Chapter 7
I drank myself to sleep that night. I needed to be well rested, and short of burning out my magical power reserves again, that was the only way I knew I would get a full night’s rest. And thanks to magically enhanced healing, I didn’t even have to suffer through a hangover after. Though the tradeoff was that it took me an awful lot of whisky to get drunk, let alone to pass out—and that was true even before the tolerance I’d built up over the past decades.
Sure, that much even halfway decent whisky was expensive. But the shop mostly paid for itself, and it’s not as if I had a whole lot else to spend my money on. Besides, I had plenty of reserves before I needed to worry about my budget. I’d lived a long time. Compound interest adds up. I wasn’t sure how much I still had across my various accounts, but I knew the safe downstairs had at least five million in cash and precious metals even if my checks started unexpectedly bouncing.
The morning was uneventful. A handful of customers wandered in and out, a few even bought things. It almost felt like the past two days hadn’t happened at all, that things were back to normal. But I knew that wasn’t true. In the evening, I’d be taking two Philly PD detectives to meet with a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the de facto royalty of the Aes Sidhe, the single most powerful of the Fae nations. And I knew that if Aengus weren’t convinced my decision was the correct one, I’d have to face a formal inquiry from the Arcanum’s Master of the Seal, which could lead to all manner of unpleasantness.
I hoped the gamble paid off.
Just in case, however, I decided to get out ahead of potential trouble as much as I could. Later in the morning, when someone on the West Coast was more likely to be awake, I picked up the landline on my office desk and dialed from memory.
The woman on the other end picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Rachel,” I said.
“Thomas Quinn. What do you want?” She sounded irritated. Maybe I’d interrupted something. Maybe I’d just woken her up.
“Watch the tone, Rachel, you know I don’t call for no reason,” I snapped.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Quinn. I’m not in the mood. Just get to it. What’s going on?”
“Someone in Philadelphia is committing ritual blood sacrifices. They’ve already killed two unranked sorcerers, and I doubt they’re stopping there.”
There were a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line as she processed that blunt statement.
“So,” she eventually answered, speaking slowly, “the rumors are true?” The irritation had faded. It seemed she agreed that sort of news was worth a call.
“True enough. And I’m near certain there’s a Faerie involved. Ever hear of the Avartagh?”
“Um,” she paused, presumably trying to think, “not to my recollection, no. Unseelie, I presume?”
The Unseelie were the faction of the Aes Sidhe who’d refused to recognize the peace after the Treaty of Tara and continued to lash out at humanity for our supposed sins against the Fae. Most of them had given up their campaign after a few centuries, but there were always a few troublemakers who refused to admit defeat. Of course, for many of them it was just a convenient excuse to act on their natural sociopathic tendencies.
“Very much so. The last time the Arcanum dealt with him was in Brittany in the thirteenth century—there’s an entry in the Annals if you want the details. It seems he’s back. The crime scenes bear a remarkable resemblance to the description.”
“Fucking hell,” she swore. “Thanks for the heads up, but can you handle this? Philly’s your city, and I need to go investigate reports of a wechuge up in British Columbia. It apparently killed a couple hikers yesterday, and there’s no one local to deal with it. I was planning on heading that way in the morning.”
Rachel Liu was a Rector, one of the Arcane Court’s official regional representatives, which meant that she acted as an all-purpose deputy to the various elected officers of the Arcanum. She dealt with magical threats to humanity on behalf of the Lord Marshal, investigated potential Treaty violations on behalf of the Master of the Seal, arbitrated in disputes among Arcanum members on behalf of the Lord Justice, and evaluated potential sorcerers for training on behalf of the Master of the Trials.
Technically she had jurisdiction over her entire assigned region, which covered most of North America, but in practice there was always too much for the local Rector to do personally. Instead, by long tradition, ranked sorcerers like myself were responsible for dealing with such issues within our own declared territories, while the Rectors handled whatever happened outside those areas and left us mostly alone. Greater Philadelphia was my declared territory and had been since I’d settled here in the sixties. In theory I could refuse to deal with the issue, forcing her to step in and take over the investigation, but doing so would also forsake all future claim to autonomy in my home territory—it would be akin to telling the Arcanum that I was no longer the Ranking Sorcerer of Philadelphia, that the Court and their Rectors were free to meddle in the local magical community all they wanted. That was an even worse prospect than the hassle of dealing with the Avartagh myself.
“I wasn’t calling to pass this on to the Rectors,” I growled, annoyed. “This is my home. But I needed to let you know that the police are already involved.”
“Of course, they are,” she replied. “It’s a pair of ritual murders in a major American city. Are they going to cause problems?”
“Do you remember Antoine Richelieu?”
That caught her off guard. “What? Yes, I knew Antoine. He died, what, almost forty years ago? What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“It turns out the lead detective on the case is his grandson. Henri Lajoie.”
Another long pause.
“Oh. Does he know?”
“He does.”
Rachel didn’t need to know that the reason Detective Lajoie knew about magic was because I’d made a mistake and let myself be caught on camera. As long as I’d clearly established that he already knew before I brought him to the Market, that would go a long way toward heading off potential trouble with the Arcane Court. Which had been the main reason for calling her in the first place: I’d wanted to establish through official channels that I was already working with Philly PD, and that my main contact there was kin to a deceased Arcanum member.
I didn’t mention that his partner would also be tagging along. It would be a lot easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission on that issue, especially if I could convince Aengus it was the right decision. And by making sure Rachel knew ahead of time that at least one of the detectives was legitimately allowed to be there, it was a lot more likely the court would forgive me bending the rules for his partner.
She sighed. “Okay, there’s not much we can do about that. If he knows, he knows. Keep an eye on him to make sure nothing gets out where it shouldn’t.”
“Anything else you need to tell me that I already know, Rachel?”
She ignored my sarcasm. “Thanks for the call, Quinn. I trust you’re more than capable of cleaning up your own backyard but call me if you need backup. If you, of all people, can’t handle it . . . well, let me know if that’s the case.”
“If I can’t handle it, I’ll probably be dead. But I’ll give Detective Lajoie your number in case that happens.”
“Fair enough. Try not to let it get to that.” She paused. “Oh, Quinn, one more thing. Call your mother. She asks about you every time we talk.”
I scowled again.
“Mind your own damn business, Rachel.”
“Cheers, Quinn.” She hung up before I could respond.
I replaced the phone on its hook, fuming. At least I’d achieved my purpose with the call.
I put it out of my mind. At six in the evening, I locked up the shop for the night, then prepared for a trip to the Faerie Market.
I wasn’t terribly concerned about the Market itself. I attended it several times a year, generally to buy or sell some rare item or another that I couldn’t find elsewhere. But old hat or not, one can never be too careful when dealing with the Fae. A lot of the stories about them are myths, but many are also based in truth. It takes a bit of experience before you start to know which is which. Take iron, for example: many people—of the relatively few who think about such things at all—believe that iron is anathema to all Faeries, either painful or poisonous, even corrosive to their very being. But really it depends on the type of Fae in question: some are pained by it, some merely find it distasteful, and some actually use iron tools themselves.
This evening, however, I was far more concerned with the tales about consuming Fae food and sleeping in their territory. Gift-exchange is taken very seriously among them. Guest and host, giver and recipient, both have mutual obligations. Sometimes it’s simple, like the host granting hospitality and the guest agreeing to keep the peace of the house. Most often it’s not. Eating a Faerie’s food without first ensuring it’s a gift freely given can magically link you to that Faerie, obligating you to return the favor in a manner of their choosing, regardless of your own opinions on the matter.
The Otherworld may be a magic land, full of wonder. But it’s also full of danger—not knowing the rules and making even the slightest misstep can have huge consequences. No human could possibly know all the rules and all the dangers, even after a sorcerer’s lifetime of study. That’s the main reason why I was concerned about Detective Connors coming along. But there was nothing to do about that now except hope she would follow my instructions. In the meantime, I prepared as best I could.
Eating and sleeping were critical, to ensure I wasn’t hungry or tired. When I woke up from my nap, I cooked and ate a steak in my tiny kitchen. I shared a bit of it with Roxana, who graciously accepted my offering as her just due. Then I showered and shaved for the first time in days. My eyes were still bloodshot—not much I could do about that. But I combed my hair and put on clean clothes. Nothing fancy, just some old jeans and a plain black t-shirt, untucked. At least it wasn’t wrinkled. I completed the outfit with a pair of comfortable hiking boots.
Then I armed myself for battle. I didn’t expect to be fighting, but after my unpleasant ambush the other night, I preferred to be ready.
I first put on a necklace, a simple chain with a golden pendant in the shape of a tree within a circle. This had been a gift from my father many years ago, and had a spell tied to it which would warn me of magical attack by heating up the metal. I tucked it under my shirt, against my skin, where it would be most effective.
The silver ring on my left index finger, engraved with Celtic knotwork, was the same I’d worn to the second crime scene. It would once against serve as a focus for defensive spells, anchoring the power of the nearest ley-line so I wouldn’t have to burn through my own stores.
Into my left pocket went a small dagger with a bronze blade, its surface etched with runes of power binding a couple of useful minor spells to the metal. The sheath was secured to a pocket shield, a handy plastic contraption specifically designed to conceal the distinctive outlines of tools or weapons in pockets.
I also pulled out my gun. Not the j-frame, this time. I decided to bring a bit more firepower, just in case: a customized Glock 20, carrying fifteen rounds of ammunition plus one in the chamber. I pulled the slide back a quarter of an inch to confirm there was, in fact, a round in the chamber—when you actually need to use a gun is a bad time to discover it isn’t ready to fire. Once I was satisfied, it went into a holster inside my waistband just to the right of my belt buckle. A carrier on my belt, behind my left hip, held two spare magazines.
Over it all I put on a thin wool overcoat. It was a little warm for the early August night, but the coat was the most important part of my outfit.
Traditionally, sorcerers are depicted wearing robes and funny hats. The funny hats are meaningless: everyone wore funny hats in medieval Europe. But the robes, like those of monks and priests, are a mark of station. They set us apart from society at large, proclaim us to be members of an order above that of the secular world. However, unlike priests and monks, it’s a lot more hassle for sorcerers to go around wearing robes or cloaks every day in the modern world. To keep a low profile, we’ve taken to coats in keeping with relatively modern fashion norms.
Mine was a simple charcoal-colored wool overcoat, but the spells woven into the fabric proclaimed my Arcanum membership and rank, clearly visible to anyone attuned to magic. When visiting the Fae it didn’t exactly give me diplomatic immunity, but it did obligate my hosts to abide by the treaties they had with the Arcane Court. That could well mean the difference between walking out with the information I needed and not walking out at all.
I looked myself over in the mirror, spinning around in a complete circle, and nodded in satisfaction. No telltale bulges of concealed weapons. I had a license to carry in Pennsylvania, but I preferred to avoid the subject entirely unless I actually needed it, and the easiest way to do that was to make sure it stayed concealed. Detective Lajoie already knew I carried, of course—he’d seen the crime scene guard take the revolver off me on his video. But there was no sense making an issue of it, especially given that Detective Connors didn’t know me at all.
Ten minutes before ten o’clock, Detectives Lajoie and Connors knocked on the front door of the shop. Time to meet a Faerie prince.