by Kevin Hearne
Simon Hatcher is your man. He flew in and out of Glasgow about six weeks ago—and may have made other trips too, but you asked for just the last three months. Saxon included a home address in Reston, Virginia. He’s CIA. Maximum caution, Al. I might disappear for a while and see if anyone comes after my usual hiding places. Recommend you do the same. He can bring heat.
I nodded and Signaled, Thanks. Be safe. If you need something to do while you’re gone, I’d like to take out some human traffickers.
Why? It won’t solve anything.
It’ll save some victims, maybe give them their lives back.
Saxon nodded. What do you want? Names?
Local raid targets. I’m going to set the polis on them.
He gave me a salute and I tugged at my hat brim and left him in there. I had a name to work with, at least. Was Simon Hatcher the mysterious Bastille? I had two different ways to find out.
The first was that I could request the aid of Flidais once more. She could travel to his place in Reston and confirm by scent or whatever magical means she used that Simon Hatcher was the same person she’d trailed to the Glasgow Airport using that scrap of ink recipe. If he was the same person, then the advantage would be that we’d have found clear evidence that he’d violated a strict taboo of the Tuatha Dé Danann and could proceed accordingly.
The major drawback to that was that the Tuatha Dé Danann did not do such favors for free. They required payment, and it was never a cash transaction. It was always something else, something you never wanted to pay. Brighid had requested Flidais’s aid earlier at her own expense; she either called in a favor Flidais owed her or promised to do a favor in return. I wasn’t ready to put myself in any kind of debt to the Fae or the Tuatha Dé Danann. It rarely worked out well for any human who traded with them.
My other option was to contact Elijah Robicheaux—my colleague in Philadelphia, who was currently annoyed with me—and ask him to confirm on his side of the Atlantic that a CIA agent was up to something dastardly with the Fae. He owed me a favor or two. Calling one in now would only annoy him further, but he knew his own backyard better than I did.
I Signaled him. Calling in a marker. A CIA agent named Simon Hatcher may be Bastille. Can you look into him, please? I gave him the address in Reston. The reply came back as I was contemplating the mural of St. Mungo on High Street, thinking that I should do more than just report traffickers to the police. There was no question that I would do something if the opportunity presented itself; the moral thing to do would be to seek out an opportunity. I needed to crack open that book I’d borrowed.
I do have my own shit going down, Eli’s text read. But fine, Al, if you want to use a marker on this, I’m on it.
“Ouch. Ye weren’t kidding about getting yer arse kicked,” Nadia said as she stepped into my office only a few moments after I’d entered. I figured that Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite must have let her know I’d arrived. “I’m assuming that’s after you’ve already used a healing sigil on yourself?”
I shook my head and retrieved my phone, opening Signal rather than text-to-speech. A detective tried to plant a bug on me this morning. I need the office swept for bugs before we say anything.
Nadia frowned, pulling her phone out of her back pocket as it buzzed. She was in black jeans and her studded jacket today, and the boots were low-heeled jobs with no spikes on them, but she still had her favorite gloves on with the studs on the knuckles. “Shit,” she said. “Awright, I had things to tell you, but hold on.”
I did not have a sigil for destroying electronic devices or jamming radio signals. Brighid had created the sigil system before electricity was in wide use, and once it was, she realized that anything shorting out electrical systems could do more harm than good. So she added sigils very sparingly, like the Sigil of Swallowed Light, to counter very specific modern inventions that constrained our ability to do our jobs. The Ward of Muffled Conversation was from the Chinese system and essentially soundproofed my office, so I didn’t need to worry about directional microphones pointed at my windows (though it did require me to install a doorbell, since I wouldn’t hear any knocks). For bugs inside the room, however, we needed the sort of countermeasures anyone else would use. We had a bug-sweeping kit in the basement, and Nadia went to fetch it while I took off my topcoat and draped it over one of the chairs around the coffee table, then inspected the brim of my hat. I didn’t find anything, but that didn’t mean I was bug-free.
I stopped. Something about my desk was different. Maybe it was the huge pile of sealed envelopes there. The Monday morning post was unusually large. I went over to start sorting it by seals: deities, officers of deities, denizens of other planes, boring old humans who used stamps and self-adhesive envelopes, and bloody junk mail. If people were punched in the junk every time they sent junk mail, I bet we’d see a lot less of it. I refused to print any of it, on principle.
Nadia returned with the bug-sweeper and started prowling around the room as it beeped and shrieked and whirred. She gave me the once-over, my topcoat as well, and then I did the same for her. All clean.
“Can we talk now?” she said. I nodded, and the tension drained out of her shoulders. “Thank fuck. While ye were gone, the little delivery pixies kept coming and dumping letters on yer desk, plus there was a woman who claimed tae be a selkie, who was just unforgivably beautiful. I am seriously never gonnay forgive her, Al. I think she did some Fae shite tae me, because I’m pretty sure I’m pining here, ye know what I’m saying? Pining like the wankers in poems are always on about. Is that a thing selkies do, make ye pine?”
[Their beauty is a defense. The idea is that humans won’t want to hurt them if they’re extraordinarily beautiful.]
“Really? That seems like an epic misjudgment of humanity.”
[Well, do you want to hurt her?]
“No, I want tae take her tae a bed-and-breakfast for a week and slather her in fondue.”
[Well, there you go. What did the selkie want?]
“She said tae tell ye the banshees are distraught.”
[Of course they are. They’re banshees.]
“No, it’s because they cannae perform their function. They’re wailing and screaming but there are no any names, just a bunch o’ random syllables. And someone named Cleo, or Cleaner—bollocks, does that sound familiar?”
[Clíodhna?]
“That’s the one. She cannae explain it, and I guess she’s the expert.”
[Okay. Thank you.]
“Is that all? Anything ye want tae tell me about the twenty thousand ye withdrew this morning? I got an alert from the bank.”
[Oh, yes. Please add twenty thousand in jobs to the books to replace it.]
“Where is the actual money coming from?”
[I don’t know yet. I might set Buck on it.]
“Are ye serious?”
[He got your beer, didn’t he?]
“It’s a bit different, Al. Steal a growler and the bartender might not even notice. Steal that kind of money and ye get the polis involved.”
[Don’t worry about the cops catching him. Just keep the books pristine and ready for audit. They will be looking at our finances too.]
“Awright. Did ye have a go at fixin’ yer face while I was getting the bug-sweeping kit? Because it still looks like a slapped arse.”
The pain flared at the mention of it. I really did need to draw a proper healing sigil as soon as I got into my ink room. [I only used Knit Flesh, but I’ll deal with it soon. And it’s not over. They really want Buck, so there might be more of that trouble on the way.]
“Hope they come looking for him here. I’ll get on the books and let ye get tae the mail. But if that selkie comes back, tell her I’m serious about the fondue.”
There was no way in any of the hells of the infinite planes that I would tell anyone my manager wanted to coat
them in fondue, but I reckoned Nadia understood that and I didn’t need to type it out.
She left and shut the noise of the printing presses behind the door, since half the first floor was open to the ground. I returned to my desk and opened the deity letters in case they were urgent. They weren’t. They were either formal requests to visit the plane for recreation—there was some good skiing in Switzerland at the moment, apparently—or informing me of official visits that were allowed under their respective treaties with humanity. The letters from representatives of deities were more of the same. Just a lot of skiing. Enough to suspect that there was more to it than recreation. A business meeting among various parties, perhaps, disguised as a vacation from the workaday drudgery of paradise? I decided to let that percolate in my subconscious, along with the problem of the banshees, while I got to my real reason for coming into work at all today: sigils. I ignored the rest of the letters on my desk and pressed the button hidden underneath my desk inside the top drawer. The bookcase to my right pushed forward and slid toward the front of the office, revealing the entrance to my ink room. It felt like ages since I’d been in there.
The welcome smells of dusty paper, briny solutions, and lemon from my sealing waxes wafted into my nose. My ink room was a well-ordered space, with racks of wooden cubbyholes and shelves all around with jars of ink ingredients waiting on them; completed inks were arranged in and above my writing desk, an old Victorian-era job with plenty of cubbyholes already built into it. A stack of cut cardstock waited to be inscribed with sigils, and I had a little burner set underneath a mounted brass spoon to melt sealing wax. I got that going; I vastly preferred it to the messy portable setup I had in my coat.
I selected the fountain pen labeled Loch Lomond, which was the name of the ink required to craft a Sigil of Restorative Care, and tested the ink flow on a scratch pad. Satisfied, I drew the circular triskele design on a card in the wet cool-blue ink and held it in front of me as I waited for the ink to dry and the sigil to become potent. When it did, I felt the burning of my scratches begin to fade. I drew three more of those, folded down the tops, and drew a Sigil of Postponed Puissance, sealing them for later use.
Then I switched pens and inks as required and drew up additional sigils of Restful Sleep, Hale Revival, and Knit Flesh, in case we had to deal with slashing or puncture wounds.
There was no doubt I’d require additional battle sigils as well, and both Nadia and Buck could probably use them too, so I set to it. There wasn’t enough Dexterous Ink left for the Sigil of Agile Grace, however, so I had to whip up a fresh batch of that. The ink-prep station was really just a sink and countertop along the wall to the right as one entered, and it had cost me nothing to plumb since this room would have been the kitchen if the first floor had remained a flat. I had a mortar and pestle, beakers, and measuring spoons and the like, and it allowed me to craft the majority of the inks without leaving my office, so long as I had the ingredients on hand. I’d have to find time to go through Gordie’s stores soon; perhaps I could do that after seeing to the remainder of the mail. During that half hour of careful mixing and decanting, I pondered why the banshees might be babbling incoherently.
Banshees mourned the dead in advance. They were the worst sorts of harbingers, crying out the names of the soon-to-be deceased. Sometimes they kept wailing after someone passed, but it was different then, a sort of “told you so” kind of moan. The incoherent syllables sounded consistent with heralding an impending death, but why wouldn’t they be able to cry out any intelligible names? The answer came to me as I was drawing my fresh batch of ink into the reservoir of a Montblanc pen. I blinked and stood up straight, startled as an answer presented itself like a gymnast at the start of a floor exercise.
“They can’t name the doomed because the name changed and they don’t know what the new one is,” I said out loud. And I knew a member of the Fae who had recently changed his name. “Oh, no. Buck.”
I scrambled for my phone, which was still in my coat, and sent a Signal to Buck.
Are you still safe? You’re in the flat?
I had a tense thirty seconds to wait for a reply.
Aye.
Don’t leave for any reason. Stay there.
That was the plan, old man.
That was a relief, until I realized that Buck might get himself killed accidentally messing with human things in my flat.
Keep fully clothed, I Signaled him. Watch for iron in the house. And eat some fruit. An apple or an orange.
Why are ye so worried? And what is with the fruit?
I’m just being careful. And you need fruit because scurvy is a terrible way to die.
You’re a fucking nutter, MacBharrais, he replied, which told me he was just fine at the moment.
It would be wise to renew my wards, both at home and here in the office. The last thing I needed was for one of them to fail when we might be under assault at any time. The Wards of Spectral Abeyance had taken a beating with the barghest attack.
That prompted a search for the Chinese inks made by Mei-ling for such purposes, the solid cakes that I’d need to grind down and mix with water before painting them on my doors, windows, and walls. I pulled out eight different ink cakes, each molded into the shape of a Chinese dragon or other mythological creature and nestled in its own little box, and set them aside. I’d need to fetch a bag from the production floor to pack them for travel.
The office phone on my desk rang and I hurried out to punch the speakerphone. I tapped the desk twice to let Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite know that I was on the line.
“Mr. MacBharrais, there’s a gentleman here to see you on what he says is urgent agency business.”
I tapped the desk twice more for message received and hung up. Agency business was the phrase visitors were supposed to use to indicate that they were not from earth and they needed to see me as a sigil agent rather than a printshop owner. I Signaled to Nadia that we had a visitor in reception and asked if she could escort whoever it was up to the office.
On it, she replied. I dashed back to the ink room, grabbed a card and the Montblanc pen, and drew a Sigil of Agile Grace in case I needed it. Once completed, I scooted back to my desk and pressed the stud underneath the top drawer to close the bookcase and conceal the ink room.
Moments after the bookcase slid into place, Nadia rang the office bell and I opened the door, inviting her and the guest in.
The man had to duck to get through, and he loomed over the two of us in a trench coat, wide-brimmed hat, and a scarf covering much of his features on top of what looked to be a vest over a turtleneck. Nothing matched, and the entire ensemble might have been stolen from a lost-and-found bin. What little I could see of the skin around his eyes was of a distinctly greenish tinge.
“Here we are,” Nadia said. “Please come in, take off your coat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Naw,” the giant said, his gravelly voice muffled though the scarf. “Just need tae talk tae MacBharrais.”
“Very well. Al, this is Durf from the Fae planes.”
Durf was one of the top-ten most popular ogre baby names about forty years ago, so that fit with the greenish skin. I nodded at him and pulled out my phone, raising my brows significantly to Nadia. She took her cue to explain.
“Durf, Al is going tae use that device tae talk tae ye, since he has a bit of trouble with his voice right now.”
“Huh? Okay. Whatever. Listen, there’s a hobgoblin loose somewhere here in Glasgow. Name of Gag Badhump. I’m here tae get him.”
I shook my head. [Don’t know that name.]
“Well, I was told ye would. And ye’d know where he is.”
[Who told you that?]
“Nunna yer business. Ye’ve no seen him? Wee pink guy.”
[I may have seen him.] Apparently, Buck’s former name was Gag Badhump. Even for hobgoblins, who tended to
have horrific names, that was spectacularly unfortunate. No wonder he hadn’t wished to tell me.
His voice dropped and lost its clarity. “Well, hee zere immee gull.”
[Pardon? It’s difficult to understand you.]
“I said—bah.” Durf unwound the scarf from around his face and revealed that he was, in fact, an ogre, with a bulbous nose and a mouth full of yellow and brown teeth with something mossy growing on them. His voice, however, was much clearer now. “Said the hobgoblin is here illegally.”
[Perhaps. That’s my call to make, however, not yours. Until you tell me who sent you, the argument could be made that you’re here illegally.]
“Huh? Look, I’m here on official business.”
Nadia knew enough about the treaties to answer quickly. “It’s not official business if ye dinnae say who sent ye. We need to know the official, awright?”
The ogre scowled down at her, and she took a few steps to her right, placing herself between the ogre and me. Durf followed her with his gaze and growled a reply.
“It’s quite simple. Gimme the hobgoblin and I’ll leave. We’ll both be out of here. Nae bother.”
“The proper way tae deal with such matters is tae hire a barghest with a contract. Now that we know his name, ye can just leave the matter tae us.”
“Naw, I cannae do that. Barghests were already sent and Badhump kilt them. He’s a nasty one.”
Nadia looked over her shoulder at me, pretending to be surprised. “Have ye heard of any barghests getting kilt, Al?”
I nodded and she turned back around to Durf. “So ye’re who they send if the barghests fail? Ye’re meaner and deadlier than they are?”
“That’s right.”
“How’s that?” Nadia challenged. “What ye packing, eh, that will give ye the edge on a murdering hobgoblin?”
“Well, I have all these wards sewn intae ma clothes. He cannae slap me with his goblin magic.”
