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Chapter 9

Aengus led the way to a tent tucked back into a dark corner of the Gardens. It wasn’t very large, but it was comfortably appointed, with carpets and several overstuffed armchairs around a small coffee table. Aengus gestured to the chairs.

“Please, have a seat.”

He offered tea, which I politely rejected—Aengus may have been my friend, but rules are rules among the Fae.

Once we were all seated, he met my eyes. “Now, Sorcerer Quinn. Explain yourself.”

I gazed back at him and raised an eyebrow. “You know me well enough that I’m almost insulted, Aengus.”

He didn’t even flinch. “I am sorry to hear that. I have always been fond of you, my friend. But this is too serious a matter to let our personal relationship affect my judgment. So how about you tell me what you thought was so important that you would violate sacred custom.”

“I have evidence the Avartagh is active again. Here. In Philadelphia.”

His sharp intake of breath was revealing. He knew exactly what that meant.

“And,” he replied, “presumably, these two detectives are investigating whatever crime led you to that conclusion?” The old Faerie wasn’t stupid.

I nodded. “They brought the murder to my attention. And while I probably could have come up with a way to keep them out of this meeting, the truth is I think they have a right to know what they’re dealing with. And to be honest, we will need their help if I’m right. The Arcanum is still spread too thin—we haven’t recovered from our losses to the Shadows. The Fae can’t operate openly. The police have the resources, just not the know-how. They can be a useful asset. But that means the detectives here need to know the truth.”

I paused, then added, “Detective Lajoie here is also the Sorcerer Antoine Richelieu’s grandson. He has a natural-born right to be here any way you look at it. And he insisted on his partner coming, too, and pointed out that leaving her ignorant was inviting more trouble than initiating her in the first place. And I agreed with that assessment.”

Aengus’s brow was furrowed in thought for a long moment. Then he turned to the detectives.

“Do you know who I am?” The question was directed at both of them. Both shook their heads. He looked back at me.

“Very well, Sorcerer. They are under your protection, and you have earned my attention, if not my countenance just yet. Complete the formal introductions, then tell me what makes you think the Avartagh has returned to this world.”

I didn’t let it show, but internally I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. We’d made it past the first hurdle. He’d stopped short of granting his approval of my decision to bring the detectives, but at least he was willing to listen.

Since I’d already introduced the detectives to the Faerie, it just remained to present him in return.

“Detectives Lajoie and Connors,” I said, turning to acknowledge them for the first time since we’d sat down in the tent, “It’s my pleasure to introduce you to Aengus Óg, son of the Dagda, of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a warrior and poet without equal.” I paused. “Also somewhat of a cheeky trickster,” I added as an afterthought.

Aengus snorted. Good, that meant he had relaxed. Even the Fae could have a sense of humor. Maybe that’s why he and I got along—he counterbalanced my generally sour disposition.

The Faerie princeling nodded to the two of them. “A friend of the Sorcerer Quinn is a friend of mine. I am honored to meet you both. May the road rise with you.”

The detectives didn’t know it, but for the first time since we’d entered the Market we were safe. The blessing meant he’d officially acknowledged my guest right in his tent, and that it extended to them. He now had a responsibility to protect us until we violated his hospitality or left his domain. That’s why he’d insisted I complete the formalities and introduce him to the detectives, rather than introducing himself. Custom and ritual were a big part of the magical world.

Much to my surprise, Detective Connors inclined her head in response, straightened, and extended her hand toward him across the table.

“May the wind always be at your back.”

I was slightly taken aback—I hadn’t expected her to know the traditional response to Aengus’s blessing. Aengus, however, just laughed heartily and clasped her hand.

“Well said. At least someone,” he paused and glanced meaningfully, if playfully, my way, “respects traditions.”

Her partner mutely extended his hand as well, and Aengus shook it.

Detective Connors saw me looking at her, my eyebrows raised, and shrugged.

“My grandmother was born and raised in a village in Connacht,” she explained. “She taught me some Irish greetings when I was a kid, back when she was still telling me stories about the Tuatha Dé.”

I was less interested in how she’d learned Irish blessings, and more curious about her apparent change of heart in regard to the Fae. She’d been so dismissive of the idea of anything supernatural less than an hour ago, and now she just accepted it when I introduced her to a man out of the Faerie tales her grandmother told her when she was a little girl? Even given the taxi ride and the Market itself, that struck me as an oddly rapid change of her fundamental beliefs about how the world works. Most people put up more resistance. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but there was little I could do about it at that exact second. Maybe her partner had been right, and she was just open to changing her mind in the face of clear evidence.

I shook my head slightly and looked back at Aengus, who was still grinning at Detective Connors, his head cocked slightly as if he were trying to figure her out the same as I was. I cleared my throat, getting his attention.

“Okay,” he nodded, and his grin disappeared, back to being all business. “Now that introductions are complete, tell me about this crime, and why you believe it was the Avartagh’s doing.”

His eyes narrowed as I started to tell him the details of the two murders.

“Were there words of power written in blood?”

I nodded.

“What did they say?”

“I don’t know. I recognized the glyphs as Faen, but I didn’t know the dialect.”

He pursed his lips and thought. After a moment, he looked at the detectives. “Do you have pictures of the crime scene?”

Detective Lajoie nodded, then reached into his coat and pulled out a folded manila envelope containing smaller versions of the same pictures I’d seen. He removed the pictures from the envelope and handed them to Aengus.

He skimmed through the photos, his lips tightening. “I understand,” he said, looking back up at me, “why you concluded this was the Avartagh’s work, Sorcerer. The ritual is the same as I have heard it described, as well. It appears to be the same working, but this was not his doing.”

I raised my eyebrows. “How can you be sure? He’s always done what he felt like, and he likes causing pain.”

“Because,” his expression became frank, “the Avartagh has been imprisoned in the Dún Dubh for five hundred years.”

Well, damn. I hadn’t expected that at all. My theory was completely trashed. But before I could recover, Detective Connors spoke up.

“What the hell is a ‘dune dove’?”

Aengus turned to her. “Dún Dubh,” he gently corrected her pronunciation. “It means ‘Black Fortress.’ And it is the prison of the Tuatha Dé.”

“Why haven’t I heard any stories about it?”

“Because your grandmother probably only knew the stories the monks wrote down for posterity,” I told her. “The Tuatha Dé were a popular subject because they were seen as the heathen gods Christ supplanted. The Christian monks focused on the common stories or those that made them look bad—look how the Dagda is described as fat and ridiculous when he meets with the Fir Bolg. They weren’t interested in literal accuracy but spreading their own propaganda. Most of the stories you know bear very little resemblance to the truth of things, I promise you. You’ve never heard of the Faerie prison because the monks either never heard the stories of Dún Dubh or, more likely, deliberately chose not to record them. Even talking about the place was taboo among those who knew. The tales were rarely told, and only then in broad daylight. There was too great a fear that the Fae would take vengeance on those who told the secrets of their prison.”

Aengus was nodding in agreement. “The monks heard the stories. Everyone heard the stories. Some even dared to write them down, with their conviction that they were merely myths. But those manuscripts didn’t survive into the modern era. The Morrigan keep their secrets. There are many things about the Tuatha Dé and the Aes Sidhe your grandmother did not know, and many things she likely thought she knew that are wrong.”

“I’ve never been there,” I told her. “I’ve never had reason to go. Very few humans have. But nothing I’ve heard has been nice. And no one has ever escaped the fortress. If the Avartagh has been there for centuries, he wasn’t involved in Evan’s murder.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course he wasn’t involved in Evan’s murder. He’s not real. You guys know that, right?”

My eyebrows shot up. I glanced at Aengus, who had cocked his head in confusion, and Detective Lajoie, who shrugged.

“I thought we’d gone over that,” I replied.

She laughed. “What, you mean the tricks with the limo and the people in costume? I’ve been to sci-fi conventions before, Quinn. I was happy to roll with it if it actually helped us get some answers, but I think we’ve indulged your fantasies long enough if you’re seriously suggesting a mythical creature locked in Faerie prison might be involved in our case.” She looked over at her partner. “This has been fun, but I think enough’s enough, don’t you?”

There was the other shoe, after all. I was almost impressed at her ability to rationalize the wonders she’d seen that evening. But I’d specifically requested she keep such opinions to herself for a reason. The Fae are proud. Aengus had lived in the human world for a long time, but if he were to take umbrage at her condescension, her implication that he—and everything around us—was nothing more than an elaborate charade, we could be in a great deal of trouble.

“Adrienne,” Detective Lajoie began, almost pleadingly, but I interrupted.

“None of this is a trick or a game, Detective Connors.” My voice was deadly serious. “Aengus here is a Faerie, as was Zoya. I’m a sorcerer. Those satyrs you saw, and the giants and kobolds and all the rest, aren’t wearing costumes and playing pretend. The Market Taxi was not an illusion. It’s all very real.”

She looked at me with a frank expression. “Fine, then. If you’re a sorcerer, prove it. Do some magic.”

“No.”

Aengus looked alarmed. He knew how I felt about this subject.

“Why not, O mighty sorcerer?”

I closed my eyes, took a long, slow breath, let it out through my nose.

As it turned out, Aengus’s potential reaction to her behavior wasn’t the only cause of concern this evening. I thought I’d be better able to ignore her insults, but my knuckles were white as I struggled to control my rising wrath. I could hear that little voice growing louder and louder in its insistence I let it loose.

I fought it back down, refusing its demands. I had faced far worse than Detective Connors’s skepticism. It would take a lot more to make me lose the control I’d struggled so hard to achieve over the past decades. But it wasn’t easy. That voice was seductive. It would be so simple to let it have its way…

“Because,” I said quietly, meeting her eyes, “I am not an exhibitionist.” I bit off each word distinctly. I had suppressed my flash of rage, but it was still near the surface, and I focused on calming down.

“I am not a cheap stage magician,” I continued, “and I do not perform on command. Magic is a serious matter, and I will not demean myself with tawdry acts for your amusement, Detective Connors. I have done things in my life that you cannot imagine. I have seen things you have not dreamt. I am an old man, and I do not live for your approval. You and your partner asked for my help, and I have given it. In return, you have twice now insulted me to my face. If you choose not to believe me, after everything you have seen tonight, very well, that is your prerogative. But I will not be your dancing monkey just to make an ignorant child feel more comfortable with the truth.”

“Child?! Why…” she began, but Aengus stopped her with a voice like a whip crack.

“Enough!” he declared, glaring around. He wasn’t speaking loudly, but his tone brooked no dissent.

“Detective Connors,” he addressed her, “you are very lucky I am not so quick to take offense as many of my kin. I understand you are skeptical of magic’s existence, so I will let your breach of my hospitality pass.” He paused for a moment as she sat back, her expression unconvinced.

“Do you share your partner’s concerns?” he asked, turning to Detective Lajoie.

“No,” he answered. “Quinn has shown me the truth.”

At this, she frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but he shot her a glance and raised a hand to stop her interrupting. She closed her mouth tightly and sat back, her armed crossed.

“As Quinn said,” he continued, “my grandfather was a part of this world, and the sorcerer here and I spoke about it at length yesterday. Then he showed me proof, the ambush spell the killers left at the second crime scene, which he trapped in a sphere of energy not three feet from me. I saw it with my own eyes, and it was no illusion. But frankly, all of that matters a lot less at this exact moment than solving this case.” He looked meaningfully at his partner, who looked away at the implied reproach. “So if there’s anything you can do to help us with that, I’m listening.”

“Good enough,” Aengus replied, then looked back at Detective Connors. “It is a great deal to accept all at once,” he said with a softer tone. “But before this night is through, I am certain both of you will have seen enough to believe.”

She rolled her eyes, but kept her mouth shut. Maybe her partner’s reminder that solving the case was what really mattered had gotten through to her.

“What do you mean?” Detective Lajoie asked. “What more is there to see?”

Aengus smiled at him without a trace of humor, then shifted his gaze to me.

“The Avartagh is in the Dún Dubh, so he cannot be a party to the crime. Where does that leave you?”

“If someone else is copying his ritual,” I mused, “we need to know why. That might help us figure out who. You can read the focusing glyphs—what do they say?”

He frowned. “They focus the energy released in the ritual toward something called ‘Tamesis,’ which is not a Fae word. But that’s what the glyphs spell out.”

I cocked my head. “It’s Old Brythonic.” Being a bookworm with an ear for obscure languages was sometimes useful. “It means ‘darkness.’ Which, while somewhat ominous, doesn’t tell us much about the goal of the rite.”

Aengus bared his teeth in what might charitably be called a smile, by someone who had only read descriptions of them and never seen the real thing.

“No, it does not. But we do know someone who could answer that question. And we know where to find him.”

“Are you saying,” Detective Lajoie sat up straighter in his chair, “we could go visit this Avartagh guy in that Faerie prison you mentioned?”

“Yes. That is precisely what I am saying.” This time Aengus’s smile was genuine. “But we shall have to get permission. Very few sorcerers have ever visited the Dún Dubh, and I do not think an uninitiated human has ever done so. This is a treaty matter. It will require a special dispensation.”

“From whom?” Detective Connors asked, her tone still skeptical.

“The High King. We shall have to go see Lugh.”

She rolled her eyes once again but didn’t say anything else.

I spoke up. “There’s one other thing you should know, Aengus. I sampled the residual magic at the second ritual site. It may not have been the Avartagh, but there was a Faerie present when he died. And it took an active part in the ritual. Whoever flayed the victims was inhumanly skilled with a blade.”

Aengus frowned for a moment, but then nodded. “All the more reason to speak with him.” He looked thoughtful, then stood up and looked me in the eye. “Alright, Sorcerer, you and your companions have my countenance. Let us go meet Lugh.”

He walked to the far end of the tent, the side that was up against the mural-covered wall. He opened a flap like a door, through which light shone, revealing a grassy plain and a single small, gnarled tree. He gestured for us to precede him through the doorway.

I stood up and looked at Detective Connors.

“Are you coming? Or do you need proof first?” I asked scornfully.

She glared at me, but stood up when her partner did, and nodded.

“Lead on, then,” she said.

With a scowl of my own, I stepped through into the Otherworld.


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