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Chapter 14

The transition from quiet field in midafternoon to dim tent in the confined and noisy market was mildly disorienting, despite having undergone multiple such trips that evening. But everyone got back through without any problems, and Aengus closed the gateway behind us.

“I hope you got what you needed out of that trip, Quinn,” Aengus said quietly, still facing the muraled concrete wall where he’d just closed the passageway into the Otherworld. “The price may have been far steeper than you yet realize.” After a moment, he closed the flap in the tent, covering the masonry, and turned around. “I was not jesting when I stated your life will likely never be the same. It is no small thing to owe a favor to a Faerie. Especially when that Faerie is Lugh.”

Didn’t I know it. I wasn’t at all pleased with the direction my life had taken recently. Over the past three days, I’d been drawn into investigating a serial killer, introduced two uninitiated humans to the reality of magic, and promised a favor to a Faerie king. Not to mention being reminded of all my sins—everything I’d spent so long desperately striving to forget—by an insane monster locked in a magical prison. It had not been a very good week so far. But if I did nothing, the killing would continue, and things would likely get far worse.

“It’ll have to be enough,” I replied. “I don’t know what I can do to repay you for your help, Aengus.”

He laughed, his first sign of amusement since Detective Connors had brought up his father. “Go on, get out of here before you end up owing favors to another Faerie. If you need me, you know how to find me.”

I looked at him for a long minute, contemplating.

Aengus hadn’t been home in centuries, if the rumors were true, avoiding the Otherworld almost entirely after whatever had happened between him and his father. But when I asked for help, on behalf of people he’d never met and a species that had shunned him and his race a thousand years before, he hadn’t even hesitated. And unlike virtually every other Faerie I’d ever met, he’d asked for nothing in return—he’d done it all, as best I could tell, simply because we were friends. What did it say about me that the only real friend I had left in the world was a four-millennia-old Faerie?

What did it say about him?

I nodded to him, then ducked out of the tent without another word, back into the swirling madness of the Faerie Market. It was just as busy as when we’d left, which made sense given how little time had passed in this world. But the time had certainly passed for us—I was exhausted. I tilted my head in the direction of the front gate.

“Are you two ready to go?”

Detective Lajoie nodded. “Unless there’s anyone else material for us to talk to, I think we’re good for the night.”

I led the way to the front gate. While humans generally needed to arrive at the Gardens via magical taxi in order to gain entrance to the Market, there was nothing special required to leave. We stepped outside and joined a small group of other market customers who had apparently decided to call it a night, including the pair of Tylwyth Teg who had been flirting with Aengus earlier.

“Can one of you call a taxi?” I asked. “Just a regular old cab is fine. But I don’t have a cell phone.”

It wasn’t an aversion to technology. I was perfectly comfortable using computers and other modern electronics—I had even installed cloud-based digital security cameras in the shop a few years back once I’d figured out how to magically ward the servers against unwanted access. But I’d never had need of a cell phone, especially of the “smart” variety. I rarely traveled, and I had a perfectly serviceable landline at home for phone calls and a laptop for the internet. A cell would just be a waste of money.

“Uber work?” Detective Connors replied.

“Whatever,” I shrugged. I’d never ridden in an Uber before, but I’d heard about the concept. It would do.

Detective Connors pulled out a smartphone and started messing around with it, presumably ordering us a ride.

“Hey, Quinn, do you mind if I ask what the Avartagh meant about your parents?” she asked as she dealt with her phone. “Something about a king?”

I thought about it for a moment. There was now a good chance we’d have to deal with the Arcane Court and its official representatives at some point during this case, so it was probably best the detectives know the basics.

“Sorcerers are an individualistic bunch,” I explained. “There aren’t very many of us. Most of the time we keep to ourselves, and dislike anyone meddling in our affairs—Tolkien got that one right. But sometimes something comes up that requires cooperation. In ancient days, sorcerers would cooperate as necessary, then disband after. But about fifteen hundred years ago, the spread of Christianity through traditionally Faerie-controlled lands caused too much trouble, lasting too long, for an ad hoc alliance to deal with.

“As the religion spread out among the peoples of Europe, its practitioners taught that beings of magic were demons, minions of Satan. People who had for thousands of years peacefully coexisted with the magical races, and even worshipped them as gods, turned on them. The sorcerers of the time banded together to prevent the Fae from retaliating, to keep them from wiping out the human race in response. Eventually, it became a more permanent society, called the Arcanum, with the mission of keeping the peace between the Fae and humanity, and protecting humanity from other magical threats.

“The Arcanum isn’t really a government. There are no laws sorcerers must follow beyond upholding the various treaties the Arcanum has signed with the magical races, such as the Treaty of Tara—the pact between humanity and the Tuatha Dé which Aengus mentioned. Not every sorcerer is a member of the Arcanum, of course, though most of them at least get their initial training from the society. But even nonmembers have to abide by the treaties. That’s how we keep the peace. Ranked members are responsible for upholding those treaties and protecting the populace from magical threats within their respective territories, as well as a couple obligations like mustering in the event of war and attending the Grand Conclave every thirteen years.”

I paused for a second. “The Grand Conclave is where the ranked members of the Arcanum vote on major matters like treaties. It’s also where we elect the Arcane Court—the King and Council—who govern the Arcanum and conduct any necessary diplomacy between Conclaves. My father is the current King. It’s his third term. My mother is his Lord Marshal, the member of the Council responsible for the apprehension of rogue sorcerers and Fae and other magical threats to humanity.”

She’d been Lord Marshal during the Shadow War, too. Back when I’d been one of her loyal soldiers. But I didn’t mention that part.

“But,” Detective Lajoie frowned, “if the Lord Marshal—your mom—is responsible for stopping magical people from doing bad things in the human world, why didn’t you just call her when you realized that the Townes murder was a blood rite?”

“I did, actually. Well, I called one of the Council’s Rectors, their regional deputies, earlier today. But she isn’t taking responsibility for it. As a ranked member, I’m generally considered responsible for my own territory—she’ll only step in if it turns out I can’t handle it.” I chewed on my lower lip for a couple seconds. “Anyway, I haven’t really spoken with my parents in a long time.”

We lapsed back into an uneasy silence, the two detectives clearly unsure what to say to that last bit, and me intently not thinking about my parents.

“Uber’s nearly here,” Detective Connors announced. “Less than a minute. Keep an eye out for a white Toyota Camry.”

We turned to look for the car. But when I’d gotten dressed for the evening, I’d made sure to wear my amulet under my shirt, the one with an enchantment bound into it so it would heat up if anyone used offensive magic in my immediate area. And as the detectives expectantly watched the corner of the street for our approaching ride, it flared into heat against my chest.

I instinctively threw up my left hand and released the shield spell tied to my ring. Because we were standing at the right end of the group waiting for rides, and I didn’t know where the attack was coming from, I just blocked that entire side off as I shouted a warning to the detectives to get down.

As the shield blazed into bright blue life, forming a wall between the three of us and the rest of the group, I was slammed back by an impact against it and heard the surprised yells and screams of those who had been minding their own business waiting on the sidewalk. The glow of the magical barrier meant I couldn’t see who the attack had come from. But while I was throwing up the shield, I was also reaching my right hand under my coat.

I quickly cleared the covering T-shirt and drew the Glock one-handed, silently thanking myself for all the practice I’d put in over the years. I rapidly switched my stance to bring my right side, and the gun, toward the threat. As soon as I was in a decent one-handed firing position, I dropped the shield and scanned for the attacker.

Fortunately, most denizens of the magical world have the sense to drop to the ground when people start throwing magic around. Until you’ve seen the effects of a particular spell, only the practitioner who cast it knows exactly what it will do, so most people wisely try to get out of the way, just in case. That meant those who had innocently been waiting for taxis or rideshares were all prostrate on the sidewalk—no one was running around hysterically, though a couple were still screaming. I could see exactly who had attacked us as soon as I dropped the barrier: a tall figure in a cloak was the only one still standing, and he had his hand outstretched, a dagger pointed directly at me.

Unfortunately, dropping the shield also gave him a perfect shot at me, and while I saw him quickly, I still had to bring my gun to bear. He, on the other hand, knew where I was going to be when the barrier fell, so he got his shot off first, a silvery pulse of energy that seemed to burst from the tip of his knife. It flew at me quickly, but not so fast that I couldn’t dodge—my instinct kicked in and allowed me to sidestep out of the way, if only barely. I felt the white-hot energy as it flew past, maybe an inch from my still outstretched left arm. It was so hot that I felt my skin blister despite the protective spells of my overcoat.

But it seemed to be a spell that took a second’s effort, and that was enough. Even while I moved, I continued bringing my gun to aim at my attacker.

As soon as the sights lined up with his torso, I squeezed the trigger. Bullets travel quite a bit faster than his spell. He didn’t have time to dodge, or to throw up any active defenses. And as soon as the sights dropped back into alignment, before I even saw if I’d hit him, I squeezed the trigger again, and a third time. A lot of creatures in the magical world have superhuman reflexes, but few can react quicker than I can get off three or four shots, even shooting one-handed.

Now, gun enthusiasts will debate for hours at a time the merits of the ten-millimeter, and even its supporters would likely be horrified to know what metals I used in my bullets. But no one doubts that it packs a punch. Contrary to popular belief, there is no handgun round that will knock down a person by virtue of its own kinetic energy; the only way to guarantee an instant stop is to hit something vital in the central nervous system, and that tends to result in death in short order. But one-shot stop or not, anyone who gets hit in the chest with three ten-mil bullets in rapid succession is going to notice.

And notice he did, though not as much as I would have preferred. He grunted as the bullets hit, but he absorbed the impacts like a boxer taking a combination of punches, rolling with the blows but shrugging them off. The knife dropped, and he threw up a translucent red shield of his own before I could resume firing.

I maintained my aim at the hazy outline I could see through his shield, but rather than resuming the fight, he kept the barrier up, took three steps, and jumped into the middle of the street. Directly into the path of an oncoming city bus.


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