Whiskey Ginger_Phantom Queen_Book 1

by Shayne Silvers

  “I know that, Jimmy,” I replied, gently tossing the pillow back at him. “T’ing is, justice will win out sooner or later. Only, it’ll be more…final, than what ye and your folk have in mind.”

  It was a tough thing to admit to a cop, but I knew I was right. In Boston, crimes like this got handled discreetly, well before Regular law enforcement could get involved. Jimmy sticking his nose into it would only lead to trouble, for both of us.

  Jimmy thrust his notebook back in the pocket of his suit jacket. “That will be all for today, Miss MacKenna. Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch.”

  I sighed, rose, and went to the window, pulling back the curtains to stare out at a gray January morning. I waited for Jimmy to leave before sliding my forehead against the cold window pane. It felt good. Much better than Jimmy’s silent judgment had, anyway. In the end, this was why I kept my distance, content to flirt and fantasize, but little else; no matter how attractive I found him, I couldn’t be with someone who refused to play by the rules of my world.

  Jimmy wasn’t wrong for wanting justice—I knew that. But how were you supposed to convict a creature you could barely contain? Where would you put it once you did? Sure, Jimmy had the moral high ground, but he couldn’t see that he stood on a deserted island, surrounded by sharks.

  Still, I knew better than to dwell on it.

  I had better shit to do with my day.

  Chapter 8

  I met Ryan for brunch at The Druid, a stellar Irish bar in the heart of Inman Square. The sun had come out a bit, so I wasn’t surprised to find him near the window, sipping a dark, frothy beer. He didn’t see me right away, but a few other patrons did. The catty, jilted expressions of more than a couple women stalked me as I settled down across from him.

  “Hey, Quinn. Glad you could make it.”

  “Stop lookin’ happy to see me,” I replied, crabbily.

  “What?”

  “Try to look miserable. Otherwise that blonde by the door is goin’ to claw me eyes out the second ye head to the bathroom.”

  Ryan grinned. “The sorority girl in the red sweater? Or the dirty blonde soccer mom in the corner with the green blouse?”

  “Both? Either.” I untied my scarf and draped it over my purse, which I’d hung on the back of my chair. “This is why I can’t do brunch with ye, ye realize.”

  That was only partially true. Granted, Ryan being so popular with the fairer sex was annoying, but the real reason I hesitated to spend time with him was the fact that he moonlighted for the Faerie Chancery—a motley collection of Fae riffraff who had settled in Boston over the centuries, whose members allegedly ranged from the beguilingly charming to the utterly repulsive. Ryan, who trended towards the former, was the sort of person I could rely on in a pinch, but not the kind of guy I routinely spent my downtime with.

  Except for the occasional brunch, of course.

  Because brunching alone is just sad.

  Ryan held up his hands as if there were nothing he could do about the female attention. I rolled my eyes. “Ye could maybe, ye know, tone it down a wee bit?” I waved at his face, a smooth-skinned, chiseled thing; Ryan looked like a young, square-jawed Matt Damon, accent not included.

  “This is my face, Quinn. I mean, minus the ears.”

  “Oh,” I replied, dumbfounded. Honestly, I’d always assumed he’d used glamour to make himself more attractive—plastic surgery on steroids. I studied the Faeling for a moment, noting the tight curve of his jawline and the wide expanse of his cheekbones.

  I had to admit I could see the appeal, but there was something else there, something dispassionate that said, “I won’t be there when you wake up.” Some women, admittedly, went for that sort of thing, but I’d never been one of them. Besides, I suspected I could take him in a knockdown, drag out fight.

  Definitely not my type.

  “You’ll just have to make yourself uglier, then,” I said, finally. “I can push ye down the stairs? Maybe break your nose?”

  Ryan pursed his lips.

  “There, much better,” I said, grinning. “Keep that up.”

  “I ordered for you.” Ryan took a liberal sip of his beer and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

  “Irish breakfast?”

  “Uh huh. I don’t know how you eat that junk and stay so thin.”

  “Practice. I’ve been trainin’ for this me whole life. Besides, I’m runnin’ class today with Sensei out of town. You’re welcome to come, ye know. We could work on breakin’ that nose of yours?”

  Ryan rubbed absentmindedly at his neck, which had taken a bit of a beating the last time he’d come to one of my classes on a whim. “I think I’m good.”

  The waitress arrived with our food, her attention so fixated on Ryan that she bumped into a fellow waiter. Drinks flew as water glasses wobbled and crashed. Lemonade spilled all over Ryan’s lap.

  Before the waitress could so much as apologize, we were surrounded by a small contingent of women with napkins, each of them murmuring words of encouragement. Ryan waved them off, grinning ear-to-ear. “Don’t worry about me. It missed me completely. See?” He rose slightly and pointed to his jeans, which were as dry as could be.

  The waitress set down our food and apologized as the women wandered back to their tables. I frowned at the Faeling across from me. “That hit ye full in the crotch,” I said. “I saw it.”

  Ryan grimaced. “Yeah, it did.”

  I grunted, realizing Ryan had used glamour to make it seem as if his jeans were dry. Which meant he was sitting in a pile of lemonade. I considered handing him my napkin, then thought better of it.

  His crotch could probably benefit from a soak.

  “So,” I began, “what is it ye wanted to talk to me about?”

  Ryan poked at his salad. “It’s about the ring,” he said, tossing his napkin on his empty plate. “I never told you why I needed it.”

  “Ye know I don’t ask those sorts of questions. Not me policy.”

  In fact, my policy was pretty much the opposite: don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to. You could argue the hardest part of being an arms dealer was finding and securing the goods I trafficked, but that wasn’t the case. The toughest part about dealing in illicit goods, in my experience, was ignoring my conscience. In order to make that easier on myself, I routinely played both sides, I always protected confidentiality, and I never pried into my client’s intentions—to say I worked in a moral grey area would be an understatement.

  “I know. Plausible deniability,” Ryan said. “I get it. But you need to know, I think. I want you to know. Just…in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “In case something happens to me. Not,” he amended, palm raised, “that I have any reason to suspect something will happen to me. But still.”

  “Alright,” I said, “I’m listenin’.”

  Ryan studied the table for a moment, frowning. “Have you ever heard of a spriggan?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, even among my people, spriggans are rare. They used to be more common, but after the changeling raids ended and the Christians started consecrating their graveyards, they sort of faded into obscurity.” Ryan polished off his beer and leaned forward, oblivious to the various sets of kohled eyes tracking his every move. “A few weeks ago, I found one wandering outside King’s Chapel. I’m not sure how he got here—although I have a few guesses. There have been…boundary issues, lately. But what concerns me most is that he’s, well, old.”

  “Why is that a problem? Is he dangerous?” I asked, concerned about what that might mean; among Freaks and Fae alike, old often translated to powerful.

  “More to himself than to others. He’s old, Quinn. Like nursing home old.”

  “Wait, d’ye mean he’s senile?” I asked, eyes wide.

  Ryan thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Well, that isn’t good.”

  Ryan shook his head. “It’s not. But
for the most part he’s harmless. Spriggans are strong, but they aren’t very enterprising. The problem is, I can’t convince him to stay out of sight. He likes to wander, especially around cemeteries, even though he can’t get in.”

  I frowned, considering how people might react to seeing a Faeling touring the city. Depending on his appearance, it could cause quite a stir…unless you had the means to make him invisible. “So,” I said, catching on, “that’s why ye needed the ring.”

  “Exactly. I can’t keep an eye on him all the time, so I needed to find a way to keep him out of sight. When you said you had a client looking to make a trade for the Ring of Gyges, it seemed like the perfect solution.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And I would like to introduce you. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but if something happens to me, I want to be sure someone knows how to track him down. For his safety as much as for everyone else’s.”

  I checked the time on my phone. “When did ye have in mind?”

  “Can you swing by tonight, before we open?”

  “Aye, but why haven’t ye brought him to the Chancery? Surely they’d know what to do with his kind.”

  Ryan sighed. “It’s not that simple. The Chancery isn’t so much an organization as it is an enforcement agency. It exists to keep our kind in check and make sure we don’t get outed to the world. They don’t care about social issues, like taking care of the elderly. To them, he’d be a liability.”

  Did that mean they’d lock the spriggan up? Or worse? I realized I’d never really questioned the Chancery’s purpose; I’d always thought of them like the DMV or the IRS—there to be a pain in my ass and little else. “Wait, how do they plan to keep ye lot from outin’ yourselves around the world?” I asked. “I thought the Chancery was based here in Boston?”

  “It is, because this has become our home,” Ryan explained. “But every Fae knows not to cross the Chancery, no matter where they ended up.”

  “Sounds a wee bit medieval, if ye ask me.”

  Ryan grunted and shook his head. “You have to understand, most of us can’t return to Fae. If the world, even the Freaks, of other cities and territories found out we were here, they’d try and force us out.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with the lot of ye? Other than the fact that ye keep stealin’ their women,” I teased.

  “We’re different,” he said, ignoring my joke, then held up a hand. “Yes, I know, so are you. But even Freaks develop ideas about what’s normal and what isn’t. So we keep a low profile. A few communities know we’re here, but the majority know only that Boston is off limits. That keeps most out.”

  “And the ones it doesn’t?”

  Ryan shrugged. “A few werewolf pack incursions. The Sanguine Council sent in a few hitters the other day that we chose to ignore.”

  I wondered, idly, if the fanger I’d met in the alley had been with that crew. From what I’d gathered over the years, the Sanguine Council was a governing body made up of Master vampires—sexist, I know—who allotted and controlled various territories. Like Queen Cockroaches.

  “So that’s why…” I muttered, drifting off. Honestly, I’d always wondered why there were so few factions in play here in Boston; most of my business was done with individuals looking for something specific, like the deal I’d done with Ryan. “Oy, what about that rogue necromancer from last year?” I asked, perking up. “Where was the Chancery then?”

  Ryan hesitated. “I wasn’t part of that decision, but from what I understand, the Chancery thought there was too much media attention already, and they didn’t want to get involved and risk exposure.”

  I ground my teeth, but nodded absentmindedly. There had been a lot of coverage; the wealthy son of a prominent politician can’t go missing overnight without getting some sort of media coverage. Then his death, his resurrection, and the subsequent blackmail…the Lollipop case I’d worked with Jimmy had been one hell of a nightmare.

  “Alright, well, I have to stop by Desdemona’s,” I said. “I promised her I’d drop in and say hello. I’ll need to be goin’, or I won’t have time to grab a change of clothes and meet ye tonight. You’ll have to get the check.”

  Ryan’s eyes flashed. “Would that be a favor?”

  Ryan, like most Faelings, treated favors like currency. And, as of last night, he owed me a significant one—one that he would love to pay back as quickly as possible. I got up, wound the scarf around my throat, and pinned him to his seat with a withering glare. “Considerin’ ye invited me to brunch under the pretense of makin’ me babysit a potentially dangerous creature, I dunno if ye wanna be playin’ the favor game with me right now, Ryan O’Rye.”

  Ryan flinched, then nodded.

  “Be sure to leave a big tip,” I said, with a wink that earned me several scowls from around the room. I considered tousling Ryan’s hair on my way out, but decided that would be excessive.

  Everything in moderation, people.

  Chapter 9

  I tossed my bag against the wall, removed my shoes, and clapped twice to get the classes’ attention. They fell in according to their experience and various belt categories—a small contingent of brown belts, a few blues, and one purple. The only other black belt in the room besides myself, Jenny, stood at the front of the class, staring pointedly over my shoulder at another late arrival.

  “And who’s that, then?” I asked her as I approached.

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen him before.”

  The newcomer wore a pair of sweatpants and hoodie, neither of which were typically seen in the dojo. The man paused outside the sparring area, hands tucked away in the pockets of his hoodie, studying the decor.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping forward, “but this is an advanced class. The beginner’s classes are on Tuesdays and—”

  “Thursdays, yeah, I know.” The man nodded amicably. “I read the website. But I’m not exactly a beginner, and the website also said you’d take anyone, regardless of skill level. So, I figured I’d check it out.”

  I exchanged looks with Jenny, who shrugged. “Well, the t’ing is,” I said, mulling it over, “the Sensei’s out of town this week, and I can’t sign ye up, so…”

  “How about I sit in for a class? Just to observe,” he offered.

  I gave the newcomer a once over, considering his compromise. I had to admit he looked very at home in a dojo; even beneath the hoodie I could tell he was fit and a little edgy—the edges of a tattoo licked his throat and he sported a high and tight haircut. Military, maybe? A cop? Servicemen often gravitated to dojos like ours for one reason or another, though they rarely stuck around for very long—their egos typically couldn’t take being lumped in with snot-nosed little kids whose parents were only too glad to drop their spawn off for a class or two every week.

  Before I could respond, I noticed Tanya, the sole purple belt, had raised her hand. I rolled my eyes. “I’m not your high school math teacher, Tanya. Ye don’t have to raise your hand.”

  “Oh, right.” Tanya’s hand sunk back down to her side. “I was just gonna say I know where Sensei keeps the waivers. He’s had walk-ins before.”

  “Well, then,” I replied, sighing as I eyed the clock above the door. “I suppose that’s fine, so long as he signs. Are ye alright with that?” I asked.

  The man nodded. “The name’s Jacob, by the way.”

  “Get Jacob a waiver, would ye?” I asked Tanya, who nodded and sprinted off. “Alright,” I called out, clapping my hands once more, “spread out and work on your own. Jenny and I will keep an eye out.”

  While Jacob and Tanya finished up the paperwork, the rest of the class dispersed, each individual progressing slowly through their kata forms. I paced the room, correcting the occasional misstep, or pointing out a minor angle adjustment.

  Eventually I padded over to the newcomer, Jacob, who was watching discreetly from the back of the room, wearing a skeptical expression. “Not what ye were expectin’?” I asked.

  He shook h
is head. “I’m not sure what some of the moves are for. The kicks and thrusts make sense, but some of that looks pointless,” he said, looking pointedly at Tanya, who was waving her hands away from her face like she was very slowly fighting off a wave of bees.

  Frankly, I had to admit that—from an outside perspective—the class resembled untrained dancers executing a sloppily choreographed routine. But I knew better. “Tanya, come here!” I called. Tanya turned around, surprised. She shot Jacob a guarded look, which surprised me, but hustled on over anyway.

  I smiled, trying my best to be reassuring; for some reason Tanya had always been shy around me, so I was a little less brash whenever I spoke to her. I didn’t want to scare the poor thing off. “Alright,” I said, “show us the movement ye were just workin’ on.”

  Tanya fell back into a basic stance, her weight anchored evenly between her staggered feet, and began thrusting her palms away from her face in slow motion. I reached out for her hair at the same speed, trying to grab it with first my left, and then my right hand, but her palms efficiently diverted both from doing so.

  “So, defensive techniques,” Jacob said, sounding bored. “I guess that makes sense.”

  Tanya frowned at him.

  “Turn around for me?” I asked Tanya.

  The instant she did, I struck.

  I reached out, snatched her by her shoulder, and tried to yank her around. Reacting completely on instinct, Tanya grabbed my hand and slammed her foot down on my own, pinning it in place. The strikes that followed were so fast that—had I not been prepared for them and reacted accordingly—I might have paid dearly for my little demonstration: her left elbow shot back towards my stomach and then launched up towards my face at the precise moment I doubled up. She disengaged smoothly, then fired off a back kick that hovered mere inches from my face before she stepped away to face me.

  The whole display took about six seconds.

  I glanced over at Jacob, who still seemed a little incredulous. I rolled my eyes, wondering what it would take to impress this guy. “Show him again, Tanya. But slower. Walk him through it.”