Ink & Sigil

by Kevin Hearne

  He was hiding in the shadows of the back porch. Buck jumped out of the way of a fist at the last second, hollering, “Shite!” as it crashed into the deck, splintering wood.

  “Owe you one, wee man,” the troll growled, dressed incongruously in an XXXL black tracksuit and wearing an eyepatch. “And more besides. Won’t forget losing an eye.”

  Buck popped out of sight and reappeared on the troll’s shoulder as Eli and I unsealed agility sigils for ourselves. My hobgoblin poked the troll in his remaining eye and shouted, “Lose another!” before winking out of existence again. While the troll roared and covered his eye, swiping at us blindly with his left hand to keep us away, we drew our weapons. Mine was simply the cane, but Eli pulled two short iron daggers from somewhere and darted in, slashing the troll twice on the arm.

  He felt it and grunted, but there was no other reaction, which we both thought odd as we backed off the porch. There wasn’t enough room there to evade the troll.

  “Shouldn’t that have hurt him a bit more?” Eli said in an undertone to me.

  I nodded in the dark, which I’m not sure he saw. Pausing to type my answers during a battle was not the best way to win, so I’d be silent until it was over. But Eli was correct: The troll should have recoiled at the touch of those custom iron blades, and his skin should blister and pop like Durf the ogre’s had, but he acted as if he’d just taken a minor scratch.

  “Kill ye,” the troll muttered, then fell silent as he cocked his head to listen for us and took a deep breath, trying to locate us by scent. “Yeah, ye better back off,” he said, lumbering forward and finding by touch the post that bordered the steps. He grabbed on to it and used it to steady himself as he descended the steps. We were on some artificial-stone decking material now, bordering the pool on our left, and the troll was approaching cautiously and trying to hold himself defensively but advancing nevertheless.

  “Buck, c’mere,” Eli said, which gave the troll a clue where he was—next to the pool. I was to their right. The troll snarled and lurched toward Eli even as Buck scooted over to get close, and Eli tapped his shoulder. “Climb up.” Buck leapt up instead and Eli gave some ground, taking three steps back and whispering to Buck as the troll roared and swiped a couple of times at the air in the direction of Eli’s voice. Eli had to rear back to avoid the second one and shot a glance at me. “Follow up, Al,” he said, then he flipped his grip on his daggers so that the tips pointed down. To Buck, he nodded that he was ready.

  Buck popped them both out of the way just as the troll was coming at them for another swing, and they reappeared a few feet in the air directly above the troll’s head, rotated a hundred eighty degrees so that they were facing the same way he was. Eli plunged his iron daggers up to the hilt in either side of the troll’s neck as he fell, and Buck punched him in his left ear. Eli necessarily landed on the troll’s back but didn’t try to hold on. He just toppled backward and rolled away, and Buck likewise didn’t stick around but launched himself toward the lawn.

  The troll’s reaction was instinctive. He reached up to the daggers, raising his arms and leaving his rib cage unprotected. That was my shot and I took it, darting forward and placing a straight kick into his left side, which I’d never be able to manage normally but could pull off thanks to the influence of the agility sigil. It staggered the troll just enough to tumble him into the pool, bleeding and blind. Trolls don’t do well in water—their dense musculature means they float about as well as a cement block. But this wasn’t a particularly deep pool, and he’d fallen in the shallow end. He stood up in short order, water up to his thighs, and bellowed a sort of layered roar, like a tuba snoring underneath a shrieking buzz saw and an ululating wombat.

  “What the fuck, Al?” Eli said. “He should be disintegrating with that much iron in him.”

  I had no answer, so I simply shook my head and withdrew a Sigil of Muscular Brawn, opening it and taking it in as the troll fought against the resistance of water to get to the edge and climb out. I felt the strength flow into my muscles, and I gripped my cane like a cricket bat, sidestepping across the deck of the pool to meet the troll as he reached the side. Since he was standing in at least a three-foot hole, his head was conveniently positioned in what would be a high-strike zone in American baseball. I teed off on his face with everything I had, the carbon steel striking him directly on the forehead and the bone cracking audibly. His vocals abruptly ceased and he fell back into the pool, sinking to rest on the bottom and not moving. He wouldn’t be getting back up again.

  Fighting a troll does not lend itself to the sort of stealth one requires to surprise a target. As a species, trolls generally defy all attempts to fight them sneakily, and this one had made plenty of noise. So even though we’d not tripped any wards, someone in the house—either Hatcher or another bodyguard—had woken up sometime during the fight and found a gun. He used that to shoot at us through the windows.

  I didn’t know if he could see us well or if he was simply trying to scare us off, but I certainly did feel it when a bullet grazed my shoulder. I dropped to the ground and broke my silence.

  “Buck! Get his gun.”

  “On it, boss.” The air displaced behind him as he popped away and shortly returned with the gun in hand, a semiautomatic job. We heard someone howling inside the house.

  “What’d you do to him?” Eli asked.

  “Broke his nose. Don’t worry, he can still talk.”

  “Good.”

  I got to my feet and used a Sigil of Knit Flesh on myself to stop the bleeding. That didn’t stop it from hurting, so I was rather glad Buck had dished out a little punishment in return.

  When we burst through the door, we discovered that it was indeed Hatcher and not another bodyguard who’d shot at us. He was a slightly sunburnt man with sandy hair and a middle-aged spread concealed under his powder-blue pajamas. His eyebrows were sun-bleached blond and kind of glowed against his flushed face. His teeth were abnormally bright as well, obviously having undergone a whitening treatment. But his combat training had been years ago and he hadn’t been in the field for years, if ever, so he was no match for Eli. We had him zip-tied and bleeding on his living room carpet inside of two minutes. We let him say things like we had made a fatal mistake and we had no idea who we were dealing with and so on. That was all fine, because we needed to establish a baseline of behavior before we employed a sigil on him. I got out my phone and asked Buck to look around.

  [Search for anything Fae, but carefully. He might have some dangerous shite.]

  “Can I steal anything?”

  [Maybe. Clear it with me first.]

  “I love this job.” He disappeared and Hatcher objected loudly. I wondered why he bothered, and Eli spoke aloud what I was thinking.

  “Man, if we didn’t stop at the troll on the back porch and the gun you shot at us, what makes you think we’re gonna stop because you tell us to when you’re tied up and on your knees? Where’s your situational awareness?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck me, huh? Hmm. Is this a performative thing? The room is bugged and you know it, so you gotta act like you’re not seconds away from shitting yourself?”

  “Just know that anything you do to me is going to be paid back with interest.”

  “You’d have to remember it to get revenge, and you’re not gonna remember any of this. Look, we know you’re Bastille. We know you’ve been trafficking the Fae and doing something to them, and you’ve sold this whole business somehow to your superiors. What we want to know is exactly what you’re doing to them and why.”

  Hatcher blinked a few times, clearly taken aback, though I wasn’t sure which part had slowed him. That we knew he was Bastille? Or that we knew of his Fae experiments?

  “I’m not telling you shit.”

  “Come on, man. We know about your secret op, we tracked your doughy ass down, and we handled your
troll. We’re not your typical home invaders. We can do things to your head to get the answers we need, but it’ll leave some damage behind. We’d rather not do that. You come clean with us voluntarily and you’ll wake up confused but otherwise of sound mind. That’s a very good deal and you should take it.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  “We work for Brighid, First among the Fae. She knows what you’ve been up to.”

  “Bullshit. You’re Russian.”

  Eli blinked and looked down at himself to make sure he still appeared as he had that morning.

  “Russia can do some impressive shit, I’ll grant you,” Eli said. “Steal-our-elections-and-install-a-puppet-and-get-away-with-it kind of shit. But I don’t think they have many brothers on their list of sleeper agents.” He looked over at me. “I gave it a try. I think it’s time.”

  I nodded my assent but typed a question. [You’re clear on what we need to get in the short window we have?]

  “Yeah, man. I’m clear.”

  Hatcher’s eyes narrowed at me. “Why are you using a UK voice on your speech app? Are you from there?” His eyes popped wide open. “You’re the asshole who called about Gordie, aren’t you? That bullshit memorial in Edinburgh.”

  I didn’t bother answering. Eli pulled out the prepared Sigil of Reckoning Truth and opened it in front of Hatcher’s eyes. He flinched once, but then his eyes went glassy and unblinking.

  “You’re going to answer all my questions, aren’t you, Simon?”

  He gulped and then said, “Yes.”

  This sigil, my master taught me, was a variation on an enchantment applied to a sword the Iron Druid possessed, a legendary Irish weapon named Fragarach, the Answerer. That could compel truthful answers indefinitely and leave the subject unharmed, but our sigil was more of a spoon than a scalpel and was only effective for a limited time, so Eli dove right into it.

  “Did you arrange the trafficking of Fae?”

  “No, but I was involved.”

  “Who else was involved?”

  “Gordie and Clíodhna of the Tuatha Dé Danann. And her intermediaries.”

  “Can you prove Clíodhna was involved?”

  “No. She always worked through banshees.”

  “What are you doing to the Fae?”

  “We’re taking away their fatal flaw. Removing their vulnerability to iron. It disfigures them and drives them a bit crazy, but it works.” We’d just confirmed that independently with the troll, so I knew we were getting good intel.

  “And this is Clíodhna’s idea?” Eli continued.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she give you an ink recipe to deliver to Gordie?”

  “Yes, a few of them.” That was interesting. I’d only found the one. If there were other written recipes still around, I’d need to destroy them.

  “Why does she want Fae immune to iron?”

  Hatcher shrugged. “I guess she has enemies who use iron against the Fae. I don’t care as long as I get to use them.”

  “Use them how?”

  “Counterintelligence. Hit the Russians with monsters so they don’t know how to hit back. It’s all proof of concept at this stage, but so far, so…good.”

  That pause at the end was ominous, and Eli asked the next vital question quickly. “Where are you turning the Fae into these monsters?”

  Hatcher blinked once, then a few more times in rapid succession, and my shoulders slumped. That was all we were going to get.

  “Hey, what?” he said. “Hey. What’d you do to me?”

  “Where are you turning the Fae into monsters?” Eli repeated.

  “Fuck you, man. My head hurts. Jesus, what did you do?”

  “Shit. Come on, get up,” Eli said, lifting Hatcher by the crook of his arm so he could get to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Hatcher tried kicking Eli as soon as he was up, but Eli had been expecting that. He blocked it and sank his fist into Hatcher’s gut. The agent doubled over with a wheeze and fell down.

  “Dumbass,” Eli said. “I’m tryna leave you here peacefully and you have to start your shit again. Let’s try this one more time. You keep cool and I’ll do the same.”

  Hatcher kept a steady stream of curses and dire promises of revenge going as Eli led him to the master bedroom, which turned out to be a spacious yet execrably appointed space. Had the man never watched a single interior-design show? He had a hunter-green futon sitting next to a turquoise armoire. He should spend an hour with the Property Brothers, for crying out loud; there was no reason for such barbarism. I hoped he had real furniture on order somewhere.

  Eli got him lying down on his side on the futon—which Dhanya definitely would have set on fire—and then opened two sigils in front of his eyes in quick succession: a Sigil of Lethe River, which would erase the past hour from his memory, followed by a Sigil of Restful Sleep. Eli cut his zip ties once he’d nodded off.

  “Well, at least it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Eli said. “We don’t have proof, but we know more than we did before.”

  I nodded, but there was still plenty we didn’t know. Like where my hobgoblin was. I exited the room to go look for him. I heard some noises behind a door in the hallway and opened it to investigate. My hobgoblin was in there, perched on top of a glass display case and reaching into it.

  [Buck, what are you doing? Let’s go.]

  The case was full of painted miniatures of the kind one uses in fantasy games like Dungeons & Dragons and Warmachine, and the desk in the room was clearly a hobbyist’s work space. There was a spotlight lamp and a magnifying glass mounted on an extendable arm for detail work, a cup full of brushes, and little plastic bottles of acrylic paints. Buck was stuffing a canvas bag he’d found somewhere full of Hatcher’s painted miniatures. “He was stealing Fae and doing science tae them. I want tae steal these and do magic tae them. It’s only fair, right?”

  [I’m too worried about Clíodhna to debate the morality of it with you. Congratulations on making a vaguely parallel argument. Did you find anything Fae in the house?]

  “Naw. Just this wild shite here. He has a goblin army, can ye believe it? Painted their skin green and gave them these rubbish nonsense tattoos, the cheeky bastard! I’m gonnay have me a laugh with this and he’ll be havin’ a scream.”

  [Hurry up. We need to get in the taxi.]

  “That’s just wrong, that is. We should be getting in the van. The wizard van. Much as it pains me tae say it, I miss Nadia right now and wish she was here. Can we get a wizard van?”

  I shook my head. [They draw too much attention, and I don’t want any. That’s why I try to look as boring as possible.]

  “Except for yer mustache, eh, MacBharrais? That’s well trimmed and memorable, like yer maw.”

  I left the doorway, and his cackling followed me. Eli was in the kitchen, wiping down Hatcher’s gun to erase any fingerprints.

  “I already got the doorknobs. You touch anything else?” he asked me.

  I shook my head, and then he rifled through kitchen drawers until he found where Hatcher kept his sandwich bags. He put the gun inside one and then tossed it to me. “Hide that shit in your bigass coat and dump it at the station. With any luck, that’s his service weapon and he’ll get in trouble for losing it.”

  Hatcher was not going to enjoy waking up. We’d sent him to sleep with a broken nose, and he wouldn’t remember who had socked him. Nor would he be able to explain the broken window he’d shot out, his missing gun, or the dead troll at the bottom of his swimming pool. Best of all—for us, anyway—Hatcher wouldn’t remember that he’d been discovered and that he’d told us what he was doing and who was in on it.

  Before we left, I peeked outside and turned on the pool lights to confirm that the troll’s body was still in one piece. Normally the troll would have dissolved into a pile of as
hes upon death, but apparently removing a Fae creature’s vulnerability to iron also removed their convenient disposal. I worried briefly that we’d have to get rid of it, but then reasoned that Hatcher would have enough shady contacts to make sure it got taken care of.

  “Gods below, MacBharrais,” Buck said, appearing at my side and staring down into the pool. “He’s uglier than a splash of birdshite on yer sandwich, in’t he?”

  [Aye, but I’m sorry he had to come to such an end,] I told him. [I don’t know what makes trolls happy in Tír na nÓg, but I have to think he would have been happier had he never met Hatcher and his crew.]

  “That’s true. The answer is screaming, by the way.”

  [What?]

  “What makes trolls happy. Screaming in terror, anger, anything. They’re happiest when others are upset.”

  [Sounds about right.]

  We didn’t talk on the taxi ride back to the station, except to answer Buck’s questions about what he saw out the window. We tipped the driver well and then popped a Sigil of Lethe River in front of his eyes so he’d forget the last hour. He’d probably remember us getting in his cab originally, since that had been more than an hour ago, but he wouldn’t remember where he took us, our field trip to Hatcher’s backyard, or us emerging from the house via the front door later on with what looked suspiciously like a bag of loot in the hand of the small pink fellow.

  Eli and I thought we’d have some time to talk at the station while waiting for the train back to Philadelphia, but it turned into a nightmare of trying to corral Buck: The hob had taken it into his head that the best way to spend a few idle minutes was to steal powdered donuts from the convenience store and then throw them at security guards, the pillowy soft thumps against their torsos leaving white impact strikes of confectioners’ sugar.

  “What the actual fuck, Al?” Eli growled at me. “Can’t you control him?”

  [Remember he blinded the troll and took Hatcher’s gun away,] I said after I dumped the gun into a bin. Everyone was distracted by security officers rushing about, searching for whoever’d nailed them and then howled with mocking laughter, so no one was watching us. [You have to take the bad with the good.]