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Chapter 15

The bus came to a stop. After a few seconds I decided there was no further immediate threat, so I pulled my T-shirt back up with my left hand and safely returned the Glock to its holster. Everyone else was still on the ground, but at least the screaming had stopped.

It had been maybe fifteen seconds from the surprise attack to the mystery sorcerer’s escape. That’s the thing about gunfights in the real world as opposed to the cinema: there’s no script or choreographer, and they tend to be a lot shorter than one would expect.

By the time I’d pulled my shirt back down over my holstered gun, the detectives were on their feet.

“Did that guy…did he just jump in front of a bus?” Detective Connors looked shocked.

“Yes,” I answered, shaking my head, “but I doubt it had much effect. Sorcerers tend not to shuffle off their mortal coil from minor things like that. It was probably his escape plan all along if things didn’t go as he wanted. He timed the attack so he could use the bus to cover his retreat.”

“How…?” She asked, the confusion obvious in her voice.

“You saw the shield I used to stop his first shot? He threw up something like that after I started returning fire. When he jumped in front of the bus, it would have protected him from the impact, and he was likely pushed down the street unharmed, far enough away we wouldn’t be able to catch him if we gave chase.”

Detective Lajoie frowned. “I saw you hit him. Three times.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I don’t know how much damage it did, but I learned one thing: whoever he was, he was almost certainly human.”

“How do you figure?”

“Most any kind of magical creature would have been a lot more affected by the rounds I use than our attacker seemed to be. Unless it were wearing a bulletproof vest, which is pretty unlikely among nonhumans. Meaning a high probability of human.”

By this point everyone had seemed to realize that bullets and spells were no longer flying, and they were getting up and dusting themselves off. No one seemed to have been hurt in the fight. The bus had come from the wrong direction to be in the line of fire, and none of my shots had gone wide, so at least there was no collateral damage to deal with. But gunshots are extremely loud, so count on some of the neighbors to call the police anyway. I heard the sound of approaching sirens.

“We’ll handle the responding officers,” Detective Lajoie offered. “You figure out what the hell happened.”

“Nice shooting, by the way,” his partner said. “What kind of gun was that you were using?”

“Glock 20. Why?”

“Do you have a concealed carry permit for it?”

I scowled. That was her primary concern right now?

“I do, as a matter of fact. Have since eighty-eight. Do you want to see it?” I started to reach for my wallet in my back pocket.

She shook her head as a police cruiser came screaming up the block, sirens blaring loudly. “Maybe later. Let’s deal with this first.”

She and Detective Lajoie held their badges high as they approached the driver’s side. The sirens cut off, but the lights stayed on.

“What happened, detectives?” the uniformed officer at the wheel asked through a rolled-down window. They engaged him in muted conversation for a minute, then Detective Connors went to talk with the bus driver while her partner stayed at the patrol car. I saw the cop reach for his radio, hopefully to pass the word that no other units needed to respond. While they obviously wouldn’t be able to enter the Market itself, the fewer police officers who arrived to see something happening after hours at the Magic Gardens, the better.

After the commotion and gunshots, people were milling around the front gate to see what had happened. Aengus pushed his way through the crowd of rubberneckers.

“What is going on?” he demanded, looking around to see me standing, helping up the last of the small group who had been waiting with us. He also saw Detective Lajoie in conversation with the uniformed officers in the squad car, and his eyebrows went up.

“Everyone back inside. Now,” he commanded.

I caught the detectives’ attention and jerked my head back to indicate the crowd re-entering the Magic Gardens. Lajoie finished up the conversation and, after the officer turned off his lights and drove off, he joined me. Connors returned a few seconds later, the bus resuming its route for the night.

“I convinced the driver it was just kids messing around,” she told us. “No one was hurt and the bus wasn’t damaged, so no need to worry about it.” I nodded.

“So what’s up?” Detective Lajoie asked.

“The Treaty of Tara guarantees a general truce at any sanctioned Faerie Market, which makes what just happened the magical equivalent of an international incident. And as the ranking member of the Tuatha Dé present, enforcing the Market Truce falls on Aengus. He needs to talk to us and figure out what happened. He’d rather do that away from prying eyes and ears, so we need to go back inside.” I led the way.

“Sorcerer Quinn,” Aengus called out to me once we’d re-entered the Market, “explain to me what happened. Why was the Truce breached?”

“My companions and I were waiting for a ride home,” I explained in a careful, measured tone, my eyes on his. “We were attacked without provocation by an unknown cloaked assailant. I defended myself. The assailant fled into the night as the bus arrived.”

“That is the truth!” I heard someone speak up. Aengus and I both turned. It was one of the Tylwyth Teg from earlier. “He was doing nothing and was ambushed by an assassin! The Market Truce was breached, but it was not the doing of this sorcerer or his friends.”

I gave her a slight nod of thanks for speaking up. Aengus stared hard at her for a long moment, as if deciding whether she was telling the truth or had an ulterior motive. She had tears in her eyes—the Tylwyth Teg are highly emotional creatures. But before she actually burst into hysterics, he nodded too.

“Very well, Child of the Forest. I believe you.”

He turned back to me. “Nevertheless, as you are the ranking sorcerer in this region, I am bound to summon a Rector to confirm that the breach of the Truce was not initiated by a member of the Arcanum. And I shall have to insist you remain here until then.”

I nodded.

The closest Rector to us was Rachel Liu, with whom I’d spoken earlier that day. She was a decent sort, as far as they go. She could be a bit stuck-up sometimes, but not a bad person. But it would be some time before she could get here, even through the Otherworld—last I’d checked, she lived in San Francisco. And she’d mentioned a trip to hunt down a Wechuge, a type of demon found in cold mountain regions like the Canadian Rockies, so she might not even be available.

Aengus told the crowd to disperse, and they did so slowly and reluctantly. I needed fresh air, so I stepped back outside and found a seat on the floor against the wall while he returned to his tent to summon Rachel.

The detectives followed me out, and Lajoie moved over to the exterior wall where the attacker’s heat spell had struck the muraled façade. From what I could see, it had melted a hole into the underlying concrete. He wasn’t likely to find any clues from the damage, but maybe he was just curious.

His partner, on the other hand, approached our attacker’s knife where it still lay on the sidewalk, exactly as he had dropped it before he fled. She knelt next to it, examining it minutely, then stretched a hand out towards it.

“Don’t touch that,” I snapped.

She looked up at me, her hand only a couple inches from the knife. “Why not?”

I looked at her like one might regard a small child wondering why you were telling her not to touch the lit burner on the stove.

“Because,” I explained, reminding myself to be patient, that she honestly couldn’t know the potential danger, “that athame was just used as a focus for extremely dangerous offensive magic, and it was dropped in place by someone who clearly both meant me harm and had a plan in the event of an unsuccessful assassination. We have no idea what residual effects could linger on the blade, and there’s a good chance it wasn’t dropped by accident.”

She looked at me, then dubiously back at the knife, and withdrew her hand. “Contact poison?”

“Very possibly,” I murmured. “Or worse. Leave it be until the Rector gets here.”

I pulled up the sleeve of my coat and saw that the spell had left a nasty burn on my forearm. I sighed. Reaching into my left pocket, I drew my dagger. I focused briefly on it and whispered a word, and the blade chilled until it covered in a fine layer of frost. I pressed it against the burn on my left forearm, to cool the flesh and reduce the blistering. Not really my original intention in binding that particular spell to the blade, but it would suffice until I got home and could treat it properly.

Connors walked over and sat down next to me. She looked tired. It had been an eventful day for her, too, I supposed. Learning that her grandmother’s stories were true—or at least based on truth—and being taunted with her worst fear by one of the monsters from them was enough to wear anyone out.

“So that was magic? I mean, I know we visited Faeries in the Otherworld, but the only part of it that felt like real magic was the portal. But your shield, that was magic.”

I smiled politely, without much feeling, looking out over the tracks at the far wall. “Yes. That was the type of magic I wouldn’t do for you in the tent. The showy stuff. The type of magic that convinces otherwise completely rational and scientific people that magic does exist.”

“So why did you use a gun at all, if you can do things like that?”

“Because…” I faltered. It was harder to explain than I’d thought it would be. “Because this isn’t the cinema. Magic doesn’t consist of ‘wave a wand and say some Latin words.’ It’s a lot harder than that. If you don’t have a spell prepared, it’s not very easy to come up with one on the fly, even when you’ve practiced.”

That wasn’t the whole story. It wasn’t even the main part of it. The truth was that magic has to come from the heart and the mind and the soul of the sorcerer, and I didn’t have fire and lightning in me anymore. I’d burned it all out. But that was too hard and too personal to explain, so I took the coward’s route and lied through half-truths.

“A gun is more reliable, faster, easier, and a lot less tiring than combat magic. And causes significantly less collateral damage if you can hit what you’re aiming at. I practice hard to make sure I can.”

“Fair enough,” she replied. “But the Glock 20’s a ten-mil, right? Kind of an odd choice.”

That wasn’t really a question, but I answered anyway. It’s not like I had anything better to do while we waited.

“It’s a niche caliber,” I shrugged. “But when I first started shooting back in the early eighties, it had just come out. I experimented with some and realized they worked better for my purposes than any other round I’d tried—they’re large enough for my custom anti-magical bullet design, the flat surface makes it easier to engrave counterspell glyphs to help them slip through magical defenses, and their added penetration is useful for someone who might find himself fighting demons and Fae monsters. I started out on a Colt Delta Elite; I switched to Glock about a decade back.”

“Wait, the early eighties? And you said you’ve had a license since eighty-eight. That would make you at least in your early fifties. You don’t look it. I’d have guessed around forty, maybe forty-five at the most.”

I snorted. “Thank you, my dear, but I’m considerably older than that. Sorcerers age slowly. I was born in 1783.”

Her eyes went wide. “Wait, for real?”

I nodded. “Your partner had a similar reaction when he learned that yesterday, too. I started my training in sorcery before Napoleon ruled France. I’ve known Aengus since the American Civil War.”

“Christ,” she whispered. Then chuckled lightly. “You don’t seem like it. You grumble enough for someone in his seventies, but you don’t talk like you’re in your two-hundred-thirties.”

“And how should someone in his two-hundred-thirties talk?” I raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. More formally? More flowery language? You said you met Aengus during the Civil War—I’ve read letters from back then. You don’t talk like that.”

“Spoken language has always been more casual than the written word—every generation has had its slang. But even so, the point is taken.” I shrugged and thought about it for a few seconds.

“Sorcerers learn to blend in from an early age,” I explained. “We live in the shadows and try not to draw attention to ourselves. Speech patterns, fashion—the mannerisms and behaviors people consider normal—change over time, and most of us manage to keep up. I’ve never been able to get rid of my accent despite living in this country for almost a hundred years, but the rest of my speech mannerisms I’ve managed to adapt. I try to match my speech to my audience. With Lugh, or Badb, or Nemain, it makes sense to be formal, to use more traditional forms of address, to sound like I’m in my two-hundred-thirties as you put it. But with you and your partner and most other humans, that would just sound wrong.”

She nodded. “That makes sense. You do speak a bit stuffier and more properly than most people I meet, I suppose. When you aren’t just mumbling and grunting in annoyance, that is. I assumed it was from education, not age. No wonder you don’t have a cell phone. But then, how’d you get started with guns at the ripe age of two hundred? I can’t imagine someone who can throw fireballs gets excited by gunfire.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s true. I’m probably the only ranked sorcerer alive who has ever used a gun, at least as more than a curiosity. The early eighties were a pretty bad time here in Philadelphia, especially in a working-class neighborhood like Fishtown. A lot of crime and violence and drugs. Before your time, but I’m sure you’ve heard stories.”

She nodded. She was a cop, and old-timers in any police or military force I’d ever encountered loved to tell war stories about the “bad old days.”

“After a string of robberies in the neighborhood,” I continued, “one of my nonmagical customers recommended I get a gun to protect the shop. I thought about it and realized that being able to defend myself without magic could be useful.” Especially to a burned-out sorcerer who’d grown sick of combat magic.

“It started as a mere novelty, a hobby to take my mind off things. But the more I studied and practiced, the more I realized how practical it really was as an alternative. I may be old, but I’d be an idiot not to take advantage of technology and stay stuck in old ways of doing things just because they’re old. Plus, at this point range time is almost therapeutic.”

She nodded again. “I get that. It takes a lot of discipline and focus to shoot well. It can be almost Zenlike.”

“Exactly,” I answered. “Zenlike is a good way to put it.”

“You looked like you don’t just stand at the range plinking targets at seven yards, though,” she added.

“Because I don’t,” I shrugged. “I actually make an effort not just to know how to shoot, but how to fight with a gun. It’s different than fighting with magic or a blade, which is what basically all of my previous training and experience was. So I go to classes. Defensive handgun, combat shotgun, fighting in buildings, that sort of thing. I try to make it to at least one or two good training courses a year, and I keep up with developments in the field. There’s been a great deal of innovation in technique over the past couple decades. Technology, too—my gun, for example. About a decade ago I realized that some of the aftermarket developments available for Glocks made them perfect for the types of threats I might face.”

I set the cool blade down next to me, then reached under my shirt and drew the Glock with my right hand. I dropped the magazine and worked the slide with my left, then checked the chamber before handing the gun to Connors for her to inspect. I wasn’t worried about witnesses—this close to the gate, the Market illusion spells would obscure the views of any nosy neighbors who might still be peering out of their windows after the earlier excitement.

“Reshaped and stippled grip for improved ergonomics. Aftermarket trigger for a smoother action. Night sights, because a lot of magical threats appear around dusk and dawn. And a Cerakote finish, to help prevent corrosion from salt, manticore blood, that sort of thing.”

I picked up the round that had ejected from the chamber during the clearing process and held it up to show her, as she passed the gun back to me.

“Silver core, jacketed in copper with inlays of gold and iron, etched with glyphs against basic magical shields and Faerie armor. I have variations on the design in a couple other calibers, including nine-mil and thirty-eight special, as well as shotgun shells with a similar concept and a lot more punch. But the ten-mil works the best in a concealable package. The Glock carries fifteen, plus one in the chamber. Almost twice as many as my old Colt.” I passed her the round to see more closely.

She looked at it silently for a moment, turning it over in her hand and holding it up to see the inlays and etchings. Then she handed the bullet back to me. “You said you have these in nine-mil?”

“Yes,” I answered as I put the round back in the magazine, loaded the mag into the Glock, worked the action to chamber the round, then returned the gun to my holster. I picked my knife back up and resumed cooling the burn on my left arm. “But it’s not as effective. Less penetration. Smaller silver core, and a lot less iron and gold. Plus less room for glyphs, so it won’t go through as many types of magical defenses.”

“Still,” she said, “if we’re going to be working with you, and maybe going up against people who can shrug off three of your ten-mil rounds and jump in front of a bus, Lajoie and I might want something a bit more suited to the task than department-issued hollow points.”

I grunted. “That’s fair, Detective. You’re both in this, now. I’ll get you a couple boxes of nine-mil tomorrow. They’re definitely better than nothing.”

She smiled. “You know, Quinn, this is the most I’ve heard you speak about one subject since we met the other day.”

I just shrugged. “You and I haven’t spent much time together before now, Detective. And you seemed intent on making a habit of insulting me.”

She looked away, her expression almost ashamed. I hadn’t intended to chastise her. Sometimes things just came out that way. We lapsed into mutual silence for a few moments.

She broke the tension. “I owe you an apology, Quinn.”

I looked over at her, my eyebrows raised in question.

“For my behavior towards you before…before the Otherworld, I suppose. I’m sorry. I was rude, and condescending, and dismissive. I find myself having to confront a new normal that includes magic being real, humans not being alone in the world, a whole other world full of magical beings and gods. Things that I was rude to you for believing in, because I couldn’t grasp the idea that there might be more to the universe than what I already knew about.”

I thought for a second, then shook my head. “No apology necessary, Detective. It angered me in the moment, but I understand. It’s a hard truth, and one most people aren’t equipped to confront at all, let alone as quickly as you have.”

“My grandmother believed. I don’t know if she knew anything for certain like I do now, but she definitely believed. She told me the stories like they were things that actually happened, real history, even with the Faeries and Tuatha and Fianna and magic and druids. To her it was as natural and plausible as anything she heard in Church, and no one thinks twice about someone believing in Jesus walking on water.” She paused for a second.

“But my parents were both scientists. They were skeptics who taught me that the Faerie tales she told us were just myths and legends, that science could explain everything. It got bad, to the point where my father stopped letting my sister and me visit her, because he didn’t want our heads filled with superstitious nonsense.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I suspect I would have enjoyed speaking with your grandmother.”

“She’d have liked you, I think,” Connors chuckled. “She always got along with surly grumps.”

I raised my eyebrow at that but didn’t respond. One should never be insulted by the truth, and I was undoubtedly a surly grump.

“But anyway, I’m sorry. Even if none of it had been true, you were right to call me a child. I was acting like one. You didn’t deserve it. Even if you’d just been a crazy old man, I should’ve been more professional. I didn’t treat you with the respect you deserved, as someone trying to help us when we asked. And I’m sorry for that.”

She held out a hand, and I took it, accepting her apology. No sense pressing the issue further and making things uncomfortable for both of us.

“Also, you don’t have to keep calling me ‘Detective’ every time, you know,” she said, as the handshake ended. “My name’s Adrienne. Or Connors, if you prefer. It just seems silly to be so formal at this point, after everything that’s happened tonight.”

I nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, Det—Adrienne.” I reminded myself to stop mentally adding the “detective” in front of their names. If I stopped thinking of them as Detectives Lajoie and Connors, it would be easier to stop calling them such out loud.

Her partner apparently grew tired of examining the hole in the wall and came to join us, sitting on the other side of Connors.

“I was looking at the damage from whatever he attacked us with,” he explained. “The wall was literally melted. What could do that?” he asked me.

I was still cooling my arm with the chilled silver blade. I shrugged.

“I’ve never seen it before, but it was some kind of pure heat given form.”

“Does that tell us anything we didn’t know before?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not really. It reinforces my initial thought that our attacker was a mortal of some sort. It didn’t feel like Faerie magic. It felt like it came from this world.”

“That means human, right?” Connors interjected.

I pursed my lips. “No. Humans aren’t the only magical creatures from this side of the veil.”

I thought back to the attack. “He was much taller than pretty much all the magical races of Earth, at least those likely to be in Philadelphia, which does point to human as the most likely culprit. And again, if he weren’t human, he had to have been wearing some kind of armor, or those bullets would have had more of an immediate effect.”

My musing was cut short when a small Asian woman with spiked hair, wearing a long coat and carrying a staff in her left hand, stepped out of the Magic Gardens front entrance onto the sidewalk. Rachel Liu. Time to face the music.


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