Old Fashioned_Phantom Queen_Book 3_A Temple Verse Series Page 6

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Me and mine are goin’ to murder everyone you’ve ever loved,” I ground out, my every breath a struggle with him on top of me.

  He grunted. “How’d you get in here?”

  “Magic,” I snarled.

  He pressed the barrel into my scalp hard enough to squeeze my face against the floor. I was suddenly very appreciative of Christoff’s no shoe rule. “Are you a witch, then? Or a wizard?”

  “Neither. The door was open, ye moron.”

  He yanked on my arm again, harder this time. “What are you doing in this house?”

  I tried to wriggle away, but his grip was locked firmly around my wrist. “Playin’ hide-and-go-seek,” I sneered, my eyes tearing up.

  He dug his knee harder into my lower back.

  “I’m lookin’ for me friend, ye miserable bastard!” I admitted, the pain too much to ignore, and realizing I was in no position to threaten him.

  The pressure eased somewhat, followed by a brittle silence. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  I considered lying, or simply being obnoxious, but realized there was little point; he had me where he wanted me, and I wasn’t going to improve my situation by pissing him off—I’d hoped he’d rise to the bait and give me an opening, but he’d proven too professional. Also, he wasn’t sounding much like a murderer. “Christoff,” I said. “His name’s Christoff.”

  “Who is he to you?” the man pressed.

  I grunted. “My bartender.”

  At that precise moment, I heard a loud crack and felt the man slump over onto my right side, collapsing to the hardwood in a heap. I hefted myself up, rolling him off me, and rose, wobbling, to my feet, prepared to fight. But the room, aside from the man who’d attacked me, was empty. I couldn’t see the man’s face; he wore a red baseball cap and a bulky dark blue jacket, both of which obscured his features in different ways. A baseball bat lay near the doorway.

  “Sorry for taking so long,” Dobby said, appearing out of thin air as he removed his ring. I’ll admit, I almost peed myself. Almost.

  “I’m gettin’ ye a bell!” I hissed through gritted teeth, before fetching the assailant’s gun. I could find mine later, right now I was worried about making sure he wasn’t armed.

  “If I had a bell, my lady, I doubt I’d have been able to sneak up on this…” Dobby looked down at the man and frowned, then promptly put the ring back on.

  “Dobby? Dobby!” I groaned, then cursed. I didn’t care if he had ended up saving my life with his invisibility trick, I was still going to get the spriggan a damn bell to wear around his neck; I was tired of him pulling a Houdini on me whenever he felt like it.

  The man at my feet groaned. I took two steps back and pointed the gun at him. “No sudden movements, or I’ll kill ye. Understood?”

  “Feels like I got clocked with a hammer,” the man said, his accent rough and Bostonian in a way I hadn’t picked up on before, like he’d been hiding it. He rose to his knees and spotted the baseball bat. “Or a Louisville slugger.”

  “Now it’s your turn,” I said, waving his gun at him for good measure. “What are ye doin’ here?”

  “Well, Quinn MacKenna,” the man said, casually dropping my name as if I’d given it to him, “I’d say I’m here for the same reason you are. Although Christoff isn’t my bartender. He’s my boss.” He raised his hands and fiddled with his ball cap, the Red Sox emblem emblazoned across the front. He drew it back to reveal the face of the man beneath. He had one of those big, scraggly beards that made it impossible to tell how old he was, with otherwise unremarkable features, excluding his light blue eyes.

  I didn’t like strange hairy men with pretty blue eyes knowing my name. Usually. “Explain.”

  He grinned at my tone, clearly amused. “Sorry about putting the gun to your head. But you can never be too careful. The name’s Robin. I’m Christoff’s bar manager. Nice to finally meet you. Although I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

  “Be careful, my lady,” Dobby said, from beside me, causing me to jump. “He is not what he appears to be.”

  Robin’s bushy eyebrows merged into one as he studied the empty air to my left, before eventually grunting. “So, that’s what happened. For a second there, I thought you might be telekinetic or something. Christoff told me you were one of us, but never mentioned what you could do.”

  “She is not one of you, Redcap,” Dobby hissed, sounding more animated than I’d ever heard him. It sounded almost like he was offended on my behalf, somehow.

  Robin’s eyes went wide, then narrowed to slits. He began to get to his feet, but I deterred him by waving the pistol.

  “Nuh uh,” I said. “Ye stay right where ye are and tell me why ye got so flustered when me friend here called ye that.”

  “It’s his name,” Dobby clarified. “Robin Redcap.”

  I frowned, a half-forgotten fairy tale springing to mind. Redcap. I stared at the ball cap on Robin’s head, every exposed inch of it a deep, vibrant shade—the color of arterial blood. My own eyes widened. That was it. Redcap. Robin Redcap, one of the infamous goblins who dipped their caps in the blood of their murder victims, drawing power from it. In fact, according to legend, Robin was probably the most famous of his kind; he was the only redcap who’d ever been given a name.

  Robin sighed and fussed with his hat again, bending the bill of it, a habitual gesture that would have been cute if it weren’t for the fact that I suspected he’d used the very same cap as a bloody dishrag. “Your invisible buddy over there is right,” he admitted. “I mean I don’t usually go around telling people who or what I am, not that they’d believe me, anyway. But yeah, Robin Redcap.”

  “And ye say Christoff hired ye?” I asked. “Why should I believe ye?”

  Robin shrugged. “Because it’s true? He pulled me in on Ryan’s recommendation a while back.”

  Robin’s mention of Ryan O’Rye, an old friend and Christoff’s former bar manager, made me hesitate. “But why would Christoff hire a redcap to run his bar?” I asked.

  “The Redcap,” he corrected, sounding mildly offended. “Well, he had to hire somebody from the Chancery to work for him, and I’d like to think I’m the lesser of several evils. Plus, I know my Scotch.”

  “The Chancery? Ye work for the Chancery?” I asked, raising the gun once more.

  “Whoa! Of course, I do.” He studied me, then cursed. “Right. I forgot they’ve got their eye on you. Look, I’m a rank and file guy. Whatever your beef with them is, it’s way above my pay grade.”

  “What did ye mean when ye said Christoff had to hire someone from the Chancery?” I asked, choosing to ignore his comment, for now.

  Robin gave me an incredulous look. “Standard policy. If a Freak in this town wants to run a business, no matter what it is, even if it’s legal, they have to clear it with the Chancery, first. Then they get shackled with a partner, someone the Chancery trusts to report back.” Robin shook his head at my expression. “It’s really not as bad as it sounds. Sure, the Chancery gets to put its thumb in all the pies, but it also offers protection. Keeps the Freaks in line.”

  I considered that and nodded. It made a certain amount of sense, although it also begged the question: how had I been able to do my job for so long outside Chancery supervision? Or had they had their eye on me all along? I sighed, realizing I’d have to find out some other time. Right now, I had more important business to attend to.

  I slid my finger over the trigger of Robin’s gun. “Alright, so how about ye tell me why the Chancery didn’t protect me friend?”

  Robin gestured to his legs. “Mind if I stand up? This is murder on my knees.”

  Part of me felt like making the infamous redcap stay kneeling until his bones eroded; my shoulder and lower back still throbbed after his little stunt with the gun. But the other part of me appreciated his professionalism, even if it had been at my expense. The least I could do was return the favor. I gave him the go ah
ead, waggling the gun.

  “Thanks,” Robin said, as he lumbered to his feet. I realized he was a pretty big guy—a lot taller and broader than what I thought a goblin should be. Less ugly. And a lot less green. Honestly, between the Red Sox gear he wore, his size, and his epic beard, he looked like a Mike Napoli knock-off. “So,” he said, after stretching his hamstrings, “I guess I should start with the good news, first. Christoff is safe. He showed up at the bar and I got him and his kids to one of our hideouts. Wards are up. Guards are posted.”

  A wave of relief hit me, and I almost dropped the gun, but years of experience prevailed, and I caught myself before it barely dipped an inch. Finding Christoff’s bedroom corpse-free had given me hope, but there were several other rooms in the house, and deep down I’d dreaded stumbling on the rest of Christoff’s clan. “Alright, good. So, what’s the bad news?” I asked, bracing myself.

  “The bad news is that whoever did this took his wife. And Christoff isn’t talking.” Robin sighed. “And, worst of all, while the Chancery definitely owes him protection, that protection won’t stretch very far if he won’t cooperate. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he’s past reasoning with. I’ve never seen him like this. I know he wants to go after his wife, but he doesn’t trust the Chancery to keep his kids safe. To be fair, we have a few members who think children make excellent appetizers,” Robin admitted, shrugging. “So, he’s stuck where he is, for now.”

  “For now?” I asked. “What happens if he doesn’t start cooperatin’?”

  “Depends,” Robin folded his arms over his chest, obscuring the big Boston logo stitched across the front. “If they were smart, they’d use him and his kids as bait. Send them out, put a tail on them, and wait for whoever it is to come back and finish what they started. Fact is, they’re trespassers causing a ruckus in the city—and they failed to announce themselves beforehand. From the Chancery’s perspective, they’re the priority. I think Christoff knows that.”

  Of course, he did. Which meant, situationally, he had no choice but to withhold information. Anything he fed to the Chancery would lead them to his attackers, but their goal would be to shut the bastards down, not save Christoff’s wife. I had no idea how the Chancery operated, but I was willing to bet collateral damage meant less to them than imposing their will. It was also entirely possible that Christoff knew who had attacked him and why. Maybe they’d taken his wife for a reason. In the end, none of that mattered. I needed to see him for myself if I wanted answers. “Take me to him,” I told Robin.

  “It’s not that simple,” Robin said, shaking his head so adamantly that his bulky beard slid across the slick material of his jacket, sounding as if someone were zipping and unzipping their fly. “For all we know, you could be involved. That’s why they sent me here, to check and see if anyone was poking around.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, right, because I clearly have a motive for killin’ one of me only friends, kidnappin’ his wife, and returnin’ to the scene of the crime,” I replied. I didn’t bother mentioning the fact that—if I’d planned to hurt Christoff or his family—they would never have stood a chance. Trust is a tricky thing; it’s hard to live without giving it to someone, but at least then you didn’t have to worry about a friend popping over to gun down you and your loved ones in your sleep.

  Dark, I know.

  But seeing that toy covered in blood…I realized being a pessimist had its advantages.

  Like knowing exactly where to find your gun in the middle of the night. “Your sarcasm is noted,” Robin said. “But I still can’t take you to see him without permission.”

  I huffed, exasperated by the bureaucratic response. “Well, get your permission, then! Make the call, or whatever it is ye lot do.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why would I be?” I asked, sliding my finger along the trigger of his gun, wondering if I could shoot his pinky finger off at this distance. I didn’t want to do any permanent damage, or anything, just something to let him know I meant business.

  “None of the Chancery’s founders have cell phones,” Robin explained. “They don’t even have rotary phones. Most of us are old school like that. Why do you think we chose Boston in the first place?”

  I blinked, wondering what that had to do with anything. Honestly, I’d never given it much thought; I’d always assumed the Fae had settled here because there were a lot of believers in this city—superstitious folk who dodged curses like they were speeding cars and threw as much salt over their shoulder as they put on their eggs. In my mind, it had always been a ‘bees to honey’ scenario. If you build it, Fae will come. When I explained this to Robin, he laughed like I’d said the funniest thing in the world.

  I considered simply plugging a bullet in his jiggling belly, because I wasn’t in the laughing mood, and gutshots were the ultimate buzzkill.

  “Well, sure, but you’ve got it backwards,” he said after his laughter died down. “We didn’t settle here because of the believers, the believers settled here because of us,” Robin said, wiping a tear out of one eye. He cleared his throat once he realized I’d raised the gun once more. “Listen, it’s not your fault. Easy mistake to make. But you live here, right? Haven’t you wondered why the bones of the old city haven’t been tinkered with as much, here? Brick and glass and stone. That’s what you’ll find if you look hard.”

  “Why would that matter?” I asked, confused.

  “Iron,” Dobby interjected. “There’s less of it here.”

  “See, Casper the Friendly Ghost gets it,” Robin said.

  What Robin said made sense, although I’d never given it much thought. The Fae hated iron, almost universally. Dealing with them individually was always tricky; you never knew which nonsensical thing would send a Faeling running—horseshoes, a branch from a rowan tree, the Holy Word of God. But you could typically depend on their aversion to iron. And Robin was right; after being declared historic landmarks, places like Beacon Hill looked more or less the same as they had in the early 1800s, which gave much of Boston an old, quaint feeling that encouraged tradition and superstition in equal measure.

  “Alright, fine. Let’s say I believe ye. How do we get hold of your bosses?” I asked. “Because I don’t t’ink I’ve got the patience to exchange letters.”

  “Hansel does like his letters,” Robin said, then continued before I could respond. “It looks like you really only have one option, in that case,” Robin said. “You go to them.”

  Of course, that’s what he’d say.

  Filthy goblins-es.

  Chapter 11

  The law office of Hansel, Hansel, & Gretel looked like one of those shabby townhomes you often find trapped between two buildings—the door too narrow, the steps too steep, the windows on either side like portholes on a ship. The cute little bronze sign displaying their name hung out front but drew no curious glances from passersby. Perhaps it was the curiously sad state of the place, or the fact that—as one of the many law offices that littered State Street—it hardly stood out among its peers.

  “Did you bring it?” Robin asked, tipping his hat. He glanced at his fingers, which came away bloody, and popped them into his mouth.

  “That’s disgustin’,” I said, with a grimace. I hefted the bundle in my arms. “And aye, what d’ye t’ink this is?” I didn’t bother mentioning that, along with the parcel, I’d brought Othello’s disc—sort of like an insurance policy should the Fae try anything.

  “Oh, please,” Robin said, interrupting my thoughts. “This from the Manling who insisted on using a cell phone. You know how much bacteria you all carry on those things?” Robin shot me a disdainful look and took off across the street towards the law office, dipping between a lull in traffic. I rolled my eyes and followed, ignoring the curious gazes of more than a few people on the street. To be fair, we made an odd couple, Robin and I, especially with me carting around a bulky package. I tried not to think about what I had in my arms, or what I’d agreed to do, but it nagged at m
e even as I took the steps that led to the law office door.

  After leaving Christoff’s house nearly two hours before, Robin had given me the address to the Chancery headquarters. At first, I’d thought he was joking. But, after a quick Google search, I found out there was in fact a Hansel, Hansel, & Gretel office in Boston, though I couldn’t track down a website or any images of the building from the outside. I wondered whether Robin had played a little fast and loose with his superiors’ whereabouts, but—in hindsight—realized he was likely one of those old school Fae members he’d been talking about. It probably hadn’t occurred to him that I might show up and launch a Molotov cocktail through the window for kicks. But then, most people didn’t think like that.

  They lacked the imagination.

  Sadly, Robin had covered several other bases, including what I would and wouldn’t be allowed to do once inside. In fact, he’d even gone so far as to tell me how to blend in, refusing to take me unless I agreed not to embarrass him. As if I would. Ordinarily, I’d have told him to fuck off, but with Christoff’s life potentially at stake, I couldn’t take the risk.

  Concerned about Christoff’s safety, Dobby had wanted to tag along as well, but—when he wouldn’t tell me exactly why seeing the redcap had freaked him out so much—I’d vetoed the idea. I was getting tired of Dobby keeping secrets from me, no matter what his reasons were. If I couldn’t trust him to tell me the truth, then I couldn’t trust him to have my back, simple as that.

  Besides, when Ryan had first asked me to take care of him, he’d mentioned the Chancery’s unusual interest in spriggans, and warned me to keep Dobby out of their hands. The way I saw it, waltzing into their headquarters with him in tow would have been the same as gift wrapping him and leaving him on their doorstep.