Dante’s notoriety had grown ever since Fiona’s kidnapping last year, even with the have-nots of the Rogue Court. Hopefully Donovan and his lackeys didn’t keep up on the current events. Just to be safe, Dante focused on his glamour and held the image of a tattered changeling tightly in his mind. Unlike mortals, fae weren’t often fooled by glamours, but Dante knew just how good he was, so he wasn’t particularly worried.
“What the hell are you doing on this side of town, trash?” asked a gruff voice tinged with a Russian accent.
Dante was impressed. He hadn’t realized Donovan had brought in Slavic muscle. He stopped and tried to look timid for a moment, then he started walking again, quicker this time.
“Hey, my friend asked you a question, yes?” another asked.
Dante turned slowly and saw three chuhaister, or Russian forest giants, staring him down. The term giant was always applied rather loosely. These weren’t even eight feet tall. All three were dressed in—Dante had to admit—rather stylish three-button pinstripe suits. He couldn’t help but wonder where they found someone to make them in that size.
One of the chuhaister drove his meaty palm into Dante’s shoulder. “Are you deaf, or stupid?”
Dante rolled with the blow, but made it look as if it staggered him. When he spoke, he laced some fear into his words. “What? No, I’m just looking—”
“You’re looking in wrong place, yes?” the largest said.
“No, I’m looking for Dono—”
The second one shoved him and Dante let himself fall against a wall. Several people walking nearby crossed the street, or increased their pace as they went by.
“The Godfather doesn’t see trash like you. You and those like you are meant to keep to your side—”
Dante drove the edge of his open hand into the giant’s throat and felt something give. As the big fae doubled over reflexively, Dante drove his knee into the giant’s nose. There was a cracking sound, like a tree snapping in two.
Before his friends could react, Dante jumped against the wall, then sprang off it, putting just enough magic behind it to get the job done without killing. The heel of his Bettanin & Venturi wingtip caught the second giant on the side of his face and sent him spinning to the ground, where he landed in an unconscious mountain of muscle.
When Dante turned to the last, he came face-to-face with a Taurus Raging Bull fifty-caliber revolver. He had to admire the way it had been modified to fit the massive hand that now held it, but he did so very slowly and allowed his glamour to evaporate.
“Who are you?” the remaining giant asked. “You’re not changeling rabble.”
“I want to speak to your boss. It’s court business,” Dante said. His eyes never wavered from the trigger finger. At the first twitch, he’d turn to the side and, hopefully, dodge the first shot or two.
The giant’s beady eyes didn’t go wide—Dante wasn’t sure that was possible—but they became less beady. The giant looked to his fallen comrades, then back to Dante.
“You’re the hired help,” Dante said in perfect Russian. “This is a matter you should pass along.”
“I suggest you listen to the man, yeah?” said a woman’s voice, laced with a heavy Irish brogue, from behind the giant. It was followed by the sound of a hammer being pulled back on a gun. “I’d hate to ruin his nice clothes with your blood and brains. What few are rolling around in there, anyways.”
“See,” Dante said, “not just court, but Cruinnigh business. Even the Fianna sent an emissary.”
Disproving Dante’s theory, the giant’s eyes did go wide. He swallowed, then set his gun on the ground slowly. “Da, hired help,” he said. “I give you address.”
As soon as the giant finished telling Dante the location of Donovan’s court, he was pistol whipped from behind. He fell to the ground to join his fellows in a much-deserved nap. His collapse revealed the woman standing behind him, still holding the pistol she’d used to drop him. She was in her thirties with long straight black hair pulled into a ponytail and eyes so blue they could’ve been battery powered. She was wearing military-issue boots, black fatigue pants, and a knee-length black canvas coat over a tight black shirt. An intricate Celtic-knot tattoo started on her neck, just below her jaw, and disappeared beneath the collar of her shirt. On the lapel of her jacket, she wore the silver pin marking her as a Fian. It was a design Dante knew well, though it was usually worn on a kilt.
“Hello, Siobhan,” Dante said. He didn’t bother smiling.
“Magister,” Siobhan said with small bow. “Been a long time.”
“No one’s up on current events,” Dante said. “I’m not a magister anymore.”
Her dark eyebrows knitted. “Sorry to hear that.” She holstered her pistol back inside her jacket.
“What do you want?” Dante asked.
“What do you imagine?” she asked in genuine surprise. “Changelings go missing, mortals as well. The clan sent me here to make sure there’re no more violations to the Oaths.”
“Convenient timing,” Dante said through clenched teeth. “You missed a pretty big one recently.”
“I—”
“About a year ago, maybe you heard something about it back in Ireland?” He wasn’t able to hold the venom back any longer.
Siobhan raised her hands. “If it’d been up to me—”
Dante stepped over the unconscious heap in front of him and closed on Siobhan, forcing her back until she was against a wall. Dante glared down at her, his eyes wet and his teeth clenched. “Missed you at the memorial service too.”
Siobhan looked away. “Some of us wanted to go, but—”
“Let me guess, just following orders?” Dante turned and started to walk away before he did something he’d regret, or worse, something he wouldn’t. “I have no time to pander to your politics. I have my own to deal with.”
“Damnú air! It’s not like that!”
Dante whirled and pointed a finger at the woman. “No! It’s exactly like that. You banished him! You left Brendan to rot, alone, in a foreign land! He was your blood, Siobhan!”
“The Fionn thought he was dangerous,” she said. “We all did.”
“Oh, he was!” Dante said. “And he spent his life fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves! Blazes, woman, he went toe to toe with the Dark King himself! He did it for a child he didn’t know, and in the end he gave up his own life for that little girl.” He lowered his voice. “Always hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’d make up for his past.”
Siobhan wiped her eyes. “I know.”
“No, you don’t. Not one of you had the decency to see the man honored in death.” When Siobhan started to speak, he raised a hand and she went silent. “I’ve had my issues with the Fianna in the past, but I’ve always respected your honor and courage.” Dante’s eyes turned cold. “No more. You’re the ones with a debt to repay now. And make no mistake, it’s a mighty one.”
Siobhan lowered her head. “You’re right, about all of it. There are those in our ranks who think we’ve lost our way.” She inhaled sharply before continuing. “Let me help. Give me a chance to start paying on that debt, to honor the actions of a wronged brother—”
“Don’t you dare call him that! Every one of you gave up the right to call him that.” He drew in a breath. “But you’re still a member of the Cruinnigh, so I’ve no right to deny you a place in resolving a dispute.”
Siobhan didn’t move, not even a twitch.
“I am very old,” Dante said slowly. “And I have a long memory. I do not easily forgive.” He leveled his gaze on her. “And I never, never forget.”
Siobhan only nodded.
Dante turned and headed to his car. “Let’s go.”
Dante double-parked in front of the nondescript building, braking so hard Siobhan lurched forward agains
t her seat belt.
“I understand your anger,” she said as she undid her belt. “But—”
“Rest assured I have sufficient anger to spread over more than just the Fianna.” Dante pulled a pistol from his jacket, checked it, and after giving Siobhan a sideways glance, replaced it. “Ours is a personal matter, one for another time. This is more pressing.”
“So, it’s a truce, then?”
“Follow my lead, and back my play.” Dante looked at her. “Can I trust you to do that?”
She nodded. “Aye, I’m with you.”
They both got out and walked to the large metal door. It was dented and dinged with no handle. There was, however, a square viewport at eye level, currently closed.
“I believe I got a key.” Siobhan drew a sawed-off shotgun from her coat and racked a shell. “Shall I knock, then?”
Dante almost smiled. “Hold that thought.” He withdrew a small copper disk covered in intricate script from his pocket and kicked the steel door three times, only hard enough to knock.
The viewport slid open and a pair of beady eyes the color of swamp water looked out at them. “Password?”
Dante tossed the disk through the slot, hitting right between the undersized eyes.
There was a muttering of surprise and a curse. A moment later the viewport slid closed and the door opened.
“I have a master key for places like this,” Dante said and walked in.
Behind the door was an ogre in a tailored suit, fedora, and black-and-white spectator shoes. In the distance, jazz music played and a woman crooned in a sultry tone.
“Where is he?” Dante asked, eyes forward.
The ogre lowered his head, offering the copper disk back to Dante with one hand, pointing to another set of doors with the other.
Dante took the disk back and strode forward.
“Be a good lad and make sure our conversation is a private one, yeah?” Siobhan said as she followed Dante, shotgun across her shoulder.
The two of them stepped through the doors and into a 1940s-style jazz club. It looked like a speakeasy, down to the tiniest detail. High-ranking fae of all sorts milled around at the bar, danced on the expansive hardwood floor, or shared conversations in the quiet booths that lined the walls. Everyone one of them could’ve stepped out of a movie. There were zoot suits, military uniforms, and ladies in dresses from the forties, with hair in matching style. On the stage, the tuxedoed musicians played in perfect time. A woman in an elegant evening gown with both her arms covered in colorful tattoos was singing into an antique microphone. A satyr, who looked more than a little like Jesus, stood and began a trumpet solo.
“Bloody hell,” Siobhan said. “This isn’t odd at all, is it?”
Dante scanned the room.
At the opposite end of the dance floor, next to the stage, was a large booth on an elevated platform. Two trolls, in the requisite fashion, stood in front of velvet ropes. In the large circular booth, dressed in an exquisitely tailored black-and-gray suit, was an elf with amber-colored eyes. Around him were various court nobles: sylphs, nymphs, other elves, and even a dwarf.
“There.” Dante motioned with his head.
“Should I stow it?” Siobhan asked, glancing at her gun.
“No.”
Dante made his way through the dancers, all of them spinning or turning or performing expert aerial throws and catches. Siobhan stayed right behind him.
Half a dozen paces before Dante reached the ropes, one of the trolls raised his hand.
“Sorry, private—”
Dante drove his knee into the troll’s groin and sent him to the ground.
Siobhan cracked the other across the face with the butt of her shotgun, sending him to the floor next to his whimpering associate.
The band stopped and everyone turned to look. Dante threw the rope aside and ascended the steps. The chattering group seated in the booth stared at him. The elf’s face turned a shade of purple, and Dante almost expected to see steam coming out his ears. That did make him smile, but just a little.
“Those were my personal bodyguards!” Donovan said. “You seem to have adopted the Fian lack of manners from that lunatic—”
Dante drew his pistol and leveled it at Donovan’s forehead, less than a foot between barrel and bone. “Shut up.”
Donovan swallowed. “I’m the magister of this region, not—”
Dante pulled back the hammer. “Is there something in my countenance, or the words I used, that made my instructions unclear?”
Donovan gritted his teeth, but didn’t speak.
“As your keen observational skills might have perceived,” Dante said, “I’m a little perturbed. Best keep your hands in plain sight.”
Dante caught movement to his left.
“Easy does it, sweetness,” Siobhan said. “Why don’t you join your mates there?”
The troll Dante had leveled limped by and sat at the end of the booth, splaying his massive hands on the table.
“Club’s closed.” Dante didn’t shout, but his voice carried. “The magister will be covering your tabs.”
Whispers and mutters of confusion sounded from the club.
“Are you thick?” Siobhan shouted. “Or did you not hear the man? That means get out, right fecking now!”
When no one moved, she fired a shot into the ceiling.
Patrons, band members, bartenders, and waitstaff alike bolted for the doors amid panicked cries.
Siobhan turned to the nobles seated in the booth. “Pretty sure he meant you as well,” she said and worked the shotgun’s pump action.
A spent shell clattered to the floor, and before it had bounced twice, the nobles were halfway to the door. The troll sat frozen, looking from Donovan to Dante.
“What about that one?” Siobhan asked.
“He’s fine,” Dante said, though his eyes never left Donovan. He uncocked his pistol and lowered it. “Now, I need a word with you, Magister.”
“You won’t shoot me,” Donovan said, though his tone lacked certainty. “You wouldn’t dare. This isn’t your region, Magister.” The last word was laced with venom.
“You really should look over the communications from the Cruinnigh,” Dante said. “I’m no longer the new-eastern magister.”
Donovan laughed. “Someone finally come to their senses?”
Dante flung the copper disk onto the table in front of Donovan. “After the oíche uprising, I was made Regent of the New World.”
Donovan went silent and his face fell as he looked from the coin to Dante. “What happened to Albericus?”
“He stepped aside,” Dante said, then kicked the table. The bolts holding it to the floor snapped and the edge of the table slammed into Donovan’s stomach.
Donovan gasped in pain.
Dante snatched the coin back. “Are you aware of what’s been happening out there?” he asked.
Donovan looked up with murderous eyes and set the table back in place. “I know quite well what’s going on in my region. Some urchin half-breeds went missing. Why should it concern me, or the court?”
Dante drew in a slow breath. “Consider yourself disposed of your position.”
“On what grounds?” Donovan roared.
“Gross incompetence,” Dante said. “You’ll have your wardens and marshals report to me immediately.”
Donovan sneered. “I disbanded them.”
“You did what?”
“The members of my court saw to their own affairs. My bodyguards were sufficient to protect the nobles, so there was no longer a need for them.”
Dante looked at the troll. “I’m declaring all court grounds a sanctuary for any and all who request it. That means fae, changeling, and mortal alike. Any who ask for sanctuary will be given it. Do you understand?”
&nb
sp; The troll didn’t even look at Donovan. “Yes, Regent, as you say.”
“Go, inform the other”—Dante’s mouth twisted—“bodyguards. I’m conscripting them into court service until this situation is resolved. If I hear of anyone being turned away, harassed, or so much as bumped in passing without an apology offered, they’ll answer to me.”
The troll bowed, then stood and cast a wary glance at Siobhan.
“Off with you now, sweetness,” she said and winked.
The troll hurried away.
Dante looked back at Donovan. “Your properties and holdings are hereby seized.”
Donovan’s eyes went wide. “What? You can’t do that to—”
Dante raised his gun again. “Would you prefer I make your dispossession more permanent?”
Donovan went silent.
“Give me your hand,” Dante said.
The former magister stood and held out his right hand, an indignant sneer on his face.
Dante drew a knife from inside his coat and dragged the blade across Donovan’s palm, eliciting a wince.
“I’m ordering a full inquiry into you and every decision you’ve made in the last century.” Dante put his pistol away, withdrew a small stone, and dragged the blade of his knife across it, leaving behind Donovan’s blood. “If you run, I will find you.”
Donovan’s face turned a little pale.
“Now, get out of my sight. I have things to do.”
Donovan got to his feet and left the club.
Dante pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Faolan.
“What’s the word?” Faolan asked.
“Send everyone you can spare.”
“That bad?”
“I need you here as well,” Dante said. “Assuming you can get away from your duties?”
“As luck would have it,” Faolan said, “the previous magister left me a pretty smooth-running organization. I think I can spare a few days.”
The Forgotten Page 14
