Other people get touched by the strangeness, up close and personal. Usually they end up in morgues; the rest of us learn to cope. That’s why I worked with her. Anya-fucking-Titan was my first brush with strangeness, as up close and personal as it gets.
She lived in the kind of building estate agents described as full of bohemian charm, which largely meant it was an old thirties motel that’d become dilapidated enough to rent the rooms on the cheap permanent lease. Ten years back, it’d been full of junkies and heavy metal drummers, but Westbury had flourished and become the hotspot for young up-and-coming artists of all stripes. I guess it cut down on the number of drummers in the area, but there were still plenty of drugs. I climbed up the rickety stairs that linked the long halls full of revamped art deco doorframes. Anya was on the fifth floor, her door painted the same shade of candy-pale green as I remembered. I started wearing my knuckles thin on the woodwork. It was early, just coming up on five-thirty, but Anya wasn’t big on sleep. It took ten minutes of hammering before she came to let me in, but she was well-dressed and perfectly coifed as she opened the door. “Aster,” she said. “You look like shit.”
“Late night,” I told her, and we stood there for a while, watching one another and letting the silence stretch out. I drank in the details of her: the moor-wild hair, the mismatched eyes in two different shades of violet, the sharp points of her nose and eyebrows. I felt a sting in the part of my heart that never really healed after I left her, just scabbed over while I got on with things and tried not to pick at the wound. “It’s business,” I said. “And, to be honest, I’m too tired to fuck around with this. Let me in and give me coffee.”
Anya shrugged and stood aside. Her apartment was gaudy, but comfortable enough once you got used to the clashing colours. Antique furniture, vases filled with snapdragons and daisies, her coffee table overflowing with books and shiny baubles. Anya disappeared into the small kitchenette. I could hear water running as she filled up the jug. Everything smelt of her; hickory smoke and perfume.
“A unicorn killed a fourteen-year-old girl this morning,” I said. I didn’t get an answer. “Her name was Sally Crown, a runaway. Turns out it was in heat. There were spawn in her womb, but we got to them in time.” I looked up and Anya was standing at the doorway, watching me with her mismatched eyes.
“What’s that got to do with me?”
I quirked an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”
She blinked and her eyes changed colour, the violet turning turquoise in the dim light. “This sounds like you’re on a case, Aster. You weren’t doing that anymore. No more chasing the fey, no more coming around here looking for favours, no more compromising the truth to keep people safe. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Things change.”
“Yes,” Anya said. “They do. You stopped investigating murders and I stopped working as the gatekeeper when they closed the gate. I’m barely involved in anything these days, and I’m exiled now, remember? There are limits to what I can do, and we aren’t going back to the good old days.”
I snorted and reached over the coffee table, flipped one of her books so I could look at the photo on the back cover. Anya in a white suit and scarf, looking away from the camera and smiling. She hadn’t aged since I left her. “It’s a unicorn,” I said. “They gave the case to Kesey, and he knows just enough to know he hasn’t got a clue how to stop the damn thing, which means it comes down to me. They need someone to handle the weird shit and I got lumped with the job.”
Anya stared at me. She didn’t blink. I stamped down on a pang of guilt. “I didn’t get you exiled,” I said. “Fuck, Anya, I barely knew what that meant. I never wanted this job, you know; you were the one who started asking me for favours.”
“And you got what you asked for in return.”
“Bullshit.” Anger spiked deep in my stomach, boiling up out of the guilt. “I didn’t know.”
Anya shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen, giving me the time to compose myself. When she came back she was carrying two coffees on a tray, milk in its own jug and old-fashioned sugar cubes piled up on a plate. She put it down and curled up on the armchair, legs tucked beneath her. “You wanted it,” she said. “We needed someone with talent and connections to keep things secret; the job was there for the taking and you showed up to take it, whether you know that or not. You’ll have to accept that, one of these days. You were made for this, Miriam Aster, the fey and everything else. You adapted too well for it to be otherwise.” She smiled at me, her lips tight. My coffee cup hovered around my chin as I wondered whether I should be throwing the hot liquid in her face. I didn’t; Anya always had good coffee and I needed the kick more than I needed petty satisfaction.
“I don’t want to rehash the past,” I said. “I just need some information. You had fingerprints all over that crime scene.”
“Fingerprints?” She smiled, cocky, and fluttered her fingers. “We don’t leave prints, remember?”
“You know what I mean.” I scratched the back of my neck and sniffed, watching her reaction. She sipped her coffee.
“I can’t help you on this one, Aster.”
“Right.” I put the coffee cup down, fighting the temptation to really let loose. “Anya Titan, fairy scholar extraordinaire, queen in fucking exile, the woman who closed the great gate to Faerie. Are you really telling me you don’t know anything?”
“There are other scholars,” she said. She looked away, just like the photo on her dust jacket. “And there are others who could tell you what you need to know.”
“Yeah, there are,” I said. “But I know you, you’re the best, and you still fucking owe me a favour. I’m not looking to cut a new deal here, Anya. Your people don’t give anything without taking something in return, and I’m sick of playing that game. That’s why I walked, remember?”
I fidgeted in the awkward silence that followed. Anya didn’t. “There are rules,” she said. “Even for us, even after we leave it behind. That means there are consequences, just like last time.” She looked at me with clear, violet eyes; those changeling eyes that were green as emeralds when we first met, gray as gunmetal during the years we spent together. “Are you ready for that, Aster? Is it really that important?”
“I’ve lived through consequences before.” I scratched at my chest, just below the collar. Her blush was like watching the sun rise. “There were ghost-memories, Anya, clear as anything. One minute I’m looking through a crime scene and then all I can see is you and me together. I trust that, and it’s your fault I trust that. If you don’t want to help me, then I’m fairly certain someone else is setting it up. Someone wanted me to come here, and it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
“Talk to one of the others.” She stood, headed for her bureau. I watched her pull a pencil out of a drawer and go searching for some paper. “I can give you a list. Reputable academics, other exiles with a grudge, the usual type you’ll need.”
“I’m still a virgin,” I said, keeping my voice low. Anya froze, turned, and a small smile crept across her face.
“I seem to remember that part a little differently,” she said. She gave me a look and I felt the quick thrill of a younger woman’s desire. I scowled at her until the smile faded. “Untouched by man,” I said. “That’s what you always told me, and fucked up and archaic as the definition is, that’s all it takes when dealing with your kind. I’m still a virgin, Anya. In every way that counts to your folk, I’m still considered pure. I could compel you, if I wanted to. You taught me that.”
“And you’d do it?”
I shrugged. “If that’s what it takes. She was just a girl. She deserved better than a gutful of fairy spawn and a long sleep in a dumpster. I don’t have time to wait for the white horse to knock up some other kid, and I can’t risk a plague of pureblood fey swarming across the city. So yeah, I’d compel you, if it came down to that.”
I waited, letting the silence work on her. Eventually she nodded. “Hobb,” she said. “The gat
es closed, but there are back ways, secret ways through. He’s the only one going back and forth these days, the only one who’d even have access to a unicorn. Go find him and compel him to get your answers.”
I stood up and drained my mug. “Thanks for the coffee,” I said. Anya didn’t look at me, just watched the black grounds floating across the surface of her untouched drink. I headed for the door and let myself out. She came after me while I lingered in the hall. “Aster,” she said. I stopped walking, but I didn’t turn around. “If you need me,” Anya said. She tripped over the rest of the words, took a deep breath and forced them out. “Do what you need to do, okay. For old times’ sake, for that last favour, I’ve got your back on this one.”
My stomach went cold, but I nodded. I went down to my car and took a couple of long, deep breaths before I started it up.
Four
In theory I was going home to sleep; the job should have been over once I got Kesey his lead. I phoned through to his desk at the precinct, rattled off Hobb’s description and a list of known haunts while Kesey took notes on the other end. When I was done I poured myself a fresh gin and nursed it in bed, still wearing my suit as I crawled under the covers. Nothing I’d done since telling Heath to burn Sally Crown’s corpse was going to do a damn thing to stop the unicorn—Kesey would put out a BOLO on Hobb, setting the uniforms on the search for guys matching his description while Homicide tried to chase down a paper trail. The fact that Hobb barely left one wouldn’t matter to Tim; it’s what you did when you were looking for suspects, fey or no fey. Maybe they’d get lucky and find him before sunset, but odds were they didn’t have the resources to hold him. My gut said another body would turn up full of spawn before anyone on the Force got the job done. I knew Hobb, had worked with him a couple of times doing favours for Anya, had worked against him as many times yet. It was going to take more than cops on the lookout and good luck to catch up with him.
It had barely gone six-thirty when I rolled out of bed and geared up, ditching the suit for something comfortable and swapping out the steel caps for sneakers. Heavy boots made a great impression when standing my ground against someone like Kesey, but this time I planned on running from any trouble. I could handle myself, if it came to it, but when you’re working alone and without backup, discretion is always the smarter fucking choice. I loaded up on the usual barter tools—spare cash, hipflasks, a pair of brass knuckles—and unlocked the safe in the bottom drawer where I kept the revolver.
Do a search of my flat and you’ll find plenty of guns, all of them neatly locked away despite the message sent by the piles of clothes and dirty dishes. Working Homicide makes you nervous at the best of times, and nothing I’d seen since the days I left the Force did anything to dissuade me when it came to being armed.
I had a lot of guns, but there was only one revolver, an archaic chunk of blue metal with as few moving parts as I could get away with and still have it fire a bullet. There was nothing special about the gun, but I understood how it worked. Clean parts, a basic mechanism; science I could understand. Ten years back I’d trained with it every week, getting used to the heavy kick and the strange pull of the custom ammo that I’d commissioned two cities over so it was less likely to be traced. Since then, it’d been locked away, a private insurance policy I assumed I’d never use again.
Outside, the city was winding into action, sunrise drawing out the first signs of traffic. I got changed in my cramped bathroom, ignoring the scars when I looked into the mirror. Jeans, a black t-shirt, my favourite jacket.
“You really going to do this?” The jacket was bulky, the fabric heavy enough to swamp my figure and give the illusion of mass across the shoulders. It was a habit I’d picked up when I still worked Homicide, fighting the macho pricks in my department to get cases and respect. It was Kesey who taught me the trick after I first got out of uniform; mass is a weapon when you’re dealing with the old boys club, a threat you can throw around if you’ve got the guts or the chops to back it up. It wasn’t a pretty look, but it did the job. I slid the revolver into a pocket, checked the bulge to make sure it wasn’t too obvious. I stared at my reflection. “Right, then.”
I left.
• • • •
The stone cold truth about fey is this: They’re a race of goddamned parasites. I can list you a whole mess of reasons why I don’t like getting involved in their business, some of which are personal and some common sense, but that’s the reason that sits at the heart of all the others. Once upon a time, they fed on belief, and there’s enough people out there with Tinkerbell on their t-shirts to make me think they still do. But a fey cut off from Faerie is left with limited options. Exiled fey tend to run low on juice unless they’re drawing power from something else; some emotion that’s raw and human and easy to soak in.
Hobb liked older women, single and a little desperate. Knowing his habits made him easier to track, and I’d seen his charm in action enough times that I knew what to look for. I wasn’t immune, but I could put a bullet in his arm the moment he tried something and that’d work well enough.
The rain hit as I drove down to Chalke Street. It was one of those places that didn’t look right during daylight, all those dull and dead neon lights hanging forlornly over the footpath. I pulled up in an empty space and sat for a while, the rain splattering the windshield. Just coming up on breakfast and the street was still crowded, the last remnants of the dusk-to-dawn party kids stumbling out of the clubs and heading off into the dreary morning. Most of them were happy to stumble through the downpour, dancing in the streets as the rain bounced off the pavement. I lit a cigarette and waited, not bothering to be inconspicuous; I drove a Chrysler Sigma I’d picked up cheap, a rusting car built around hard, black angles that stood out against the wet light of morning. I turned the stereo off and listened to the rain rattling on the roof.
Hobb appeared right on nine o’clock, splashing down the footpath with a woman nestled under his arm. She was middle-aged and crumpled, the sharp cut of her business suit turned shabby by the rain and the night of carousing with a hobgoblin. He looked like one of those guys you see from time to time, too damned ugly to have landed even a rumpled woman like her, but somehow capable of making it work. You could write it off as confidence, but it took more than that. Hobb was a twisted stump of a man with a lecher’s grin and a teenager’s hubris. He sang as he walked, swinging a wine bottle in his free hand. His date was holding him upright, sagging a little under his weight. I wound down the window.
“Hobb.” My voice wasn’t loud enough to carry through the rain, but Hobb’s head snapped sideways regardless. His beady little eyes locked onto the car, glinted red and green as he blinked against the water. His date stumbled as he halted. The wine bottle shattered against the concrete.
“Miriam Aster, I’ll-be-fucking-damned,” Hobb said. He untangled himself and crept forward, leaning over to stare through the open window. He took care to hover, not touching the car door. Rainwater ran down his face, causing the pockmarks to gleam. “I thought we were done with you. Should have known we weren’t that lucky.” I dug a cheap, plastic hipflask out of my jacket pocket and waved it in his face. Hobb licked his lips, fingers flexing. “What do you want, Aster? It’s raining, and I’ve got places to be.”
He flicked a glance over his shoulder, towards the giggling woman, and I shook my head. “Ditch the girl, Hobb. You and I need to talk.” Hobb sneered, giving me an eyeful of the sharp teeth he hid behind his lips. I gave him a cold smile for his effort. “Now.”
“Bitch,” he said, but staggered over to the girl and whispered something into her ear. I watched her body language change, stiffening, her eyes glazing over like he’d just fed her a roofie. Hobb staggered around to the far side of the car. I opened the door and he slumped into the passenger seat. “It’s been a long time, Aster. You going to give me that flask or what?”
I flipped the hipflask into his lap and watched him scramble at it, gulping the bourbon in a long, smooth
motion. He finished with a satisfied sigh, licking his lips with a pale tongue that reminded me of a slug. “So, what the fuck do you want?”
“Information,” I said. “There’s a unicorn on the loose, in heat and dangerous. It’s already killed its first virgin.” Hobb flashed me the teeth again, passing the flask back.
“Bully for the white horse,” he said. “Nothing to do with me, though. I’m not responsible, not this time.”
“Bullshit.” Hobb cocked his head to one side and stared at me, examining me with mismatched eyes; one blue, one grey, both too large for his squashed features. His hand strayed for the doorhandle, skittered along the metal handle. He was cornered and he knew it. “People have pointed me at you,” I said, “and I’ll compel you if I have to.”
Hobb laughed. “You’ve been out of the game too long, Aster. No one compels me, remember? ’Specially not a two-bit ex-cop who retains her virginity on a technicality. It’s a loophole, m’dear, and I’m the master of loopholes. You can compel me all you want, but it ain’t gonna do a damn shit. Perhaps you should go chat with Her Majesty again, ask her to point fingers in another direction. Hell, maybe you should just ask her for a target, get her vengeance all fired up and go marching off into the night. You liked being her instrument last time, gunning someone down on her say-so. Maybe you liked it a little too much?” I flinched and Hobb belched. The car filled with a stench like rotting fish. “I bet that hurt, going to see her, after all the trouble she caused. Did she tell you she loved you again?” His laughter turned into a cackle, a horrid sound that echoed above than the rain-rattle on the roof. I pulled the revolver out of my right pocket and pointed it at him. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent, the laughter going dead as his eyes went wide.
“Raw iron,” I said. My voice was calm. “They’ll hurt like hell, even if it isn’t enough to kill you. Tell me about the unicorn, Hobb.”
“I don’t know nothing.” Words tumbled out of his mouth, rushing after one another as his eyes locked onto the gun barrel. “Honest, Aster, I didn’t do anything. I heard some rumours that folks were selling the horn-horses, but that’s it. I don’t know who they’re selling to, and I don’t know who did the selling.” He whimpered and shrank back against the car door, leapt forward again as the metal bit into him. His eyes watered. I watched him for a long time, then nodded and put the gun away. Hobb started clawing for the door handle.
Lightspeed Magazine - September 2016 Page 16
