“What’s it like to be a gargoyle?”
He squinted at me, and I rushed on. “I mean, I can feel your magic, you know that, right?” He nodded. “So I know a little bit about it.”
One night when we were traveling through the Inbetween, Angus had brought out his “wee” bottle of whisky. I got a little tipsy and embarrassed myself by commenting on Angus’s odd magic. His energy never seemed smooth and regular. It jarred. He’d said the dissonance was because gargoyles were created by man and brought to life with the stolen spirit of a dead fae—in Angus’s case, a dryad.
Other than embarrassing myself for being so forward, I’d upset Mason, who had created Angus in the eighteenth century, before he understood the consequences of his alchemy. Angus didn’t mind the questions though.
“It’s hard to explain.” He pointed to the chair at the window. “Even though we spend a lot of time thinking about it. Too much time, I suppose.”
“But this dissonance you feel, would it be enough to make Cyril kill himself?”
“I dunno. You’ve got the same dichotomy warring inside of you. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Me?”
He nodded. “Do you remember the deal we made in the Inbetween?”
“Yes. You offered to teach me dryad magic.”
He watched me steadily. “Are you sure you want to learn? To welcome a very different magic into your mind?”
I thought about when my Valkyrie magic first came in—the seizures, the meltdowns. It hadn’t been easy to master. How much worse would it be to incorporate an entirely different kind of power?
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
“That’s true. And it was true for Cyril too. And me. We make do with what we are given.”
“So you’ll still help me learn to master my dryad magic?”
“Aye. And you’re going to help me investigate Gerard Golovin.” He pointed a gnarled finger at me.
That was the second part of our deal.
The alchemists were amazing inventors. They created all the wonders that kept our modern society running, from the cars we drove, to the ward that protected our city. And they all ran on magic tapped from the ley-lines running underground.
During our trip through the Inbetween, Mason had brought out an odd compass that used Montreal’s Apex stones as a guide. It had resonated magic that was just a bit off, like a violin out of tune. Or like a fae soul stuck in a gargoyle’s body. Angus had felt it too, and not surprisingly, he wanted to put a stop to it.
We both suspected that the alchemist prime minister was at least funding the research behind this new technomancy. But before we went to Mason with our claims, we had to be sure.
“Right. On that note, I had an interesting encounter this morning.” I told him about the Gencrew 80x. The creature had been bugging me all day. It could have been an automaton as Golovin asserted, but I didn’t believe it. There had been life trapped behind those sightless eyes. I was sure of it.
“So, you think Gerard’s little robots are golems. You sure about that?” Angus growled.
“Not so I can prove it. And not like any golem I’ve ever encountered. It was alive. I’m not sure a thaumagauge could pick it up, but my keening is much more sensitive. The genny’s magic felt, well…” I squirmed in my chair, trying to wrestle my thoughts into something less offensive.
But his tone was somber when he said, “It felt like my magic.”
“Yes.”
“You realize that you’re accusing one of the prime ministers of Montreal of breaking the Black Hat Act. He could be sent to Grandill.”
The creation of unnatural life was one of the few truly heinous crimes. Because there was no way to create life. It could only be stolen, in the way that Mason had stolen a soul to create Angus.
“If Gerard Golovin is behind the opji attacks—and now these golems—then Grandill prison is too good for him.”
“And if you’re wrong…” He let the thought trail off.
“If I’m wrong, I could be tried for treason too.”
“Aye, Hub doesn’t take kindly to false accusations that disturb the peace.”
“So we need proof.”
“We do.”
“Without letting Mason know what we’re doing.”
“That too.”
Mason wouldn’t sit back and wait for proof if he knew we suspected Golovin of harvesting fae spirits to create his golems. I didn’t like to lie to him, but Angus and I had already agreed to keep our suspicions quiet until we had concrete proof against Golovin.
“Mason knows that you’re going to help me with my dryad magic?”
“Aye.” He nodded slowly. “You think we can use that as a cover?”
I smiled. “Let’s make it a date.”
Chapter
9
The world had gone a little mad. Montrealers were used to extremes—below freezing winters and blistering hot summers—but muggy heat in November made everyone antsy, myself included. It reminded me of the extreme weather swings we experienced back before the Flood Wars, an omen of things to come, if we’d been wise enough to listen.
I sat on the roof across from Cyril’s nunnery-turned-apartment building, listening to cars honk, along with angry shouts and sirens in the streets nearby. I shifted in my little nook, trying to keep to the shade beside a chimney. The rooftops of Montreal were their own highway. That’s how the Guardians moved around. And that’s where Cyril had met his end. If anyone had seen his assailant, they would be the sort who moved along these rooftops with ease.
For three days, I’d come by this courtyard in between my pest control jobs, watching for any regulars who passed this way, and trying to stay cool. I’d already investigated the spot from where Cyril fell. A slate tile had come loose there and others showed unusual scuff marks, but that proved nothing. I needed a witness. Today was Saturday, and I vowed to stake-out the spot all day.
Few people used the courtyard below. In the morning, an elderly lady sat on the bench in the yellowing garden, but she stayed only until the sun shifted and the bench lost its shade.
The rest of the courtyard was silent. A tall cedar hedge hid the short wall that joined the two apartment buildings. I keened tiny magics running along the cooler earth under it, but nothing else moved.
The cobblestones in the courtyard were hot enough to bake bread. Jacoby, who could walk through fire unblemished, sprawled on the stones below, snoozing in the sun and enjoying the heat from above and below.
Just as I thought the heat was going to poach my brain in my head, a brownie appeared at the far end of the roof. He skipped along as if out for a summer stroll, humming off-key and sucking on a lollipop that was much too big for him.
When he reached the chimney, I stepped from the shadow and into his path.
The brownie froze, then crouched and shut his eyes tightly, as if hiding.
“I can see you.” He opened an eye, grimaced and stood up. About two-and-a-half feet tall, the brownie was all arms and legs, like a toddler-sized gangly teenager. His hairless face hid under a hat made of rags, with bits of garbage dangling from it, tied in twine. Large, yellow eyes glowed from beneath this costume.
“What do you want?” He squinted at me. He was ready to run, and I held out a hand to stop him.
“I just want information.”
The brownie bit me on the soft spot below my thumb.
“Dammit!” I clutched my hand to my chest. Blood already welled through my fingers as I watched the brownie slide down the drainpipe.
“Jacoby! Don’t let him get away!”
I heard the dervish snort, the brownie hiss, and then I was scrambling down the drainpipe too.
“Where is he?” I pressed my bleeding hand against my thigh.
“I gots him trapped!” Jacoby jumped from foot to foo
t by the cedar hedge. He had the brownie pinned against the wall. At one end, the hedge butted up against the building with no easy handholds to get to the roof. The other end opened near the gate and Jacoby waited there. The brownie poked his head out, saw the angry dervish and dove back into the safety of the hedge.
I took the time to wrap my hand in a rag from my pack. Brownies were such a pain, but this one obviously had a nest around here. Even if he hadn’t seen Cyril’s killer (assuming there was one) he’d know the local gossip.
I crouched to peer under the hedge.
“I catches him for you!” Jacoby made a wringing motion with his hands. “No more brownie!”
“No! If you’re going to be my apprentice, you need to follow my rules. Understand?”
“‘Prentice?” The whiskers around his eyes twitched.
“Uh-huh.”
That’s right, you little whirlwind of trouble. Take the bait.
“I be’s your ‘prentice?”
“Only if you can obey my commands. We don’t want to hurt the brownie. We just want to talk to him.”
Jacoby pouted, but nodded. The brownie’s lollipop was on the ground and Jacoby mashed it into the dirt.
The brownie crouched on the other side of the hedge. I peered into the shadows, and he hissed at me. If I tried to claw through the brambles, the little beast would attack with the ferocity of a pissed-off cat. I wouldn’t be able to take him by force without shedding more blood.
“Come out of the hedge and I’ll give you...” I thought about what I had to trade, dug into my pack and found a small bag of mints. I held them out to the brownie. “Candy!”
He sniffed the offer and hissed again. Apparently brownies didn’t like mint.
“Kyra-lady shouldn’t talks to filthy brownies,” Jacoby said. The fae were as sensitive to social hierarchy as Victorian ladies, and brownies were way down the pecking order. Jacoby stood at least six inches taller, but more importantly, his magic would outclass a brownie’s any day.
“I have to talk to him. I need to find out who hurt Cyril,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Kyra-lady could sets fire to the hedge,” he suggested. “Brownies don’t likes fire.” He grinned. Tendrils of smoke leaked from his ears.
“Uh, no thanks.”
I tested the solidity of the bush. The branches were thick and intertwined. My sword would cut through it but not without considerable damage to the hedge.
“Kyra-lady could stabs ‘em with her big sword. Stabs ‘em right through the eye!”
The brownie peered through the branches and stuck out his tongue. Jacoby lunged at the hedge with a pretend sword. The brownie disappeared.
“Kyra-lady could poisons ‘em.” Jacoby stood back and scratched one ear with a long finger. “Or explodes ‘em. Explodes ‘em with a big bomb! Then chops ‘em into tiny bits!” He made a chopping motion with one skinny hand. I was starting to think that Jacoby didn’t like brownies.
In truth, brownies aren’t the helpful creatures from fairy tales. They are the original trick or treaters. Instead of doing good deeds in exchange for milk and bread, they are more likely to throw eggs at your windows. Bug fogger and animal traps aren’t sufficient for these critters. They only understand guile.
“I can wait here all day,” I said in a sing-song voice. “You’ll be hungry and bored. But if you come out now, I have just a few questions and you can go.”
“How do I know you won’t trick me?” asked the brownie.
Good question. I wouldn’t trust me—a dirty, angry woman with a sword strapped across her back.
“Because I’m just like you.” I brought my magic to the fore, letting it seep from me in a cloud. The brownie would taste it. He would feel the dryad in me and know that I wouldn’t harm him. Dryads are wood-nymphs. They revere all life and wouldn’t even pull weeds from a garden. He didn’t have to know that the other half of my heritage descended from bloodthirsty vikings.
The brownie scented my magic. Then a face peered through the hole in the hedge again.
“I just want to ask you some questions.” My hand was aching and I really wanted to go home.
The brownie’s eyes perked up. “You want information? A forfeit then.”
Ah, yes. The forfeit was a tried and true fae tradition. A test disguised as an offering. If I passed, he would know I was good people. If I didn’t pass, I would owe the brownie a favor. Owing anything to the fae was never a good idea. They tended to seek payment in the form of your firstborn.
“Fine,” I said. “A forfeit. But I don’t sing.”
The brownie considered this.
“A riddle, then. Charm me with a riddle.”
“Fine, but if you can’t solve my riddle, you come out willingly and answer my questions.”
“One question.”
“Five questions and you answer with only truth.” You had to be really specific with brownies.
“Three questions.”
“Fine.”
I pretended to think hard, but I had several rock-solid riddles ready. My great-grandfather was Odin, the original riddle master.
“Who can hold a forest in his grasp and swallow a man whole, but is afraid of the wind?”
The brownie’s face crinkled in a frown as he thought hard.
“A giant?” came the answer. “No! Wait! One of those big green meanies.”
“An ogre?” I asked.
“Yes! Yes! Ogres! They’re stinkers, so they hate the wind. Pew!” The brownie held his nose and waved his hand as if to fan away a stench.
“Wrong,” I said. “You lose. Now come out.”
The brownie groaned, but complied. Forfeits were sacrosanct. He scrambled through the small hole in the hedge. Thorns tore at his ragged clothes and elaborate headdress, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“If not ogres, who then?” The brownie squinted up at me.
I waggled my finger. “Nah-uh. You know the rules. You didn’t guess right, you don’t get the answer. But I do. Three answers to three questions.”
The brownie’s eyes darted sideways as if he might make a run for it. Jacoby lunged at him and chopped his teeth.
“None of that,” I said sharply, and Jacoby slunk away to wait in the sun.
I turned to the brownie. He was terrified. He clung to his ragged hat with one shaky hand. I dug in my pack again and came up with an emergency bag of trail mix. He sniffed the bag, then delicately took hold of it with two hands.
I had only three questions. I had to make them count. I could assume that he traveled this way often and would know the Guardians and the neighborhood.
“Can you tell me who pushed the Guardian off the roof?”
He smiled slyly. “Yes.”
Crap. I’d just wasted one question.
“Who pushed the Guardian off the roof?”
His eyes shifted to the shadows, left and right, and his bare foot scraped at the dirt.
“You have to answer me.”
“Them white coats. The takers!”
I had to be careful here. Only one question left. He might know who the takers were, but if not, I’d waste the question.
“Who do they take?”
His eyes were white all around and his hands spread against his chest.
“Me!” He pointed to Jacoby. “Him!”
Then he ducked through my legs and ran away with his bag of trail mix.
So these takers were nabbing fae off the streets? Why kill Cyril then? Did he see something? And why had no one reported the missing fae?
“Kyra-lady looks!”
I realized that Jacoby had been tugging at my pant leg for several seconds.
“What?”
“Looks!” He pointed at the rooftop.
A man stood on the ledge outside a third story apar
tment. The sun was behind me now, so his pale face and dark hair shone in the late afternoon brilliance.
He edged along the ledge which couldn’t have been more than three inches wide, his fingers gripping the stone wall.
What the hells? I swept out with my magic to taste his and recoiled. He wasn’t human. In fact, his magic was horrifyingly familiar.
Before I could react, he spread his arms wide.
“Goodbye assholes!”
And he dove.
ValkyrieBestiary.com/brownie
Riddle Me a Brownie
(November 10, 2080)
If you came here looking for the “best chewy brownie recipe,” you’re in the wrong spot. Actually, I was amazed at the number of brownie recipes on the ley-web, especially considering my ward hasn’t had real chocolate in over a decade. But that’s a topic for a different blog. This is a discussion on the fae subspecies known as a brownie.
But first a rant:
Brownies are considered a class two fae of the gnome subspecies, along with bodachs, bogarts, blue-caps and bocans, to name a few. I have issues with this accepted form of classification.
Fae was once a broad term for any of the otherworldly beings documented by European folklore. Today, we lump almost any being with a touch of magic into this designation. Hub sorts them into three orders. Class one encompasses the fae court, beings who, with little or no glamor, can pass among the mundanes. Class two fae are also humanoid, though generally smaller or much larger than humans and speak with clear language. These are the gnomes, trolls, ogres, and so on. Beastkin make up the third class, the creatures that populated the forests of legend.
Hub uses these designations when doling out punishments for crime. A swarm of termites can do as much damage to a house as an arsonist, but the termites won’t go to jail for it. Vampire slugs drink blood just like the monsters they’re named for, but the council would never prosecute a slug for feeding on humans. It is an imperfect system of justice that the fae have been lobbying for years to change.
I agree with this need to change how we think of the fae. How should we rank a selkie, for instance? It is both beastkin and rational humanoid. And how can we measure the level of sentience in a will o’wisp? And where does that leave the other beings that can claim no fae heritage such as the gargoyles, shifters, vampires and godlings? All these creatures are part of our world now and here to stay. I think we do them an injustice by trying to box them into arbitrary classifications for our own purposes.
Dervishes Don't Dance: A Paranormal Suspense Novel with a Touch of Romance (Valkyrie Bestiary Book 2) Page 8
