The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale (6 page)

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
fter a long, quiet time on I-­93, Brendan saw the Boston skyline rise on the horizon. It hardly looked like the same city. The towers of glass and steel, and the haze of light that hung over them, seemed to swallow the city he'd once called home. As expected, Brendan's memories threatened to get the better of him, but he dragged them away, tossed his cigarette butt out the window, and accelerated across the Bunker Hill bridge.

The city seemed to now grow and change faster than ever. Hopefully, he'd still be able to find his way around.

As he emerged from the tunnel, it struck him how attempts to preserve the city's history had only served to change it. The pungent smell of glass, steel, concrete, and car exhaust poured through the open window. True, coal, wood smoke, and rotting garbage hadn't been pleasurable, but it all felt so artificial now.

He parked his truck and pulled a black sweater over his head. He grabbed one of his sheathed knives, tucked it behind his back, and pulled the sweater down to conceal it. Before shutting the truck door, he grabbed a small wooden box from under the seat. Most of the night's stars were obscured by the glare of the city or blocked by the tall buildings, but near as he could tell, it was about one in the morning. He headed to a nearby alleyway, hoping the old tunnels and haunts were still there.

Cars rolled by as he walked. They added to the constant noise that seemed to permeate the city. He'd never really adjusted to the noise. Ireland had been so quiet. He missed that quiet, even more so as the years went by. He found hints of it in the more secluded reaches of New England, but it wasn't the same.

When he turned down the alley, the large ogre standing guard outside the door told him the tunnels were still in use. Of course, mortals would just see some big guy with no neck in front of a nondescript door.

Perhaps you'll be remembered.

The ogre was typical for his kind; pushing seven feet tall, muddy green skin, and bald. He had two enormous canine teeth that jutted up from his lower jaw and extended over his upper lip. The jeans, motorcycle boots, and long-­sleeved black shirt stretching over his muscled form were apparently new fashion, as were the piercings in his lip, nose, and eyebrow.

“This here is a private club, sir,” the ogre said in a muddled cockney accent. He looked closer at Brendan and furrowed his brow. “Fian?”

Brendan clenched his jaw and nodded once. “Aye.”

The ogre sniffed the air. His lip pulled back into a sneer, exposing yellow teeth, and he glared with his beady eyes. “I smell iron.”

“I'm looking for information, not a ruckus.” Brendan opened the box.

The ogre's eyes went wide and his mouth opened. “Is that—­?”

“It is.” Brendan closed the box. “Now, I'll not be leaving me blade with you.”

The ogre glared.

“But I swear if no one gives me cause, it'll stay where it is.”

The ogre laughed. “Someone breaking wind could be cause to a Fian.”

Brendan stared at the ogre and took a long, slow, deep breath, then let it out even slower. “I'll ignore that insult this once, but don't be doing it again. Let me pass, mate. If no one means me harm, I'll do none.”

The ogre considered for a long moment.

“I haven't got all bloody night here, tiny.”

The ogre chuckled and opened the door. “All right, you're bound by your word. Any violation will be reported to the magister.”

“Wouldn't want that,” Brendan said under his breath as he walked through the door.

The tunnels were lined with old bricks and industrial lights set at ten-­foot intervals, the kind with brass cages around the glass. No cords ran to the lights, and glowing crystals replaced bulbs.

Soon the tunnel split into three directions. It'd been a long time, but Brendan still remembered the way. He turned right and took some stairs down to another hallway. It ended at a plain wall. He reached down and pressed a brick. There was a clicking sound and a section of the wall swung inward. As he walked into Have-­Nots Hall, the familiar smell of fae, sweat, blood, and beer hit him.

The entryway led to a catwalk around a massive stone chamber, dimly lit by no apparent source of illumination. Below was a patchwork bar fashioned of mix-­match planks, and a line of rickety stools stood in front of it. Tables and chairs collected over the years filled the remaining space. The centerpiece of the room was the large copper cage, the makeshift ring it housed, and the fighters inside it. The place hadn't changed much, just more dust and dirt. The smell hadn't improved much, either.

As the bar's name suggested, the have-­nots of the Rogue Court filled the place. The ogres appeared much like their counterpart at the front door. The trolls were as tall as ogres, but leaner, with skin more yellow in color. Dwarves, gnomes, and various other fae also packed the chamber and looked down at the fight from the catwalk.

In the ring was a troll, large even amongst trolls. His opponent was a pixie. From where Brendan watched, it appeared as little more than a ball of light.

“Poor bastard,” he said and made for the stairs to the main floor.

He got several dark looks as he walked by, and everyone gave him a wide berth. He ignored them and their mutterings.

When he reached the ground level, he scanned the room, looking for a familiar, and hopefully friendly, face. In the cage, the troll swung a fist down. The pixie, hovering in the air, caught the fist and didn't move an inch. There was a high-­pitched grunt as the tiny fae spun and hurled the troll across the ring and into the cage.

Cheers erupted from the patrons.

Brendan laughed.

“By summer's blooming flowers! Brendan? Is that really you?” a small, childlike voice asked.

A boy of about ten stepped out of the crowd, large mug in hand. His long ears were pointed and extended past the back of his head. He was dressed in brown corduroy pants and a black shirt with white lettering that read, “I'm huge in Japan.” A mess of unkempt brown hair and a giant toothy grin finished the look.

Brendan smiled at the brownie. “Abán?”

Abán offered his hand. “It's good to see you again, old friend. It's been a long time.” There was a crash from the cage behind them, but Abán didn't flinch. He glanced at the fight, then back to Brendan. “If you're looking to make some coin, I've got just the—­”

“Sorry, mate. I told you before I was done with that, and I still am.”

Abán nodded. “Well then, come have a drink with me and we'll catch up.”

As Abán led Brendan away from the cage, a cracking sound was followed by a bellow of pain from the troll and the noise of a fist pounding the mat. A chime announced the fight was over, and the crowd headed off to drink and make wagers before the next bout.

Abán climbed into a seat at an empty table.

“What'll you have?” Abán asked. “On me.”

“I've got no time, I'm afraid.”

“Oh?” Abán's face sagged in disappointment, which made him appear even more childlike.

“I need me some information.”

Abán sighed. “As ever.”

“Haven't I always made it worth your while?” Brendan looked at the cage and back to Abán.

“You have.” Abán nodded. “What do you need to know?”

“You hear anything about a stolen child?”

Abán looked around in quick, jerky motions. “Not so loud! You know that's against the Oaths. Why don't you see the magister?”

Brendan cleared his throat. “I thought I'd see if I could resolve this meself first. It were the oíche—­”

Abán made a choking sound, then leaned in close and lowered his voice. “No one here will tell you anything about them, stolen child or no. They've been getting real nasty of late.”

“Oh, aye, they're normally all sunshine and light, they are.”

Abán rolled his eyes. “They've gotten nasty, even for them. They're collecting on all kinds of debts. Everyone is too afraid to talk about it. You never know when they might be watching in the shadows.” He looked around again. “I know a pixie who said they broke her wings when she wouldn't do what they wanted.”

Brendan looked at the now-­empty ring, then back at Abán.

“A young pixie.” Abán took a drink. “Dusk Court.” He turned and spat.

Brendan leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. The oíche were schemers; thuggery wasn't their style. “Any idea what's got them in a twist?”

“I can venture a guess, but you're going to need to talk to the magister if you want to know anything for sure. If the oíche did break the Oaths, he'll want to know anyway.”

“Aye, I know.” Brendan let out a breath. “So, where's Dante keeping himself these days?”

“He's got a club where he and the other court nobles hang out. Probably find some oíche there as well.” Abán turned and spat again.

He gave Brendan the address. “Sure you can't stay for just one drink?”

“Sorry, mate. Wish I could.” Brendan got to his feet and looked at the box in his hand. He set it on the table and smiled. “Thanks for the information. If you hear anything else, let me know?”

Abán nodded. “I'll send a messenger, as usual. It was good to see you, Brendan.”

“And you.”

Abán opened the box. His eyes went wide and his mouth went slack. “Is that one of Nuada's tears? How?—­”

“Take care of yourself.” Brendan turned and walked out.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he man working the door stared at Brendan through eyes caked in black liner. His dark blue painted lips twisted into a smirk.

“You're kidding, right?”

Brendan didn't say anything, though he was thinking the same thing about the doorman. He just crossed his arms.

The cocky smile vanished and the doorman cleared his throat. “I just, you know, meant that I, I don't think this is your kind of club.” He laughed. “That's all. No offense or nothing, man.”

“Oh, I see why they got you working the door.” Brendan leaned in close. “That finely tuned sense of reading a man's character, yeah?” He stepped around the man. “At least the ogre had a set of bollocks on him,” he muttered.

“Um, cover charge is—­” The doorman stopped when Brendan grabbed the door handle.

“Why don't you go after him and get it?” a man in line said with a laugh.

“Why don't you—­” The door closing behind Brendan muffled the rest of the doorman's words.

As soon as Brendan passed through the second set of doors, his senses were assaulted by pounding techno music and flashing lights. The smells of sweat, perfume, and fae were overpowering. He had to look away and get a grip on his overloaded senses.

Once he acclimatized, he saw that everyone was staring at him with expressions ranging from concern and confusion to outright disdain. The crowd was a mix of mortals and some of the lesser Rogue Court nobles. A few mortals had telltale signs that made him wonder if they were changelings.

Ignoring the glares, he scanned the room and wondered if Dante had lost his mind. How could he have gone from frequenting vaulted concert halls and theaters to building this disgraceful pit of empty noise? Above the pipes, cable trays, and other industrial hardware covering the walls grew large vines and tangles of ivy. There were even trees, the smallest of which was an oak well over twenty feet tall. Brendan could smell that it was real.

He didn't see Dante, which drew both relief and anxiety in equal parts. He headed to the bar, pushing past sweaty, writhing bodies, and earning more than a few dirty looks. The bartender wore a black button-­down shirt, black trousers, and no makeup at all. Apparently Dante and the other sidhe hadn't completely lost their minds. The barman handed a glass of red wine to a young girl, who was, against all odds, dressed totally in black, then leaned toward Brendan.

“You've got to be lost,” the bartender said with a smile.

“I'm afraid not, I'm looking for Dante. Know where could I find him?” A few ­people around him laughed with their best snotty, indifferent chuckle.

“VIP room.” The bartender pointed across the crowd of dancers to a second level that overlooked the dance floor.

“Don't suppose you have any decent beer back there, do you, boss?”

The bartender reached down into a cooler, brought out a bottle of Sam Adams, and popped the cap off. “Some of us aren't big on wine.”

“How much, then?” Brendan pulled a mess of wadded bills out of his pouch.

“On the house.”

“
Sláinte
.” Brendan lifted the bottle to his lips and dropped a bill on the bar anyway. After swallowing a mouthful of beer, he looked at the dance floor. He had to fight back the sick feeling in his stomach and remind himself the room wasn't actually closing in on him.

“So,” a feminine voice said. “What's under that kilt?”

A girl, barely old enough to order the drink in her hand, gave him a wry smile. She was a pretty enough thing, but she wore too much makeup and a black dress made of some shiny material.

“Boots and socks,” Brendan said. “Excuse me, love.” He took another drink and waded into the sweaty throng on the dance floor, heading for a pair of double doors on the far side.

Bodies rubbed against him. He got several glares and even a few winks and smiles. He clenched his jaw and cleared the writhing horde. A man in a black suit and a deep red tie stood off to one side of the wooden doors. His bald head and large build probably did more to turn ­people away than any actual threat he posed. Brendan had another drink of his beer and took measure of the man. A big fella, all muscle, no finesse, and he wasn't any good at hiding it. Hell, he probably relied on it.

Brendan opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut him off.

“Members only,” the man said with a scowl and a heavy Boston accent. He looked at Brendan's kilt. “And I know you're not on the list.”

Brendan drew in a breath through his nose and let it out. “Listen, mate, Dante knows me. If you just tell him—­”

“Mr. Dante knows lots of ­people.” The man puffed out his chest. “If they're not on the list, they don't get by either. You're not on the list. Get it? Or do I need to draw it in crayon?”

Brendan counted to ten. “Just step aside there, bucko. I'll be up and back before you know it. There's no need—­”

“Not going to happen,” the man said. “Now, why don't you go back to your renaissance faire before something bad happens to you?”

“Sorry?” Brendan leaned in close. “I don't think I heard you right. Did you just ask how far I could put me boot up your arse?”

The man cracked his knuckles. “Oh, you don't want none of this, skirt boy.”

Brendan laughed. “That must get the kids wetting themselves, aye? Sure, I don't want any.” He finished his beer and looked at the bottle, but he knew bashing the fella over the head with it would likely put him in the hospital and piss off Dante, when this was going to be bad enough.

“Well, princess? You're mo—­”

Brendan hit the man's forehead with an open palm and knocked him into the wall. Brendan's other hand brought the bottle up, and he pressed the bottom of it against the man's neck, pinning him in place. Brendan leaned in with an outstretched arm. The man swatted at him, but he couldn't reach.

“I tried to be civil about this, but that's done now. I'm going through that door there.” He nodded to it. “You can either step aside, or I can step over you. Which is it you'd prefer, then?”

The suited goon gurgled something, then stopped trying to pull the bottle off his neck and gestured to the door for Brendan to enter.

“Smartest one in your class, you must've been.” Brendan let go and the big man fell to his knees, hands going to his throat as he gasped. Brendan dropped the bottle. It bounced on the man's head and hit the ground. “Be a dear and toss that in the bin for me, would you, love?” He opened the door.

The second floor was a large, open space with a view of the bar and dance floor. Like the rest of the club, it was a mix of industrial and natural, the same ivy-­and-­vine-­covered walls. In the middle of a large V-­shaped sofa sat Dante. He was a beautiful man—­beautiful, not handsome—­whose appearance was locked in his midtwenties. His skin was a deep tan, his hair was a light blond tousle reaching just above his shoulders, and his eyes were a vivid green. Like the other high sidhe, his eyes had no pupil or whites, just solid color that bore a faint glow.

He'd traded in his stiff collar and frock coat for jeans and a fitted pale gray blazer over a light blue striped button-­down shirt. Aside from his fashion, he hadn't changed a bit. Like everything else in the last few hours, this was both comforting and disconcerting.

Clustered about Dante—­or, rather, hanging on him—­was a collection of attractive women. Other Rogue Court nobles—­sylphs with hair and eyes a matching blue or green and large, translucent wings; a nymph with dark brown skin and hair the color of leaves; a nixie with a bluish tint to her white skin; and several tall elves, all of whom could make supermodels feel inferior—­sat in the chairs and love seats scattered about. Brendan saw a half dozen oíche in a far corner, and he noticed them noticing him.

Of course, the glamour kept the mortal women hanging on Dante from seeing the radiant eyes, pointed ears, and wings around them, or, in the case of the oíche, black eyes, pointy ears, and sharp teeth.

After a deep breath, Brendan started to walk toward Dante. One of the oíche boys gave him a dirty look, then got to his feet and blocked his path.

“What the hell do you want, Fian?” the boy asked with a sneer.

Brendan was almost two feet taller than the oíche, so he stared at Dante over the faerie's head, hoping Dante would look up. The women around him seemed to have his undivided consideration.

“Hey, I'm talking to you!”

“Step aside, Justin,” Brendan said. “I've something to discuss with your man over there, and it's no concern of yours.” He looked down. “Not yet anyway.”

“Well, I'm making it my concern right now. You're not welcome here,
díbeartach
.” Justin spat the last word out.

Brendan clenched his fists and drew in a long, slow breath through his nose. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled. He wouldn't let them manipulate him, not again. The time for reckoning would come. He'd waited this long for his revenge, he could wait a little longer, especially with a mortal child at risk. Of course, in the meantime, he could play this game as well.

He opened his eyes and smiled down at Justin. “I ran into some friends of yours tonight. Afraid the girl won't be home for tea.”

Justin's lips twitched. “You dare to strike down nobles of the Rogue Court?”

“Only those what accost an innocent mortal—­”

“And you know for certain we didn't have an agreement with her?”

“Never said she was a
cailín,
did I?”

Justin's eyes widened for just a moment.

“Now, I got legitimate business with the magister. Are you going to let me by, or would you rather raise a bit of hell?”

“Make your move.” Justin leaned in and whispered, “
Díbeartach
.”

Brendan ground his teeth.

Do it, rip him apart. Let me loose here and now. We can get the lot of them. You know you want to.

Brendan focused and pushed the rage back down.

“Step aside.” Brendan paused for a moment, then added, “Justarisheeth.”

Justin flinched as if he'd been slapped, then froze in place. The soulless black eyes glazed over and his mouth twitched. The muscles in his arms and neck flexed and shook. Then, slowly, fighting it the whole time, Justin stepped to one side.

“That's a good little fella.” Brendan patted him on the head.

“We're . . . not . . . finished,” Justin said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, now you're making me sweet promises.” Brendan shouldered past Justin so hard it knocked him to the ground. “Careful there. And here I thought your kind was supposed to be graceful like.”

Brendan stood in front of Dante, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence, and kept one eye on the other oíche. They were helping Justin to his feet and watching Brendan as closely as he watched them.

“So then he ordered a virgin martini,” Dante said, finishing his joke.

The girls around him giggled.

Brendan rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

As the laughter faded, the girls looked at Brendan, then away. They seemed convinced that if they ignored him, he'd disappear.

“The prodigal Fian returns,” Dante said without taking his eyes from the buxom brunette to his right. “Do tell, what brings our wayward
Seanchaí
back to Boston?”

“I need a word with you, Dante.” Brendan looked at the collection of women. “Alone, if you don't mind. It's important.”

The women gave Brendan looks that were equal parts derision and dismissal, then leaned back against the couch.

“Well, I'd imagine it must be.” Dante flashed a bright white smile at Brendan. “I don't imagine you'd reappear, completely out of the blue, after”—­he looked away, then back—­“my, how many years has it been?”

“Dante—­”

“Then you crash my club,” Dante continued, unfazed, “and no doubt knock out my security man. It can't be all for something minor.”

“I didn't knock him out. He's fully conscious, though he might be having a bit of trouble breathing.”

Dante stroked the brunette girl's cheek. “You left, after I did everything you asked. You left without even saying good-­bye, and never felt the need to drop in during any of your ‘clandestine' visits.”

Brendan looked away. “Look, I'm sorry about that—­”

“As you can see, I'm very busy just now. What makes you think I'll find it as important—­”

“Stolen child.” Brendan punctuated each word.

For a heartbeat, Dante didn't blink, move, or even breathe. When the moment passed, he closed his mouth and drew a sharp breath in through his nose.

“Ladies,” he said, smile returning. “Would you be so kind as to give my old friend and me a moment? Why not head downstairs and have another drink. On the house, of course.”

The women pouted, flashed Brendan suspicious and scathing looks, then got up.

Brendan stepped aside so they could pass. “Mind the big fella what's a shade of blue on the other side of the door.”

Dante watched with a pained look as the girls vanished down the stairs.

“You know the one in the red dress is a fella, right?”

Dante arched an eyebrow and took a sip of his drink.

“Bleeding faerie,” Brendan muttered under his breath.

“You still have all the charm and subtlety of a hydrogen bomb.” Dante turned to Brendan and smiled. “Oh, and it's nice to see you again. How have you been?”

“Aye, I was a right and proper ass, but bloody hell, man, could we do this later?”

Dante motioned for Brendan to sit as he took another drink. “All right then. Tell me what happened.”

“A ­couple of your lot attacked a mortal girl in Manchester. They broke the hearth protections, and they took her daughter.”