Hallow Point

  Her sharp exhalation was almost a hiss.

  “You wouldn’t dare! You can’t even be certain you could!”

  Real slow, real deliberate, I put both feet on the floor and stood, sword in one hand, wand in the other.

  “Try me.”

  I felt a sharp gust through the office, one that came outta nowhere, rustling papers and making the fan—turned off at the time—spin backwards. The lights in the office and the hallway flickered, couple of the bulbs even burst. I musta been closer to losing my cool than I thought.

  Maybe because, even after all this, I still wasn’t completely sure I had it in me to hurt her.

  But whatever else it mighta been, it was convincing. Ramona looked unsure for the first time, and she nodded slowly.

  “I represent a certain… political interest.”

  “Yeah, I got that much from City Hall.” I sat back down, but kept both hands—and their contents—real obvious. “Who?”

  “Someone who knows a good portion of what actually goes on in Chicago. Among other things, he’s a collector.”

  “A coll… He wants the Spear of Lugh as a trophy?”

  “Well, and to keep it from falling into anyone else’s hands, but essentially, yes.”

  “And the fact that he fits the profile—rich, powerful, and wise to some of what goes on outside the mortal world—of a bunch of other mugs who’ve kicked off lately? I’m sure that’s got nothin’ to do with him wanting some kinda leverage.”

  “That… concern might also have come up in passing,” she admitted. “Why, have you found a concrete connection? Proof the deaths were deliberate?”

  I ignored the question, as I still had too many of my own.

  “Who is he?” I asked again.

  She leaned forward, fists clenched.

  “No.”

  “Ramona…”

  “I can’t.”

  I started to stand again. Her fingers’d gone white.

  “Mick, I literally can’t, even if I wanted to. Enspell me, torture me, kill me. I can’t.”

  All right, that coulda been on the square. I could think of a couple different magics that would bind someone that way. I settled back down, and she visibly relaxed.

  “So the whole ‘terrified client’ routine was just about gettin’ an in with me?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. To start with, anyway. My boss is well informed, but he’s not privy to everything that goes on in your world. I wasn’t going to recover the spear on my own, and since infiltrating any of the official Court factions seemed a long shot at best…”

  “You decided I made the best patsy.”

  Her grin was almost sheepish.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t think you were good enough to have at least a chance of succeeding.”

  “Hey, surprise! It doesn’t. Why such a complicated yarn, then? Why not just some jealous boyfriend coming after you?”

  “Made it more likely to hook you. Kept your mind on me and kept us together long enough for me to work. Not as though I had complete power over you from the get-go.”

  No, just almost.

  “And you knew I’d be too busy to really dig into it, while the hunt was still on.”

  “Mick, listen.”

  She scooted her seat forward with a piercing scrape, reached out to take one of my hands, then I guess thought better of it when they clenched on the wand and rapier.

  “We can still help each other! Neither of us has the resources or numbers of the other factions, and we both know that the others are worse news than you or me. Work with me on this! When it’s all said and done, you and I can decide which of us gets the spear like reasonable, rational people. And it’d give us a chance to work out… other issues.”

  Hmm. Either she didn’t know I was in this on behalf of the Unseelie, however reluctantly, or she figured she could take the prize from me before I could deliver. (Hell, I kinda hoped she could, I still didn’t wanna turn it over to Queen Mob.)

  Or maybe she didn’t know about Fae oaths and figured I’d never go through with delivering.

  Or she wanted me to think she didn’t know, or didn’t think I’d go through with it…

  I was gettin’ dizzy all over again.

  “Right,” I said. “I’ll go right on ahead and trust you, ’cause you’ve proven yourself good as your word up until now. Horsefeathers, Ramona.”

  “I’m trying to help both of us, you idiot!”

  She actually sounded stung that I didn’t trust her. The hell does she get off being offended?

  “Nah. You’re tryin’ to help you.”

  She opened her yap again, and I raised a hand. Well, the wand, but it was in a hand.

  “I’ll tell you what, though. You’re right that we could both use each other’s resources. So here’s the skinny. You’re gonna have your mystery boss pull some strings for me. You get me what I need, we can feel our way from there.”

  “You don’t know who I work for. How do you know he can pull the strings you need?”

  My turn, now, to lean forward—glaring, unblinking, shoving everything but anger as far down as I could.

  “I don’t know. I hope. And Ramona? You want us both to walk outta here healthy, you better hope, too.”

  * * *

  “Hey, uh, Mick? Did you know your door frame’s busted?”

  Sigh. “C’mon in.”

  “Okay, but…”

  Wood slivers fell and hinges scraped as Pete pushed open the door—kinda a wooden curtain, now, really—and slipped inside, dodging splinters thrusting outta the frame.

  Sigh. Again. “Yes, Pete.”

  I’ve done that trick with locks before. Suck enough luck from ’em that something sensitive slips outta joint. Later, feed it back—plus some extra—and jiggle a key in it for a couple, and the bits fall back into place.

  I’d been pretty steamed with Ramona, though, and I sorta overdid it this time around. All the luck in the world ain’t gonna get bits and pieces and broken tumblers to defy gravity and jigsaw themselves back together. So when I’d needed her to step out into the hall and get her boss on the horn, well…

  “Yes,” I repeated. “I’m aware. I’ll get a carpenter and a locksmith in later. Unless you wanna fix it…?”

  Dressed in his wrinkled civvies—he’d just come off a late-night-to-late-morning beat—Pete smirked.

  “Pretty sure even if I had the know-how, right now I ain’t really got it in me to operate a tool more complicated than a pillow.”

  “So you’re down to, what, eighty percent capacity?” I asked.

  “Cute.”

  “I thought so.”

  I was still ensconced behind the desk, where I’d been playin’ statue. Pete offered Ramona a quick, appreciative glance, which she chewed up and spit back at him.

  She’d been slouched in her chair where I could keep tabs on her, and she wasn’t dealing with the stillness as gracefully as me. She’d told me, about forty minutes ago, while squirming uncomfortably in her seat, “I’m about ready to jump up and hop around the room screaming.”

  I’d told her to go ahead, it’d be a hoot. She’d decided against, and that was the last thing anybody’d said until Pete showed.

  Pete recoiled from Ramona’s obvious frustration, and then dropped a thin stack of papers and folders on my desk.

  “I dunno what kinda miracle you called in to pull this one off,” he said. “Six hours ago, orders from above were to not waste the piss it’d take to put you out if you were on fire. I thought I was half a step from losing my job. Now…”

  I tossed Ramona a quick glance; she returned a tight, satisfied smirk. It seemed her boss really did have an awful lot of strings he could pull, if he wanted.

  I really hadda figure out who this gink was, someday.

  What I told Pete was, “I still got connections. This everything?”

  “All of the last few nights—and be careful with ’em! I gotta g
et ’em back to Keenan in one piece! That other thing,” he continued, “ain’t ready yet. They were still waitin’ for the warrant to clear when I left the clubhouse. Shouldn’t be too long, though.” Then, in a lower grumble, “Judge Meadors woulda had it done by now.”

  “Thanks, Pete. This, the other night… I owe you.” I meant it, too.

  “I know,” he said.

  Ramona snickered.

  I started to flip through the files and reports, but something still ate at me.

  “Keenan gonna catch any federal heat over this?” I asked. Whoever my fetching “client” worked for, his pull probably didn’t reach higher’n the locals. And even if it did, it ain’t like Áebinn or Raighallan were really FBI.

  But, “Nah. Feds dusted outta there like their asses had gone cannibal, maybe an hour before the call came down that we should help you out after all. They musta gotten wind of something meaty.”

  Well how about that? Franky’d actually followed my instructions and come through. Least in part. I’d find out tonight if the rest had gone down as smooth.

  The blower rang, out in the hall, and Ramona popped up to go answer—in case it was her mystery boss, I guess, or maybe she just didn’t wanna rely on me telling her everything. (Sharp woman, if so. I’d shared basically the whole story up until now—she’d already known enough of it, anyway—but I had no intention of letting her in on any new information until it suited me.)

  I made gently with the pages—so Pete could return ’em in ace condition, sure, but also so the rustling and crinkling wouldn’t keep me from eavesdropping on Romana’s half of the phone call. Turned out that it wasn’t her boss, though.

  “Call’s for you,” I told Pete, not looking up. “She’ll be in here in two shakes to tell you—”

  “Call’s for you, Staten,” she said, breezing back through the doorway.

  Pete looked at me, looked at her, looked back at me, and headed out to pick up the horn.

  Me, I kept skimming. The files were a waste of my time, and I knew it; I’d mostly needed the warrant. But I wanted to check the blotter one last time, make absolutely sure I wasn’t missing something, that the redcaps really had been abnormally—almost ludicrously—inconspicuous. I finally had the germ of a working theory, and I didn’t want a surprise bloodbath spoiling it for me.

  Nothing. Nothing. Flipping pages punctuated the notes I was jotting down in my head. Probably nothing…

  I heard Ramona’s nails clicking against the seat of the chair.

  “Pete get calls on your payphone often?” she asked.

  I didn’t look up. Nothing…

  “That’s basically my office line, doll. If Pete told Keenan where he was off to…” That one might not be nothing; go back and double check…

  More nail-tapping.

  “What’re you doing?” she demanded.

  “I’m reading the files Pete brought.”

  “Well, yes, I can see that. I meant why?”

  “So I know what they say.”

  “Oooh, you…!” She groused herself into silence, then yanked out her pack of smokes. I’m surprised she even needed a lighter.

  I kept reading.

  Nothing. Maybe something. Nothing. Would seem to be something, but they caught the guy…

  The door-turned-flap wobbled again as Pete returned.

  “You were right,” he said, almost accusingly.

  “Yeah, well, I’m used to it.”

  His whole mug scrunched into a prune-ish glob of lines, but he kept on jawing.

  “It’ll be a bit before Detective Keenan can courier over the specifics, but he confirmed four separate deposits. Couple thousand berries each.”

  “Who are we talking—?” Ramona began.

  I held up a finger for quiet, which I think mighta actually burned clean off my hand if I’d been much closer to the fire in her scowl.

  “Swell. Uh, I need one more favor from you, pal,” I said to Pete.

  “Yeah, I’m used to it,” Pete parroted.

  “Nice.” I handed over a folded scrap of paper I’d scribbled on earlier. “I need this tip to reach Vince Scola, and it’s gotta go through channels he trusts. I figure, you know enough stoolies and snitches to—”

  “C’mon, Mick.” He looked pained, held the note with two fingers, as though maybe he figured on it biting him. “You know I don’t like you gettin’ mixed up with those guys.”

  I just stared, and even Ramona left off looking furious to look shocked.

  “Pete,” I said, “I got the Seelie Court looking to rub me out, the Unseelie Court using me as a puppet, Herne the Hunter and a whole mess of outsiders doing who-knows-what, all in aid of finding a prize that’s a legend even to people you think of as legendary. And you’re sore about me rubbing elbows with a few local wise guys?”

  “They’re trouble I can wrap my head around. And they’ll still be here in Chicago when this is all over.”

  All right, he had a point there, but…

  “I can dig that, but they’re already involved. You get this to them, it’ll be a big help in me gettin’ ’em uninvolved.”

  Grousing, Pete pocketed the note.

  “Get some shut-eye,” I said. “You’re gonna have a busy night.”

  I could literally see him decide not to ask. He said something or other in the way of farewell, and blew.

  “Now will you tell me—” Ramona began. And then, “You raise that finger to shush me one more time, Oberon, I may break it.”

  I shushed her with a different finger and made for the hallway.

  Didn’t head for the blower first, though. Nah, before that, I stopped in front of the stairwell door, giving the frame a good up-and-down.

  C’mon, redcaps are short bastards, where had he…? Ah!

  It was dried, flaky, near invisible against the wood grain, but it was still there from when Grangullie’d leaned back against the wall. I scraped a bit of the old blood off with a fingernail and rubbed it into powder between thumb and forefinger, trying not to think too hard about who it mighta belonged to before it’d been soaked up into the hat.

  All right, next step, upstairs for a few. I was gonna need a lotta luck, and since I didn’t wanna hurt anyone or bring down the roof, that meant a little bit of mojo from a whole bunch of passersby.

  And then, back downstairs. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Nuts. I hated this next part more’n collecting the blood.

  I picked up the receiver and tucked it between head and shoulder, working at ignoring the sudden drone of a hundred mosquitos in my ear canal. I put one finger on the blower, drew and aimed the L&G with the other hand, and pumped every last bit of good luck I could manage into the phone. I stood still for minutes, just feeding it, more’n more, until I was afraid any further manipulation would start to damage the hallway.

  Normally, even that wouldn’ta been enough, not with such long odds. But focusing it through Grangullie’s blood—well, the blood from his hat, which wasn’t his originally, but he’d staked a claim to it—should make all the difference.

  Also normally, I preferred to go through the operator, as that meant I hadda have that much less interaction with the friggin’ dingus. But somehow, I didn’t expect too many operators would be keen on being asked to connect to a random extension.

  So, wincing, I stuck my finger in the dial and chose numbers at whim.

  Line rang without answer long enough I was startin’ to worry it hadn’t worked, and then…

  “What?!” He sounded angrier that the horn had the temerity to ring than curious about who it was.

  He also sounded more irritable in general. Least I wasn’t the only one suffering with a phone to my ear.

  “Hi, Grannie. It’s Oberon.”

  “Ober… How the hell did you get this number?”

  “Wild guess.”

  “Wild—?”

  “Look, put Téimhneach on. I got a tip for him.”

  Grangullie’s tone went solicitous—well, solic
itous as redcaps get—right swift.

  “I can pass on any message you need, Oberon. What’s the story?”

  “The story is: once upon a time, put Téimhneach on the fucking phone, happily ever after, the end.”

  I know it’s hard to believe, but he got less solicitous again after that.

  “I ain’t some goddamn errand boy!”

  “Well, you know, you sort of are, if you really—”

  “Téimhneach ain’t available. Tell me whatcha need to tell him, and I’ll get it to him.”

  “I speak a lotta languages,” I said.

  “Uh, yeah? So?”

  “So in how many of ’em do you gotta hear ‘no’ before it penetrates?”

  The awful crunching I heard then turned out just to be the redcap’s teeth grinding, but I swear I thought he might be eating the phone.

  “I ain’t askin’ anymore, Oberon! You work for us, see?”

  “Yep. And you ain’t the boss. He is.”

  More grinding. I imagined this was how an angry cornmill might sound.

  “I got all day, Grangullie. And I ain’t the one you gotta answer to if Téimhneach misses his shot ’cause you couldn’t be bothered to fetch him.”

  The horn clattered loudly where he dropped it, and I could hear that grinding and a frustrated pounding both fading into the distance as he stomped away. I waited, receiver as far from my cheek as I could move it and still be sure of hearin’ if someone else picked up.

  Someone else picked up.

  “Forgive my other dog, Mr. Oberon,” Téimhneach said in that fake highfalutin tone that made me wanna pound on him until he could taste his spleen. “Seems you both need some disciplining.”

  “‘Other’ dog? What… Oh. Ha-ha.”

  “Indeed. What have you to tell me?”

  “You know Oak Woods?”

  A pause, there, probably while he decided if it was safe to admit any kinda ignorance in front of me.

  “I know what oak wood is, obviously…”

  “The cemetery, genius. Oak Woods Cemetery.”

  “Ah. I imagine I can locate it.”