Barnaby leaned forward and caught hold of my hand. “My dear child,” he said, “I assure you that Connor knows me only as the Lord High Mayor. He has no more idea than you have had of our true relation.”
That surprised me. “But why?” I asked in confusion. “Your grandson was right here in Shevington, and you didn’t want to know him?”
“Quite to the contrary,” Barnaby protested. “There was nothing I would have liked more than to have been a guiding presence in the boy’s life, and in yours as well, but in my capacity as Lord High Mayor, I had a responsibility to guard his secret. I could hardly intrude in your life when you knew nothing of magic or the Otherworld.”
I was willing to concede that point, but he wasn’t completely off the hook with me yet. “And what about my mother?” I asked.
“Kelly does not know my true identity either,” he said. “The last member of your family privy to the information was your grandmother, Kathleen.”
That left me feeling considerably less left out, but still fairly exasperated.
“You know, Grandad,” I said, “we have to do something about this whole family secret thing because it’s just not working for me.”
As I watched, Barnaby’s face took on an element of something between astonishment and wonder. “You just called me Grandad,” he said.
He looked so adorable I couldn’t stay annoyed with him.
“Would you like ‘Great Great Great Grampie’ better?” I teased.
“I would not,” he replied emphatically, squeezing my hand before he released it. “‘Grandad’ will be just fine.”
“So can I tell everyone now?”
“Well,” he hedged, obviously grappling with indecision and uncertainty, “if you think the news will be welcomed.”
“I think it will be more than welcomed,” I assured him.
From the other room, the sound of a woman’s voice caught Barnaby’s attention. His expression was unmistakable and since we were in “tell the truth” mode, I asked.
“You’re in love with Moira, aren’t you?”
He hesitated, seemed to think better of it, and then sighed. “Are you always this forthright?”
“Only about things that count,” I said. “I watched you when you heard Moira’s voice. I’d say this counts.”
Something akin to pride filled his features. “You are correct,” he said. “Moira does ‘count.’ In fact, I love her deeply.”
A knock at the door interrupted us.
Barnaby sat back in his chair. “Come,” he said.
The door opened and Moira stepped over the threshold. “Hello Jinx, Barnaby,” she said, looking first at me and then at my grandfather. “Is everything alright?”
That’s when I took pity on Barnaby and bailed him out. “Everything’s great,” I said. “Barnaby and I just had some things to talk about. He’ll tell you all about it later. I think we better get back to business now.”
Moira shot Barnaby a quizzical, questioning look. “It’s alright, my dear,” he said softly. “Jinx knows . . . everything . . . but she is quite right that we have pressing matters.”
The alchemist couldn’t have cared less about “pressing matters.” All of her attention was focused on my grandfather. “Are you alright, Barnaby?” she asked.
“Very much so,” he said. “Quite happy, in fact.”
The love in Moira’s answering smile put a lump in my throat. I quietly stepped out of the room to give them some privacy. There was a brief murmur of voices, and then Barnaby and Moira joined us all in the parlor.
Over the next hour and a half, Greer laid out all of her theories about Chesterfield’s time shifting abilities. We reviewed the drone video again and related the details of our trip to the site of the wreck. At the end of the recitation, Barnaby’s ashen face told me he’d already arrived at the same conclusion we’d reached about how dangerously he’d underestimated Chesterfield’s powers in 1936.
Since Greer had more or less been running the meeting, I let her pursue the point.
“Why did you do it, Barnaby?” she said quietly. “What motivated you to allow Chesterfield the clemency of probation?”
We all waited. Barnaby seemed to be trying to collect his thoughts. Finally, he said, “I suspect you are all aware that my first wife was murdered by a renegade Creavit wizard. My search to locate the brigand was motivated by a level of rage and revenge I hope never to revisit. Chesterfield expressed remorse for his actions and assured me he wished only to live quietly and pursue his interest in antiquities. I allowed myself to believe him. That was clearly an error.”
There was no arguing with that, so I didn’t even try. “I have to admit I feel like we’re sitting ducks now that we know Seraphina and Ioana are still alive,” I said. “We don’t know where Chesterfield is, what he wants, or why he’s been after my family for 30 years — which, by the way, seriously creeps me out. What do we do now?”
“We do not panic,” Barnaby said firmly. “We are not without resources. I will speak with Major Istra and place GNATS command entirely at your disposal. We will not leave you exposed until we locate and apprehend Chesterfield and properly dispose of the vampires with whom he is clearly in league.”
“The higher ups at DGI want us coordinating directly with you,” Greer said. “Where do you want us?”
“In Briar Hollow,” Barnaby said. “Chesterfield’s focus appears to be on the fairy mound. Whatever he does next, I believe that will be his target.”
I can’t say that made me feel better, but at least we were getting organized. It was a start.
9
Barnaby stood at the parlor window watching Jinx, Lucas, and Greer. The two DGI agents headed for O’Hanson’s Pub, but Jinx walked toward the Mother Tree. With a private pang of remorse, he hoped the great Oak would be able to offer her more reassurance than he had just managed with his platitudes and excuses.
“What are you thinking?” Moira asked.
“How much I hate lying to them,” he said heavily.
She came up behind him, encircling his waist with her arms. “Lie is a strong word,” she said. “You spoke the truth when you said you had no desire to be motivated by revenge.”
Covering her hands with his own, Barnaby said, “I thought he was telling me the truth.”
“I know.”
“After everything that happened, I just wanted us to live peacefully. Did I want that so much I allowed myself to be duped?”
“You could not have known his true plans.”
Barnaby turned to face her. “Couldn’t I, Moira?” he said. “I, of all men, should know the lengths to which Irenaeus will go to get what he desires.”
“And I, of all women,” Moira said, “know the extent to which you will restrain yourself in the name of the greater good. You decided to grant clemency to a man who did not deserve it. That is your only sin.”
“A sin that has placed everyone I love, and this community we’ve worked so hard to build, in potential danger,” he said.
Moira smiled at him, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand. “My darling, we have been in danger since the day we pulled up stakes and quit Europe to protest the rising power of the Creavit,” she said. “We have enjoyed more than four centuries of peaceful isolation. We both knew that could never last.”
Barnaby rested his forehead against hers. “So now we must rejoin the fight,” he said.
“We never left the fight, Barnaby,” she said, kissing him softly. “We only took a long rest.”
As we came out of the Lord High Mayor’s house, Lucas suggested getting a drink at O’Hanson’s Pub. “The three of us are working together now,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to get to know each other outside some life-or-death crisis?”
Postponing diving back into the crisis at hand sounded like a great idea, but first I had to speak with the Mother Tree. I had a branch to pick with the old girl.
“Order me a beer,” I said. “I just want to pay my
respects to the Great Oak.”
Since they both worked for the Tree, neither of them seemed to think that was out of the ordinary. They struck out for the pub, and I crossed the street to the village green.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn. Even with the coming cold months, the grass remained lush and verdant. As I stepped beneath the massive oak’s spreading canopy, the sounds of the town faded away and the temperature warmed several degrees.
Taking a seat on one of the stone benches, I looked up. “We need to talk,” I said, “and thanks for the heat, by the way.”
The Mother Tree’s voice rose in my mind, resonant and melodic. “You are welcome,” she said. “Winter comes more quickly to our Valley than in your world.”
“I hope so,” I replied. “Mom promised me my first white Christmas up here.”
“There will be snow,” the Tree said, “long before the celebration of the Winter Solstice.”
Okay, so now that we had the weather discussion out of the way.
“The last time we talked you told me to find out what really happened to Seraphina and Ioana,” I said. “Now that we know our mothers weren’t responsible for the accident and that the girls are still alive, can I meet my brother?”
“They live,” the Tree agreed, “but in a greatly altered form.”
“True,” I said, “but that’s all on Irenaeus Chesterfield. I answered the question you asked me.”
Word to the wise. Never get too confident you’ve passed a test until the teacher actually puts a big, fat red “A” on the top of the page.
“Why did the Creavit wizard cause the accident?”
With a sinking heart, I said, “I don’t know.”
“Then you have not fulfilled the task I set before you.”
To my credit, I didn’t kick the dirt in frustration, but I came danged close.
“Come on!” I protested. “Does everything have to be some huge riddle? I want to meet my brother!”
The limbs over my head stirred with what I took to be a patient sigh.
“Those puzzles that return the most worthwhile prizes do not lend themselves to simplistic answers,” the Oak said. “Complete your work, Jinx Hamilton. The thing you desire most will come to you at the end of your labor. Go now. Join your new friends. You have much to learn from them.”
Once the Mother Tree finishes speaking, it’s useless to try to get anything else out of her. And I was so disappointed in her answer, I needed that beer I’d asked Lucas to order for me. I didn’t have to wait long. As soon as I walked in the front door of O’Hanson’s, the DGI agent appeared by my side.
“Hi,” Lucas said, handing me a glass of ale. “I’ve been watching for you. Follow me. We’re in the back by the fire.”
As we threaded our way through the mostly full tables, I fell instantly in love with the place. Heavy exposed beams criss-cross the low, dark ceiling. Antique brass fixtures cast pools of light throughout the room, and behind the mahogany bar, rows of liquor bottles glint warmly.
A low hum of conversation and laughter constantly animates the great room, but unlike the Dirty Claw, the werecat bar across town, O’Hanson’s is a place to sit and talk, not get roaring drunk and start a fight.
Lucas led me to a scarred and worn plank table positioned in front of a massive, roaring fire. Greer occupied one of the four barrel-back chairs, talking with a bright-faced raccoon named Rube.
When he saw me, Rube cried, “Doll! Great to see you again! Red here tells me you tried to fry yourself a couple of vamps. Suh-wheet!”
The raccoon held up his paw for a high five, which I returned on cue. “Hey, Rube,” I said. “How are things going down in the sewers?”
“Good, good,” he said, waving me toward a chair. “Have I ever told you about the time me and my crew ran into a gator in New Orleans?”
Greer rolled her eyes. “Reuben, please,” she said wearily. “According to your indelicately named associate, Booger, the reptile in question was an escaped pet iguana.”
“Teeth,” Rube said, pointing at the baobhan sith to emphasize his point. “That thing had teeth.”
As I sat down, I said, “Since we’re all supposed to be getting to know each other better, Rube, you can get the ball rolling. What’s your story anyway?”
The raccoon grinned, displaying his own impressive set of chompers. “I was born a poor striped raccoon . . . ”
Greer groaned. “Do not encourage him,” she warned me.
“I’m serious,” I said. “What’s the true story?”
Rube sat up straighter and the teasing bravado disappeared from his voice. “I’m an independent contractor,” he said seriously. “I work with the IRS as a containment specialist and do undercover jobs for the DGI. Raccoons can move around in the human world easily. We have a reputation as mischief makers and break-in artists. That means dodging the odd, stray coonhound and an occasional load of buckshot, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.”
When he said “IRS,” he didn’t mean the tax wing of the federal government. Rube was referring to the International Registry for Shapeshifters, an agency that regulates shapeshifter/human interactions. They also clean up any evidence that might tip humans off to the existence of the Fae world.
From what I can tell, werecats are mainly in charge of the Registry aided by the raccoons. Together, they spend most of their time covering up werewolf transgressions, a sore subject with Festus who habitually refers to the creatures as “mongrel moon dogs.”
After Festus had called in Rube’s cleanup crew to take care of some evidence in the Malcolm Ferguson case, I learned that the raccoons maintain a computerized database of human sewer systems, a fact that Rube now confirmed for me.
“You’d be surprised how much of the human world is underground,” Rube said, breaking into his happy, bantering tone again. “We can get pretty much anywhere undetected and get out the same way.”
“I hope this isn’t a rude question,” I said, “but are you a shapeshifter?”
“Nope,” he said. “What you see is what you get. We are Fae raccoons, and we are a law unto ourselves.”
“That,” Greer said, taking a drink of her whisky, “is an understatement.”
Rube laughed. “Aw, come on, Red, you love me, and you know it.”
Even if they were giving each other a hard time, I could tell this unlikely trio did share genuine affection and camaraderie. That told me they must be one hell of a team in action.
“So what do you do with the DGI?” I asked Rube.
Lucas stepped in with the answer. “His official job description is ‘contract agent in charge of undetected entry, covert acquisition, and surveillance,’” he said gravely.
After thinking about that for a minute, I translated. “Breaking and entering, stealing, and snooping?”
“Exactamundo!” Rube said, slapping the table with his paw. “Job of a lifetime!”
“Doesn’t that technically make you a crook?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
Rube clutched at his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Sister,” he moaned. “You wound me to the core.”
We all cracked up at that. Just then the barman delivered a tray full of food. I watched with fascination as Rube picked up a raw egg and neatly washed it in a bowl of water supplied for just that purpose. Using his teeth, he bit off the top of the shell, delicately spit it out on the plate, and then knocked the yolk and white back like he was taking a tequila shot.
“Wow,” I said, “so it’s true. You guys really do wash your food before eating.”
“I may work in a sewer, Doll,” Rube said, reaching for another egg, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t value good personal hygiene.”
Lucas, on the other hand, apparently liked his eggs hard-boiled — and surrounded by sausage, breaded and fried — or so I found out when I asked him what the heck he was eating.
“Scotch Egg,” he replied, munching happily.
“It
’s deep fried, but then they serve it cold?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you tried one,” he said, wiping congealed grease off his mouth.
“I’ll stick with the fries,” I said, taking a thick, warm, golden potato wedge off the plate.
“Suit yourself,” Lucas said. “Not everyone can be an epicurean like me.”
Since Greer relied on a liquid diet, she hadn’t ordered anything, but that didn’t stop her from giving Lucas grief over his eating habits. “I agree with Jinx,” she said. “I do not know how you survive on that disgusting tripe you call food.”
“This from a woman so finicky she’ll turn down anything but room temperature AB negative,” Lucas shot back.
Sensing the conversation headed down a less than appetizing blood-related path, I said, “Your turn, Grayson. Rube clearly loves to talk about himself and Greer is totally out as a vampire. What’s your deal?”
I hoped that was better than “what are you,” which was the information I really wanted him to give me.
Lucas started to say something about how uninteresting he was, but Greer cut him off. “You’re the one who suggested we get to know one another this evening,” she said. “Answer the woman. Tell her about the Gwragedd Annwn.”
The dragonlets used those same words back at the portal when we arrived in the Valley. I thought it might have been a Gaelic insult, but I was about to discover the real meaning.
Lucas swallowed his food, washing it down with ale. He seemed to be stalling for time, but I had plenty to give him — I waited. Finally, he said, “The Gwragedd Annwn are my people. I’m a Welsh water elf.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask about pointy ears, but I managed not to say something that stupid, going instead with the fairly neutral and thoroughly curious, “Why would you be reluctant to tell me that?”
“Because I’m a halfling,” he said. “My father was a water elf and my mother was a Druid. I haven’t followed the traditions of either people. The Gwragedd Annwn are renowned healers, and the Druids are great scholars. Me? I’m just a guy who knows how to get things done — and I’m a really good swimmer.”
Witch on Third (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 6) Page 8
