“Anything else?” Brand asked.
Corinne hesitated, and glanced between us. “Sherman . . . lives hard. He’s always been on the edge. He’s lived on the edge as long as I’ve known of him. But getting fired? If something has pushed him into freefall, I don’t like that it’s happened at the same time that Layne’s gone missing. I don’t like it at all.”
“We’ll find him,” I promised.
THE GREEN DOCKS
The Green Docks was a dense, schizophrenic arrangement of wooden piers that stretched a mile into the ocean. It forked and overlapped on itself like a hedge maze, trapping hundreds of ships in boardwalk cages. There were old boats with wooden masts and hemp netting; rusting oil tankers; modern yachts with clean satellite arrays.
Every one of the ships had disappeared without a trace at some point over the last few hundred years.
I have no idea if the human world knew we’d taken these ships. Even if they did, I suppose it was easy enough to say we’d reclaimed them from the ocean floor, where they’d sunk in perfectly normal circumstances. What human would want to believe there were kraken the size of skyscrapers? Or creatures who were more interested in dinner than the material contents of the hold?
If I relaxed my eyes just so, I could see the energies that haunted the docks. I could see broken masts, and rogue waves, and claw marks as deep as a man’s arm. I could see the transparent panic of inexperienced sailors, and the fury of insane captains.
Since relaxing my eyes just so wasn’t important to the matter at hand, I shook my head and tried to ground myself in the present.
Brand and Addam locked the car and gathered their things, while I walked ahead, tilting my nose into the breeze. Addam had insisted on coming with us, which added a crapload of sigils to our general defense. I may have still hesitated at this, but Brand overruled me. Whatever he knew about this pirate’s cove made him convinced we’d want backup.
The Green Docks didn’t smell like the average New Atlantis dock. The area was so potent with energy that I wasn’t even sure what I smelled was a smell at all. It was as if sounds and imagery got jumbled into odor. The Green Docks smelled like neon. It smelled like 356 quadrillion tons of Atlantic water slapping against wooden hulls.
And Brand spent time here, I reminded myself. Brand knew this place, and visited these brothels. Thinking that was uncomfortably like tapping my finger next to a live wire. Uncomfortably close to the memory of that damned folder. So I shoved the thoughts as far down the fucking Nile as they’d go.
“Eh,” I said, when Brand came up behind me. “I’m not impressed.”
“You need to take this place seriously,” Brand warned.
“Remember that time we fought a lich? I bet the Green Docks doesn’t have a lich.”
“The Green Docks has plenty.”
“They’re selling T-shirts over there.” I pointed. “And souvenir shot glasses.”
If Brand had really believed I wasn’t taking this seriously, he’d have been pissed. But whatever he felt through our Companion bond let him settle the matter with a single eye roll.
“I wish we’d had time to do more research,” Addam said. He unwound a scarf from his neck and stuffed it into his pocket. It was a chilly night, but he had a necklace made of sigils, along with a leather belt filled with sigil platinum discs. I liked that he exposed them without me having to ask. In a place like this, a show of force meant everything. “I would have preferred to learn more. I have little experience with this place.”
“Brand does,” I said.
And the Companion bond told Brand something about that, too, because he narrowed his eyes at me. But he let it drop, and nodded his chin past me. “We’re going there. The Honey Pot.”
We headed off the main dock, up a set of wooden stairs that brought us level with the decks of the taller ships. The pier was sturdy and well built, but even so I could feel the roll against the planks.
Brand had dressed in lightweight cargo pants fitted with ceramic trauma plates, and a tactical chest harness lined with blades. My eight sigils were filled with a balance of aggressive, defensive, and stealth spells. Addam—who had three times as many sigils, courtesy of his family armory—complemented my limited load with spells I didn’t have space to store, along with several copies of Telekinesis and Shield.
As we walked, I looked around me. “Why is this area even called the Green Docks?”
Brand scuffed a rubber-soled boot against the wooden deck. “Used to be painted green. You can still see the flakes if you look.”
“That’s it?” I said, unimpressed. “I kind of imagined dragon scales or dryad venom or something.”
“Would you stop trying to stir shit up,” Brand said.
“I never,” I said. “Are you always this cranky when you visit here? They probably charge you extra.”
That last bit didn’t sound as lighthearted as I’d intended.
Brand stopped walking. “Do you have any questions you want to ask?”
I shook my head.
He said, “I’m allowed a night off now and then. If you want to know what I do when I come here, just ask.”
“I’m not asking.” I dug my back molars together to keep my stupid mouth shut.
Brand continued to stare at me for another three beats, then let the matter go, like I knew he would. It’s not the type of thing he’d ever let distract us, not when we were on the job.
Then Addam went and said, “I’ll ask. It may help to know. Have you been to this Honey Pot, Brand?”
“A lot of people come here. It’s well guarded, and they don’t put up with rude shit. It’s safer than the places further along.”
“Do they . . .” Addam deliberated his phrasing. “Cater to anything in particular?”
“Yes. People with lots of money. If this Sherman is as much a wreck as Corinne says, I’m surprised they even hired him. Rune, did you learn anything more about Sherman’s cousin?”
I relaxed. The conversation had steered itself onto safe ground. While we’d prepared for our trip, I’d spent a half hour online researching some of the more popular dock brothels. The Honey Pot’s website was exceedingly customer-friendly, right down to a staff page that read like a restaurant menu. None of the pictures I saw showed a heavily freckled man, though.
I shook my head. “No. I printed out some names, just in case. We’ll have to wing it.”
“We can do that,” Brand said. “Come on. Let’s go find the guy who tried to steal money from us.”
The SS Vaitarna was known in popular legend as the Vijli, the Gujarati word for electricity.
It was one of the first steamships tricked out with powered lights. She was a large, three-level schooner, 170 feet long, with two masts and a huge funnel connected to compound steam engines. It’d been one of the luxury liners of the Arabian Sea, until it vanished without a trace on November 9, 1888.
Naval authorities believed it sank in a cyclone. As we approached the ramp that led to the main deck, I ran my senses from bow to stern. I saw ghostly, black-and-white waves smash across the railings. A woman in a white dress tumbled past me, snatched by hurricane-force winds. Sheets of gray water sawed at the masts, and one of the fore cabins was on fire.
Almost eight hundred souls sank with the Vijli, including thirteen wedding parties and a whole mess of teenagers headed to Mumbai for college examinations. In the years after its disappearance, it became known as the Titanic of Gujarat, a local folklore.
Newlyweds and university students? Their moment of elation upended into a horrible death? It’s no wonder they called this brothel the Honey Pot.The feast of emotion that stained the decks would feed spells for generations.
I shuddered and shut down my sight.
* * *
The steamship’s open, outer deck was sparsely crowded. A small bar served local moonshine. Knots of Atlanteans—almost all men—drank up an appetite before moving into the brothel itself. The electric lights were antique and ornate, the
unsteady stream of power reminding me of old television static. On either side of the bar were armed bouncers; and on either side of the bouncers were beehive-shaped fountains recycling honey instead of water. I inhaled the scent of clover.
Brand and I did a quick circuit of the area. Brand checked for problems; I looked for a freckled whore. Most everyone appeared to be a guest or a guard, though.
“Stay here,” Brand said. He slipped into a shadow, and then another shadow, and then he was just the faint presence of movement.
Since I didn’t even know where the door or hatch to the brothel was, I went over to the railing and tried to be unobtrusive.
“No, your other starboard,” someone laughed, but unfriendly-like, as one does when they’re playing to an audience.
I looked over and saw Addam, who wasn’t being unobtrusive. He was flushing under the attention of a young scion.
“I asked where the main door was,” Addam said to me as I walked up to them. “It seems I’m unfamiliar with ship terms.” His R’s were sharp and Russian, which meant he was irritated or embarrassed.
“That’s port,” the scion drawled. He lifted a finger without actually pointing. “Starboard is there. It would be my pleasure to show you, if you’d like. I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”
“Haven’t you?” I said, drawing his attention. “I guess you haven’t worked here long, then.”
The young customer’s leer went brittle for just a moment, then flowed back into taking speculation. “Such provocation.”
Two other scions stepped up to the man’s back, anticipating confrontation.
It made me tired just to observe this posturing. All three were as young and stupid as a thousand other scions from wealthier houses. They were dressed in some new fashion that wasted sigil spells—the larger veins on their face and neck pulsed with colorful, glowing tracery.
“This isn’t happening,” Brand said, appearing behind all of us. “We’re not starting the night with stupid shit. Everyone goes their own way.”
“Oh, but you, you’re familiar,” the scion breathed, as if Brand hadn’t just startled him. “I’ve seen you here. Not many humans leave the shore, you know. And you’ve brought toys this time.” He was smart enough to only run his fingers in the direction of Brand’s knives.
The bouncers at the bar watched this unfold, too still for actual stillness. I remembered Brand saying they didn’t put up with trouble.
“Look,” I said. “I get it. You’re rich. You’re bored. You’re edgy. But we really don’t have time for this. Maybe I can buy you a drink and send you on your way?”
The scion stared at me, while his friends stared at him, waiting for the wind to blow. The young man seemed indolent, but I’d known a lot of scions who used their uselessness like a mask. So as the half-seconds ticked by, I underestimated him less and less, and tried to pretend I wasn’t checking him out for sigils.
“A human with sharp, sharp toys,” the young man finally said. “You’re a Companion. I hadn’t realized that before. Which is a shame. I have such particular feelings about Companions.”
“I’m so fucking pleased to hear that, but I’m not on the menu.” Brand leaned to the left, pointedly staring at the bouncers to get their attention. “You ready to invite Lord Saint Nicholas in?” He indicated Addam with a thumb.
Addam made a sound of surprise at being named so openly. But the guards jumped to attention, and the scion trio glanced at each other, recognizing Addam’s family name. Arcana court trumps greater house trumps lesser house in pretty much every card game. Inside thirty seconds, we were being shown through an enlarged hatch to the inside of the Honey Pot.
“I hadn’t realized the plan was to gain entry by announcing my court,” Addam said carefully, as we walked down a short corridor decorated with a lot of red velvet.
“Sorry about that,” Brand said. “Next time I’ll totally compromise Rune instead.”
Addam gave the back of Brand’s head a small, rueful smile.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It is not a concern,” he replied, but I got a small smile too.
Ahead of us, a warm, sulfur light spilled onto the hardwood floors. I could hear music and glassware, and the air was sweet and smoky.
Brand held up a hand, stopping us. “Smoke. Addam?”
Addam touched a platinum sigil fitted into his decorative leather belt, one of a half dozen matched set. The sigil was an exact match to one of my own—which made sense, because my disc had come from Quinn.
I felt the release of the spell. Addam reached out and touched our bare skin—Brand’s neck and my cheek. I felt magic film my mouth and nostrils, and I started breathing a few heartbeats after realizing I’d stopped. No drugged or ambient smoke would bother us while the spell lasted. We’d planned on this because of the matches we’d found in Layne’s bedroom.
Thus protected, we walked into the Honey Pot’s skintight menagerie.
About a half dozen of the ship’s original staterooms had been gutted to create a large, open space. Customers and casual drinkers circulated between five different bars, which were elegant things made from black walnut and brass fixtures. Overhead, a domed ceiling of thick glass showed a blurred starscape.
The noise wasn’t what I would have expected from a full room. Less like a bar, more like a polite, high-end department store. And beneath even that hum was a quieter one. The owners weren’t conspicuous about it, but there were hints of sigil magic if you knew where to look—a spell to give the lights an amber glow; a spell to turn tobacco smoke into alpine mist.
The shape of the room was a clamshell, fanning away from a narrow, raised stage. Half-naked men and women walked across the platform in a never-ending loop that tried to be more artful than a conveyer belt.
A half-fae worker came up to us. He or she was thin and androgynous, and dressed in sleeveless white samite.
They held a hand to me in greeting—less a clasp than a touch. Their skin felt like actual rose petals. Then they ran their eyes up and down Brand’s holster. “My, my. This is new. How well can you use that big . . . knife?”
“We need some information,” he said, a little uncomfortably. I realized, then and there, that this fae was not a stranger to Brand.
“Let’s find a corner, and I’ll tell you anything,” they promised.
“Okay, you need to dial it down,” Brand said. “I’m on duty. This isn’t a pleasure call.”
I didn’t react. I was very sure I didn’t react.
Brand continued. “We’re looking for someone who works here. He’s not in trouble. We just need to talk to him. Tall with freckles?”
“Sounds delicious. But naming names is above my paygrade. Ask the dream sprites over there. They always know what’s going on. You can tip me now.”
Brand said, “Addam.”
“Alright,” I said in frustration, as Addam nodded at Brand and fished into his pocket for a tip. Addam pulled out a crisp fifty instead of a wrinkled ten or twenty. I tried to say something more, but Brand wheeled us off toward a bar in the corner.
“Addam’s not our ATM,” I hissed.
“We’re already out a thousand dollars tonight. And no, I never fucked that faery. Tailor is just a waiter.”
“I didn’t—”
“Stay focused,” he said, changing the subject.
Addam stood a step or two behind us, pretending to be uninterested. But when Brand moved ahead to grab a seat at the bar, Addam put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I wasn’t sure if it was compassion or a friendly suggestion to stop acting pissy, but I appreciated the gesture.
So I tried to put my mood aside, again, and focus on the dream sprites.
Three of them were tending the smallest corner bar. They were the size of large GI Joe dolls, and flew around with hyper-caffeinated efficiency. They were an unusual staffing choice for the sedate surroundings, which probably accounted for the thin crowd in this corner of the room. With the exception of an e
normous redheaded man who was all but destroying the fussy stool he was perched on, we had the seats to ourselves.
“We have many potent specials today,” the tallest of the three dream sprites intoned in a high-pitched voice. “We would like to make you a margarita rimmed with salt distilled from a Malaysian tidal wave.”
There was nothing potent about salt from a tidal wave. That was just tourist trap shit.
Brand said, “Three beers. Bottled. I’ll take the caps off.”
“We would like to tell you about our draft beer. We have a very special microbrew on tap that—”
Brand sat down on one of the free stools and leaned forward, just a little, so that he was making eye contact with the hovering creature. Then he looked down at a tasteful menu on the bar, and tapped a finger over one of the bottled beers.
“We will gladly provide this beverage,” another dream sprite piped, and darted out of sight.
The two remaining dream sprites chittered at each other in fae. I didn’t speak it myself, but it was a pretty language, full of rolling vowels, no contractions, no hard consonants. I took a seat next to Brand and said to them, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Oh, yes, we would like you to ask us something,” one of them agreed, bobbing over.
“I’m looking for a friend who I heard works here. Blond? Lots of freckles?”
The little man opened his mouth. Before he could speak, the second sprite—a woman—bumped him into a lower orbit, taking his place. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply. “We would like to provide you with this new knowledge,” she said.
Fae are creatures of etiquette. They would never accuse someone of lying. Whatever special senses this dream sprite had, she’d just found a polite way of calling me on my bullshit, and had spotted opportunity in it.
I cleared my throat. “I think the gentleman in question would be pleased to see us.”
The Hanged Man Page 10
