Dervishes Don't Dance: A Paranormal Suspense Novel with a Touch of Romance (Valkyrie Bestiary Book 2)

by Kim McDougall

  The good news for Leighna was that she wouldn’t have to replace her wiring. Electricity leeches weren’t to blame for her lighting problem. The bad news was…well, I was about to find out.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see who the bogeyman is.”

  If Jacoby’s eyes opened any wider, they’d swallow his head. But he nodded.

  “Good man.”

  The candle was clunky to carry and the light only a dim erratic glow, but I wasn’t searching with my eyes. Jacoby had a keening sense too. For some fae, sensing magic was as natural as smelling the wind. We both focused on the last door along the narrow hall. It opened to a stone staircase. Damp, earthy air wafted up from it.

  Montreal was an old city, one of the oldest on the continent. Buildings were constructed over the ruins of older structures, and these ancient cellars weren’t uncommon.

  I’d have to go down there into the blackness. I looked at Jacoby and he shook his head.

  “No, no, no, no…”

  “You know, I think we’re going to need a critter cage. Why don’t you port back to the truck and get one? Then just wait for me at the top of the stairs.”

  He eyed me suspiciously.

  “But I ams your ‘prentice.”

  “Exactly. And that’s what apprentices do. They fetch things. Now go. I’ll be fine.”

  He grumbled a bit, but then ported away.

  Good. I wasn’t foolhardy. I wouldn’t blindly stumble into an unknown cellar that housed a malicious creature calling out, “Is anyone there?” I’d seen the movies. I knew that’s how the dumb blonds got slaughtered. But my keening was more sensitive to nuance than Jacoby’s and I could tell that the humongous magic he sensed was all bluster. Something was in the cellar, but it wasn’t mean. It was scared. I’d sent Jacoby away so he didn’t set it off.

  Because the magic wafting up the dark stairs was unbelievably strong.

  “I’m coming down now,” I said quietly. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”

  The magic hummed like a swarm of bees, but it was no longer trying to scare the pants off me.

  The stairs were slick and I nearly lost my footing. The candle flame rocked, filling the small space with leering shadows. At the bottom, I stood still, and focused with all my senses. My heart was the loudest thing in the room.

  The magic centered on an old pot-bellied stove sitting in the corner, cold and dark. I had one glimpse of the tiny figure sitting on the stove, legs dangling over the side, before my candle went out.

  “That’s not nice,” I said. “I can’t see in the dark. I like the light.”

  A grumbling came out of the darkness, and then my candle flame was relit.

  “Thank you.”

  I moved forward and sat on a rickety chair placed beside the stove, as if to catch its warmth. I studied the creature perched on the cast iron burner. He sat no more than three inches high. Skinny legs stuck out of short pants. His feet were abnormally large for his size and covered in boots so worn that one big toe stuck out. A red cap covered his bald head and a white scraggly beard fell to his waist. He held a walking stick—not more than a twig—in one hand.

  I racked my brain to identify his species. Gnome-like but with powerful magic. I sifted through all the fae I could think of—boggart, bogle, miffie, hob, scrag, puckle…

  “You’re a bodach!”

  “Gfheougthhbt,” said the bodach. The words were unintelligible, but he’d placed their meaning in my head, clear as a bell. Yes. My name is Errol.

  “I’m Kyra.” I reached out a finger and he shook it.

  “Why are you down here all alone?”

  “Brgthiwgh.”

  Images flashed through my mind. City streets filled with noise, rushing buses and people—so many people. Then cold. Snowbanks as high as mountains, drifts too tall to walk through. Constant wet and cold.

  “I understand.” The city would be a frightening place when you were only three inches tall and a slush puddle could drown you.

  “I don’t like the cold either, but it’s warm outside now. Warmer outside than this basement. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll find you a nice quiet place to live?”

  More grumbling and images.

  “No, I promise you won’t be cold. And you won’t be alone anymore. I have quite a few unusual friends living with me. You might like them. At least until we can find some place better for you.”

  Gita was going to kill me, bringing home another stray.

  The bodach grumbled again, but I felt his acquiescence.

  Jacoby waited for us at the top of the stairs with a pet carrier. His eyes widened when he saw the bodach riding on my shoulder.

  “We won’t be needing that,” I said. “Errol is quite friendly.”

  The bodach grumbled a greeting and Jacoby grinned. I was glad that he could understand Errol’s odd language too.

  In the lobby, I checked in with the troll again to let her know that the electricity problem was solved.

  “If you have any more trouble, just call me.” With Errol no longer interfering with the current, I expected no more interruptions with the lights.

  The troll nodded and handed me a sheet of paper. “This is from Leighna.”

  Wow. No one used real paper anymore. It was far too expensive. Even the rare paperbacks I found for Gita were relics from another time. I hadn’t held a single sheet of pulped wood in years. It was heavier than I remembered. I gripped it carefully, not wanting to crease it, and studied the words written out in a scrolling hand.

  It was the stasis spell. Leighna had given me a doubly priceless gift.

  ValkyrieBestiary.com/bodach

  Bodachs: Looking at the Being Behind the Curtain

  (November 17, 2080)

  As usual, the information I can find about bodachs is antiquated and fairly useless when dealing with these beings in the modern, post-war world.

  The origin of the term “bodach” may be derived from the old Irish word for peasant or from an old Norse term for cottage. In Gaelic, bodach is used as a familiar term of affection and simply means “old man.”

  None of this tells us what a bodach actually is, however. And unlike other class two fae such as the brownie, the bodach features in very few tales. When he does, he is often likened with a bugbear—a kind of boogie man that hides under children’s beds. Or he is portrayed as a trickster, a devil or some other malevolent but more-or-less benign creature.

  For our purposes, these tales are quite useless. What kind of magic can a bodach call upon? What is their lifespan? What do they eat? Anyone who is going to face a bodach will need to know these things.

  Recently, I was fortunate enough to help a bodach out of a tough spot, and he blessed me with his company for a little while. I learned a few interesting tidbits about this unusual race. But I should qualify this post by saying that I have only met the one bodach, so this is not an exhaustive report on the topic.

  Here’s what I learned about bodachs (so far).

  Bodachs are small class two fae. They stand only 2-3 inches high and look like tiny garden gnomes.

  Their magic is mostly bluster. Their main ability seems to be instilling fear in others. That may be where the bugbear myth originates. Like a puffer fish, bodachs can puff up their magic so they seem much more powerful than they really are. It is pure defense.

  They mind-speak in a peculiar way. My bodach friend speaks in an incomprehensible jumble of sounds, but somehow, I always know what he means. This has nothing to do with my skills at reading body language. The bodach seems to project his meaning right into my mind, without words. I just know what he’s saying. It was a very unsettling experience at first. Because he doesn’t use language in the normal way, he can communicate with any sentient species.

  Bodachs and electricity don’t mix. If you’ve read my
blog before, you’ll know that I often end up taking in stray creatures and lost fae. When I found a bodach who was down on his luck, I invited him to recuperate at my place. He settled into a little ceramic house beside my bonsai tree. However, when agitated, the bodach tends to blow all the fuses in my house. Sadly, as soon as spring comes, I will have to ask my bodach friend to move on.

  If you’ve had a bodach encounter, I’d love to hear your input in the comments.

  Comments (11)

  Bless you for looking past the myth to the true being beyond it. You are a source of inspiration.

  cchedgewitch (November 19, 2080)

  ——

  I think there was one living in my garden when I was a kid. But it could have been a gnome. They sound like interesting creatures.

  DaddysGirl (November 19, 2080)

  ——

  There was a bodach living in the barn on my family’s farm. Scared the spit out of me until I finally saw him. Hard to be scared of such a little critter. After that, his magic didn’t work on me anymore.

  Homesteader898 (November 20, 2080)

  Agreed. My bodach hasn’t tried his fear trick on me again. Maybe he knows it only works once.

  Valkyrie367 (November 21, 2080)

  ——

  Skewer that critter! A little bbq sauce will fix him up good!

  Oldtexdoneright (November 21, 2080)

  ——

  I was blessed with a bodach friend for many years. I can attest that your experience with them is true. Also, did you know that they are great cultivators of mushrooms? Seems they can call them up from the earth.

  poorpatty3 (November 23, 2080)

  Good to know. Thanks!

  Valkyrie367 (November 23, 2080)

  ——

  I don’t get it. Whos behind the curtin?

  Sassfactor (November 23, 2080)

  It’s a reference to The Wizard of Oz, a movie from the 1930s.

  Valkyrie367 (November 23, 2080)

  Wow. Your really old.

  Sassfactor (November 23, 2080)

  *You’re* right ;)

  Valkyrie367 (November 23, 2080)

  Chapter

  16

  After a full week of fourteen-hour days, I quit early on Saturday. I wanted to go home to put my feet up, but that thought lasted for only a minute or two. I was still in the dark about Cyril’s death. Though I’d been by his apartment a few more times, I learned nothing new. The disappointment frozen on Mason’s face at the funeral still haunted me. We hadn’t spoken since, and I felt like I needed a token of goodwill to break through his stony silence. The best way to do that would be to bring him irrefutable proof that Cyril was murdered. Or better yet, bring him Cyril’s murderer.

  And Constable Hughes had been adamant that a dozen or more fae had gone missing in the neighborhood around Talon Street, just like the brownies near Cyril’s apartment. It was time to investigate these takers.

  Talon Street cut through the most populous part of town and was home to twenty blocks of markets, shops and eateries. I avoided parking fees by stashing my truck at a charging station one block south. I handed my keys to Roy, a grizzled-looking scrag. Scrags are one of the few fae who can work iron and they make skilled mechanics.

  “Thanks, Roy. I won’t be long.”

  “I might have a look at those wheels while you’re gone. They’re looking unbalanced.” He wiped grease off his hands with an even dirtier rag.

  “Only if you have time.” I knew he’d find the time. Roy had kept my truck running for longer than it should have, mostly because he was too stubborn to let it die.

  After a call home to make sure Errol was playing nice with the rest of my pack, I headed north to Talon street and turned right into the busy pedestrian traffic. This section of Talon was closed to motor vehicles, but bikes zigzagged through the crowd, and several mule-drawn carts filled with the remnants of the day’s farm market blocked the flow.

  The afternoon heat packed around the buildings like insulation, but it took more than odd weather to keep Montrealers away from their entertainment, whether that be food, drink or music. I followed the flow of traffic with no real destination in mind and not knowing exactly what I was looking for.

  Talon was on the border of the fae and human quarters. Here those class one fae who weren’t court nobles mixed with lower class fae and mundanes. It was the one place in the city where everyone got along because they all agreed on one thing: keep to yourself.

  That made questioning people difficult. The first pedestrians I encountered ignored my inquiries. I finally found someone willing to talk. Two old men sat outside a small mom-and-pop market that sold stale bread and eggs to locals at outrageous prices.

  “I’m investigating a missing persons case,” I lied. “Heard rumors that several people have gone missing from this neighborhood. Is that true?”

  “You Hub?” one of the men asked. He chewed a cigar butt. Black glassy eyes peered at me from a round, inflated face.

  “No.”

  “Private eye?”

  “Just a concerned citizen.” Clearly, I needed a better cover story.

  “Well, aren’t you sweet? Such a pretty thing. Coming here and bein’ all concerned and stuff for us.” He spat out the cigar and his friend cackled.

  I stared at the two old codgers, letting them know that I wasn’t afraid of their weak-assed attempt at harassment.

  “Well, if you hear anything, here’s my information.” I didn’t bother trying to transmit my data by widget. These two were old school. Every citizen of Montreal was required to carry a widget. It did everything from paying for goods and services, to holding our official documents of citizenship. But these two probably used their widgets as coasters. So I handed him a synthetic paper business card, which he promptly used to pick his teeth.

  I had better luck when I started telling people that I was looking for my missing brother. I moved down Talon Street, giving out my contact info to anyone who would speak to me. A few listened, but no one had anything to say about the mysterious takers.

  An hour later, I got stalled at the farmers’ market. Hub officials had an entire section of the street cordoned off, and the air was heavy with the stench of death and decay. It was thick enough to taste and even covering my nose with my thin bandanna did nothing to quench it. After questioning a couple of bystanders, I found out that all the produce in the market had suddenly gone rotten. No one had an explanation for it, but with so much magic bursting through ley-lines around town recently, I thought we were getting off easy with a few rotten farm carts.

  I wouldn’t get past the blockade, so I ducked inside a tavern for a drink and to find some patrons willing to talk. The place was called Le Lion D’Or, and it had a medieval vibe going with decor that could kindly be labeled rustic—wooden tables and chairs, a great fieldstone hearth (still cold and bare despite the late season), and a long wooden bar held up by old beer kegs. The serving wenches dressed the part with long skirts and peasant blouses that showed off their ample bosoms.

  All conversation ceased when I walked in. I stood in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. A half dozen fae and maybe twice as many humans sat at the tables, waiting out the afternoon heat with cold mugs of beer.

  Everyone watched me.

  I waved. “Hiya!”

  A couple of bluecaps snarled at me. A table of pixie chicks laughed in that high-pitched pixie giggle.

  I sat at the bar. The low buzz of conversation started up again, but I could still feel eyes on me.

  “Can I have whatever is cold,” I asked the bartender. He was a tall, fatherly man with an apron over his round belly.

  “That’s ten-fifty,” he said as he placed the mug in front of me. I tapped my widget to his and he turned away.

  “Hey,” I said, catching
his attention again. “I’m looking for my brother. He’s missing.”

  “That’s tough luck.”

  “Is it luck? I heard that a lot of people have gone missing from around here.”

  The bartender squinted at me, no longer jovial. He wiped the bar with a rag, then leaned in and spoke in a low tone.

  “People come in here to forget. I don’t ask what they’re forgetting. That would be counter productive, wouldn’t it? But I make sure they aren’t disturbed while they’re doing it. You understand? Questions are bad for business. Anything that’s bad for business gets thrown out on its ass.”

  I smiled and sipped my beer, proving I could be good for business. The bartender moved off.

  I was going about this all wrong. I was no investigator. Bugs and rodents rarely needed to be questioned. Talon was an insular neighborhood, and I stuck out as an outsider. Mason had wanted me to question the fae, but he overestimated my ability to connect with them.

  The beer went down fast, and I left feeling over-full. The setting sun was too bright after the dark tavern, and I stood on the sidewalk blinking.

  “Hey, missus?” a timid voice said. I turned to find one of the fae serving girls. As she hurried over to me, her blond ringlets bobbed, revealing the slight point to her ears. Probably only half fae. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into an alley beside the tavern. Her eyes darted across the shadows and up the brick wall at my back before she seemed satisfied that we were alone.

  “My name’s Betsy Lacroy.” She tapped my widget with hers to trade contacts. “People have gone missing. My neighbor’s daughter and the son of the grocer down that way.” She pointed east along Talon Street. “Is it true that only those with exceptional magic are being taken?”

  I studied her. Betsy was old enough to fill out her wench uniform, but her eyes betrayed the scared kid inside.

  “I don’t know. Is that what they’re saying?” That’s right, Detective Greene, ask leading questions only.