by Megan Marple
Case #1,892: Homicide of Barry VonSchneith, werewolf.
Delaney Drakar, a.k.a. Delaney Fontaine, owner and suspect in the previous price-gouging case between Lair of Filth cleaning squad and Gretel VonSchneith, a werewolf of 845 Winterberry Lane, has been cleared of any wrongdoing concerning this case after interview with MARC.
I raised a brow, thumbing over to the next mention of her.
Case #1,898: Tax fraud.
Delaney Drakar a.k.a. Delaney Fontaine, owner of Omar’s Oddities and Antiquities, has been cleared of any wrongdoing concerning this case after interview with MARC.
Case # 1,910: Criminal negligence.
Delaney Drakar a.k.a. Delaney Fontaine, owner of Lair of Filth cleaning squad, has been cleared of any wrongdoing concerning this case after interview with MARC.
Each file note was stamped with the official Shadow Hands seal and the date. I counted them all and sat back in surprise. “Seven. Seven different cases she’s been implicated in, but no charges.” I shook my head. None of this made sense. Flipping through the notes it was plain to see that there were totally some situations where Delaney had some pull in the outcome of the case. But how could that be? Everything was done to the extent of the law when it came to MARC rules and regulations…
“Find anything interesting?”
I’d been so lost in the files that I hadn’t noticed the footsteps coming across the flagstones, and nearly jumped out of my own skin. One thing about the Archives room? It also had magic within its walls that sound-proofed it, making it easier to sneak up on someone. Even an ex-Shadow Hand.
“Oh crap!” I clutched at my heart, my wand at the ready in my other hand. “Did you really have to sneak up on me like that?” I hissed.
Gentry—very obviously amused with himself—simply shrugged. “A trained Shadow Hand would know if someone was sneaking up on them. Just saying.”
I so did not have time for this with him. Or ever, really. “Ugh, you can be on your way now. I don’t need any help down here, thank you very much.” Now that he had completely derailed my train of thought, I had to try and get it back on the track.
But since nothing I say ever seemed to get through his thick skull, Gentry waltzed over to me and pulled the book up from my lap, saving the spot I had just been reading. “Looking through old price-gouging cases? Unless your brother has recently come into ownership of a uh . . . cleaning squad, I hardly think any of this applies to him. Unless I’m mistaken?”
I rolled my eyes as I stood up. “Not that it really matters to you, but that’s not why I was going through these. My uncle brought something up that I thought I should look more into.” I snatched the book back from him, not in the mood for his interference. “It turns out that the so-called new overseer of the Dark Market has a rather interesting history with the MARC. According to our archives, she’s been implicated in no less than seven different cases over the recent years. And each and every time she gets off with a simple note saying that she has been cleared of any wrongdoing. Now is it just me, or does that seem a little weird?”
“The new overseer? Do you mean Delaney Drakar?”
“Delaney Drakar, Delaney Fontaine — whatever you want to call her, she’s still the same person. This half-Fae, half-witch seems to stir up a lot of trouble around herself. And I’d like to know why exactly that is.”
I expected him to give me some sort of resistance, after all, that’s all he’s been doing ever since I first ran into him. But to my surprise, Gentry had the opposite reaction. “What are you thinking?”
All I could do was laugh. “You mean you’re actually going to go along with this? I want to at least look into filing an investigation warrant, if possible. I’m honestly a little shocked that no one else thought to do so.”
The sneer that crossed Gentry’s face didn’t so much as ruin his good looks, as make them more intimidating. “I’m not. The Fontaines are a pivotal family name in Spell Haven. To do anything to upset them would . . . not be in the MARC’s best interests. Your uncle has tried to change that, but even he doesn’t always get his way. We already tried to have an investigation warrant drawn up, but there’s too much in the way. All the family has to do is whisper in the ears of the Supreme Mage’s Council and that’s it. She’s suddenly off the hook.”
I frowned. “That’s absurd. And how do you know so much about this, anyway? Do you personally know her or something?” I hated to think that the MARC was in the pockets of the Fontaine family, but judging by the case notes, there wasn’t much else to go on.
With fists balled at his side, Gentry looked away. “Her and her like are the reason I became a Shadow Hand in the first place,” he said softly, his tone dangerous and low. Whatever she had personally done to affect him, I could see that it really was the driving force behind his actions. Every muscle in his arms seem to be twitching at the mere drop of her name.
“Okay, okay. I get it. She seriously pissed you off. Now we just need to figure out where to go from here if we can’t actually get the MARC to back us up,” I said, tucking the Archive book back into its place on the black velvet.
Even with finding out about Delaney and her odd streak of luck, I couldn’t help but let everything else get to me.
Heading back upstairs, the knot in my stomach tightened until it felt like I’d pulled a muscle. No evidence. No news. No nothin’. And what exactly was I contributing to this search? Diddly and squat. We’d been at this for almost two weeks without so much of a peep from anyone. If anyone did know where Tristan was, they weren’t talking. And I had a funny feeling that if anyone started talking, the Fontaine family would have something to say about it.
22
My mind was so consumed with finding Tristan that when my cell phone rang for the first time in days, I’d nearly forgotten what it was.
“Hello?”
“Gwen!” my boss, George-Henry, practically shouted into my ear. “You’re alive!”
I bit my lip, unsure of where to go from here. Was he calling to check in on me? Uncle Gentry never got around to telling me how exactly he’d convinced the Union Gazette of my leave of absence. I probably should’ve looked into that… “Oh, hi, G. I am, ahem, alive,” I croaked, clearing my throat mid-way. Was I supposed to be playing sick? I rolled my eyes at how utterly lame I and unconvincing I sounded.
There was someone talking to G in the background before he turned his attention back to me. “How’s the chipmunk pox coming along? Feeling any better?”
“The chipmunk pox, sir?”
“I’ll admit, I thought it was a bunch of bologna at first, but then I had this crazy desire to know more about it so I looked it up. Luckily there was this old book sitting on top of my desk that just so happened to contain a whole bunch of outrageous communicable diseases in it, and I ran across it in there. Yikes. Doesn’t sound pretty,” he said, dropping his voice lower to add, “are the boils really everywhere?”
My tea nearly shot out of my nose, and I choked, trying to compose myself as best as I could before answering. “Uh, oh well, that’s sort of personal. Don’t you think? I, uh, would rather not say.”
G let out a low whistle. “Point taken. Well, I just wanted to check in with you and make sure you’re okay. Your doctor told me you’d be out of commission for a little while longer, so I’ve got Sybil in here filling in for you. Can’t hear worth a damn, but her pictures come out all right. Take care of yourself, Gwen.”
“Uh, thanks, G. I’ll . . . talk to you later,” I replied, still thrown for a loop by the time the line went dead. I wasn’t sure whether I should thank Uncle Gardner or curse him six ways to Sunday. If Sybil “I can’t keep my fingers off the lens” Rogers was filling in for me, it might just be the latter.
The manor house's mossy stone steps were covered in puddles from the morning's rain showers. Inside, I slipped my feet out of the boots I'd conjured up, glad to see they were still dry.
The parlor felt empty and cold without Aunt Ginevra's us
ual warming presence. I shuffled over to the large window pane that looked out over the lush gardens. I wonder if I had any kind of recourse for making my garden grow half as well...?
"Ah, you're here." Uncle Gardner strode into the parlor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "We have a specific matter that needs to be discussed."
I turned around slowly, watching his posture as he seemed to fidget. It wasn't like him to not stand stoic and still.
"A specific matter? What do you mean?" My eyes grew wide as something icy cracked in my chest, trying to seep through to my heart. "You haven't . . . He's not . . ."
Uncle Gardner's demeanor changed at once as he rushed over to me and shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that."
I drew in a shaky breath, steadying myself. "Okay. All right." Never before had I ever felt fear strike through me like that. Except for that one time when Fiona-Leigh dashed out into the middle of Union Street to chase after a squirrel.
He nodded his chin toward the parlor doors and they quickly closed by themselves, the noise echoing throughout the empty room. "Take a seat," he said, gesturing to the velvety green armchair that slid across the floor in my direction.
I sat down as instructed, watching him carefully. "Is everything . . . all right?"
Despite the chair he'd drawn up for himself, he stayed standing, trouble clouding his prominent features. "I've come to a decision about your brother's case."
All I could think about were the countless times that Tristan had gotten in trouble with Uncle Gardner. Running around, tearing up the herb garden outside. Accidentally letting a sick troupe of Nymphs free to wreak havoc on the Spell Haven town square. Stealing one of Uncle Gardner's personal spell books and turning his own room into a swamp.
What if Uncle Gardner was just tired of looking? What if he was tired of diverting his resources into finding someone who didn't want to be found? And what if I didn't have what it takes to find my brother, after all? I swallowed against the lump rising in my throat.
"I'll admit that this is rather unorthodox. You know that I value the formation and ruling of our laws of the land." His brow furrowed as he began pacing. "But. I refuse to listen to another moment of my sister's crying, or to see another worried look on my wife's face. And I . . . I will not simply give up."
He held out his hand and I was confused for a moment until I saw the swirl of gold in it, spinning around in a small gaseous-looking formation that spread out to reveal a small golden box.
I raised a brow. "What's that?"
He crossed the few feet until he stood over me, kneeling down until we were nearly eye-level. I hadn't seen my uncle look this formidable and solemn since I graduated.
Focusing on the box in his hand, he removed the top of it with his Siren magic, the top dissipating into a million golden particles to reveal what was inside.
A large, sparkling amethyst pendant set in a beautiful silver setting and chain sat floating in the box, radiating a pulsating kind of energy. I wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel the power of it flow through me, but Uncle Gardner placed his hand over mine.
"Do you know what this is?" he whispered.
I shook my head. I'd heard of powerful magical items like this before, but most of those were just myths. It was one thing to have a wand to help you focus your power, but it was something else to have something like this.
"This is the Stone of Joyce. It was created by one of the most powerful witches in previous generations—pure Arcadian silver, practically indestructible. The stone will amplify your magic in ways your wand never could. You will be more powerful than an average Siren, with the ability to use your mind as a weapon."
I gasped. "This stone can make me a Siren?" I battled back all the times I'd secretly wished to be a Siren in my head, instead, staring at the necklace. "How is that even possible?"
Uncle Gardner shook his head and carefully took the pendant from the box, placing it in the palm of my hand. "That doesn't matter. It has to be you who uses it, because the MARC has the ability to track any of the members using it. You, on the other hand . . ."
"Not being part of the MARC anymore, I can use it undetected? Are you absolutely sure?"
He sighed. "I wouldn't ask this of you if I thought otherwise." Squeezing my other hand over top of the pendant, Uncle Gardner met my gaze. "But you have to keep this between us. No one else can know that you're using this."
I sat back, reeling from the sheer pull of the pendant, unsure of whether or not I could even hold onto it for much longer. "I—I won't tell anyone, but without any new information,"
"—which is precisely why you are going to go back and interrogate our best informant and source. Tristan's ex-girlfriend."
I frowned. "What good will that do? Isn't she a fairy? They have ways of concealing things from us, even if they can't lie."
My uncle stood back up, dusting off his knees. "The pendant will help with that. It can pick up on deceptions within the truth, even. And according to our last interview with her, Tristan was last seen on the road leading into Arcadia. She told us that he mentioned going home, which she found quite confusing."
I remembered reading about it in the file. "And you had the manor house searched."
"Yes. With no luck, of course. But he wouldn't have been able to hide out here without my knowledge anyway, so I wasn't surprised."
I stood up too, suddenly feeling like my purpose in this whole ordeal was finally worth something. "Okay. I'll head into Arcadia first thing in the morning. I need to figure out what to do with Fiona-Leigh first."
Because there was no way in the world I was letting my daughter into the lands of the Fae.
23
“. . . And then a giant spaceship came to beam me up inside of it. The blue light, it was so beautiful. . . Okay seriously? Mom? Earth to Mom!"
I snapped to, the spoon in my hand still frozen in mid-air. "Er, sorry. What were you saying, Fi?" I asked through a bite of oatmeal.
Her dark blue eyes narrowed at me. "Did you hear anything I just said?"
The truth was that I was so wrapped up in worrying over what to do about the journey into Arcadia later, that I really hadn't been listening to her. I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Sorry. I guess my mind is just elsewhere."
Fiona-Leigh leaned forward on her elbows. "Like where? I was just talking about our game plan for the day. You know, going to the Fairy lands and all that. You've been, right? What's it like, anyway? When I think of Fairies . . . I think of like pointed ears, beautiful faces, really awesome shimmery wings."
This was exactly what I had been worrying about. "Honey . . . I wish it were that simple."
She raised a brow at me, immediately catching the hesitation in my tone. If there was one thing I knew about my daughter, it was that she could smell any resistance from me a mile away.
Washing up her dishes, Fiona-Leigh waited until I was nearly finished with my own breakfast, before settling back down in front of me, her lips pursed together. "Please don't do the thing."
"What thing?"
"You know the thing. The thing where I get super excited about something new, and then you rush in and crash the party with bad news."
Geez, was I really that bad? "Come on, Fi, you know that's not what I'm trying to do here."
She shrugged her thin, freckled shoulder. "Maybe you don't need to . . . But that's exactly what you're doing. What's so wrong with getting excited about Arcadia? I've always wanted to meet the fairies, even before I realized they were more than just a cosplay costume."
I couldn't exactly fault her, I mean of course she had a point. As levelheaded as Fiona-Leigh was, she had always been into fantasy books and the like. I didn't know whether that was because of her heritage or what, but I could understand her excitement. The thing was… The Fae aren't to be trifled with. They’re a Royal Kingdom older than Spell Haven itself, in fact they’re from the oldest part of the realm — they’ve been around for thousands of years before witches.
And truthfully, any smart witch worth her weight in black salt would know to be wary of them. They would look at a young innocent human childlike Fiona-Leigh and see a plaything, something to easily corrupt. At least the pixies would. I took in the excitement in her hopeful eyes and sighed. "I have no intention of you being there in Arcadia. I don't know exactly where I'm supposed to go just yet, anyway. It could be dangerous, and you're such an easy target that I —"
But I knew right away that was the wrong thing to say when I could practically see the fire burning in her eyes.
"Seriously, Mom? An easy target? What, now I'm completely helpless or something? I may not be some powerful witch, but I'm not stupid, you know!"
I slumped back in my chair, feeling like a total idiot. Of course I would say something wrong, and of course she would be completely offended by it. "I really don’t want to argue with you right now Fiona-Leigh. I’m not trying to upset you, I just feel that —"
But then it hit me. My fingers delved into my jeans pocket, running over the edges of the amethyst pendant. The Stone of Joyce. What if I didn't have to worry about Fiona-Leigh being in Arcadia at all? Or arguing with me over it, for that matter?
Short of tying her up and locking her in a closet somewhere, I wouldn't be able to convince her work would really keep her from finding a way to follow us on the journey... But maybe there was another way.
I slid out of the chair and grabbed my bowl, playing it casual. "I just feel that you would have a better time here."
"Here?" Fiona-Leigh scoffed behind me. "What, playing babysitter to the only feline threatening to take over the world?"
Just on time, Oisín strutted into the kitchen before hopping up onto the counter. "I resent that comment," he said slowly, licking his paw. "I certainly do not need a babysitter."
