Chapter 8
“Nice coat,” Detective Lajoie commented as I let them in.
I grunted. “Did you both eat and sleep?” I asked.
“We had dinner after work, and I took a nap,” he replied. He looked at his partner.
She nodded. “Yeah, an hour or so.”
“Hmph,” I muttered. “Give me a second.” I headed into the back office, unlocked the cage, and grabbed two bracelets off a shelf. Relocking the cage, I took them back out to where the detectives stood waiting.
“Wear these,” I instructed, holding one out to each of them.
They each took them from my hands and looked at them curiously. They didn’t look like anything special, just plain silver bands.
Detective Connors arched an eyebrow at me. “Jewelry? Really?”
“Yes,” I answered, my tone flat. “You two will be my guests tonight. The bracelets identify you as under my protection, and that’s important where we’re going.”
“Under your protection?” she asked. “Who do we need protecting from, and how do you propose to provide it?”
I shook my head. “Not like a bodyguard. It’s an older form. Hospitality is very big in this community. When you’re wearing those, any guest-right I can claim automatically extends to you. Just wear the bracelets. Your partner agreed you two would do this my way.”
I didn’t bother trying to explain that the bracelets would also let them see any magical beings which happened to be invisible to the naked eye. That could wait until later.
She glanced at the big man, who just shrugged. She shook her head but put on the bracelet.
“Detective Connors,” I looked at her with a serious expression, “your partner here has told me you’re skeptical of the occult.”
“You might say that, yeah,” she nodded, rolling her eyes. “I believe in the laws of physics, and nothing I’ve ever seen in my studies or in the real world has led me to believe they allow for magic. I prefer evidence to folk tales.”
I could actually respect that, even if it was dead wrong. Most people don’t believe in magic these days. TV, their science teachers, their books all tell them it doesn’t exist, that it was just a primitive way of explaining things unknown to science. I remembered when people were still afraid of demons and changelings and would literally move their house if they believed it had been built in the way of a Faerie path. I don’t much care what the general public believes either way. Back then, if you told them you were a sorcerer, they feared you. Now they laugh. I’ve never decided which reaction is more annoying. But I could at least respect someone who preferred evidence to stories.
However, given her lack of tact at our last meeting, the chance of that behavior again was problematic.
“Detective,” I addressed her quietly, “it doesn’t matter to me whether you believe in the occult or not. But the person I’m taking you to meet will be extremely offended if you express your feelings on the subject the way you did when we first met. So unless you want to sabotage your investigation, I’d advise you try to keep such opinions to yourself for the rest of the evening.”
“Understood,” she said, though she practically rolled her eyes as she did so. “I’ll keep my feelings to myself.”
That was probably the best I was going to get. I hoped it was enough.
“Let’s go, then.” I led the way out of the shop, making sure to lock the door and check my security wards behind me once Detectives Lajoie and Connors were outside.
Then I whistled, a loud birdcall that sounded like a deep trill, for several seconds, changing pitch a couple times. If either of the detectives were bird enthusiasts, they may have recognized the song of the European nightjar. But from their quizzical expressions I guessed they weren’t.
“What on earth are you doing?” Detective Connors asked, one eyebrow arched.
“Calling our ride,” I replied.
“We have a car, you know.”
I shook my head. “It won’t get us where we need to go.”
“Oh? Where exactly is this Market, anyway?” Detective Lajoie asked.
“The Magic Gardens. Where else would you hold a Faerie Market?”
Detective Connors snorted. “The Magic Gardens are on South Street. It’s a twenty-minute drive. My car could get us there just fine.”
I reminded myself to be patient. “Yes, physically, it could get us to the address. But it wouldn’t get us where we need to go. Not tonight.”
Before either of them could respond, a taxi pulled up, a spotless Mercedes-Benz C-class sedan, driven by a bearded dwarf. I opened the back door and gestured for the two detectives to get in, then ducked through the door in time to see the look of confusion on their faces.
The interior of the taxi did not match its exterior. This was no ordinary cab, with its cheap plexiglass divider and credit card reader. The interior wasn’t even the right size: the vehicle was enchanted to be larger on the inside, so upon passing through the door, we found ourselves sitting in a luxurious stretch limousine.
The customers and proprietors of this particular taxi service were of an older world and insisted on keeping up appearances. They would make no concessions to modernity beyond the bare minimum. The interior décor of the Market Taxi was inspired by a private Pullman luxury train car from the early twentieth century: mahogany and cherry wood trim, rich leather upholstery, with deep blue carpeting on the floor. Not to mention a fully stocked wet bar.
I’d been expecting it, so I took a seat next to the bar and started selecting a whisky. When I’d poured myself a couple fingers of eighteen-year-old Macallan, I looked up to see Detective Lajoie smiling like a child—he’d gotten over his confusion quickly, and was apparently excited to see further clear and undeniable proof that magic was real. His partner, on the other hand, looked dazed, cognitive dissonance plainly written across her features.
That was understandable: two minutes ago, she’d declared that she didn’t believe in magic, only now to be confronted by an impossible truth. She was sitting in a limousine, when she’d stepped into a taxi. Her brain was still insisting that what her eyes were telling her couldn’t be real, that it was some kind of trick or illusion. And this was just the cab ride. We were in for a long night.
“What is this? Where are we?” she asked, as she looked around her. “What did you do to us?”
I looked at her. “I did nothing to you. We’re in the taxi you stepped into thirty seconds ago.”
She shook her head. “That’s impossible. This is a limo.”
“Minor distinctions,” I shrugged. “Clearly, this is a special taxi. Specifically, it’s the Market Taxi, and due to some rather complex spells, it’s the only way to get where we’re going.”
She looked at her partner in desperation. “Henri, what the hell is going on?”
He put his hand on her shoulder and met her eyes. “Adrienne, calm down. Quinn can probably explain better than I can.” He glanced over at me.
I took a sip of my whisky and then shrugged. “Detective Connors, your partner is already aware of this, but you should know that magic is real, whether you choose to believe in it or not. You’re sitting in proof of that fact—a limousine that cannot exist, hidden inside a taxi too small to hold it—and I’m sure you’ll get plenty more evidence before this is over. But I don’t really give a damn whether or not you believe me, so long as you don’t offend Aengus.”
She stared at me, eyes wide, for a moment, before turning back to her partner.
“What the fuck is he talking about?”
He looked almost apologetic. “It’s true. Magic is real. Quinn isn’t crazy. I insisted you come with us tonight, over his objections, even knowing it was going to be a lot for you to swallow—not only do you need to know what’s going on with the case, but I need you. You’re my partner; I need someone to watch my back.”
“And the fact that you’re so very wrong about magic,” I growled, “is why I need you to do exactly what I say tonight. This investigation, and possibly all three of our lives, depends on it.”
Detective Lajoie leaned in close and whispered something in her ear. She whispered back, furiously. I could have listened if I’d cared to, but I didn’t bother.
A few minutes later, just as I was finishing my drink, the taxi pulled to a stop and I got out, just outside the front gate of Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens. The detectives silently followed, looking behind them to see that, from the outside at least, it was again just a Mercedes sedan.
Once Detective Lajoie closed the door the driver pulled away, presumably to pick up more marketgoers. The local Nibelungen community operated the Market Taxis, and by an elaborate enchantment, a ride in one of the half dozen or so such vehicles was the only way to enter the Market without going through the Otherworld. If you arrived at the same spot by any other means, the Faerie Market was closed to you. It may as well not even exist to your senses.
I opened the gate and looked back at my companions.
“Don’t wander off. Stay close to me, and don’t touch anything. I mean that. This is a dangerous place.”
Without waiting for reply, I ushered them inside.
Back in the mid-1990s, a local artist bought an old, abandoned building and a couple empty lots, and started covering them in wild, crazy murals, many made from junk and garbage. He called it Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens. It’s a fascinating artistic experiment. It was also the obvious choice when the local magical community were looking for a fitting new venue for the local Faerie Market about a decade ago. What could be more apropos?
Of course, no one had ever told the owners that a bunch of Faeries and sorcerers and so forth were using their building every few weeks for a secret gathering after hours. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. And unless they somehow showed up via Market Taxi, they’d never find out.
On Market nights, the winding, multilevel, almost mazelike space was filled with stalls, vendors, and even some tents against the walls and back in the corners, with a clear path for marketgoers throughout. It was a fairly small venue, just a few thousand square feet—it felt crowded with only a dozen or so dedicated vendors and fewer than a hundred customers. Groups moved together from stall to stall, individuals darted through the crowds from somewhere to somewhere else, and here and there old friends, seeing each other again and catching up, stood in everyone else’s way. Clouds of colored smoke issued from both stalls and groups of customers. I heard at least five languages being spoken besides English, three of which I could name. The vendors sold everything from books and tools to bottles of strange beverages and non-beverages and even liquid sunshine. In the Faerie Market one could buy potions and poisons and enchanted objects of all kinds. Or information, one of the most valuable commodities in the magical world.
The most common people seemed to be tall, beautiful men and women: the Aes Sidhe, the High Faeries of Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man. Dozens of them lived in Philadelphia; any city with a large Irish diaspora community tended to have plenty of Irish Faeries as well. But there were others who appeared to be normal humans except for their eyes—flashing iridescently or glowing violet or golden or solid black—and their slightly pointed ears. There were impossibly short people and a couple of impossibly large people—giants, most likely, as trolls tend to avoid humans—and a half-dozen or so individuals in cloaks hiding their identities.
Detective Connors gasped as a couple walked past with curling ram horns sprouting from their temples and cloven hooves in place of feet.
“What the hell?” I heard her exclaim softly, and the pair looked sharply in our direction. Noticing my coat, they hurriedly turned away and minded their own business.
I looked over at the detectives. “Satyrs. Don’t be rude, don’t draw attention to yourselves, and try not to touch anything. Now come on.” I strode into the crowd, looking for Aengus or someone who might know where he was.
Like the satyrs, everyone here could recognize my coat for what it was and gave me a fairly wide berth; Detectives Connors and Lajoie trailed in the clear space immediately behind me before the crowd closed back up in the wake of my passage. I wasn’t sure where I was headed, because I had no idea where Aengus would be. But as the ranking member of the Fae community in the northeastern U.S., he almost never missed a Market night.
Unlike most of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Aengus had remained in this world when his kin had withdrawn to Tír na nÓg centuries ago. He’d wound up living in New York for a while when the Irish started flooding in during the Famine years, though to my knowledge he’d never established a permanent home on this side of the Atlantic. I’d met him there, at a Market up in Manhattan when I was in the city on Arcanum business, and he was one of my best contacts among the Fae. If he didn’t know about the Avartagh, he’d know who I needed to talk to. But first I had to find him and convince him to help me.
I strolled through the Market, keeping an eye on the detectives behind me to make sure they hadn’t wandered off. A group of small ugly creatures walked past, smoking pipes and chattering excitedly in some dialect I didn’t recognize. Kobolds, distant cousins of Mannfred, though of a more land-based variety. I wondered what was running through the skeptical Detective Connors’ head right now. Was she open to changing her mind? Or was she instead convincing herself this was all some sort of elaborate charade?
“Quinn!”
I turned to see the striking, Amazonian figure of Samantha Carr walking my way from over by one of the stalls, her own Sorcerer’s coat much more stylishly cut than mine.
“Sam,” I acknowledged her approach.
“I hoped I might run into you here,” she said, smiling broadly. “Imagine, seeing you twice in less than a week! Lucky me!” But she stopped in her tracks as she noticed the detectives. I saw her eyes take note of their bracelets. “Friends of yours?”
I nodded but didn’t make any introductions. “Have you seen Aengus Óg anywhere? I need to talk to him.”
Sam frowned. “No, don’t think I have. But it’s good running into you again—I have something I want to talk to you about. I don’t want to take your time if you’re busy, though, and I was just about to head home anyway. I’ll just come by the shop sometime. If I see Aengus on my way out, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”
“Sounds good, thanks. See you around, Sam,” I nodded curtly and moved on, the detectives close behind.
A few stalls on, I recognized a vendor who might know where Aengus was.
“Zoya,” I greeted her as I approached her stall.
“Ah, Sorcerer!” she answered as she turned towards me.
She appeared to be a slender young woman with pale, greenish hair and wide blue eyes. She was pretty at first glance, but there was something off-putting on closer inspection. Her skin was clammy, and her features were oddly distorted, as if she were made of wax that had ever so slightly melted in the sun’s heat.
Zoya was a rusalka, a type of lesser Faerie which had once been common in Slavic areas, known as fickle nature spirits—sometimes they helped ensure a good harvest, sometimes they lured young men to their deaths. That was the way with the Fae.
“I’m looking for Aengus. Do you know where he is?”
As with Bran, I knew the best route was always to get directly to the point. No sense giving Faeries an opening to play their word games.
She smiled, but rather than answer, she looked past me at the detectives, her eyes shifting from one to the other.
“Oh hello there, dear children. You look lost.”
“Zoya.” I snapped my fingers, bringing her attention back to me. Her serene expression faltered and she looked annoyed. “I’ll have none of that. They’re under my protection. Now where’s Aengus? If anyone’s seen him it’s you. I know how you like to look.”
The rusalka’s eyes narrowed in anger. That had been downright unkind—like many in the Faerie world, she’d been hopelessly in love with Aengus for centuries. While he was never impolite and never led anyone on, she wasn’t his type. She knew it, yet that didn’t stop her from pining.
But my rudeness had been calculated—it succeeded in getting her attention off the detectives and back on to me.
“That will cost you, Sorcerer,” she snarled. “I have seen the Óg, yes. But for your discourtesy, my price for the location is your blood. Two drops.”
A gift freely given is a rarity among the Fae. Even something as inconsequential as the whereabouts of a mutual acquaintance had its price; they haggle as naturally as they breathe. But ill manners or not, her price was far too high—there plenty of others I could ask, and there were too many dangerous things an offended Faerie could do with fresh blood.
I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“In that case, five drops from each of your companions.” Her gaze shifted back to the detectives, and her expression looked almost hungry. “Less potent, perhaps, but still valuable. How about it, darlings? Just a pinprick, a few drops, and you shall be off to see Aengus.”
“Why do I get the feeling that would be a bad idea?” Detective Lajoie responded.
I again shook my head, putting up a hand to stop him saying anything more.
“No, Zoya,” I growled, my eyes narrowed in irritation. “I already told you they’re under my protection, and I don’t appreciate you making me repeat myself.”
She looked back at me, her own eyes widening. She clearly realized she’d overstepped—she’d seen the bracelets, but her annoyance at my remark about her unrequited love for Aengus had led her to go too far. She knew exactly who—and what—I was, and knew she was outclassed. The rusalka was proud and haughty, but not stupid.
“I of course meant no offense, Sorcerer,” she backpedaled. “Forgive my anger. We have known each other a long time. For the sake of our past dealings and in the light of my mistake, I will give you the information you seek at no charge. But remember this favor next time I am in need.”
I nodded, my lips firmly pressed together. It wasn’t the same as giving her a favor in exchange, but it was a promise to bear this courtesy in mind in future transactions. That I could tolerate. It was essentially the same deal I had with Bran for his news.
“I saw the Óg on the lower level, in the company of Tylwyth Teg. Two of them. You will likely still find him there.”
That made sense—several legends about Aengus dealt with his love of fair women, and those of the Tylwyth Teg were some of the most beautiful in Faerie. They weren’t uncommon in this area, so close to the Welsh Tract. That might also explain Zoya’s sensitivity about my earlier comment—the Tylwyth Teg were exactly Aengus’s type, wild and lovely dryads of the wood.
I grunted in acknowledgement and led the detectives toward the lower level, where I spotted Aengus as she’d said, chatting with two stunningly beautiful redheads. They were short, barely reaching his chest, and very slender, but with curves in all the right places. By custom, glamours were dropped at the market, so neither exuded the mind-ensnaring splendor they might normally project, but their natural beauty was literally Otherworldly anyway.
I approached, but politely waited a few paces from the conversing group, just at the corner of Aengus’s vision. It would be rude to interrupt, and I needed him to be in a good mood.
While waiting, I noticed that Detective Lajoie didn’t seem especially interested in the two extremely attractive Faeries a few feet from him, instead continuing to look around the market with barely suppressed wonder and excitement. I understood the excitement—after a lifetime of believing and hoping, he was finally getting to experience the magical world in the open. But it was still a bit odd that he didn’t spare them a second glace. Even without glamours, the Tylwyth Teg were exquisite. He wore a wedding ring, yet even for a happily married man that was an unusual level of personal discipline. I mentally shrugged.
After a few minutes, the three of them laughed—the two dryads prettily, Aengus with a deeper reverberating chortle. And with that, the girls smilingly walked away and Aengus turned to face me.
“Thomas Quinn!” he greeted me with a broad smile. “How are you this evening, my old friend?”
“Aengus,” I nodded. “I need a word.”
He chuckled. “All business, every time we meet. You could stand to lighten up some, you know that? I remember a time when you still told jokes. I miss that Thomas Quinn sometimes.”
He paused and looked at the two detectives behind me. Connors had regained her composure, though she hadn’t said a word since we’d seen the satyrs shortly after our arrival. Lajoie still looked like wanted to wander off on his own, like a child in a candy shop, but was fighting the urge. Aengus looked them up and down and saw their bracelets.
“And who are your companions, Sorcerer?”
This was where things could get tricky. I hesitated for a second, and Aengus’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed.
“Allow me to introduce Henri Lajoie and Adrienne Connors,” I began carefully. “They’re detectives with the Philadelphia police who brought something very unusual to my attention.”
Aengus’s eyes snapped to mine, examining my face for any sign I was joking or lying or misleading. He had a couple thousand years of practice spotting lies. He dropped his voice to a sotto voce.
“You are serious? You brought the police to the Market? And under your protection, no less? Does the Court know of this?”
I shook my head and replied in that same undertone. “No, they do not, and if I have my way, they’re going to remain ignorant until I’m sure what’s going on. We need to talk, you and I. In private.”
“We do at that,” he replied, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “I hope you have a very good reason for this breach of custom, Sorcerer. Or I will notify the Court myself. Follow me, all of you.”