have no right to make use of that ability after so abusing it for my own self-interest.”
“You are too hard on yourself,” Moira said. “You did not kill the boy.”
“But I wanted to kill him,” Barnaby said. “That is more than enough.”
“I hate to ask,” I said, “but I just want to make sure that we’re all in agreement now that Chesterfield really did kill Adeline.
Myrtle, who had been silent through the whole exchange, said, “The provenance of the Amulet of the Phoenix provides the most damning evidence. Before it surfaced in Brenna Sinclair’s possession, it was last seen by Barnaby on Adeline’s person the day of her death.”
That statement gave me an opening to ask a question that had bothered me for weeks.
“Granddad,” I said, “I know you said the Mother Tree directed you to let Beau keep the Amulet of the Phoenix after he took it away from Brenna, but if the last time you saw it was on Adeline, you couldn’t have been as calm as you acted when the artifact showed up.”
“I wasn’t,” he admitted, “but the power of denial can be stronger than any chain.”
Yeah. I didn’t have any comeback for that one.
“The time for denial has passed,” Myrtle said. “Now we know Irenaeus may well have acquired the Amulet of Caorunn, we must take deliberate steps to counter whatever malevolent plan he has in mind.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” I asked.
Myrtle fixed me with a smile that was both tolerant and probing at the same time. “By locating the Amulet of Caorunn,” she said. “Perhaps you would like to begin by telling us about these dreams you’ve been having?”
19
Remember what Rube said about “big deal” Fae? Three people sitting in my grandfather’s study that morning already qualified for the title: Barnaby himself, Myrtle, and Moira. Then Greer joined us, with Festus limping along beside her.
Werecat or not, you might think that Festus would be inclined to show a little respect in their presence, especially since Granddad is the Lord High Mayor.
Here’s what the ginger tom actually did.
First, he sauntered across the carpet like he owned the place. Then, he jumped up on the corner of the desk and knocked a stack of papers to the floor, watching them flutter toward the carpet like he’d had no part in their downward journey,
Finally, as the crowning bit of feline arrogance, Festus yawned, sat, and pronounced sagely, “You really ought to clean up in here, Barnaby. This place is a mess.”
With decidedly forced tolerance, Barnaby said, “I’ll take that under advisement, Festus.”
“I’d ask you to forgive him because he’s not himself today,” Greer said, “but I’m afraid he’s completely himself.”
The remark cleared the air and even won a half-smile from Granddad. “Festus does have a rather famous incorrigible streak,” he conceded.
Licking his paw nonchalantly, Festus said, “I prefer the term ‘legendary.’”
“That will be enough out of you, Festus,” I warned. “Can you behave yourself long enough to tell everyone about your trip to Raleigh?”
“Sure,” Festus said. He lifted his good back leg and gave his ear a hearty scratch in preparation. “Okay, so, when Jinx here decided to start skulking around . . . ”
Great. He was on a real roll today.
“Just back up there, buddy,” I said indignantly. “I have not been skulking around.’”
Until that moment I’m not sure I understood what the phrase “withering” look meant.
“I’m sorry,” Festus said, “but did we or did we not have our first meeting about my going down to Raleigh behind a drawn, soundproof curtain?”
“Emphasis on we,” I said. “You’re in this up to your whiskers right along with me.”
To my surprise, Festus capitulated — for about 2 seconds.
“I am,” he admitted, “but nobody expects me to play by the rules.”
Now he was starting to get on my nerves.
“You listen to me, you hairball-tossing alley . . . ”
Myrtle’s happy trill of laughter stopped me mid-insult.
“How I have missed you all!” she said, looking thoroughly delighted by the exchange. “Jinx, you really did not need anyone’s permission to seek the Amulet of Caorunn.”
I felt like saying, rather defiantly, “Yeah, what she said,” but it’s good I didn’t because Myrtle’s next words offered a gentle, well-taken admonishment
“But I do think it might have been prudent had you sought some guidance from a more experienced practitioner before you decided to double enchant the Casket of Morpheus.”
Busted.
I hope the look I gave her was nowhere near as petulant as what I said. “I thought your powers were supposed to be diminished.”
Regarding me with sparkling eyes, she said, “Not to the point that I cannot have a conversation with my own home. The fairy mound tells me you’ve installed a big screen television in the lair and that we have matching leather sofas now.”
“Those sofas were on sale,” I said. “We got them for a total steal.”
“The fairy mound wants me to tell you that next time you should just ask and not spend money needlessly on something so easily conjured with magic,” Myrtle said.
Oh.
“That never occurred to you, did it Miss Smarty Pants?” Festus asked.
Turning back toward him, I said, “No. Did it ever occur to you when you sat on the hearth watching us lug those sofas down the stairs to mention it?”
“And ruin a show that good?” Festus asked with wide eyes. “Not on your life.”
Barnaby cleared his throat. “For as . . . illuminating as this conversation might be, perhaps we could return to the salient topic of the investigations Festus and Greer conducted in Raleigh?”
“My pleasure,” Festus said, flicking his tail in my direction. “Connor and Gareth told us they got away from Chesterfield when he went to see a man about an artifact. Jinx asked me to take a trip to Raleigh and get one of the local ghosts to put out a call for any area spooks who might have seen anything. Greer offered to come along to keep me out of trouble.”
The baobhan sith inclined her head in acknowledgment. “A rather daunting proposition,” she said, “but we managed a most successful excursion.”
Taking turns adding details and clarifying points, the two of them gave us a full account of their conversation with Mrs. Turk and the information supplied by the street cats — that the man Chesterfield met with smelled like a deer.
When Festus began to talk about the Dark Druid, and I described my dream of the woman in the pond with the flailing stag, Barnaby and Moira both leaned forward and listened intently.
“You are suggesting that this John Smyth person is the son of Fer Dorch and Sadhbh?” Barnaby asked.
“We cannot say so conclusively,” Greer replied, “but we do believe it to be a strong possibility. Do you know of any other Fae with the reputed ability to take the form of a deer?”
Moira shook her head. “No,” she said. “If this child exists, he would be the only one of his kind. The deer to whom you refer who were used to lure the well maidens of old into danger were bespelled animals with no native magic.”
“The Registry records agree with that assessment,” Greer said. “Perhaps it would be advisable to make inquiries with IBIS.”
(Don’t you love Fae acronyms? IBIS stands for the International Bureau of Indefinite Species.)
At the suggestion, Barnaby shifted uncomfortably in his chair, touching off a political warning light in my head. He chose to answer Greer with a non-answer. “IBIS is based in London,” he said.
Now, if you don’t know anything about Fae politics you might hear that and think, “Of course. It would be silly to drag somebody over from London to look into a guy who smells like a deer in Raleigh, North Carolina.”
I, on the other hand, do know something about Fae politics, and I’m learning more all the time. Trying not to sound accusatory, I decided we might as well get right to the point.
The directness of my question took Barnaby aback for a second. Then he regained his composure and his sense of authority.
“You do not know Reynold as I do, Jinx,” he said. “The man tends to complicate matters beyond reason.”
Summoning every ounce of control I had, I didn’t say the first thing that popped into my head. “When don’t the Fae complicate matters?”
Antagonizing my grandfather wasn’t the battle I wanted to pick.
Instead, I went with, “But if the Amulet of Caorunn is associated with the Mother Rowan and the tree is in . . . ”
“Roslin,” Festus supplied helpfully, “just outside Edinburgh, Scotland.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the cagey werecat followed the unspoken subtext of the conversation perfectly — as did Myrtle, Moira, and Greer.
“Right,” I said. “Scotland. Doesn’t that make all of this Isherwood’s business?”
My grandfather’s jaw hardened into a stubborn line. “Reynold did not feel the need to inform us when the Amulet was taken. Therefore, I see no need to apprise him of our efforts to locate it.”
Before I could respond, Moira caught my eye and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. Reasoning that she knew my granddad better than anyone in the room and that I had pushed my luck far enough, I accepted the silent advice and dropped the subject.
“Okay,” I said. “I think we’ve told you everything we’ve discovered so far. Did I miss anything, Festus?”
“Just that the street cats said Chesterfield came out of the restaurant carrying a flat, black box,” Festus said, “which would seem to confirm that he does have the Amulet of Caorunn.”
He stopped, appeared to think for a minute, and then said, “Oh, and you dreamed Brenna Sinclair is alive in the In Between.”
Greer already knew the story, but the other three heads in the room swiveled toward me.
The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7) Page 14