by Rowan Casey
"What have you been messing with?"
"Do you want what I'm offering or not?"
"Oh, I want it. I just don't like the risks involved in getting it."
"All you have to do is help with the info gathering," I replied. "If there's any risks to be taken, that'll be my job."
"Then we have a deal. Give me twenty four hours."
We arranged to meet in The Twa Dugs. I figured some authentic Scottish interiors might make him more conducive to helping me. The gorilla that George had put down on the floor woke up around then but George had a gun aimed at him so there was no further trouble. When I passed over the phone and had Black tell him the new plan, he left meekly enough, dragging his pal away with him.
George fetched a couple of beers, we went onto the balcony to watch the sun go down and I told him what had happened on my trip to the other side. To his credit he took it all with almost no credulity. And he got to the heart of the matter as soon as I was done talking.
"So she's been in the clink for a long spell, and now she's out and looking to make up for lost time. What do you think she'll do?"
"I have no idea," I replied—and that was the truth. "But she's got the leash, so she controls the beast."
"As long as it's under control, and she doesn't set it on me or send it back to the bar. It did enough damage last time. She's played you, lad. She's been playing you all along."
"Aye, I get that now. And I don't like it, not a bit."
"Now you know how your marks feel," he said as he lit a cigarette, and just like that, I knew something else too.
"I'm done with it. The street corner stuff I mean. No more penny-ante grifting."
"Nice idea," George replied. "But I don't have you pegged as a blue-collar kind of guy. What will you do?"
The Norn had shown me that path.
"I want to do more singing and playing. That's where the real magic is. That's where my heart is."
"You're serious?"
"Aye. I'll still do some wee tricks for the punters in the bar, but I won't be fleecing them for money while I'm at it. Besides, I don't think old Agnes is dependable enough for playing 'Hide the Lady.' I'll see what I can make from the music. You'll get your rent, don't worry about that."
"The rent is the least of our worries at the moment, lad," he said, smiling. "Let's see if we can get to the end of the week before thinking about the end of the month."
I thought I might be kept awake fretting about Face, her escape, her betrayal, and what she might have planned now, but as soon as I lay down on the sofa I was off and away—to Nod, not Norn. I slept for almost fourteen hours, straight through with no dreams.
I woke to the smell of tobacco. George was sitting in the armchair smoking, watching the TV with the volume turned down low. He saw me stir.
"Your lady hasn't been wasting any time," he said, turning the sound up so I could follow the story. Ostensibly, it was another dangerous coyote item, the inference being that it was a possible rabies outbreak. A home in Hollywood had been invaded, and two people killed. Mutilated, the reporter said, with far too much relish. The report suggested that opportune thieves, taking advantage of the animal attack, had then ransacked the house and made off with an undisclosed sum of money. But as George had said before, we weren't daft. We could add two and two and get four and we knew Face's footprint when we saw it.
But I knew something more, too. She intended to live in the world. Why else would she need cash? And there, I at least had an edge, for I'd been living in it for longer, and knew more of its ways.
I allowed myself a small smile as George brought me a coffee. I hadn't quite told him the whole truth—yes, I intended to quit grifting, yes, the experience of playing for the Norn in the strange land beyond the veil had changed something in me—but I wasn't quite done with the grift yet.
I told George what I needed. He said it shouldn't be a problem and he'd see to it, make sure everything was ready in time for our meeting later with Black.
There was still one more con to play out—and now I'd started working on my last marks.
Chapter 20
We made our way back to The Twa Dugs after a late breakfast, a second breakfast for George. I was happy to see that new doors had already been fitted. The wood would need stained to match the rest of the decor, but apart from that it looked good as new. They'd even managed to salvage the small stained glass window that was part of the old original bar fittings that came over from Glasgow—the establishment was still proclaimed on the door as a purveyor of fine wines and spirits.
Inside the bar itself there was more evidence of speedy, but professionally done, repairs; new wood for some chair and table legs, freshly sanded floorboards where they had been gouged by the hound's claws or stained with the blood of the dead and wounded.
George went straight to the bar and got down the Highland Park. He waved an empty glass at me but I shook my head. It was still several hours before Black was due, and besides, I had other things on my mind.
The old guitar had, somehow, survived the melee in the bar intact, and sat on its stand in the far left in the performer's corner. It felt strange in my hands for a few seconds after I picked it up. I wanted a harp at that point, but as soon as I played the intro to 'My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose' I was more than halfway back to the Norn tavern. I sang all the verses, and meant every one, then went straight into 'A Man's a Man for a' that.'
I was vaguely aware that George wasn't doing anything but standing at the bar, staring at me, his Scotch in his hand, the glass still full, but my mind, my whole being, was going out and into the songs. Music made the magic made the music. So it goes.
I played 'The Times They Are a' Changing' too—I meant it—and I felt its relevance, and I didn't even bother with the usual joke Dylan impersonation in the third verse. I played it straight, and felt all the better for it. I rang the last change and the chord echoed through the bar.
George put down his still-full glass—that was another first—and applauded long and hard.
"I don't know what you've done, lad, but you've got better."
"Not technically," I replied. "But maybe emotionally. I think I understand the songs better. I can feel them now as well as playing them."
"Aye," George said, and poured me a glass of Highland Park. This time I did take it. It tasted like Norn beer on the way down. "And I think I'll have to stop calling you lad."
I played some more on the old guitar, then George rustled up some fish and chips. While we were eating, the thing I'd asked for in the morning turned up by courier. I put it with the other stuff. It was time to prepare for our meeting.
I moved one of the tables over into the dance area, with four chairs, put the Concordances in the middle of the table, then called George over to see what I would put down next to the book.
I placed them, side-by-side, one at a time—Agnes, Face—and the third I'd had George procure for me from a counterfeiter who specialized in making, then aging, modern artwork to make them look like antiques. It had been a rush job, and I hadn't been sure it would work. But I had to admit, whoever it was that George had found, he was good, considering all he'd had to work on was a series of photographs of Agnes that George took on his phone's camera. After I'd done a bit of polishing and a bit of judicious bending, it was almost impossible to tell the hand-mirrors apart with the naked eye. I'd know the feel of Face in my hand, I knew which one was Agnes from the mist—and the singing—but as long as I stayed far enough away to keep her quiet, they were like three peas in a pod. Anyone else but me was going to have a hard time telling them apart.
George laughed.
"The oldest game in the business, is it?"
"You don't mess with a classic," I replied. "I just hope I can sell it right. This is going to be tricky."
"I've got your back, John," he said.
"It's not you I'm worried about."
Black turned up, dead on time. He brought the gorilla with the sprained wr
ist from our shop meeting, and I had George. I figured I had the better deal.
George had wanted to keep the bar open, and go for an informal meet-up in a busy bar where Black wouldn't consider starting any trouble, but that didn’t feel right to me. As soon as Black walked in I knew I'd made the right call. His suit—a different one from the last time I'd seen him, tweed instead of pinstripe, but just as expensively tailored—was worth more than any of the local patrons made in a month, maybe two. They'd have bridled at his presence, even before they saw the armed, six-five gorilla by his side, and trouble would have been as likely to come from our side as from Black.
There was one other thing of note. Black wore a hat, a black Homburg, that was just too big for him and fell down to sit on top of his ears, not quite hiding a fresh, white bandage around his head underneath it. His eyes seemed focused though, and he didn't look as doped up as he'd sounded on the phone; better drugs, or more expensive doctors. Whatever the answer, he had his game face on, ready for negotiations.
I motioned him to a seat and sat down opposite him with the book and hand-mirrors on the table between us. He tried to keep his gaze on my face, to hold my eye, but he couldn't help himself, he had a quick look down at the table as he sat. I started to relax as soon as I saw that. Now I knew he was indeed a mark, and I knew how to play a mark, especially here, where I had home advantage.
George brought over a tray of drinks. The gorilla didn't take one, he sat down next to Black. He had a small briefcase in his lap, and held onto it with both hands, as if afraid to let go. Instead of drinking, he settled for staring at me as if he thought I might be intimidated. I'd already given him a weak spot on his wrist, though. I knew he was no problem at all and put all my own attention on Black, the mark.
George poured the Scotches and sat at my side.
Black took a sip from his glass, and nodded appreciatively- George's twenty-five year old Laphroaig was a match for anything Black's palate knew—and then it was time to get down to business.
"So, what are we doing here," Black said.
I pushed the Concordances over the table toward him.
"That's yours, I believe? As for the rest—as you can see, I have three mirrors, three sisters, but there's only two in residence. I need your help in getting the third one where she's supposed to be."
"And what's in it for me? I have no need for mirrors. I want the leash."
That wasn't strictly true. I saw the lie—the greed—in his eyes, heard it in the slightest tremor on his voice, read it in his hands that grasped in need at empty air in front of him before he noticed me noticing and clasped them, too tightly, together. But I let him have it. I was playing a longer game tonight.
"Of course," I replied. "But for your trouble, you also get two of the three mirrors once the job's done."
"How do I know these are real?"
"You saw me use one up at your house, remember?"
He touched his forehead just under the rim of the hat, and winced.
"Oh, believe me, I remember—trust me—I'll never forget it."
But it wasn't revenge I saw in his eyes as he looked back at the table—it was greed again—that and longing. The mirrors represented everything he'd been after for all of his adult life. If you want to tempt a mark, find out what he wants the most, and offer it to him. To seal the deal, I waved a hand over Agnes, and the gossamer mist wafted across the surface. I pulled my hand away before she started singing, but Black had seen enough. My offer was laid out on the table.
He took it.
"So you need to know about Norn—or the Norn, as they should be called?" He nodded to the gorilla, who opened the briefcase and took out a book that looked as old as the Concordances itself. "How much do you know already?"
"Three sisters, imprisoned beyond the veil, can be reached through these wee mirrors. How much more is there?"
Black laughed. He knew something I didn't, and now he thought he was in charge here. I let him go on thinking it.
"How much more? There's only the totality of accumulated occult lore of Western civilization, for starters. Have you heard of the Greek Moerae—the spinners of fate? Or the three sisters of destiny, Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld who sat among the roots of Yggdrasil? They're all the same women—always in three—and they turn up in most Western, and some Eastern, cultures. They are goddesses, holders of great power—or rather, they were, at one time."
"Until they were imprisoned?"
Blake tapped at the book the gorilla had passed him.
"Until they were imprisoned," he echoed. "Put in unbreakable cells beyond the veil by Merlin himself, with the aid of several questing knights of the Round Table—or so the stories say. It's sometimes another enchanter, another set of heroes or demi-gods that do the deed—but in every story, the three sisters are banished—sent for eternity to a place beyond.
"But even after their banishment, their presence has been felt across cultures and time. Your countryman MacBeth even met them, if Shakespeare is to be believed literally, but by then their presence in the gestalt had faded to being no more than crone-like witches, albeit ones with knowledge of things to come."
He had a far away, wistful look in his eye as he spoke, as if it was a topic he'd considered many times. Maybe this was going to be even easier than I could have hoped.
"Does your book say anything about one of them escaping?" I asked, and held my breath. I didn't know how much, if anything, he knew about Face and my recent escapades. If it turned out to be anything more than nothing, my strategy would have to be changed. I had to work hard to keep my relief from showing when he answered.
"Not really. It says one was lost, centuries ago. She was Skuld, seer of the future, who escaped the bonds of time and will only be seen again at the end of all things."
That would have to be the one I hadn't met yet. I guessed she really was lost, but I wasn't about to tell Black that.
"And what if I were to tell you she's not lost, but is here, now, in L.A."
"I'd say you were mad," Black replied, but I saw the look in his eyes. He was interested now, and excited.
"Would I still be mad if I said I wanted to get her back into her mirror and that I wanted to make sure she stayed there?"
He smiled.
"It would fit with your family history of insanity, that's for sure." He tapped the book again. "But this book here says it might—just might—be feasible."
"How?"
"There's a ritual—magic circles, spells, the usual kind of thing."
"It might be usual for you," I replied, and got the smile again. He really did think he was in charge.
"Come, Mr. Seton. With your background, surely you know what this might entail?"
I gave him that.
"So, we have a deal?"
Now he looked like that cat that got the cream.
"We have a deal."
"So what do I need to do?"
"Give me a day to get the materials ready. We can perform the ceremony up at the house in the canyon if you wish? That will ensure we are far away from any prying eyes that might wish to interfere with our business."
I'd been hoping he'd say that. And I sealed the deal by handing him his reward. I leaned forward and passed Face's mirror across to him. He took it in his hand as if it was a great marvel. He gave the spell-book and the Concordances to the gorilla to put in the briefcase, but held onto Face with his left hand, stroking her with his right index finger as if caressing a lover's flesh.
"You can hold onto that," I said. "It's your insurance, if you like. Look after her—she's been with me for a long time."
"And the leash? You have it?"
"That stays hidden for now," I said. "Call it my insurance."
I didn't lie to him, so he had no reason to disbelieve me. We agreed that the ritual would take place in his library in twenty-four hours time, and we parted with a handshake, almost like civilized folks.
Chapter 21
There was nothing to do
but wait.
George opened up the bar after Black left, and it slowly filled up, some being the same men who'd stood with us against the hound. I splashed out for a round of drinks, then sang some songs that had them giving me as much, and more, cash back again.
George was right—I was definitely better—I heard it in the timbre of my voice, felt it in the play of my fingers on the strings. I was paying attention more, feeling the songs rather than just playing them, understanding the intent behind them and how lyric and melody intertwined to make music—and yes, magic. I knew another kind of magic awaited me tomorrow night, back up in the canyon house and that such rituals always came with a heavy price, if the old stories were to be believed. But I owed it to myself to try. I owed Face for the betrayal, and I owed Dante, for trusting me to get the job done. That was a lot of dues to be owing, even before I got to what I owed George and what Black deserved in payment. I knew I'd be thinking about them all, later. Sleep wouldn't be coming easily.
But that was all for later. For now I had the guitar, and the old songs—many, many old songs, all of which deserved to be heard.
So I played and I sang. It took a while, but I think I got them all.
I had a nightcap with George—Highland Park again—the Laphroaig had gone back on the shelf. Five hundred bucks a bottle is good for a business transaction but a bit steep for a few stiffeners before bed. And I'd been right, even after the singing and the warm, peaty, Scotch I still couldn't settle, my mind full, of Norn, of Black, and most of all, of Face and her trickery. George had been keeping an eye on the news all day, looking for her footprint again, but all seemed quiet on that front but that didn't make me feel any better. I felt like I had on the canyon road when the hound had gone dark in my rearview mirror. Sometimes it's better to know.
By three o' clock in the morning my mind was busy, telling me all the things I didn't know, calculating how my wee plan was full of holes and why it would never work. Most of all, I was busy reminding myself that even if I won, Face—the only person I'd ever trusted my soul to—was lost to me.
