by Rowan Casey
No one in the family really knew where she came from—at least no one that ever told me. Certainly my father never had much to say on the matter—not to me. All I knew was that she was old—very old—and she knew, or could find out, just about anything there was to know.
So why hadn't she known about the Black Elf?
I put her down on the bedside table as I sipped on my beer.
"I'm sorry about your kinsman," she said almost as soon as I placed her down.
"Did you know he was a Seton before we got there?" I asked—might as well get to the point right away.
"No," she said. "I was as surprised as you."
"I doubt that. How much of what happened did you catch?"
"Not a lot—it's dark in that pocket you know—and muffled."
"Did you see his right hand at all?"
"No—what about it?"
"Nothing much—just another one of you—burnished metal, magic power—even a quarter-staff. That's not a coincidence."
She took her time answering.
"I didn't know," she whispered. "It's been so long, I thought she was lost to me."
"Who?"
"My sister," she replied. "What happened to her?"
As I've said, Face has been with me since I was a boy, so I was inclined, beyond the point of reason, to give her the benefit of any doubt. I told her what went down outside and inside the RUV.
"The collector got her?" she said, and I heard a tremor in her voice I'd never heard before.
"So it seems. Whether it's got anything to do with this leash I’m after remains to be seen."
"It must," she replied. "You asked a question too many, your cousin opened his mouth too far—and paid the price—losing his link to the magic—and my sister, in the process. Of course it's all bloody linked."
"And you had no idea?"
"None," she replied.
And with that I put her away again while I finished my beer, but I had a sinking feeling in my heart. It was the first time she'd ever lied to me. I don't know how I knew it.
But I knew it just the same.
I tried watching TV for a bit, but there was nothing to stop the thoughts—the vision of blood and gore and torn tartan and the smell kept coming back to me. I tried the guitar—that helped—a bit—but my heart wasn't in it, what with a cousin's death and Face's deception.
I went downstairs to see if George needed a hand—I was spooking myself out sitting up there in an empty room, and needed some human company. I left Face, shiny side down, on the table. She wouldn't be happy—but that made two of us.
The crowd was thinning out in the bar as it approached midnight—George rarely threw anybody out, just let them come and go naturally. Some nights we'd sit up, the two of us, with the die-hards, playing three-card brag, watching sports on the TV or singing the old songs and telling stories. Tonight he had the TV on—but it wasn't sports that was showing.
RITUAL MURDER AT MASONIC VENUE was the scrolling headline and it looked like the media circus was out in full in the parking bay I'd left just a couple of hours before. An overly-excited reporter smiled her way through the grisly details—and interviewed a young girl I recognized only too well. She told a tale of being attacked by a big hairy Scotsman—only it wasn't the Elf she meant—it was me she was referring to. To hear her side of it, she was the Elf's lover, and I was a villain, intent on robbery and mayhem. Luckily her description of me was going to lead to a police sketch of a huge bearded maniac—nobody was going to be looking for me. Except maybe my boss here in the bar.
"Anything you want to tell me?" George said.
I shook my head, but that didn't get me anywhere.
"I'm no' daft, lad," George replied. "I can add two and two and get four. This is trouble you don't need. If there's anything I can do—just ask. I've got pals in places you don't even know exist."
Not for the first time that night, I spoke first, letting instinct take control.
"Maybe there is something," I said. "What do you know about a guy they call a collector—maybe The Collector?"
George didn't exactly go pale, but he certainly stiffened, and any trace of a smile left his face.
"You don't want to go messing with that guy," he said.
"Probably not," I replied. "But I think I need to."
Then George did something unprecedented—he called time in the bar.
"Okay guys, that's it, drink up—we're closing tonight."
There were no grumbles—all the regulars knew that arguing with George was a no-win scenario—and the bar emptied fast until there was only the two of us left. George locked up—then took down the Highland Park and two glasses.
That's when I knew it was serious.
I expected questions, but after the first shot went down hard and fast I was the one who talked—about family, at first.
"I didn't know he was a Seton—hell, I don't even know what that means. I know you've heard the stories—warriors for God, alchemists, seekers of the Grail, bastard sons of Arthur—or was it Peredur—or maybe Cuchulain? I've even heard we are supposed to be Merovingians—blood brothers of the line of Christ. Whatever one it is, we’re Scottish, we're ginger, and we're the chosen people. What that means for me, I've never been sure. I have a wee touch of magic in me, that much I do know—but I came here to get away from all that fate and destiny and weight of the world shite."
"Shite has a way of sticking," George said, pouring another for us.
"That it does," I replied.
So I told him the story—or rather, I told him a story—about me wanting to sell a family heirloom. I spoke of a visit to a cousin I didn't know was a cousin, who knew a man who knew a man, who knew an overly zealous collector willing to pay good money for it. I told him of a deal that had gone sour and of how I'd gotten out before the bloody part.
George didn't buy it—at least, not all of it—but he bought enough of it to keep pouring and keep listening.
"And now you want to find this collector?"
"Aye—I owe him, a cousin's worth."
"And this heirloom—it's that wee silver tray you sit and talk to, isn't it?"
I'd momentarily forgotten how sharp George was—I put the Scotch back on the table after only a small sip—a wrong word here and my whole story would unravel completely. So I merely nodded my head.
"The tray is what the collector wants?"
I nodded again.
"And you won't be warned off? I've told you—you don't want to be messing with him—he's a bad man, John—one of the worst in a city full of them."
I nodded again though, and he smiled thinly.
"Well—if it's the tray he wants—let him think he can have it. The best way to catch an animal is to use some bait that it likes."
5
I was still thinking about that the next morning as I made my way over to East Fifth Street—the Jewelry district—sitting in a cab heading for Wilbanks and Grant, which George had reliably informed me was a front for the collector's more arcane habits.
George had also told me to be careful. I intended to try, but my head was full of the fact that Face had lied to me. It was also full of the finding and losing of a relative, full of a destiny as a champion of truth, justice and the American way—and full of the hunt for an ancient artifact that might save the world. It certainly beat hustling the marks on the street corner for kicks. Face hadn’t been happy when I told her George's plan—but not as unhappy as I'd expected her to be—I suspected there was more going on than met the eye.
It was too much to be thinking of at once, so I bundled up this confusing jumble of things until it had become one thing in the front of my mind—one target I could focus on—The Collector. I meant to meet him head on and cut that particular Gordian knot just to see what happened next—that was the Seton way after all, and as I kept getting reminded, it was who I am, what I do.
When the cab dropped me off, I also realized that who I am wasn't going to be well enough dressed
for the swanky sleekness of Wilbanks and Grant. I only really have one look, and it's mostly black—down at heel boots, down at heel denims, down at heel leather jacket and hat and an old, faded, Ramones shirt—retro I know, but it's me, and I'm happy with it. The suit that stood just inside the doorway wasn't. He tried to usher me out even before I was properly inside.
"There is nothing here for you," he said, trying to bar my way, but I'm stronger than I look—he found that out as I took hold of the wrist of the hand he'd put on my shoulder and twisted, hard.
"I'm selling, not buying," I said, and was past him and into the shop before he realized he needed a cold compress for his wrist.
I say 'shop,' but that's too small a word for it. Emporium suited it better, classy jewelry—diamonds mainly—up front, artwork and antiques at the rear, and class all the way through. The small, prim man behind the counter looked as smugly superior as the goods around him. I saw him give a quick, dismissive wave of a hand to the gorilla at the door—he thought he could deal with me just fine on his own.
"Can we help you, sir?"
He said the last word in such a manner as to show that he didn't really mean it. I was already looking forward to wiping the grin off his face.
"That depends on whether you're as bent as people say you are," I replied, and smiled at the same time as his went away.
"I'm sure I do not know what you mean," he said.
"And I’m just as sure you do," I replied, and took Face out, putting her, shiny side up, on the counter.
He looked down at her and sniffed loudly.
"They'll give you at least ten bucks in the market for that," he replied. "But we can't help you, I'm afraid. It has little inherent quality."
"And yet," I said, running a hand over the surface, "It is indeed a collector's item."
The shiny part went misty and pale, and drifted, like fog on water.
"Say hello, Face," I said, "and play nice."
"Hello," she said cheerfully from the counter. "Nice place you've got here. A bit gaudy for my liking, but then, you Yanks always did go in for that kind of thing."
The man's smile was a distant memory now as I spoke.
"My name's Seton—but your boss probably already knows that. Tell him what you've seen, and tell him I’m willing to discuss a price."
"Maybe you should leave the piece here as collateral," he said, recovering his composure faster than I might have expected. I guessed that working for the Collector meant that he got to see more than a touch of the weird side of the city. I was too busy thinking about that to reply to him, but Face had me covered.
"And maybe he should ram it up your smug wee arse," Face said sweetly as I lifted her up and put her away.
"And where do we reach you, sir?" he said. This time he sounded like he meant it
"Your boss knows that, too—or will do soon enough if he's as smart as I think he is. Tell him I’m waiting for his reply."
The gorilla stood aside to let me leave and I smiled, seeing that he was still holding his wrist and grimacing.
The bait had been laid.
Now all I could do was wait for it to be taken.
6
I caught another cab, back to the Dugs, and had a late breakfast of ham and eggs washed down with a pot of coffee. I left Face in my pocket—I wasn't sure I was able to talk to her without raising more questions than answers—and the answers might be ones I didn't want to hear anyway.
The bar was empty—too early even for the hardened Scots regulars who made up much of the weekday custom. George was happy to see to my breakfast, and when I was done eating he came over and joined me with a fresh pot of coffee. He smiled when I recounted the trip to the store—I even told him about Face's involvement—that cat was out of the bag and wouldn't go back in now. Then, over a mug of his strong as tar coffee, he told me some more about the man I was intending to mess with.
"Mr. Black is an L.A. darksider from a long line of darksiders," George started, lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of his last one. "His grandfather ran with Mickey Cohen—a name even a youngster like you has probably heard. The grandfather made a wad that let the son—your man's father—set himself up in the '60s as an agent to the stars. Ten or fifteen percent of a fuck load of money is still a fuck load of money, so by the time we get to the '80s and our man comes on the scene, they're swimming in lucre. The lad—Thomas Black to give him his full name—lived up to his name and got into all kinds of shenanigans as a teenager—Satanic cults, Mount Sharma E.T.s, channeling, peyote visions and angelic visitations—you name it, he was into it. He said he was seeking the truth—to the eyes of everybody who knew of him it looked like all he was finding was shite. By the time he was your age he was known around town as somebody that would throw money at you if you could show him something weird—so people were lining up to help him spend it—you'd call him an easy mark."
"That all changed some time in the mid '90s. He went from throwing money away to raking it in—faster than his old man ever did, too. The story is that he found something—something real—that he kept in a house up in the canyons—something that gave him enough leverage to do whatever the fuck he wanted to do and to hang with the consequences. That's also when he started collecting. Word went round he'd still pay for the weird and the strange—but now there was a stipulation. It had to be real—and if you tried to pass him off with a con, you went away and were never heard of again."
George looked up at me as he lit another cigarette.
"You Setons aren't the only people around who've managed to get a touch of the old magic. A lot of people vanished over the years—an awful lot of people. Enough people that those of us in the business know to leave him to his passions. I've been able to mostly ignore him—there's not much weird shit comes my way, and if it ever does, I put a bit of stuff over to him when I can, and otherwise I just keep my head down and let him get on with it."
"So why are you helping me now?" I asked. "Surely you'd be better off keeping your nose clean."
George smiled and blew a smoke ring at me.
"You're Scottish—and you're ginger. That makes you special."
By the time the afternoon rolled around I wasn't in the mood to go out and work the street—my concentration was off, always waiting for a sign, a reply after my trip downtown. I fetched the old guitar down from my room instead and sat in the corner, singing the old songs. The place was empty apart from George himself over at the long bar, but I didn't mind that—I wasn't singing for an audience—I was singing for myself.
I've said already, the guitar and Face are the only things I brought with me from Scotland—the only two things I couldn't bear to be parted from. In my schooldays, when bullying a ginger was seen as sport and my father forbade me from fighting back, the guitar was the only thing that had kept me sane. I spent long hours learning how to get my fingers to move where I wanted them to move, then even longer hours learning how not to sound like a robot. The songs I learned had all been written in a notebook that belonged to my mother—the book itself had long since fallen apart into torn sheets—but the old songs stayed with me. They'll be with me until they put me down in a box. And maybe—hopefully—they'll be with me in whatever comes after that, too.
There's another story about the Setons—that we came from bards, from Taliesyn or Sechan Torpeist or even Thomas the Rhymer. I liked that story and some days, sitting in the quiet and letting the music flow through me, I liked to believe it.
I was working my way through an improvised middle eight on “Ae Fond Kiss,” wondering if it was something I could incorporate into my regular gig. Just as I was getting into it, the air in the room shifted—I can't think of a better word for it, it felt as if something big had just moved in, something that was taking up far too much of the empty space in the bar.
I smelled it again—the same smell I'd caught outside my kinsman's RUV—wet dog—but there was no howling this time, and no bone-chilling, bladder weakening feeling of abj
ect terror. Whether it was the music that was holding off any attack or just the fact the beast wasn't hungry at the moment, I didn't know, but I kept playing, just in case. Something big—huge—brushed past my leg, the weight of it almost knocking me off my chair, and the smell got stronger still. I heard a sniff, snuffle, and the air went damp, just for a second or two, like standing on a foggy shoreline on an autumn day.
I kept playing—I'd got to the end of the middle eight, but started it again, not wanting to change the atmosphere of the moment. As quickly as it had arrived, all sense of presence left—although the smell took a bit longer to dissipate.
When I looked down at the table in front of me, there was a business card sitting there, and when I picked it up it felt sticky—I guessed it was dog drool. But the writing was legible enough—Thomas Black, an address way out in the hills on Coldwater Canyon Road, and a handwritten time—8:00pm. He never even said please, but I guess, in his own way, he'd just asked me nicely.
"What the hell was that?" George shouted across the bar.
"An invitation," I shouted back.
The bait had been taken.
"I'm coming with you," George said when I showed him the card. "You might need a wee hand."
I shook my head—I was thankful for the offer, but this was my show, and I didn't want to be worrying about anybody else.
"I'd like to keep you out of it as much as possible," I said, and echoed my earlier words. "You should keep your nose clean—for now. If this goes tits up, I might need you later."
He seemed to see the sense in that.
"At least take the Jeep," George said. "If you take a cab you might get stranded up there and it's a hell of a long walk back."
The Jeep was George's pride and joy, and it was a sign of how much he was prepared to help me for him to even offer its use. I couldn't refuse—I'd wanted to drive the beast ever since I saw it.
