The bird man never discovered the real purpose of his student's meticulous curiosities or how the gloves came to be redesigned over and over again to fit around the steel exoskeletons. The design process took place in private until the wrist braces worked to hold the deadly talons rigid and capable of delivering savage blows.
His notebooks held all the detailed, annotated drawings in case fate ever forced him to build new instruments. He hoped that never happened. Once a man sheds blood with a weapon, it becomes a part of him. The gloves dispensed justice at his command.
How many hours had he spent in innocent small town libraries studying weaponry in dusty old tomes that never left the shelves until a man with purpose sought them out? The Harlequin romances gadded about those towns dripping saccharin trails of true love and happy endings. His books spoke in the warm, crimson language of bloody realism.
Behind him, a floorboard creaked. The Strigoi might be stealthy creatures of the night, but he'd been listening to Ionescu's approach for five minutes.
"Why don't you just use your own claws?" his visitor asked.
There it was. The inevitable question every client put to him.
Still counting strokes in his head, the man said, "I do not choose to get my claws dirty."
"So those things pretty all this up for you? Let you live with yourself?" Ionescu asked.
The voice was beside him now, so he looked up at the elegantly dressed lawyer standing incongruously in the cabin's dusty ruins.
"I have no difficulty living with myself," the man said with studied calm.
"Ferguson, you are one cold-hearted son of a bitch," Anton Ionescu said flatly. "I admire that about you."
Ice blue eyes flicked away from the shining steel. "Coming from a creature like yourself," Ferguson said, "I take that as a compliment."
Ionescu flinched at the word "creature." Ferguson saw the reaction.
"Ah," he said, "you don't like to be reminded of your vampiric roots, do you, Anton?"
Ionescu's face hardened. "I'm not Count Dracula any more than you are the wolf man."
"But then neither one of us is human, are we, Anton?" Ferguson said, gently setting the framework of claws on the table. "And this is a most inhuman chore you've hired me to complete. I trust you were satisfied with the manner in which Mr. Pike was put on display?"
Had he been willing to admit it, Ionescu's stomach turned to acid at the thought of poor, crazy old Fish Pike slashed to ribbons and propped up like a macabre doll. But appearing to be weak with a psychopath-for-hire like Malcolm Ferguson was not a good idea.
"The whole town is talking about it," Anton replied. "The Hamilton woman was nowhere to be seen most of today. My sources say she didn't come out of the store, which means she went to The Valley."
Ferguson regarded his employer thoughtfully. "Why do you hate that woman so much?" he asked conversationally. "She's a thirty-year-old ex-waitress who dabbles in magic. How could she possibly be of any consequence to you?"
"She wasn't ‘dabbling’ when she dealt with Brenna Sinclair," Ionescu snapped. "And now that mother of hers is back on the scene. Apparently being deprived of her only son wasn't enough to teach Kelly Ryan a lesson. So now she gets to pay again by watching her daughter suffer and die. If I can get rid of the McGregors in the process, all the better."
Ferguson made a clucking sound in the back of his throat. "Anton, you are supposed to be reformed, you know," he chided.
"I am reformed," Ionescu said tightly. "We haven't fed on the life spirit of a human since Father Damian brought us here from Transylvania 265 years ago."
Curling his lips into a sardonic smile, Ferguson purred, “Ah, yes, the mother country, Transylvania. Are you quite sure the good father didn't round up Count Dracula with his unholy little band of refugees?"
Ionescu took a step forward; his hands balled into fists. "Samuel Damian was a man of God, a scientist and a visionary. He cured us."
"Playing electrical games with Ben Franklin doesn’t make Damian a scientist,” Ferguson sneered, “and housebreaking a pack of soul-sucking Strigoi doesn’t mean he was a saint.”
All the color drained from Ionescu’s features, replaced with suppressed fury. "If you hate my kind so much, why did you take this job?" he asked through tight lips.
"Because I hate Chase McGregor more," Ferguson said, his eyes shifting to amber slits as a rumbling growl rose from his throat. "Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the King of the Gypsies?"
"We are not Romani," Ionescu said stiffly. "My people are Romanians."
"Your pedigree doesn't interest me," Ferguson said.
“But your methods do interest me,” Ionescu said coldly. “What are you planning to do next?”
“Next?” Ferguson said, picking up one of the steel exoskeletons and running his thumb appraisingly along the edge of the longest talon. “Next, I intend to go for a walk in the moonlight.”
At the door of Moira’s laboratory, Barnaby paused before he knocked to delicately probe the interior with his senses. He felt Moira’s warm, focused energy, and the less powerful, more chaotic essence of her assistant, Dewey, but not the cool, ancient presence of the aos si.
Before Barnaby’s knuckles could strike the heavy timbers, Moira called out to him. “Come in, Barnaby. There’s no need to skulk on the doorstep.”
He pushed the door open and stepped into the cavernous room filled with glass-fronted display cabinets and overflowing bookcases. Moira’s work table sat in the center of the space; a wild riot of herbs, stones, and bottled potions. His eyes tracked to the raised dais under the picture windows where the Alchemist sat at her desk.
“Moira,” he said, “I cannot remember the last time anyone accused me of skulking.”
“That might be because you’re quite bad at it,” she said, handing a sheaf of papers to Dewey, who nodded curtly at Barnaby before lumbering out a side door muttering into his beard. Barnaby caught the words “glorified sardines” and “fish stench.”
When the side door closed, Barnaby regarded Moira with a bemused expression. “What did you do to put Master Dewey in such a foul mood?”
Gesturing for Barnaby to join her on the stone platform, Moira said, “First I made him work with the merfolk representative all day, and now I’ve sent him off with a shopping list, which will require that he talk with people. Dewey has many virtues, but sociability isn’t one of them.”
“That can’t be entirely true,” Barnaby observed, sitting down across from her. “He and Darby get on famously.”
“That,” she said, “is one of the great mysteries of friendship. Darby is the only living creature I know who can actually make Dewey laugh. Now, would you mind telling me what you’re doing standing on my doorstep poking around with your powers like some nosey neighbor?”
Instead of answering her question, Barnaby took in the tired lines around her eyes and the weary set of her mouth. “You look exhausted,” he said softly.
Moira’s expression gentled. “I am,” she said, “but I think Myrtle and I have found the right combination of elements to make and sustain a saltwater environment in the upper valley. The dwarven engineers are going over our plans to dam the approaches to the deep meadow.”
“Which is a most commendable feat,” Barnaby said, “but did you remember to eat today?”
Moira frowned, her eyes shifting back and forth as if reviewing the last few hours. “Honestly,” she said, “I don’t remember.”
“Just as I suspected,” Barnaby replied, gesturing toward the surface of the table with his index finger. Two stacks of books obligingly moved over to make room for the large platter of cold beef slices, cheese, and fruit that materialized. With a second gesture, he added fresh bread, wine, and two goblets.
“Ah,” Moira sighed appreciatively, “I do love a wizard who can cook.”
Barnaby nodded toward the bottle, which uncorked itself, levitated, and neatly poured a measure of wine for them both. Moira beckoned t
he nearest goblet to come to her, plucking it delicately from thin air.
“To you, kind sir,” she said, raising the glass and inclining her head toward Barnaby.
“And to you, fair maiden,” he responded.
Moira eyed him wryly over the rim of her goblet. “I haven’t been a maiden in several centuries, Barnaby.”
“But you are undeniably fair,” he responded gallantly.
In spite of herself, Moira chuckled. “You never stop until you make me laugh, do you?”
“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand,” Barnaby replied.
Reaching for a slice of cheese and a bit of apple, Moira said, “That sounds like a quotation.”
“It is,” Barnaby said, “from Mark Twain. A most pragmatic and good-natured human.”
“Ah,” Moira said, “one of your favorites. But somehow I don’t think you’re here to discuss 19th-century human literature.”
Barnaby sighed. “You know me too well,” he said, “and you are right. We have a rather more complicated subject to discuss.”
“Which, I assume, is why you scanned the room before you entered?”
“Yes,” he said. “I needed to make sure that you were alone.”
Moira took a sip of her wine and gave him a long look. “Don’t you mean to say that you wanted to make sure Myrtle wasn’t here?”
Barnaby’s brow furrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you would have felt free to ask Dewey to leave if we needed to talk in private,” she said reasonably. “You would not do that with the aos si, and since you know I spent the day with her, I can only conclude you wanted to avoid Myrtle.”
He inclined his head in an acknowledging bow. “As always,” he said, “you are too clever for me by half.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, Barnaby removed the block of quartz and placed it on the table between them. “Vicus,” he said, “would you be so good as to play the images you captured from the young lady's communication device?”
The stone came to life with a pale violet glow. “It would be my pleasure,” Vicus replied.
When the holographic image of the chessboard appeared, Moira leaned forward and studied it intently.
“That’s not possible,” she said finally.
Barnaby let out a long breath. “I hoped I was mistaken,” he said.
“Mistaken about the Liszt chess set?” Moira said incredulously. “We’ve been searching for this artifact since it disappeared in Europe at the end of the Second World War. Where is it?”
“Sitting on a table in Jinx’s espresso bar in Briar Hollow,” Barnaby said.
“And the aos si didn’t bring this to our attention?” Moira asked with raised eyebrows.
“According to Jinx,” Barnaby said, “Myrtle not only did not bring it to our attention, she examined the chessboard and declared it to be of no consequence.”
“How could the aos si have made a mistake of that magnitude?” Moira asked.
“That,” said a quiet voice, “is perhaps the question we should all explore.”
They both turned to find Myrtle standing just inside the room. She quietly closed the door and crossed the space to join them. “Barnaby,” she said, “may I have a glass of wine?”
With a slight gesture, Barnaby materialized and filled a third goblet and offered it to Myrtle, who sat down in the empty chair. “To old friends,” she said, raising the cup.
“Old friends,” Moira agreed.
After they had drunk, an awkward silence settled around them. Myrtle broke it. “Now, now,” she said gently. “Among us, there should be nothing but the truth. I did not tell you about the chessboard because I didn’t detect its power, which, I think we can agree, is something of a problem. I assume Jinx raised other concerns with you?”
“She did,” Barnaby said, “but out of genuine affection for you, aos si. The child is afraid.”
“Jinx is not a child,” Myrtle said. “She is a strong young woman, and growing stronger by the day. What did she tell you?”
Quietly and gravely, Barnaby related the details of his conversation with Jinx. When he finished, Myrtle said simply, “It would seem my errors are larger than I feared.”
“You’ve been aware that something is wrong?” Moira asked.
The aos si smiled sadly. “Apparently,” she said, “I am guilty of the sin of denial.”
“Who among us,” Barnaby said, “can claim we are not?”
Myrtle laughed, the bright lilt of the sound dissipating the tension in the room. “Gracious as ever, Barnaby,” she said, “but Jinx is correct. I did not know that Brenna Sinclair had returned, and now I have missed an artifact of the significance of the Liszt chessboard. With a killer stalking the McGregors, my apparent deficits could be a serious liability.”
“Then,” Moira said, “we have to arrive at an answer for why those deficits are there in the first place.”
“Moira,” Myrtle said, “I am quite old.”
Moira stood up, pushing her chair back from the desk. “So far as I know, Myrtle, dementia has never been an issue with the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
“With due respect,” Myrtle replied, “I am the last of my kind. How can we be sure my life’s energy is not simply waning?”
“Before we come to any conclusions like that,” Moira said briskly, “I need to examine you.”
“And I,” Barnaby said, “need to refresh my memory on the full details of the Liszt chessboard.”
“So you have a theory?” Moira asked.
“Possibly,” Barnaby replied. “Brenna Sinclair was able to get one magical artifact into the store, the miner’s lamp that opened the tunnel she used to break into the fairy mound. She may also have been responsible for the chessboard and perhaps other articles that are suppressing Myrtle’s powers.”
“A hopeful supposition,” Myrtle said, “but Jinx, Gemma, and Kelly’s powers are not affected.”
“We don’t know that,” Barnaby said. “Jinx’s powers have not yet been fully realized, and Gemma and Kelly are badly out of practice. They could be experiencing a dampening effect as well and not even realize it.”
“But Brenna arranged for the miner’s lamp to be placed in the store after my failure to detect her presence,” Myrtle said.
“Correct,” Barnaby said, “but according to Jinx, the chessboard arrived before she saw Brenna for the first time on the town square. The chessboard could be responsible for what you are experiencing.”
“And its current behavior?” Moira asked.
“That,” Barnaby said, “points to one rather inescapable conclusion. Brenna Sinclair was not working alone, and her accomplice is still attempting to infiltrate the fairy mound.”
12
While Moira examined Myrtle, Barnaby settled into Moira’s private study with a stack of leather-bound volumes containing the journals of a number of eminent Alchemists. Barnaby’s personal knowledge of the Liszt chessboard began in 1935. In that year, a failed chicken farmer, Heinrich Himmler, became the head of the Ahnenerbe, Adolf Hitler’s occult and treasure-hunting division.
Under the guise of researching the cultural and archaeological history of the Aryan race, Himmler set out to locate and seize some of the most esoteric and sinister artifacts to be found in the Fae world. To counteract Himmler’s activities, Moira, like many of the remaining Alchemists, covertly joined the famous Monuments Men. The group, comprised of historians and museum curators, worked at the end of the war to recover and repatriate the priceless works of art plundered by the Nazis.
Using gentle enchantments of forgetfulness on their human colleagues, the Alchemists reclaimed dangerous magical artifacts and secured them in Fae archives around the world, including the one that resided in the fairy mound in Briar Hollow. The Liszt chessboard, however, eluded both detection and understanding. The board’s status was, in some ways, more legendary than substantial, but the artifact was still widely regarded among Fae historians as both dark and dangerous
.
Barnaby hoped to find something in the diaries to recreate the chessboard’s journey from Franz Liszt to Himmler. Now that the board’s current location was known understanding more about its earlier travels might help them to make a more educated guess about who made off with the artifact at the end of the war — especially since that person was likely Brenna Sinclair's accomplice.
The first diary in the stack, a handsome oxblood red book trimmed in gold, was entitled The Journal of Gilbert Gulbranson - 1845-1885. Holding his hand over the first page, Barnaby said simply, “Loco Liszt.” The pages riffled obediently, settling on two entries from 1849:
October 10, 1849 - When my old friend, the pianist, and composer, Franz Liszt, who serves as Kapellmeister Extraordinaire by appointment of the Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, learned I would be in Weimar, he dispatched an invitation for me to visit him in his quarters.
During our time together he played for me a new composition, Après une Lecture du Dante: Fantasia quasi Sonata, which he refers to simply as his Dante Sonata. I found the piece disturbing and of questionable origin. Liszt has made heavy use of the tritone, widely believed to be “the Devil’s interval.” The feverish pace of the music, especially the ending passage meant to depict the tri-headed devil from Dante’s Inferno, unsettled my senses.
I fear that Liszt, in his desire for recognition of his musical genius, may have given in to the urge to barter for unnatural abilities. Like most humans, he does not realize that all such bargains come at a price well beyond the terms of the agreement. After the fashion of the ill-fated Dr. Faust, Liszt’s desires may have outweighed his better judgment.
October 31, 1849 - Dined with Liszt and made note of an odd chess set sitting in his study designed with a musical motif. I detected dark energy emanating from the board. I inquired of Liszt about its origin only to be informed that it was made for him by a “master craftsman” and has been a source of inspiration in the evolution of his music.
Witch on First: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 4 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels) Page 11
