by Kevin Hearne
“Exactly the same as far as I’m concerned.”
“Hee! You’re funny. All right, dude, shake some salt onto your hand in between the thumb and forefinger. Yeah. Like that. Get yer buddy set up too. Right. Now whatcha gotta do is a 1-2-3 operation. You lick the salt offa your hand, gulp the shot, then bite into the lime wedge and suck on it.”
“Why?”
“Some folks find that tequila can be a bit harsh, and they think the salt and lime cut down on that somehow.”
Shrugging and checking with Coriander to make sure he was still game, the Herald Extraordinary gave a nod and we did the lick, shot, and suck sequence.
Tequila, for the record, does not go down like whiskey.
I coughed a couple times, but Coriander did a bit of a flop and twitch as he gasped and hacked.
“Whyyy?” he rasped in a hoarse whisper.
The guy who told us what to do was having a pretty good laugh about it, and some others joined in. That was all right. They liked us for being so willing to publicly humiliate ourselves. Maybe we’d get out of here without any violence at all.
No, Slomo, I love ye too much to ever give ye tequila.
We all have different tastes, that’s for sure. And it’s okay. I am very happy for all the people who like tequila. They can have mine.
I ordered three beers and gave one to the laughing man to show there was no hard feelings, and taught him to say “Sláinte” instead of “Cheers.” Then I quietly told Coriander that he should start looking for Fae in glamour. He nodded and I turned back to the man, asking his name and what other terrible shite Texas had that could set an Irishman’s throat on fire.
His name was Jimmy, and he was only too happy to tell me all the things. He ordered me a shot called Dragon’s Spit, which was cinnamon whiskey with ten drops of Tabasco in it, and watched with unbridled glee as I downed it and gasped afterward, tears streaming down my face. He was laughing so hard at me he had tears in his eyes too.
Having grown up in Ireland before spices were really a thing, I often had trouble with modern spicy food. Some of it burned as much on the way out as it did on the way in.
“I think he’s right over there at that table,” Coriander murmured.
I didn’t look. “You think he is?” I whispered.
“No, I am certain. He is flanked by two glamoured spriggans.”
Fecking spriggans. Those things are nasty. One o’ them killed Goibhniu, the god of brewing, back when Fand had her rebellion against Brighid, and I’m still mad about it. The chances of us getting out of here without violence just dropped precipitously. If Slomo wasn’t with me, I would practically guarantee it.
Keeping my voice low, I asked, “How do the spriggans look to humans? I’m not going to cast magical sight.”
“Tall bearded men in cowboy hats and plaid shirts. The Weaver is human, and he sits between them, clean-shaven.”
“All right, let’s finish our beers and keep looking a bit, but don’t stare.”
“Why not? The spriggans are staring at us.”
“Gods below. They’ve already made us.”
“No use waiting.”
I turned to Jimmy, thanked him for the drink and the laugh, and asked him to pardon us, we had to go talk to someone. He nodded but said nothing.
Turning around, I immediately saw the table Coriander meant. Two impressively sized cowboys with black beards and glittering green eyes were staring right at us. It looked like they wouldn’t move very fast, but once started, they would pound the shite out of ye. Only the last part was true. Since they were spriggans, they’d move very fast and still pound the shit out of ye.
Like badger men, spriggans were born of an amorous encounter with something the Dagda really shouldn’t have messed with. I don’t know if it was a living tree he humped or a fallen log, but spriggans were essentially fast-moving collections of branches with an impressive vertical leap and the ability to club a skull into shards.
Sitting in between them was a scruffy but amiable sort with a hatchet jaw, a full yellow mustache, and some sandy stubble on his cheeks. I didn’t see the spider tattoos he was supposed to have on his arms because he was wearing a long-sleeved pale blue shirt. He was aware of us, but was more interested in his glass of beer and a plate of nachos.
Can ye see those two big men and the smaller man eating in between them, Slomo?
The two big men are not actually men. That is an illusion, a trick they’re playing on your eyes.
Because they wouldn’t look human otherwise and nobody would want them in here. They’re like monsters. Worse than toucans.
Maybe. I’m going to give ye some speed and strength, but don’t attack unless I say. And don’t touch the human.
I slipped my hands into my pockets, pushing my fingers through the holes in my brass knuckles as Coriander hailed the man with the yellow mustache.
“Hello. Mr. Weaver? May we speak to you for a moment?”
His hand, halfway to his mouth with a nacho dripping melted cheese and sour cream, paused as he eyed us suspiciously.
“How do you know that name?” His voice was pitched a bit high, querulous, and I wasn’t an expert on accents the way Siodhachan was, but his accent didn’t sound quite like the others at the bar. Maybe he was from a different part of Texas originally.
“We were referred to you by Ecne of the Tuatha Dé Danann. She said you might be able to help us.”
The Texas Weaver blinked once, crammed the nacho into his mouth, then dabbed at his greasy mouth and mustache with a napkin while he chewed. His eyes slid to the tattoos on my right arm, which matched those of Ecne and the other Tuatha Dé Danann, signifiying our Druidic binding to the earth. Tossing the napkin down, he nodded a couple times. “All right. What do you need?”
“Might we go outside to talk? It’s a bit loud in here.”
He leaned back in his chair. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Coriander.”
He squinted. “You mean the Coriander, the herald of Brighid?”
“Yes.”
“Heard o’ you.” He looked pointedly at the faery’s attire. “Don’t look like you’re here on official business, if y’ don’t mind me sayin’.”
“That’s because I’m not. I’m here on a personal matter.”
“Okay, Coriander. But my boys here will be joining us.”
“That’s fine.”
“It’s through them double doors back there. You’ll see a room with another pool table and then a patio area. Go on, we’ll be there in a minute.”
We moved toward the doors and I scouted for weapons that might be used against us as we did. Mostly it was the spriggans and maybe the pool cues for the extra table bracketed in some holders against the wall. That bonus room was painted yellow and there was an old upright piano, a photo booth, and a shoe shine station in there. Through double doors we were in the fenced-off patio area and the orange taco truck was to the left. That smelled good. No doubt it’s where Weaver got his nachos. It was still early enough in the evening that the patio was deserted. The customers would come flooding in at the end of the work day, which might be any minute now. But the music volume was much reduced out there, so we wouldn’t have to shout or risk being overheard.
That’s right. But we might still have a fight. The roof extended over the door a bit but as it was a flat roof, rather than sloped, it was a good place for an ace in the hole. Hey, why don’t ye jump up on the roof for a minute. In case things get excitable. Powered by the energy I was feeding to her, she nimbly leapt off my bac
k, hooked her claws onto the edge of the roof, and pulled herself up. Or at least that’s what I heard. I didn’t see much through the camouflage so I couldn’t be sure how nimble it was, but it was sure faster than she moved without the boost.
I’ll see what I can find.
“Ye know why they wanted us to go first, don’t ye?” I asked Coriander while I stripped a few potted plants of their leaves.
“Why?”
“So that they can block the exit in case we need our asses kicked.”
The ghost of a smile played about the herald’s lips. “They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
“He’s heard of you.”
“If so, I’m sure he’s also heard that he’s not supposed to have spriggrans as personal bodyguards. That is expressly forbidden by multiple treaties. I’m surprised the sigil agents haven’t tracked him down yet.”
“Sigil agents?” I held the leaves up to Slomo and she scooped them out of my hand.
Coriander shrugged a shoulder while I shoved my hands back into my pockets to hide my brass knuckles. “They’re Brighid’s solution to there not being many Druids around for a long time. They enforce treaties between the Fae and humans and other parties as well.”
Before I could ask any more about them, Weaver and the spriggans arrived. As I predicted, each one took up space in the two double doors leading back into the building. Weaver stayed inside and asked from behind one of them, “So who’s your friend, Coriander, with the Druidic tattoos?”
“An actual Druid.”
Weaver tilted his head. “Thought there was only one.”
“Your information’s a bit out of date,” I told him, not offering any. “But never mind me; it’s Coriander who has business.”
“Reckon you should get to it, then,” he said.
“Very well. Ecne informed us that you acquired some rare texts for her.”
“Is that what you want? Something you can’t find in a library?”
“Not precisely. She told us that in exchange for this text, you hired her to craft a hook binding in Granada, Spain. I wish to know who asked you to do that and how you knew to place it there.”
Weaver scoffed. “I thought you had a job for me. You’re asking me to reveal client information. I don’t do that.”
“I’ll pay handsomely. Was it the Goblin Lords?”
“Just said I don’t do that. Word gets out that client information is for sale and I won’t have any more clients. If you ever have real business to conduct, we can talk some more. Otherwise we’re done here. I got nachos.”
“We are not finished, Mr. Weaver. I can’t leave here without that information.”
“Then I guess you won’t be leavin’ here. Try anything and my boys will give you an asswhuppin’ you won’t ever forget.”
“I have no fear of your spriggans. They’re here illegally, by the way. I’ll be informing the sigil agents.”
The Weaver’s eyes widened a bit at that. “That wasn’t very smart. Guess you ain’t fought one in a while. Open season, boys.” I brought my hands out of my pockets in guard position, knuckles ready, and gave myself the same strength and speed bindings I gave to Slomo.
Slomo, if ye get a chance, I need ye to leap down on top of one of these cowboys and ram your claws into his skull as hard as ye can. Remember he’s not human.
“Make sure they’re in no condition to talk afterward,” Weaver added, before turning on his boot heel to head back indoors.
Coriander was on my left and he moved even further left and toward the door in a strategic move that worked out perfectly for about two whole seconds. The first spriggan pivoted and launched a punch at him, but the herald’s kinetic wards took all that force and multiplied it in the opposite direction, sending the muscle backward into the other one who was squaring up against me, wondering what damage my knuckles would do. They tumbled to the ground together, leaving both doors open, and I shifted to block the nearest one. I wanted them in the patio area where Slomo might be able to reach them. Coriander floated on inside after Weaver, leaving me to face two pissed-off spriggans rolling to their feet. They’re tough to kill in most cases, so I didn’t feel like I had to pull my punches. I let fly at the nearest one right in the sternum, choosing a target they wouldn’t easily be able to dodge, but they almost avoided the blow anyway, juking to my right. My punch glanced off their ribs instead with an audible crunching sound and the spriggan flew backward, fetching up against a picnic table along the fence. That gave the other one pause; they had clearly never seen a human do that before. They took a step back, a bit more cautious, and that’s when Slomo pounced.
Sloths are not ambush predators and have no grace to speak of. They’re mostly forearms and claws with tiny back legs meant to hang on instead of jump. All the juice I was giving her allowed her to perform extraordinary feats for a sloth, but due to her lack of experience or evolutionary suitability, she nearly missed. She technically did miss, I guess, her body falling beyond the spriggan’s back, except that the claws of her right hand dug into the meat where the neck meets the collarbone, ground on the actual woody surface there underneath the glamour, and that gave her purchase. She used it to whip her body around counter-clockwise until her form rose like a furry sun over the spriggan’s left shoulder, her left forearm and wicked claws leveled at the side of their head. Those claws were designed to get the better of trees. She shoved them with a mighty crack right into the side of the spriggan’s head and they went down with her riding them all the way to the ground.
Ah, that’s me fine murder sloth! Good job, love.
The other spriggan was getting to their feet, the cowboy glamour melting a little bit, but the expression was clearly shocked at their friend’s abrupt death and also in some pain. I’d shattered a wooden rib or two for sure. I didn’t want them coming after Slomo, so I stepped forward to meet them.
A random voice from the direction of the taco truck said, “What the shit?” but I didn’t have time to worry about whoever that was. I imagined they’d seen some bar fights in their time but probably never one involving a fast-moving sloth with a one-punch deathblow.
This time the spriggan wasn’t going to wait for me to strike. They were cornered and desperate and behaved like it. They charged and connected, a fist cracking a rib and stealing my breath, and then a left hook that would have taken off my head if I hadn’t ducked. As it was, that glamoured fist concealed fingers ridged with sharp spurs and splinters, and these raked across the top of my scalp and gashed deeply enough that I felt the blood leaking out instantly. I pistoned my fist into its ribs, punching right through them this time and into some warm, sappy organs. The spriggan convulsed and pounded once on my back but then shuddered and died. I lowered my arm and let it fall off onto the ground, turning my head to see Coriander dragging a hollering and flailing Weaver back into the patio area. That was under control; the taco truck wasn’t. Greta and the other werewolves of her pack—Sam and Ty especially—had impressed on me the importance of securing the cell phones of any witnesses to “our rarefied shit.”
A sloth assassin would generate enough bad publicity, but watching two cowboys melt into vaguely humanoid piles of driftwood and sap would really draw the worst kind of attention. We couldn’t risk pictures or videos getting out into the world. If they had everything set to upload automatically to the cloud it might already be too late, but hopefully that wasn’t the case.
Be right back.
I burst into the taco truck where a man wearing a bandana on his head cussed at me but eventually surrendered his phone in response to a broken finger when he tried to cut me with a greasy knife.
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br /> “Thanks,” I said. “Ye can’t have this back, but I don’t want to have ye feel the loss too keenly.” I pulled out an emergency stash of bills that Greta had me carry around for situations like these. I counted out ten Benjamins, since Greta said such a sum soothed over many hurt feelings, and left them on the prep area littered with shredded lettuce. “That should buy ye a new phone. Sorry about the finger, though.”
I pocketed the phone and returned to the patio, ignoring the man’s swearing.
No.
Not yet, love. We might have some more trouble.
Even though Coriander had firmly planted a foot in the chest of Weaver, pinning him in the dirt, and his thrashing was completely ineffective, he was refusing to cooperate. He was either counting on someone to come to his rescue or he simply wasn’t scared enough. I didn’t think anyone inside would hear him over the volume of the music—no one had come to investigate so far. In case he wasn’t scared enough, I thought a shape shift to a bear might be in order. It would ruin me clothes, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to streak through a public area today.
Handing over the confiscated phone and some remaining cash to Slomo to guard, I bound my shape to a black bear. When I shifted, bursting through my clothing and roaring in Weaver’s face, replacing Coriander’s boot with my paw on his chest, a brass-coated claw tickling the hollow of his throat, he may have ruined his clothes too, judging by the fear in his voice and the sudden stench of urine in my nose.
“We don’t want your life,” Coriander reminded him. “We don’t want much at all. Just the name of who hired you to set up an ambush of Javier and Maria Garces.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Weaver protested.
“I might, though. Give me something to confirm, at least, and we can all go about our business and you can go finish your nachos. Was it the Goblin Lords?”