Chapter 7
The ley-lines seemed okay. They had all shifted a bit, but the network was intact and nothing jumped out as a major cause for concern. I’d have to keep an eye on things for a while, but my experience told me it would probably settle back into its natural rhythm in a few days, assuming whatever had happened was a one-time event.
I was about to extend my checks beyond the local Philly area when I heard the lock on the front door click open and the bell chime as Henri showed up for work. Thankful for the distraction, I headed out to greet him.
“Hey boss,” he called out as I emerged from the back office. “You look tired. Still drinking yourself to sleep instead of going to therapy?”
“I don’t drink myself to sleep.” I shook my head as I helped him set up the shop for business. “Not anymore, anyway. And therapy’s a waste of time. Folks talking about their feelings and never doing anything useful.”
“Useful like drinking a fifth of Scotch every night before bed?” He chuckled, raising an eyebrow as he held up the empty bottle of whisky I’d left on the table in the reading corner last night. “In what world is this not drinking yourself to sleep?”
“I drink just enough for the nightmares not to wake me up.” I scowled.
“The fact you can’t hear how much that sentence screams ‘I need therapy’ is exactly why you need therapy, Quinn. But whatever, I’m not going to fight you on it. Just know that if you ever change your mind, Peter’s available.”
Henri’s husband was a clinical psychologist specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder; he contracted with several police departments across the metro area to counsel cops after officer-involved-shootings and other traumatic events. He and Henri had met at a precinct Christmas party, in fact. And the two of them had been suggesting I make an appointment for months; it was getting old.
“Drop it,” I grunted. “I’m fine. I’ve been dealing with this for longer than either of you has been alive. And anyway, that’s not why I look tired. It’s been a long morning. Speaking of which, I need you to run out and get me a new laptop when you’ve got a moment today.”
“What happened to the old one?” he asked.
“I spilled coffee on it this morning, and it shorted out. It’s not worth trying to get repaired—everything’s backed up already, and the damn thing was already on its last legs anyway. Could you go get me a new one?”
“Fine.” Henri nodded. “I’ll do that now, if you can handle any customers while I’m out. Anything specific you need?”
“Not really.” I shook my head. “If it can connect to the internet and run normal office software, it’ll do.”
“Okay, I’ll get you something basic. Shouldn’t take too long. Do you have a credit card I can put it on?”
“No, just pay cash,” I said. “How much do you think it’ll cost?”
“For something with no frills?” Henri paused to consider. “A few hundred? I’m not sure; I haven’t bought a laptop in a while.”
“Alright, I’ll grab some money from the safe.”
After Henri left on his errand, I headed back to my desk and returned to my ley-line checks. Given that the quake had apparently occurred everywhere at the same time, there was no epicenter and effects should be the same around the world. I wasn’t as familiar with the network outside of the Philly metro, so I went over to one of my shelves and pulled out a massive, dusty old tome that included seasonal maps for every major region of magical energy around the world—major as defined by the standards of the mid-19th century, but it should be fine for my purposes. I wasn’t going to be able to trace the entire world’s ley-lines, as I didn’t have years of free time to spend, but I figured I could at least do some spot checks.
I opened the book to New York, laid it out on my now coffee-free desk, and settled in. I reached out to the closest line, traced it over to where it met the big one I knew connected to Manhattan, and got to work comparing my observations to the book.
It was a tedious process, as I had to meticulously triple-check the distance and direction from the previous node each time; any error would throw off everything I calculated after that point. It didn’t help that I had to stop what I was doing every time the bell over the door rang to let me know I had a customer.
There were more such interruptions these days than there used to be. Henri was significantly better at customer service than I’d ever been in the decades prior to him starting work here—he was friendly and helpful—so customers now came to Quinn’s Esoterica even when they could possibly have found whatever they needed elsewhere. We even had some actual regulars who stopped by at least once a week. Which was all well and good when Henri was here to deal with them, but I still wasn’t exactly a people-person. And besides the hassle of trying not to be too surly with the customers, each interruption also meant several extra minutes of work to retrace my way along the network to the most recent node I’d mapped.
The bell rang again, and I sighed. I was just about to stand up to deal with yet another customer when Henri called out.
“I’m back, boss!”
I sighed again, this time in relief.
“Here’s your new laptop,” he said as he came in the office and set down a large shopping bag near me. “And your change. Receipt’s in the bag.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“No problem. What’s with the book?”
“Um,” I grunted. “There was some kind of shock this morning, like an earthquake, but in magical fields instead of the earth’s crust—that’s why I spilled my coffee on the laptop. Rachel asked me to check the ley-lines to see if there was any damage.”
“Huh,” Henri said. “Any idea what caused it?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it had something to do with the wellspring. I felt something wrong with it right before the event.”
“Wrong like unfamiliar, or wrong like the Tamesis did something to it after all?”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I really don’t know.”
“Well, shit,” he muttered, sounding concerned. “But if anyone can figure it out, it’s you, I guess. I’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget to eat lunch.”
That was a good reminder; I’d completely forgotten about lunch. And breakfast, for that matter. My stomach was rumbling. I headed upstairs and had a sandwich, then came back down to hear Henri on the phone, the landline on the counter by the register.
“He just finished lunch. I’ll let you talk to him. Yeah, it was good to hear from you, Rachel! Take care!”
I took the phone from his outstretched hand.
“What’s up, Rachel?” I asked.
“Just heard back from the Master of the Seal. The sons of Lir will look into the veil from their end, but they want to speak to you about what you remember from the wellspring right before the event.”
“Okay.” I nodded to myself. “I’ll be expecting them, I guess.”
“No, you’re going to have to visit them at Emain Ablach. They won’t cross the veil.”
“Goddammit,” I muttered.
“I know visiting the Otherworld is a hassle, but you’re the one who saw something wrong with the source of all magic, so you’re the one who gets to tell the guardians of the veil about it.” She chuckled. “Speaking of, have you found anything with the ley-lines?”
“No major damage as far as I can tell,” I said. “Hadn’t finished all my spot-checks, but Philly, New York, London, Paris, Mumbai, and Hong Kong were all stable. Only minor deviations from their normal cycles. Whatever happened clearly shook them up, but doesn’t seem to have broken anything.”
“That’s good news, although it doesn’t help us figure out what the hell happened,” Rachel mused. “How soon can you cross the veil?”
“Probably tomorrow. I’ll see if Aengus can escort me. I hate going over there alone. And I’ve never been to the Isle of Apples.”
“Reasonable,” she said. “But either way, treat it as an official trip. You’re going as an envoy from the Court.”
“Will do, although that doesn’t provide much protection from wild Fae,” I pointed out.
“I’m not worried about you,” she snorted. “You can take care of yourself even if you have to go solo. I’m just asking you to remember that you’ll be representing the Arcane Court, so please comport yourself as such.”
“Ah,” I said. “You want me to play nice.”
“Exactly. And now that that message has been conveyed and acknowledged, I’ve still got tons of other things to do, so I’ll talk to you when you get back. And say hi to Aengus for me!”
She hung up, and I put the phone back on the hook, thinking things through.
“I need to go to Bran’s,” I said to Henri.
“I’ll hold down the fort.” He nodded.
Since I’d be acting on behalf of the Court, I went back upstairs to grab my coat. While it looked like a plain overcoat to ordinary eyes, the enchantments imbued in the fabric let anyone with the ability to see them know its wearer was a Sorcerer of the First Rank of the Arcanum. Besides, it was cold outside.
Bran’s, a few blocks down the street from my shop, was a generic Irish pub, indistinguishable from hundreds of similar establishments in the Philadelphia metro area: dimly lit, walls covered in dark wood paneling and faded Guinness ads, and a general feeling that the place hadn’t been properly cleaned in years. My eyes took a second to adjust from the afternoon sunlight as I stepped inside.
“Mr. Quinn.” Bran himself greeted me from behind the bar, watching me with his wide, golden eyes. His brogue was far thicker than mine; my accent had softened after long years on this side of the Atlantic, but Bran sounded like he’d just arrived from County Sligo. The Fae could speak whatever language they wanted, but few of them bothered adjusting their accents unless they had a specific need to blend in to their local surroundings. “What brings ye in this fine February afternoon?”
“I take it you felt that…whatever it was this morning?” I asked by way of reply as a I took a seat on one of the barstools. There was no one else here at this hour, so no need to worry about being overheard by people who shouldn’t know about such things.
“Aye, we all did.” He nodded as he set a glass in front of me and poured a couple fingers of Oban, my usual drink in his place. I hadn’t planned on drinking this early, but it was rude to turn it down after he already poured. “Been the talk of the local Fae all day.”
Bran’s eyes, his thin-boned appearance, and his odd birdlike movements weren’t a coincidence. He was a type of lesser Faerie known as a púca, a shapeshifter native to the wilds of Sidhe. He could take on the form of a hawk at will, and his human form reflected his other shape. He was also one of my best contacts in the area; between the rumor mill in his pub and the things he saw and heard while hunting, he was generally better informed about goings-on in the local magical underworld than most anyone else I knew in Philly.
“That matches what I’ve heard from the Arcanum, too,” I said, and took a sip. “I’m investigating it. And I need to talk to Aengus, but he hasn’t been around the Faerie Market the past couple weeks. Could you find him for me?”
I’d known Bran a long time, and we had a good working relationship, but I avoided small talk with him on general principle. The Fae are natural dissemblers and deal-makers: you think you’re just engaging in a friendly conversation, and ten minutes later discover you’ve accidentally given away your firstborn. They’re always looking for the advantage, and with lifespans measured in millennia, they’ve had a long time to practice. Bran here was just a minor Faerie whose personal power paled in comparison to mine, but he could remember when men hadn’t yet domesticated wolves. Best not to give him a chance for any games.
“Aye,” he answered after a moment. “But tha’ goes beyond our usual terms.”
“Put it on my tab,” I grunted. While Faeries make deals as naturally as they breathe, Bran and I had long ago come to a general understanding: he would pass on any interesting news free of charge, and I’d keep that in mind when he needed anything from me. But for favors beyond that, I owed him in kind. Something like finding Aengus would cost me a few minutes of my time, or maybe a minor favor requiring a similar level of effort. I wasn’t worried about it.
“Might take some time. Do ye want anything for the wait?”
“No, I just had lunch,” I said.
He nodded and headed out the back. I was just finishing my whisky, savoring the complex flavors of the last sip of single malt, when he walked back in wearing the enchanted tunic he used when shapeshifting. Normal clothes didn’t make the transition with him.
“The Óg is out of town, it seems,” he informed me. “No word o’ where he went, bu’ he’s been gone for three weeks or more.”
“Fuck,” I muttered. “I hate going to the Otherworld without a guide.”
“Cannae help ye there, Sorcerer.” Bran chuckled. I knew full well that he was persona non grata in multiple regions of the Otherworld, although I’d never gotten the story why. But Bran had stayed on this side of the veil for a reason, and he’d probably be here until he died. Or until whoever he’d pissed off did, at least.
“No, that’s alright,” I said as I pushed myself to my feet. “Until next time.”