by M. D. Massey
I didn’t fall into that category. Which meant that if I’d noticed her, it was because she’d allowed me to notice her.
I stood and walked toward her across the café. The look she gave me as I approached was both sad and resigned. She shook her head slowly, but I ignored the warning and just kept marching toward her table. I was halfway across the room when Luther popped in front of me, gently placing a hand on my chest.
“Sugar, you sure you want to rattle little Queen Bee’s hive at this juncture? Old girl has made it pretty plain that she doesn’t want to speak to you. Take my advice, and give it a little more time before you try to unruffle those feathers.”
I looked Luther in the eye and opened my mouth to say something, then thought better of it and nodded. I leaned over to steal another glance at my friend, but she was already gone.
“Some broken hearts take longer to heal,” he chimed. “Now, let’s head back to the office and discuss what brought you here this evening.”
I spared a wistful glance at the empty table, and then followed Luther to his office. Once we were behind closed doors, I told him what had occurred in New Orleans.
He steepled his fingers and tapped them together slowly. “Hmm… I would’ve advised you against indebting yourself to Remy DeCoudreaux, but what’s done is done. He’s a viper with an alligator’s jaws if I ever saw one. You let me know when he calls it in—I wouldn’t want you to handle that one alone.”
“Noted. But right now, I’m more concerned with going after the Rye Mother in Underhill. Any thoughts?”
Luther tilted his head and closed his eyes, remaining statue still for several moments as only a vampire could. Then his eyes snapped open and he frowned. “Personally, I’ve never traveled Underhill. I’m sure you’re aware that vampires aren’t exactly welcome there. It’s been centuries since my kind and their kind were at war, but to the fae, it might as well have happened last week.
“That being said, it’s not as though I’m completely ignorant of the dangers inherent to traveling in the faery realm. Even if your unique heritage and gifts keep you from suffering ill effects from traveling to Underhill and back, it stands to reason that everything and everyone you come across in Underhill is going to be trying to capture you, enchant you, eat you, or end you. Sounds like a suicide mission to me.”
“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know. But the Eye says the fae are afraid of me.”
Luther sucked air through his teeth and nodded. “That may very well be true. All the more reason, it seems, for you to choose not to travel to the faery realm to pick fights with immortal beings of immense magical power.”
I laughed softly. “Well, no one’s ever accused me of making rational decisions.”
“You got that right, kid. Sounds like it’s settled. And, if that’s the case, that means you didn’t come here to ask for my opinion.”
“In fact, I did… but what I really need from you, Luther, is a favor. If I don’t come back, I need you to find Finnegas and send him after me.”
“Can do, stud. But if you don’t come back, you can expect that I’ll come looking for you myself.”
“Thanks, Luther. Also, could you let Bells know where I went? But only after I’m gone.”
“Your funeral. And remember what I said about Sabine. She might look soft, but if you push that girl’s buttons the wrong way, you might not make it to Underhill at all.”
3
After I left Luther’s place, I headed back to the junkyard and went straight to my room, where I slept like the dead until noon the following day. I woke to a slew of text messages from Belladonna, Hemi, and my mom—a woman who should not be allowed anywhere near a mobile device.
Mom’s texts were always full of “LOLs,” as well as lots of misapplications of textese. She thought “DGAF” meant “darned good and fierce,” because that’s what I’d told her it meant back when I’d lived under her roof. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, even though she used it quite often in her texts. I just hoped she didn’t use it when texting her friends.
I also had a rather cryptic text from a number in the 555 area code—a spoofed number.
gud 2 c U @ luther’s lst nyt. Maeve wants a mtg.
Obviously, it was from Sabine. That was why she’d allowed me to see her at Luther’s. She’d been sent there to deliver a message from Queen Maeve. It figured.
I finished all the work that had piled up around the yard while I’d been gone, then cleaned up and headed over to Maeve’s house. I briefly considered ignoring the message and letting her stew a few days, but it was never a good idea to piss her off… distant relative or no.
I still didn’t know exactly how I felt about that revelation, but I certainly wasn’t jumping for joy about it. Maeve had started pulling my strings shortly after I’d arrived in Austin. Well, let me rephrase that—she’d been pulling my strings since shortly after she’d become aware of my presence in her town.
I think that pissed me off more than anything, the fact that she’d known I’d moved to town, but ignored me until she’d determined that I might be of use to her. Then again, at her age, she’d probably seen several dozen generations of her descendants come and go. The fae weren’t known to be sentimental about such matters, so I supposed it was silly of me to expect anything else from her.
I tucked those thoughts away for another time, and put on my poker face as I sauntered up Maeve’s front steps to knock on her door. Unsurprisingly, the door opened as I approached. This time, however, no one was there to greet me. Not Siobhan, who had been mysteriously absent for the last several weeks; not Jack-o’-the-Lantern, who apparently wanted to drown me and munch on my decaying corpse; and not Maeve, even though she’d answered the door herself when last I’d visited.
I hesitated to cross the barrier of her threshold without a formal invitation to enter. I had a sneaking suspicion that Maeve’s house was sentient, and as such it probably had specific instructions from Maeve regarding intruders. Not eager to be zapped into a pocket dimension, or to become lost in a never-ending series of hallways that led to nowhere, or to be eaten by an anthropomorphic piece of furniture, I set my feet firmly on the porch and yelled through the open doorway.
“Hello? Anybody home? Maeve, are you in there?”
To my surprise, Maeve’s TV talk show voice called back to me from nearby. “No one else is here, my boy. I’m in the parlor—and yes, you may enter.”
I entered the home and walked through the small foyer, pausing to look in all directions to ensure I didn’t go the wrong way as I entered the home. The halls and rooms in Maeve’s manse were constantly shifting and changing, never quite the same each time I visited. Since I suspected that her home was hostile to all intruders, I was extremely hesitant to head down a hallway without a chaperone.
Straight ahead, a grand entry and staircase led to the upstairs floors. No way was I headed up there. With my luck, the house would have me climbing stairs for eternity. To my left, a dimly lit hallway stretched on for a seemingly impossible distance—an undeniable demonstration that the house was much larger on the inside that it appeared to be without.
I glanced right and gave a small sigh of relief. Before me was the entryway to the parlor, the very same one where I’d met Maeve on past visits. Cautiously, I walked to the arched entry and popped my head in, looking around the room to make sure Maeve was present before leaving the relatively safe confines of the foyer. Inside, Maeve stood at what appeared to be an antique architect’s table, where she examined a large clay tablet covered in cuneiform writing.
Her outfit reminded me of something a TV style and fashion show host might have worn. She had matched a navy blouson jumpsuit with a pair of sensible pumps, and she wore a thick jade bangle around her wrist. Something told me the jewelry was for more than just show, but I resisted the urge to verify my suspicions by examining it in the magical spectrum.
After all, Maeve might see my curiosity as weakness or fear, and attemp
t to use it to her advantage. She’d see even a small lapse in judgment as a major tactical error. And the last thing I needed right now was to look weak in front of Austin’s queen of the fae.
“Maeve, you’re looking quite stunning today.” She ignored me, even as I covered my mouth in feigned shame. “Oh, I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable, considering the fact that we’re related. But then again, you fae aren’t exactly known for avoiding incestuous relationships.”
In truth, it kind of grossed me out that I’d been attracted to a woman who was basically my great-grandmother many generations removed. Never mind the fact that I’d also admired Siobhan’s slender figure on more than one occasion. She would have to be a cousin or some such, and that was almost the same thing as being attracted to your sister.
The whole situation was a mind fuck of epic proportions, but I did my best to avoid letting it show.
Maeve continued to examine the tablet while ignoring my presence. She adjusted a huge magnifying glass attached to the table on a swing-arm, presumably to get a closer look at the writing. The way she studied the thing, you’d have thought it was the mystical equivalent of the Rosetta Stone.
Then again, for all I knew, it was.
“I take it you received my message?”
“I did.” I picked up a very expensive-looking vase from a nearby side table, turning it over my hands and tossing it in the air to catch it like a football. I pretended to fumble the vase and chuckled as it floated out of my hands and back to the table where it belonged.
Maeve turned to me and clasped her hands at waist level. “That vase contains a very powerful curse. Should you break it, the curse would be transferred to you. And at the moment, I really do not care to spend an afternoon negotiating with an oni in order to save you from centuries of torment.”
She gestured to a pair of antique sitting chairs in the corner of the room, where a complete tea service had magically appeared on the side table between them.
“Shall we sit? I thought a few scones and a bit of tea might be welcome, considering the way your stomach is grumbling.”
The scones did look inviting, although my training advised me against accepting food or drink from the fae. But from my great-great-grandmother many generations removed? Well, that was a toss-up.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I thought. I grabbed a scone as I plopped down in one of the easy chairs.
“So, Grandma… what do you want to talk about?”
Maeve visibly stiffened at hearing the word “grandma” used in respect to her person. And that was precisely why I had chosen to use it. Anything I could do to get her goat was worth the risk of being turned into… well, a goat.
“I’d prefer it if you never, ever used that term in reference to me again. Ever.”
Now that I’d gotten under her skin, it was time to push my luck. Chances were good that, if she allowed me to use her gate to Underhill, I’d be dead in a few days anyway. I figured I may as well have some fun in the meantime.
“But what if I get married and have kids someday? What are they supposed to call you? Nana? Maw-maw? Her royal destroyer of worlds?”
Maeve sat down in the chair opposite mine and busied herself with straightening imaginary wrinkles in her clothing. “If you must know, ‘my queen’ will be just fine. In fact, I might consider making you address me as such. You’ve become just a bit too cheeky in recent days.”
I took a bite of my scone, pausing for a minute to savor the flavor. Man, that fae queen can bake. “If you make me start calling you ‘my queen,’ does that mean your subjects have to call me ‘my prince’? Being as I am royalty and all.”
“At best, you might be considered a marquis. ‘The marquis du camelote’—I rather like the sound of that.”
“Lord of Camelot, eh? Sure, why not?” The smile Maeve gave me told me that I’d missed something important in that exchange. Oh well, you couldn’t win them all. “Anyway, if you’re through granting titles, I believe we have business to discuss?”
She poured herself a cup of tea, taking her sweet time about it. Maeve was more or less immortal, and she liked to rub it in my face—a lot. I’d learned to just grin and bear it. She might have looked like a thirty-year-old MILF, but she was a few thousand years old. If she wanted to take five minutes pouring herself a cup of tea, at her age I figured she’d earned the right.
After several minutes of painful silence, she finally spoke. “I heard you tracked down the roggenwölfe. Did you get the information you needed from him?”
“I did, in fact. After I mentioned what I did to Rupert, he was quite eager to tell me where I might find the Rye Mother.”
Maeve sat back in her chair, taking a long, slow sip of her tea as she eyed me over the lip of the teacup. “And did he tell you that she has retreated to Underhill?”
I frowned slightly and nodded. “He did. He also told me there were some pretty powerful fae out to do me in. Makes me feel kind of important, if I do say so myself.”
She placed her teacup on the saucer, nearly hard enough to chip the plate. Tea sloshed around inside the cup, and she glared at me as she set it down on the side table.
“Now you’re just being facetious.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but she held a finger up in warning as she wiped a bit of spilled tea from the saucer. “My dear boy, I have grown fond of you over the past few months, but I must warn you—you are trying my patience. These issues we’ve stirred up with the rest of the fae are no laughing matter. They will send a squad of assassins to kill you—and, in fact, they may already be in the area.”
I took another bite of my scone, munching on it and spitting crumbs everywhere as I spoke. “Whaf maku say zat?”
Maeve grabbed a towel from the side table and tossed it at me, hitting me in the face. She was definitely miffed, but in all honesty, I was pretty sure that she actually enjoyed these little tête-à-têtes. Being the queen, I didn’t think she was accustomed to speaking with others so candidly. Maybe I was just being full of myself, but I was pretty sure that she found my frankness refreshing.
It was that, or she was planning to off me once I was no longer of use to her… I wasn’t really sure which.
“I suspect they’re already here, because one of my troll patrols disappeared two nights ago, somewhere in the vicinity of your junkyard.”
That made me sit up straight. “You’re kidding me, right? No, you never kid. Damn, Guts wasn’t with them, was he?” Guts was a troll warrior I’d become friends with after I’d negotiated an agreement between Maeve and his troll clan. He was a hell of a warrior, and a standup guy besides. I’d would’ve hated for anything to happen to him on my account.
“No, the troll warrior known as ‘Eats-Guts-With-Bare-Hands-And-Salts-The-Earth-After-Battle’ was not leading the patrol that evening. If he had been, I suspect things would’ve gone much differently. Unfortunately, the patrol that evening was comprised of relatively young and inexperienced troll warriors. Sadly, I fear their clan has suffered another loss.”
Guts and his warriors had helped me deal with a nasty infestation of ghouls at the city graveyard. The battle had been fierce, and his clan had suffered several casualties. That was probably the reason why they’d had so many inexperienced warriors out on patrol. I felt the weight of being responsible for even more deaths settle like an unwelcome mantle around my shoulders.
I set the rest of my scone down on the tray and sunk back into the chair. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore. “You know I have to go after them, right—the Rye Mother, and Fuamnach?”
“What I know is, damned fool that you are, there’ll be no talking you out of it. Thus, I am resigned to assisting you in this endeavor.”
I sat up a little straighter. “You are? So, what’s the catch?”
“The catch, my dear boy, is that while you are in Underhill you will retrieve certain items for me.”
I sat up on the edge of my chair and clapped my hands like a gleeful chi
ld. “Oh goody, a quest!”
Maeve ignored my class clown routine, and in her usual form proceeded to get down to brass tacks. “Don’t get too excited yet—I haven’t told you what I need you to do. As I told you back at the Lodge, Underhill is dying, and the fae who live there are desperate to escape before it falls victim to the entropy of the Void.”
“You want me to stop them.”
She picked up her tea and saucer, and took another sip. “In a manner of speaking, yes. But not by direct action. Instead, I wish for you to take away the seat of their power. You will do so by bringing four treasures to me: The Stone of Fál, The Spear of Lugh, The Sword of Nuadu, and The Cauldron of the Dagda.”
I stared at her for a moment, my mouth agape. “You’re flipping kidding me, right? You want me to steal the Four Treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann? Are you mad? I mean, I would expect that your fellow fae in Underhill have grown quite attached to those items over the years.”
Maeve nodded with a twinkle in her eye. “Indeed. As such, each item will be heavily guarded—or in the care of its namesake.”
“You’re quite literally assigning me a Herculean task—you know that, right?”
She scowled. “Heracles was always a prick. Most demigods are.”
“Pfft, you’re preaching to the choir on that point,” I interjected. I’d once had a nasty run in with the son of a Norse deity and had nearly lost my life in the process. In my limited experience, the various deities and their offspring tended to be pompous, self-righteous assholes.
I guess that’s why I favored the Celtic pantheon. They acted less like gods and more like the basic assholes they were. If the legends were to be believed, they weren’t so much into being worshipped as they were into screwing over humans for their own amusement. They were jackasses, sure—but they also knew how to stay in their lane.
