In Truth and Claw (A Mick Oberon Job #4)

by Ari Marmell

“I feed instead on one of the deckhands. The crew will wonder what happened to him, but not so much attention as the captain. Less attention in the city, also, if I do not need to feed for a time.”

  The L&G was startin’ to hurt my fingers, they were clenched so hard.

  “I find nothing useful. The call is faint. Hard to locate, like a sound you can barely hear, yes? But many people speak to me, tell me truths they might wish to hide, and never remember me. From them, I hear of you. Mick Oberon, exiled lord of the sidhe. A detective who knows the Otherworld and this one. This man, I think, can track down the call. He can satisfy my curiosity; more, he can tell me if this poses any danger to me or my kind. And so, I am here.”

  “There are magics,” I told him, “incantations in old grimoires, necromancies mortal and Fae both, that can summon vampires…”

  Varujan was already shaking his head, an oddly human gesture. “I am old, though not so old as you. I have felt these spells before. This call is different. Weaker, and yet… Deeper? More… maybe best word is ‘primal’?” He shrugged, which looked as out of place as the nod. “I do not truly know how to say.”

  “Figure out how to say this, instead. Why the hell should I help you?”

  The bastard smiled, showing those awful jagged teeth, and that looked perfectly natural on him. “Because already you investigate this. You try to find this murderer, and you already think maybe he is another like me, drawn by the same summons. In addition, you look into a magic or power reeking of death, and you wonder if that, also, is related to what I have told you. You will keep doing what you do and tell me what you find, and I will assist where I can.”

  Well, shit. Who had he been talking to? Clearly he’d tracked his way back to at least one of my nonhuman contacts. No real sense gettin’ steamed at ’em for spilling; if he’d put the whammy on ’em, it ain’t as if they had a choice, or would even remember doing it. Still, I wasn’t thrilled with how much he’d dug up.

  He wasn’t wrong about where my own train of thought had gone, either. But while he mighta guessed the questions I was pondering, he had no way of figuring that I was already working on a theory that could answer ’em.

  Wasn’t about to tell him that, though.

  “Well, I got good news and bad news for ya, sport. The good is, yeah, this ties in with everything I’m already diggin’ into. I can promise you I’ll do my best to suss it out, and assuming I do, you got nothin’ more to worry about.”

  “And this bad news?”

  “The bad news is, no fucking way I’m working with, for, or even near one of your kind. You’ve made an effort not to kill in my town, and you came to me, so I’ll let you walk or flap or waft out that door. But listen good, pal. You be outta Chicago before time comes for you to feed again, because if you hurt one soul in this city, I will find you and I will put you back underground so deep you’ll have to climb to reach Hell.”

  I was all set for him to blow his wig. He’d already shown about a million times more patience than any other nosferatu I’d known. He was gonna erupt in a burst of rotted fury, come at me tooth and nail. I had the L&G set to go, I’d gathered my will to draw as much luck and power from him as I could in a single blast…

  Nope. All he did was smile one more time. “You think this now, Oberon. Soon you will think otherwise. Then, we will speak again.”

  One second he was there. The next the doorway was clouded with a chill mist that poured into the hall like water, flowed out past the phone, and was gone.

  Guess it wouldn’t be nearly melodramatic enough for him to just walk out the damn door. But at least the room didn’t make me feel as if I was chokin’ on worms and grave dirt anymore.

  I took a few moments to enjoy the usual stench of the city leakin’ into my office. Spent longer at it than I should, frankly; needed the time to wind down. I’d been steelin’ for a squabble with the undead, after all. It ain’t duck soup comin’ down from that kinda anger—or fear, if I’m bein’ completely square.

  Wasn’t until I finally stood up that I realized I was still clutchin’ the L&G, either. I stuck that back in the holster, finally took off my coat, and then collected the broken blade of my rapier.

  Spent another few minutes just starin’ at it. I’d carried that sword a long time, and it’d seen me through a lotta different fights and more’n a couple actual wars.

  Fuckin’ vampire.

  I went to my drawer of oddities and stuck the two broken halves in there, alongside the various other meaningful or mystical dinguses I’d collected over the years. This wasn’t one of my weird instincts, where I feel like somethin’s gonna be important down the road. I just didn’t wanna get rid of it.

  When I started to feel the urge to empty out the whole drawer so I could organize and catalog the whole assortment, I knew I was stalling. I had a trip to make, and I wasn’t too eager to get going.

  I shut the drawer, stepped to the filing cabinet, and rolled up my shirtsleeves. Like I said, I’m stronger’n most of you, but not by that much. This was gonna be tough.

  Took a few minutes of shoving and rocking the stupid thing back and forth—woulda been a lotta grunting and sweating and cursing, too, if… Well, you know—but I finally scooted the damn cabinet far enough over for me to squeeze in behind it.

  Moving it revealed a hole I’d knocked in the wall the day I’d first moved into Mr. Soucek’s building. My own little hiding spot, a hollow where I’d stuck a few odds and ends I’d hoped never to need but knew better’n to throw away. What I was after—a long, thin bundle wrapped in rags—was right on top, so I shouldn’t have to dig through any of the…

  Except it wasn’t right on top, not quite. Sitting on it was a small sliver of wood, maybe two inches long. It was a sorta shimmery white in color; naturally, I mean, not with paint or cause of age or anything.

  How in the Dagda’s name had that gotten there? That cabinet hadn’t been moved in years. Had I dropped it in there myself? If so, why, and why the hell couldn’t I rememb—

  The electric fan squeaked once and started slowly rotating backwards. Out in the hall, the blower gave off a single half-ring, and over in the bathroom, the mirror cracked loud as a .22. Above me—you guessed it—the light bulb flickered and dimmed.

  Calm. Calm, Mick. Settle down. Calm…

  One last stutter, and the bulb steadied back to normal. The fan slowed and stopped. And I was left gawping like an idiot, piece of wood in my hand.

  Twice, now. Twice that’d happened when I wasn’t angry or on the verge of losing control. What was happening to me? No way this was just a product of that bad luck hex I’d been battling, was it?

  I hated to put it aside, hated not having answers, but I wasn’t gonna dig up any right now, and ruminating on it was like as not to cause more problems. Bein’ real careful not to think too much about it, I put the chunk of wood back in the hole and retrieved the parcel I’d been goin’ for in the first place. Setting it on the desk, I went back to my supplies and gathered up a few things.

  Whether the hex was Orsola’s or not, whether it was responsible for those “episodes” or not, I’d only held it at bay by taking the proper steps. Probably time to renew those, just in case.

  So I swept the room, widdershins (that’s counterclockwise to you), then whisked the dust and carpet fibers out the door. Filled a pocket with acorns, saved from spring, and tossed salt over my left shoulder in four different directions. And so forth.

  Hopefully, what’d happened with the mirror didn’t properly count as me breaking it. That’d be an extra dollop of misfortune I didn’t need.

  All that rigmarole taken care of, I shoved the filing cabinet back where it was supposed to be (more or less), and finally, after one last minute of procrastination, unwrapped the parcel on my desk.

  One of my last heirlooms of home. I mean my first home.

  It was shorter than the rapier by a fair bit, but broader—at the base, yeah, but especially near the tip, where it flared out in almo
st a leaf-shape. Didn’t have much of a cross-guard, just a horseshoe shape marginally thicker than the blade itself. Not a bit of steel in it, or even iron (not that I’d be wielding an iron weapon anyway); iron hadn’t even been discovered when this was forged. Pure bronze, except for the wooden hilt, but with enough Fae enchantments worked in to make it sharper and stronger than modern steel.

  Students of Celtic history woulda had a field day with this. Me, given the memories attached to it—not just of what I’d done with it, so long ago, but who I’d been—I’d hoped never to see it again.

  I gave it a quick once-over, even though I knew the magics woulda protected it from damage even after so long, then shoved it back in the scabbard and strapped it on under my coat. Double-checked the L&G in its own holster, and then there was nothin’ else but to do it.

  I walked over to the mildew-cornered nook on the other side of the office and stepped Sideways.

  CHAPTER SIX

  And here I was again, one of my least favorite places in two worlds.

  Wasn’t quite as crowded as last time I’d visited, thanks to the heavy snows, but that just meant the din was deafening as opposed to lethal. A lot of the throng was mortal, their expressions just a bit slack, living in the semi-dreamworld Elphame becomes for most humans dippy enough to eat or drink anything they’re offered. They hauled crates or ran messages or undertook whatever menial tasks their Fae “masters” couldn’t be bothered with.

  Good number of Fae here, too, though. Joint like this had too much importance to leave most of it up to slaves. (No, the folks here don’t much care for it when you call their mortal pets “slaves.” Can’t say I much care what they care for.) Fae of every imaginable type and size, from twelve inches to twelve feet; two legs or four; hands and tails and wings; skin and hair and fur and leaves; speaking and shouting and singing.

  All Seelie, though, except for a few important prisoners.

  Everything you’d expect from Chicago’s City Hall.

  Well, our Chicago’s City Hall.

  And in all that hubbub, all that crowd, all that mix of the weird and the wild and the beautiful and the hideous, take a wild guess at who got the most stares.

  No, really. Guess.

  Don’t get me wrong, it ain’t like my reputation is so widespread that everyone here knew me. Just enough of ’em to make me downright conspicuous.

  That was just swell, though. For once, I wanted to be noticed.

  I stood at a massive mahogany desk in the entry chamber, facing off with City Hall’s receptionist. A leprechaun in dapper glad rags and gold-rimmed specs, she was either the same secretary I’d bumped up against last time I was here, or looked enough like her they could be sisters.

  Assumin’ I could judge by the look of utter revulsion that flickered behind her glasses, the sorta expression normally reserved for finding a dead roach or pixie in your omelet, I was gonna take a stab at the former.

  “Heya, doll.”

  “No. Please leave.”

  “You ain’t even heard my question.”

  She sighed—which I knew was a deliberate show of contempt since, like us sidhe, leprechauns don’t normally do that—and folded her hands real neat atop the desk. “Very well, Mr. Oberon. Ask.”

  “Any chance of me seein’ either Judge Sien Bheara or Chief Laurelline? I know it’s usually months to get an audience, but this is pretty urgent.”

  “And that’s your full request?”

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “So, may I answer now?”

  “Yes. It’d be expected, even.”

  “No. Please leave.”

  Well, I walked right into that, didn’t I?

  And this was why I didn’t so much mind having drawn attention on the way in. Last time I’d needed to visit with one of the high’n mighty of Chicago’s Seelie Court, I’d basically caused enough of a ruckus to bully my way in. No reason not to give it another shot.

  Sure, last time I’d been tryin’ to see one of the lower judges, not their Majesties themselves, but then, this time I had more’n just my own charming self to work with.

  “Look, sister…”

  “Am I going to have to call security, Mr. Oberon?”

  “They’re gonna want to see me.” I wasn’t shoutin’, but I made no effort to keep my voice down, either. I knew, even in the din, that a good chunk of the room around us could hear me just fine. “It’s about Áebinn’s investigation. That’s a big deal, ain’t it? They put their best dick on it, even sent her to the mortal world. Surely they wanna know what I’ve learned.”

  “Mr. Oberon—”

  “And I gotta figure, they want it kept hush-hush, since they sent only her and not a whole team, like last time. They’re bein’ subtle—for them, anyway.”

  “Mr. Oberon!”

  “Or, I dunno, maybe they didn’t send her. Maybe the great Detective Áebinn’s gone rogue, and the Court don’t know from nothin’. Gotta figure that’d be embarrassing, if it got out. But hey, we can keep on jawing about it. Every soul here can be trusted, right? Ain’t as though anyone could possibly have any political motivations to wanna take their Majesties down a peg or…”

  I felt ’em looming behind me before any of ’em said a word.

  “…two.” I turned, slow and careful.

  One was a spriggan, like Slachaun over at the Lambton Worm, only this gink was bulkier and kept his wildwood of a beard under better control. Slightly. Currently, he was at or near his full size, towerin’ over me by close to four feet.

  The other was shorter’n me, half the spriggan’s current height. He wore a hood, but I saw just the tip of a long nose and a thick beard pokin’ outta the shadow, and even though he hadn’t laid a finger on me, somethin’ about him just felt… hard. Solid. Like he was just the visible protrusion of something mostly spiritual and far weightier than you could even imagine.

  Haltija. More specifically one of the vuoren väki, the folk of the mountain, a guardian of the hills and the stone. Probably the specific stone used to construct City Hall, in this case, which woulda made him somebody I could probably handle without too much trouble anywhere else, but not someone I wanted to tussle with right here.

  “Right. I’ll just shove off, then,” I said.

  “Indeed,” the receptionist said, and she wasn’t enough of a pro—or she just didn’t care—to hide the gloating in her tone. “These gentlemen will accompany you in case you need any help… shoving.”

  They continued not sayin’ a word, just shadowed me to the revolving door and watched as I stepped back out into the gentle snowfall. And then they kept watchin’, I guess to make sure I kept on ankling. No real chance of slipping back in around ’em, and even if I had, I wasn’t sure what good it’d do. Looked like I hadda come up with something a lot more subtle than the direct approach.

  Maybe tryin’ to take this to Sien Bheara or Laurelline wasn’t even the smart move, but I couldn’t figure a better one. I needed someone with real deep knowledge of magic and history both to tell me if I was even on the right path, or if this whole line of investigation was a trip for biscuits. The notion I’d come up with was downright ludicrous, but… Varujan’s mysterious summons, the presence of other vampires all at once, the damn watermelons… Nothin’ else fit. I hadda know if it was even feasible.

  No way in hell I was goin’ to the Unseelie with it, not without knowing how they were already wrapped up in this, not when I already owed Eudeagh. And while a few other Seelie probably had the lowdown I needed, I didn’t wanna come outta this owing them any debts, either. With the royals, I could at least make the case that we needed to cooperate for the good of the city, wouldn’t have to approach it as a personal favor.

  But that wasn’t gonna fly if I couldn’t even get in to see ’em.

  I’d gotten maybe half a block and was still ponderin’ options when somebody appeared outta the gray and the snow beside me. Aes sidhe, like me, but a lot younger. And under his heavy flogger I could see the sam
e formal getup that was common to the fulltime staff and errand-runners of City Hall.

  “Follow me, please, Mr. Oberon.” The invitation came only after he’d taken a quick glance around, as if he was checkin’ to make sure nobody—or at least nobody important—had a slant on us. Since I had nothin’ better to do, and he’d piqued my interest, I followed.

  He led back in the direction I’d come, or near enough to it. We took a small side street, approaching the Hall from the side. Eventually he stopped before a stretch of marble that looked no different than any other stretch of marble, and traced a pattern in the striations with a fingertip.

  Nothin’ obvious changed, but he motioned me to follow once more, and then stepped through the stone like it was just a thick mist.

  Well, well. I’d guessed there hadda be secret ways in and out of City Hall, but I’d never figured on actually seein’ one, let alone usin’ it.

  But I did, and after a few more passages and twists and turns that ain’t worth the words to tell, I found myself in a fancy sitting room. Sofas with goose-down cushions, mahogany table with decanters of gold and silver and crimson fruit juices, bookcases stocked with hand-illuminated tomes dating back longer’n most countries.

  Not that I had any time to plop down on my keister and relax, since I wasn’t alone in the chamber. “Chief” Laurelline, queen of Chicago’s Seelie Court, was waiting for me.

  Do I need to tell you she was beautiful? Of course she was. We’re Fae, she’s royalty, and we don’t do anything by halves. Hair of spun sunlight, emerald eyes, willowy but full of strength, blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard it all in fairy tales.

  It was an empty beauty, though, at least to me. Cold. Like a work of art rather’n a person.

  Whatever else she was, though, she was old, magical, and wielded more power among the Fae than anyone I’d dealt with since my cousin’s own Court. I bowed—deep, with a flourish, and only a tiny bit of it was sarcastic.

  “Your Majesty.”

  She was having none of it.

  “I should have you arrested and locked away for three hundred years!” Her voice… Well, it matched her looks.