She followed Mac down to a landing at what she assumed must serve as the basement level to the buildings above. This time their way was blocked by a battered wooden door painted a chipped and peeling black. Mac ignored it and faced the stone of the wall flanking the stairs. He chose a stone somewhere in the vicinity of his navel and demonstrated another elaborate knock. The stones seemed to shudder and waver like an out-of-tune television picture before they thinned and then blinked out of sight, exposing an archway at the top of another flight of stairs.
“Seriously,” Danice muttered as they started down once more, “you come to this place for fun? Like, voluntarily?”
“No, I come here for business. And you promised to let me do the talking.”
“Yeah, to other people.”
He scowled at her over his shoulder. “Well, let me do all the talking.”
The second stair moved down along a gradual curve instead of at a straight angle like the first. These lower walls also appeared to have been constructed of stone, but here the gaps were larger and looked as if they’d been filled with soil instead of mortar. It served to emphasize the fact that they were truly underground now, stepping farther and farther into the bowels of the earth. The air had begun to smell dank and musky, like the basement of a very old house. No lights hung overhead in this part of the stairwell, but the walls near the top seemed to glow with an eerie phosphorescence. Around the curve in the wall, she could see more natural-looking yellow light and hoped to hell that it signaled the actual bar.
A few steps later and she could hear the low drone of music mixed with conversation. Her first instinct was relief, followed quickly by uncertainty. She thought she was beginning to understand why she’d never heard of this particular bar, and maybe she shouldn’t have decided to make her first visit quite so casually.
The bottom of the stair fanned out into a surprisingly small room; at least, Danice was surprised. She had expected that whoever—or whatever—had created the bar would have taken advantage of the greater availability of subsurface real estate in Manhattan to create an establishment of more generous proportions, but the Under Belly really appeared to her to be no larger than your average city dive bar.
Tables occupied most of the space in the center of the room. In general, they appeared scratched, round, rickety, and in at least two cases singed around the edges. The utilitarian chairs looked equally battered, and she thought she saw more than one customer wobbling due to their uneven legs. Uneven chair legs, that is. She tried not to stare at any of the patrons long enough to tell anything about their anatomical legs.
Three booths lined up against the far wall, with two more along the near wall, at the back where the room narrowed briefly before opening up again into a space just large enough for an ancient pool table and two video games. Yes, even the Under Belly apparently offered Ms. Pac-Man.
Tucked up underneath the stairs, Danice spotted a jukebox that blinked and flashed and poured out some sort of country-sounding song she’d never heard, despite the fact that she could see the electrical cord hanging limply off the back. No one had bothered to plug it in. Of course, it didn’t appear that they needed to.
She flinched a little when Mac grasped her elbow. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to relax as he led them up to the bar set against the shorter wall closest to the stairs. Two ragged figures hunched over the far end of the scarred wooden surface, seeming to curl even farther into themselves as Mac and Danice approached. Why they would worry about two fairly normal-looking people when faced with the behemoth behind the bar, Danice couldn’t understand.
The bartender appear to Danice to stand at least seven feet tall and probably stretch half that wide, consuming almost every inch of space behind the bar. His head was bald, his arms bare, and his frame heavy with muscle. In fact, he looked as if he might have been carved from solid rock. Literally. His skin was the texture of weathered sandstone and approximately the same color, an earthy reddish brown that might have been pitted and pocked by wind and rain. Danice would not have been entirely surprised if she’d seen sagebrush growing from the side of his head. Looking at him made her think that a part of the Arizona desert had woken up and wandered into the bar and decided to serve drinks.
Despite his hard-edged appearance, though, the man dried a pint glass with surprising dexterity, and while she couldn’t vouch for the rest of the room, the bar itself looked meticulously clean and orderly. The liquor bottles set on the shelves in back lined up in perfect alphabetical order, the unlabeled wooden and brass taps gleamed, and the glassware had been sorted by size and shape and glinted with cleanliness. This bartender might have the look of dirt, but he allowed not a speck of it to mar his work space.
Mac ignored the dozen or so patrons in the room and nodded to the bartender instead. “Hello, Hedge.”
The huge figure turned at the sound of his name and grunted. “Callahan. Don’t want no trouble tonight.”
Ponderous, deep lines formed a perpetual scowl on the bartender’s face, but his eyes beneath the heavy brow ridge were clear, moss green, and utterly mild. In fact, if Danice had to guess, she would call their expression almost…friendly.
“I don’t plan to start any,” Mac assured him. “I’m just here to meet with Quigley. That’s all.”
Hedge nodded. “And your little friend?” His gaze shifted to Danice, and she felt him taking her measure.
“I’m not going to start any trouble, either,” she felt compelled to promise him.
The mossy eyes twinkled at her. “You look to me to be the type that inspires trouble, even when you don’t start it yourself, little bit.”
Danice found herself smiling, much to her own surprise. “I would never be silly enough to encourage that kind of thing, Mr. Hedge. Of course, I can’t be held responsible for the actions of the more foolish elements of society.”
A low rumble vibrated through the room, more felt than heard. It took Danice a minute to realize it was the sound of Hedge chuckling. She’d thought for a second it might be a small earthquake.
“Looks like you found yourself a live one,” the bartender said to Mac. “Man needs to be careful with those.”
“Trust me,” Mac replied, his hand tightening on Danice’s elbow. “I’m well aware. Has Quigley been by yet?”
Hedge shook his head no. Mac just sighed and ordered them drinks, wine for her and a pint of something called “hell hound” for himself. Danice thought it sounded as if she’d gotten the better end of that deal.
He settled them in one of the empty booths, the last one on the far side of the room, so that they had only one table of neighbors. She took the side facing the room, and had to scoot over to allow him in next to her.
“Sip that slowly,” he ordered, setting her glass in front of her, his fingers lingering on the stem. “It’s stronger than you think.”
Curious, Danice reached out and lifted the glass. Instead of the red wine she normally drank, he’d brought her a white. White was entirely the wrong word, though. This liquid was the palest shade of gold she’d ever seen, ever imagined. It looked as if someone had managed to liquefy sunshine and pour it into a glass. When she lifted it for a curious sniff, however, she didn’t smell sunshine. She smelled flowers and flames.
Raising the glass to her lips, she sipped carefully and tumbled head-over-heels in lust. With a beverage.
“Oh, my God. What is this?” she breathed, her eyes wide as flavors danced and sang and burst into fire on the surface of her tongue.
“Faerie wine.” Mac’s eyes flickered from the door to her face, and his mouth quirked. “You like it?”
“Like it? I think I want to be embalmed in it when I die.”
He chuckled. “Remember what I said, though. It’s strong stuff. Go slow.”
Danice nodded and took another sip. She’d never tasted anything like it, not in her entire life. She’d never even conceived of anything like this. It went down as smooth as water, but the path it left
behind glowed as if she’d just tossed back hundred-proof whiskey. She racked her brain for the correct words to describe the flavor, but came up empty. Nothing seemed to fit quite right. It reminded her of honey, but it wasn’t sweet. Of apples, but it wasn’t fruity. Of lemons, but without the acidic bite. The elusive quality threatened to drive her crazy. She needed another taste.
Mac laid his hand over the top of the glass and frowned at her. “Slower. I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.”
He was saved from her snappish reply by the appearance of the top of a head at the end of the table. Or rather, the tops of two decidedly pointy ears and what appeared to be a tuft of spiky black hair.
“Quigley,” Mac said, glowering at someone or something in the vicinity of the hair and ears, which themselves appeared to sport small, dark tufts of hair. Danice could see nothing. “You’re late. And since you’re approximately two hundred years old, I really have to ask why you still haven’t learned to tell time?”
“Don’t have a cow, man,” the thing practically under the table squeaked. “I’m here, aren’t I? Now why don’t you buy me a round, and then we can get down to business, heh?”
Thirteen
“That is our guide?” Danice hissed a minute later when Quigley tottered back to the bar to order his drink and his booster seat. “You’ve hired a guide who can’t see over the damned table without a booster seat? What the hell, Mac?”
“Sh! Imps have pretty decent hearing, and we don’t need him feeling like you’ve insulted him,” Mac scolded. “You really need to get over these human biases of yours, Danice. They’ll only get you into trouble.”
“I’m not—” Danice cut off her denial and huffed out an indignant breath. “Okay, maybe I’m biased. But can you blame me? When you said you knew someone who could guide us into Faerie, I was picturing someone who’d be able to see over the steering wheel of a compact car!”
“Why? It’s not like we’re going to be driving to Faerie. Quigley grew up at the Unseelie Court. He’s the best guide available who won’t demand that we pay him in human infants.”
“Infants?” she squeaked.
Mac shushed her again as Quigley approached the table. Taking a tray with three glasses, he set it down, then reached out and grasped the imp by the hand and boosted him up on the bench opposite himself and Danice.
The imp took a moment to settle himself, which gave Danice the chance to take in his appearance and hopefully compose herself before he accused her of staring. Frankly, she thought staring was justified.
Quigley, as it turned out, stood about two and a half feet high at the tips of his ears, which were as red as Santa’s suit. The rest of him appeared to be just as vibrant, except where he sported hair or moles, all of which were black. Also black were the nubby little horns that protruded from his forehead a couple of inches above the outer corners of his eyes, along with the claw-like nails on the tips of his pudgy little fingers. He wore his black hair in a Mohawk of modest length and his mustache long enough that he could have tucked the two ends into his belt if he’d felt so inclined. His clothing consisted of what looked like a studded leather dog collar (sized for the average Pomeranian) and a pair of toddler’s OshKosh overalls in faded denim. Danice could only assume he’d cut some sort of opening in the back for the pointed tail she saw swishing behind him.
Dear Lord.
When he had the three glasses from the tray he’d brought lined up in a row in front of him, the imp looked up and frowned at her. “What the heck are you lookin’ at, lady?”
Danice blinked. Clearly, she hadn’t composed herself quite fast enough.
Beneath the table, Mac’s fingers dug into her thigh. “Give her a break, Quig. She’s never seen an imp before, especially not a greater one. She never thought she’d even get lucky enough to meet a lesser imp. You’ve rendered her speechless.”
“Oh.” The imp lifted the first glass, a pint of something that foamed like beer but smelled like swamp water, and knocked it back like a shot of tequila. “That’s okay, then.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm and let out a rollicking belch. “Does she want I should show her my hooves?”
“Uh, some other time,” Mac said. “All we want to know is if we’re on for tomorrow night.”
Quigley’s eyes, which looked more like glowing coals to Danice, flared more brightly. “We can do it tomorrow, sure. But it’s going to cost you extra.”
At her side, Danice felt Mac stiffen.
“We already agreed on a price, Quig. Don’t you think it’s a little late to change the terms of the deal?”
The imp knocked back his second drink, a glass of the same Faerie wine that after three sips was threatening to leave Danice under the table.
“Terms change as conditions change, ol’ pal. The other day, no one was paying much attention to the gate. Tonight things are looking a mite different.”
“Are you saying that the gate to Faerie is under surveillance?”
“Keep your voice down,” Quigley hissed, looking over his shoulder at the rest of the room, none of whose occupants appeared to Danice to care about their conversation one way or another. “Alls I’m saying is, that when a body knows as many other bodies as I do, sometimes he hears things. Rumbles, like. Nothing anyone comes out and says, but, like, whispers.”
Mac’s brows drew together, and he leaned across the table to glare at the imp. “What whispers have you heard, Quigley?”
The imp lifted the third glass, drained half, then set it down with a click. Danice eyed the thick black liquid warily. “I ain’t heard nothing. Nothing solid, that is. But more people today seem to be dropping the word Faerie here and there, is all I’m saying.”
Mac sat back with a shrug. “And that’s supposed to justify raising the price at the last minute?”
“This isn’t the last minute. The last minute will be tomorrow night at one before midnight.” Over the rim of his glass, the little black brows wriggled and the glowing eyes brightened a little more. “But if a customer was to make things worth my while, I might not feel any need to entertain last-minute price changes.”
Danice looked from Mac to the imp and back a couple of times. Mac had his game face on, his mask showing nothing more than the slightest hint of irritation. But with his hand still on her leg, she could feel the tension in him, and she thought she could sense his unease. In contrast, the imp just looked…eager. Danice thought she could almost see the tips of his ears quivering.
She frowned. “What was the original price you agreed on?”
Mac’s head whipped around, and he focused his gimlet stare on her. “That’s not your concern, Danice.”
“Of course it is. I’m half of this expedition. What was the price?”
Quigley’s bright, sly gaze slid toward her. “Did someone forget to share the details, then?”
Danice never had been the sort to sit down and shut up, not even figuratively, and especially not when told to do so. “I think someone did.”
The imp giggled. “For shame, McIntyre. You know you should always tell the truth entire.” The creature drew out the rhyme with a chortle of glee. “This lady has a right to know that I don’t work for anything less than two bottles of root beer!”
Danice blinked. “Root beer?”
“And I’m talking the big bottles. Two liters. None of those chintzy single-serve jobs. And no lousy generic brands. I want the good stuff.”
Unaware she’d been holding her breath, Danice let it out on a laugh and pushed Mac’s shoulder. “Geez, you really had me scared there for a minute. I thought he might actually have asked to be paid in babies. You were acting like we’d have to bargain away our souls for this trip.”
Mac bared his teeth and hissed out a warning. “You don’t understand,” he growled, keeping his voice low and speaking directly into her ear to prevent Quigley from hearing. “To an imp, root beer is like meth and crack and moonshine all rolled into one. Two bottles of root beer are going t
o send this idiot on a bender that could wipe out half of Manhattan. If he asks for another one, he could take out New Jersey, too.”
Danice had to stifle the urge to laugh, but judging by the look on Mac’s face, now was not the time. Still, the idea of the little red devil sitting across from her leaving a trail of destruction in his wake made her lips twitch.
“But now I’m thinking maybe this is worth more to the two of you than two bottles,” Quigley said, rubbing his hands together greedily. “Now I’m thinking maybe it’s worth a little bonus.”
“Don’t press your luck,” Mac bit out. “We agreed on the price. Two two-liters is twice what you’d ordinarily get your hands on in a month. Maybe two.”
“But if I get caught smuggling folks across the border, they’ll lock me down, Mac.” The imp’s voice went from greedy to wheedling, with maybe a hint of pathetic thrown in. “Then I won’t be any good to anyone. They keep such a close eye on me, I won’t be able to think about coming back to ithir. That’s a big risk I’m taking.”
“Two bottles,” Mac said firmly, then grimaced. “But I’ll throw in that five-disk 1980s Metal Mania CD collection they’ve been advertising on TV. And that’s my final offer.”
“Done!” Quigley squeaked, bouncing in his booster seat. “You drive a hard bargain, Callahan, but you won’t be sorry. I’ll get you exactly where you need to be. Yes, siree!”
He drained the third drink until only a sludgy black film remained clinging to the inside of the glass, then thunked the empty back on the table and let out a raucous belch. Danice actually jerked back a little in instinctive reaction. It sounded like someone had shot off a cannon.
“We’re set then,” the imp said, squirming out of his seat and off the bench until his two little hooves clacked on the bare stone floor. “You two meet me tomorrow at midnight on the corner of Sixth and C. We’ll go from there. And don’t forget my payment.”
Danice watched the tips of his ears turn toward the exit and watched as he scampered up the stairs and out of sight.
Prince Charming Doesn’t Live Here Page 11
