Magic City

by Paula Guran

  “There’s really no question about that, is there?” Bob asked me.

  “Home plate,” we said together.

  I started forward, walking silently. Being quiet when you sneak around isn’t difficult, as long as you aren’t in any rush. The serious professionals can all but sprint in perfect silence, but the main thing you need isn’t agility—it’s patience and calm. So I moved out slowly and calmly, and it must have worked, because nobody raised a hue or a cry.

  The empty, unlit stadium was . . . just wrong. I was used to seeing Wrigley blazing with sunlight or its lights, filled with fans and music and the smell of overpriced, fattening, and inexplicably gratifying food. I was used to vendors shouting, the constant sea-surge of crowd noise, and the buzz of planes passing overhead, trailing banners behind them.

  Now Wrigley Field was vast and dark and empty. There was something silently sad about it—acres of seats with no one sitting, a green and beautiful field that no one was playing on, a scoreboard that didn’t have anything on it to read or anyone to read it. If the gods and muses were to come down from Olympus and sculpt unfulfilled potential as a physical form, they wouldn’t get any closer than that hollow house did.

  I walked down the concrete steps and circled the infield until I could make my way to the seats behind home plate. Once there, I held Bob up and said, “What have we got?”

  The skull’s eyelights flared brighter for a second, and he snorted. “Oh, yeah. Definitely tied the curse together right there.”

  “What’s keeping it going?” I asked. “Is there a ley line passing underneath or something?”

  “That’s a negative, boss,” Bob said.

  “How fresh is it?”

  “Maybe a couple of days,” the skull replied. “Maybe more. It’s an awfully tight weave.”

  “How so?”

  “This spell resists deterioration better than most mortal magic. It’s efficient and solid—way niftier than you could manage.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em,” Bob said cheerfully. “So either a more experienced member of the White Council is sponsoring this curse, and refreshing it every so often, or else . . . ”

  I caught on. “Or else the curse was placed here by a nonmortal being.”

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “But that could be almost anything.”

  I shook my head. “Not necessarily. Remember that the curse was laid upon the stadium during a game in the 1945 World Series.”

  “Ah, yes,” Bob said. “It would have been packed. Which means that whatever the being was, it could blend in. Either a really great veil or maybe a shapeshifter.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What?”

  “Why?” I repeated. “Why would this theoretical being have put out the curse on the Cubs?”

  “Plenty of beings from the Nevernever really don’t need a motivation.”

  “Sure they do,” I said. “The logic behind what they do might be alien or twisted beyond belief, but it makes sense to them.” I waved my hand at the stadium. “This being not only laid a curse on a nexus of human emotional power, it kept coming back week after week, year after year.”

  “I don’t see what you’re driving at, boss.”

  “Whoever’s doing this is holding a grudge,” I said thoughtfully. “This is vengeance for a genuine insult. It’s personal.”

  “Maybe,” Bob said. “But maybe the emotional state of the stadium supercharged Sianis’s curse. Or maybe after the stadium evicted Sianis, who didn’t have enough power to curse anybody anyhow, someone decided to make it stick.”

  “Or maybe . . . ” My voice trailed off, and then I barked out a short bite of laughter. “Oh. Oh, that’s funny.”

  Bob spun in my hand to look up at me.

  “It wasn’t Sianis who put the whammy on the Cubs,” I said, grinning. “It was the goat.”

  The Llyn y Fan Fach Tavern and Inn was located down at the lakeside at the northern edge of the city. The place’s exterior screamed “PUB” as if it were trying to make itself heard over the roar of brawling football hooligans. It was all whitewashed walls and heavy timbers stained dark. The wooden sign hanging from a post above the door bore the tavern’s name, and a painted picture of a leek and a daffodil crossed like swords.

  I sidled up to the tavern and went in. The inside matched the outside, continuing the dark-stained theme on its wooden floors, walls, and furnishings. It was just after midnight, which wasn’t really all that late, as bar scenes went, but the Llyn y Fan Fach Tavern was all but empty.

  A big red-haired guy sitting in a chair by the door scowled at me. His biceps were thick enough to use steel-belted radials as armbands. He gave me the fisheye, which I ignored as I ambled on up to the bar.

  I took a seat on a stool and nodded to the bartender. She was a pretty woman with jet-black hair and an obvious pride in her torso. Her white renaissance shirt had slipped entirely off both of her shapely shoulders and was only being held up by her dark leather bustier. She was busy wiping down the bar. The bustier was busy lifting and separating.

  She glanced up at me and smiled. Her pale green eyes flicked over me, and the smile deepened. “Ah,” she said, her British accent thick and from somewhere closer to Cardiff than London. “You’re a tall one, aren’t you?”

  “Only when I’m standing up.”

  Her eyes twinkled with merry wickedness. “Such a crime. What are you drinking, love?”

  “Do you have any cold beer?” I asked.

  “None of that colonial piss here,” she replied.

  “Snob,” I said, smiling. “Do you have any of McAnally’s dark? McAnally’s anything, really.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Whew. For a moment, there, I thought a heathen walked amongst us.” She gave me a full smile, her teeth very square and straight and white, and walked over to me before bending over and drawing a dark bottle from beneath the bar.

  I appreciated her in a polite and politically correct fashion. “Is the show included in the price of the drink?”

  She opened the bottle with an expert twist of her wrist and set it down in front of me with a clean mug. “I’m a generous soul, love,” she said, winking. “Why charge when I can engage in selfless charity?”

  She poured the beer into the mug and set it on a napkin in front of me. She slid a bowl of bar nuts down my way. “Drinking alone?”

  “That depends on whether or not you’ll let me buy one for you.”

  She laughed. “A gentleman, is it? Sir, you must think me all manner of tart if you think I’d accept a drink from a stranger.”

  “I’m Harry,” I said.

  “And so we are strangers no longer,” she replied, and got out another bottle of ale. She took her time about it, and she watched me as she did it. She straightened, also slowly, and opened her bottle before putting it gently to her lips and taking a slow pull. Then she arched an eyebrow at me and said, “See anything else you like? Something tasty, perhaps?”

  “I suppose I am kind of an aural guy at the moment,” I said. “Got a minute to talk to me, Jill?”

  Her smile faded swiftly. “I’ve never seen you in here before. How is it you know my name?”

  I reached into my shirt and tugged out my pentacle, letting it fall down against my T-shirt. Jill studied that for a few seconds, then took a second look at me. Her mouth opened in a silent “ah” of understanding. “The wizard. Dresden, isn’t it?”

  “Harry,” I said.

  She nodded and took another, warier sip of her beer.

  “Relax,” I said. “I’m not here on Council business. But a friend of mine among the Fair Folk told me that you were the person to talk to about the Tylwyth Teg.”

  She tilted her head to one side, and smiled slightly. “I’m not sure how I could help you, Harry. I’m just a storyteller.”

  “But you know about the Tylwyth Teg.”

  “I know stories of them,” she countered. “That’s not the same as knowing them. Not in the
way that your folk care about.”

  “I’m not doing politics between members of the Unseelie Accords right now,” I said.

  “But you’re one of the magi,” she said. “Surely you know what I do.”

  “I’m still pretty young, for a wise guy. And nobody can know everything,” I said. “My knowledge of the Fair Folk pretty much begins and ends with the Winter and Summer Courts. I know that the Tylwyth Teg are an independent kingdom of the Wyld. Stories might give me what I need.”

  The sparkle returned to her eyes for a moment. “This is the first time a man I’ve flirted with told me that stories were what he needed.”

  “I could gaze longingly at your décolletage while you talk, if you like.”

  “Given how much trouble I go to in order to show it off, it would seem polite.”

  I lowered my eyes demurely to her chest for a moment. “Well. If I must.”

  She let out a full-bodied laugh, which made attractive things happen to her upper body. “What stories are you interested in, specifically?”

  I grinned at her. “Tell me about the Tylwyth Teg and goats.”

  Jill nodded thoughtfully and took another sip of beer. “Well,” she said. “Goats were a favored creature among them. The Tylwyth Teg, if treated with respect by a household of mortals, would often perform tasks for them. One of the most common tasks was the grooming of goats—cleaning out their fur and brushing their beards for Sunday morning.”

  I took a notebook from my duster’s pocket and started making notes. “Uh-huh.”

  “The Tylwyth Teg were shapeshifters,” Jill continued. “They’re a small folk, only a couple of feet tall, and though they could take what form they wished, they usually changed into fairly small animals—foxes, cats, dogs, owls, hares, and—”

  “And goats?”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “And goats, aye. Though the stories can become very odd at times. More than one Welsh farmer who managed to capture a bride of the Tylwyth Teg found himself waking up to a goat beside him in his bed, or took his wife’s hand only to feel the shape of a cloven hoof beneath his fingertips.”

  “Weregoats,” I muttered. “Jesus.”

  “They’re masters of deceit and trickery,” Jill continued. “And we mortals are well advised to show them the proper respect, if we intrude upon them at all.”

  “What happens if we don’t?”

  Jill shook her head. “That would depend upon the offense, and which of the Tylwyth Teg were offended. They were capable of almost anything if their pride was wounded.”

  “The usual Fair Folk response?” I asked. “Bad fortune, children taken, that sort of thing?”

  Jill shook her head. “Harry, love, the Queens of Winter and Summer do not kill mortals, and so frown upon their followers taking such action. But the high folk of the Tylwyth Teg have no such restrictions.”

  “They’d kill?” I asked.

  “They can, have, and will take life in acts of vengeance,” Jill said seriously. “They always respond in balance—but push them too far and they will.”

  “Damn,” I said. “Those are some hard-core faeries.”

  Jill sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes glittered brightly. “What did you say?”

  I became suddenly aware of the massive redhead by the door rising to his feet.

  I swigged a bit of beer and put the notebook back in my pocket. “I called them faeries,” I drawled.

  The floorboards creaked under the weight of Big Red, walking toward me. Jill stared at me with eyes that were hard and brittle like glass. “You of all, wizard, should know that word is an insult to . . . them.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “They get real upset when you call them that.” A shadow fell across me. I sipped more beer without turning around and said, “Did someone just put up a building?”

  A hand the size of a Christmas ham fell onto my shoulder, and Big Red growled, “You want me to leave some marks?”

  “Come on, Jill,” I said. “Don’t be sore. It’s not as though you’re trying all that hard to hide. You left plenty of clues for the game.”

  Jill stared at me with unreadable eyes and said nothing.

  I started ticking off points on my fingers. “Llyn y Fan Fach is a lake sacred to the Tylwyth Teg over in the Old World. You don’t get a lot more Welsh than that leek-and-daffodil emblem. And as for calling yourself ‘Jill,’ that’s a pretty thin mask to cover the presence of one of the Jili Ffrwtan.” I tilted my head back to indicate Big Red. “Changeling, right?”

  Big Red’s fingers tightened enough to hurt. I started to get a little bit concerned.

  Jill held up a hand and Big Red let go of me at once. I heard the floor creaking as he retreated. She stared at me for a moment more, then smiled faintly and said, “The mask is more than sufficient when no one is looking for the face behind it. What gave us away?”

  I shrugged. “Someone has to be renewing the spell laid on Wrigley Field on a regular basis. It almost had to be someone local. Once I remembered that the Fair Folk of Wales had a rather singular affinity with goats, the rest was just a matter of legwork.”

  She finished off the beer in a long pull, her eyes sparkling again. “And my own reaction to the insult was the cherry on top.”

  I drained my mug and shrugged modestly. “I apologize for speaking so crudely, lady. It was the only way I could be sure.”

  “Powerful, clever, and polite,” she murmured. She leaned forward onto the bar, and it got really hard not to notice her bosom. “You and I might get along.”

  I winked at her and said, “You’re trying to distract me, and doing it well. But I’d like to speak to someone in authority over the enchantment laid on Wrigley.”

  “And who says our folk are behind such a thing?”

  “Your cleavage,” I replied. “Otherwise, why try to distract me?”

  She let out another laugh, though this one was softer and more silvery, a tinkling and unearthly tone that made my ears feel like someone with fantastic lips was blowing gently into them. “Even if they are, what makes you think that we would alter that weaving now?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps you will. Perhaps you won’t. I only request, please, to speak to one with authority over the curse, to discuss what might be done about it.”

  She studied me through narrowed eyes for another silent moment. “I said please,” I pointed out to her. “And I did buy you that beer.”

  “True,” she murmured, and then gave me a smile that made my skin feel like I was standing close to a bonfire. She tossed her white cloth to one side and said, toward Big Red, “Mind the store for a bit?”

  He nodded at her and settled back down into his chair.

  The Jili Ffrwtan came out from behind the bar, hips swaying in deliciously feminine motion. I rose and offered her my arm in my best old-fashioned courtly style. It made her smile, and she laid her hand on my forearm lightly, barely touching. “This,” she said, “should be interesting.”

  I smiled at her again and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Why, to Annwn, my love,” the Jili Ffrwtan said, pronouncing it ah-noon.

  “We go to the land of the dead.”

  I followed the Jili Ffrwtan into the back room of the pub and down a narrow flight of stone stairs. The basement was all concrete walls and had a packed-earth floor. One wall of the place was stacked with an assortment of hooch. We walked past it while I admired the Jili Ffrwtan’s shape and movement, and wondered if her hair felt as soft as it looked.

  She gave me a sly look over one bare shoulder. “And tell me, young magus, what you know of my kind.”

  “That they are the high ladies of the Tylwyth Teg. And that they are surpassingly lovely, charming, and gracious, if you are any example, lady.” And that they could be psycho bitches from hell if you damaged their pride.

  She laughed again. “Base flattery,” she said, clearly pleased. “But at least you do it well. You’re quite articulate—for a mortal.”

  A
s we got farther from the light spilling from the staircase, the shadows grew thick, until she made a negligent gesture with one hand, and soft blue light with no apparent source filled the room around us. “Ah, here we are.”

  She stopped beside a ring of large brown mushrooms that grew up out of the floor. I extended my otherworldly senses toward the ring and could feel the quiver of energies moving through the air around the circle like a silent hum of high-tension electrical lines. The substance of mortal reality was thin here, easily torn. The ring of mushrooms was a doorway, a portal leading to the Nevernever, the spirit world.

  I gave Jill a little bow and gestured with one hand. “After you, lady.”

  She smiled at me. “Oh, we must cross together, lest you get lost on the way.” She slid her fingertips lightly down my forearm. Her warm fingers intertwined with mine, and the gesture felt almost obscenely intimate. My glands cut my brain out of every decision-making process they could, and it was an effort not to adjust my pants. The part of my head that was still on the job got real nervous right about then: There are way too many things in the universe that use sexual desire as a weapon, and I had to work not to jerk my hand away from the Jili Ffrwtan’s.

  It would be an awful idea to damage her pride with that kind of display.

  And besides, my glands told me, she looks great. And smells even better. And her skin feels amazing. And . . .

  “Quiet, you,” I growled at my glands under my breath. She arched an eyebrow at me.

  I gave her a tight smile and said. “Not you. Talking with myself.”

  “Ah,” she said. She flicked her eyes down to below my waist and back, smirking. Then she took a step forward, drawing me into the ring of mushrooms, and the basement blurred and went away, as if the shadow of an ancient mountain had fallen over us.

  Then the shadow lifted, and we were elsewhere.

  It’s at this point that my senses pretty much broke down.

  The darkness lifted away to light and motion and music like nothing I had ever seen before—and I’ve been to the wildest spots in Chicago and to a couple of parties that weren’t even being held inside our reality.