I saw one of Áebinn’s guys pull a knife and throw. It passed clear between not one but three pairs of combatants, riding a stream of impossible luck. A sudden breeze caught it, tweaking its trajectory just enough so that it sank into the arm of a redcap it shouldn’t have come anywhere near. Even as the victim cried out, though, the thrower hit a muddy patch near the lake and wound up on his back in the grass—where another redcap gleefully jumped on him and started stompin’ his noggin into the dirt.
Aes sidhe spun and pivoted, parried and thrust.
Redcaps launched themselves at their enemy, cleavers or big, shark-intimidating teeth sinking into flesh and bone.
And around the periphery, the leaders circled. Raighallan had thrown himself into the scrap; but Áebinn on one side, Téimhneach and his hellish hound on the other, drifted in a constant orbit, attentions locked on one another.
More Fae were still driftin’ into the cemetery, more outsiders to the Windy City. I saw a couple aes sidhe I didn’t know from Adam; a ghillie dhu, who may or may not’ve been Mow, skulked through the grasses; flitting will-o’-the-wisps tried to lead victims from both factions astray. There was a headless dullahan dressed not as a traditional rider in black, as Eudeagh’s were, but instead as a Great War doughboy, complete with coat and pouches and a really long rifle; there was even a huldra, the flesh of her back split wide to show off the wood-lined hollow within. Hadn’t seen one of them in the New World—on the mortal side of things, I mean—since the American Revolution. Apart from the will-o’-the-wisps none of ’em were throwing in yet, they just stood back and enjoyed the show. But it was just a matter of time before someone or something dragged ’em into the ruckus.
And, for that matter, only a matter of time until we drew the attention of everyone within a mile of Oak Woods. So far it’d been fairly quiet—you know, far as small-scale supernatural warfare goes. Not too many shots, no big explosions. We’d be getting one or the other soon enough, though, and even if we didn’t, there was plenty of screaming, real and illusory.
As if she’d read my mind, Ramona asked, “Shouldn’t we stop this?” No more whispering—she was still right up beside me, but felt the need to shout. To be fair, that’s probably what it woulda taken for a human to catch her gist.
Thing is, I didn’t think I could stop it anymore. My own magics are useful enough, but they don’t lean toward the flashy. I thought about askin’ Pete to squeeze a few slugs into the air, but somehow I didn’t figure more shooting was gonna stand out in any useful way. Wasn’t real probable I could get everyone’s attention, then. I knew someone who maybe could, though, and while I hadn’t spotted him anywhere, no way was I gonna believe he wasn’t lurking, watching.
“Minute of your time, Herne?” I asked loudly. My old friend was used to not understanding what I was up to, but Ramona thought I’d lost my mind. I puzzled that out partly ’cause of her expression, but mostly because she’d muttered, “He’s lost his mind.” I probably wasn’t meant to have heard that.
For a long spell there was nothing, until I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d figured the guy wrong. If even his ears couldn’t hear me past the hubbub, or if somehow he really wasn’t around at all.
Then something landed atop the mausoleum right behind me.
Pete’s jaw dropped wide enough to catch bowling balls without losing a molar, and Ramona squeaked and near fell off the roof.
“I admit,” Herne rumbled in that six-cylinder voice, “that even I grow weary of the smell of bloodshed. What do you want, Oberon? I would have thought you’d be content to sit back and watch the proceedings.”
“Under other circumstances, maybe. Nix on tonight, though. Can you stop this?”
“Hmm.” Herne stroked his chin, then shrugged. “Perhaps. But why would I want to? This ought to thin out the competition quite nicely.”
“Yeah, you’d think so. You tail one of the other factions here, or did you hear a rumor on your own?”
“I tracked the bagienniks, who were trailing the Seelie. Why?”
“Just wondering if you thought it hinky that everyone got the same intel about tonight.”
Then, when he was still mulling that over, I whispered a real brief summary of what I had planned for tonight—and why.
Which resulted in me being violently turned around by a big honkin’ meathook wrapped around my neck, while Herne’s other hand held his spear nice and steady about a knuckle’s width from my mug.
“You’re a liar!” he accused.
I could just see Pete skinning leather and aiming at the Hunter. Either Herne missed it or ignored it; either way was better for Pete.
“Frequently,” I croaked. “But not about this. You think I’d have gone through the hassle of getting everyone here if I wasn’t sure?”
“You might, if you believed you had an advantage or an angle.”
But he’d relaxed his grip, and while the spear remained in one tight fist, it was no longer aimed directly at anyone. By which I mean me.
“Very well,” he said finally. “But speak convincingly, Oberon.”
“Thanks, Herne. Any other tips while you’re at it?”
“Yes. Learn to shut up.”
“But if I shut up, how can I speak convinc—?”
The Hunter took one look at the tableau below, hefted his spear, and threw—almost straight up. It climbed, higher, higher, until it was lost in the dark of night. It reappeared a moment later, falling far quicker’n gravity could account for, and plunged directly into the middle of the fight.
Same time it hit, Herne let loose with a deafening howl—like a wolf, times eleven. It damn near drove me off the roof of the mausoleum; got no idea how the other two handled it. Between the scream and the spear, though…
Yeah, Herne’d gotten their attention all right.
I noticed a few of ’em stopped to study the spear up close before turning away, and I figured they were goin’ through the same train of thought I had when the thing’d been chucked my way the other night. “Is this…? No, just a normal spear.” Or, well, relatively normal.
“Thanks,” I said.
Herne grunted. “Convincing,” he reminded me. He then hopped down to retrieve his spear and took up a spot at the edge of the crowd. If he even noticed the angry looks cast his way, he sure didn’t show it.
“Guess I’m up,” I said to nobody in particular. Everyone was here, now, anyway. (Well, no sign of Sealgaire, but I didn’t imagine there would be unless he wanted there to be.) I stepped nearer the roof’s edge, where I was sure everyone could get a solid slant on me. And then…
All right. I shouldn’t have. Couldn’t help it.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen! Lend me your ears!”
If you’re up on your ancient Celtic history, you might get why some of the Fae might find that particularly offensive. I’d say that wasn’t deliberate on my part, but neither of us’d believe it.
“Oberon!” Was more’n a few voices remarking on me being, well, me. And it was more’n a few that went on to grumble or complain, but it was Raighallan who shouted, “Is this a game to you? We don’t have time for your foolishness!”
“Lemme guess!” I called back. “You’re all here on secret tips that more or less amounted to ‘If you want the spear, you better be here tonight.’ Yeah?”
“It would appear our information isn’t as exclusive as we might have hoped,” Áebinn sneered.
“Well, no. I hadda make sure word’d reach all of you, didn’t I?”
I stood back’n smirked while I let them figure that out.
“You?” I don’t even know who it was, that time. “You brought us here?”
“More invited you, but—”
“What trickery is this, Oberon?” Téimhneach demanded, practically spitting in rage.
“No trickery. I said if you wanted the spear, you oughta be here. And you should. I figured it out, see?”
“And why the hell would you share that with the rest of us??
?? one of the foreigners asked.
“Well, if you dumb bunnies would stop interrupting with all the fool questions and just listen up for a minute, I might actually be able to explain a thing or two!”
More grumbling, and a few folks of various factions started to walk away, tried to talk their pals into going with, but most were too curious to turn around now.
Good thing, too, ’cause this city wasn’t gonna be able to stand too many more nights of an absolutely fruitless scavenger hunt.
“Áebinn? Catch!”
I whipped a plain brown envelope out from inside my coat.
She caught it neatly in mid-spin. Then she paused just long enough to make it clear she was openin’ it of her own accord, not ’cause I wanted her to.
Jesus.
She removed the torn squares of newspaper like they made her wanna wash her hands.
“What are these, Oberon?” she asked.
“Obituaries. From newspapers over the last month or so.” Trackin’ ’em down and cuttin’ ’em out had been one of my errands during the day. I didn’t think she’d believe me if I just told her.
“And I care about this why?”
“Recognize any of the names? If not, I’m sure you know at least one person back home who knows each and every one of ’em.”
She finally looked, really looked—which was a truly peculiar thing to see, given her whole “empty sockets” thing. I won’t say she got flustered; I don’t think Áebinn does flustered. But certainly taken aback.
“This can’t be. We would have noticed!” she said.
“Sure would’ve, doll. If you weren’t busy with something else.”
While I let that sink in, let her own gears start grinding, I addressed the others.
“Some’a you ain’t from around here,” I said. “I go by Mick Oberon. Yes, we’re related; third cousin on my mother’s side. Here in the mortal world, I’m a gumshoe—and a good one, no matter what a few of my buddies here would rather believe.”
A few scoffs and snorts from the Seelie, but no outright denials.
“And lemme tell you what I’ve puzzled out about this whole damn circus: It’s a whole load of malarkey. Horsefeathers, the whole kit’n caboodle.”
Now I had their attention. Swear I actually felt the air pressure drop as damn near everyone present inhaled and opened their traps to start flinging questions.
I beat ’em to it.
“How many of you’ve come across lingering traces of magic? Signs that Gáe Assail’d been around, but not anymore?” Then, as everyone worked to catch up, “C’mon, it ain’t as though telling me that’s gonna give anything away.”
Herne spoke first. “I have. On several occasions.” I’d known he had, since there’d been traces in the building where we’d had our second face-to-face, but it was handy knowing there’d been others.
Slow at first, but then quicker, others answered. A lotta them still refused, but it was pretty clear each faction had run across a couple.
So I went on.
“Yeah. Me, too. Thing is, they were both exactly the same intensity. Any of yours different?”
Whispering, muttering.
“The point being what?” one of the foreign aes sidhe demanded.
“The point being,” I answered, scuffing a foot across the stone as I stepped right to the edge, “if the glamour that was veiling the spear from all of us was breakin’ down, some of those traces shoulda been weaker’n others. Just a nip at first, then more as the spell unraveled.”
“You seek complications where none exist.” Áebinn, snooty and dismissive as ever; I’d gotten her suspicions roused, but obviously I hadn’t worked her around to “benefit of the doubt” yet. She wasn’t shouting, didn’t even really speak up, but her voice carried. Banshee, and all. “So the spell isn’t disintegrating; it simply was never strong enough to entirely hide the spear. The power leaking through remains constant. You’re a fool.”
“Oh, gee-golly, officer, why didn’t I think of that? How about, oh, I dunno, because there was no such trace at the museum itself? If the hole in the veil was constant, as opposed to slowly comin’ undone, there shoulda been, savvy?”
Some of the mutters were sounding troubled, now.
“You could have missed it,” Áebinn grumbled, but that was the downside of pipes like hers. I could hear the doubt creeping back, however she tried to swallow it.
“Don’t take my word for it. Herne?”
The Hunter frowned so hard I thought his antlers might slide down his face.
“No. Nothing. I hadn’t put it together…”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You usually hunt different kinda game’n me.”
Not that the big galoot’s feelings mattered much to me, but there was still that whole “I’ll kill you when this is over” thing I hadda talk him out of. No sense making it any tougher on myself.
Téimhneach spoke, which actually kinda surprised me. I’d figured him to stay dormy until I got to the best part.
“What are you suggesting, Oberon?”
“The whole trail was too straight. Too pat. Manetti, Rosen, Clanton…” Some of ’em looked confused, so I took a moment to explain the path I’d followed. “Exactly the sortsa people you’d need for a racket like this, all conveniently bumped off, all leading me to the next, but never to any real answers. Between that’n the fake traces of magic—and let’s be real clear, if we’ve ruled out either a weak veil or a fading one, they almost gotta be fake—what we got left is a hell of a wild goose. Someone wanted to keep us busy, running around in a tizzy digging for a prize that was never here!”
I couldn’t say much else for a while, or even shout much else, since the whole crowd was yelling and yapping like a bunch of gossiping Chihuahuas. Guess I couldn’t much blame ’em for not believing; I hadn’t wanted to believe. Hell, if you remember, I’d stumbled across the answer a couple different times during my musings about this whole fiasco, and rejected it.
It was only when Herne hefted his spear and demanded silence in the voice of an earthquake with a hangover that the hubbub quieted.
Mostly.
Raighallan, my absolute favorite aes sidhe in the whole world, kept right on yapping.
“This is sheer idiocy!” He couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to glare at me or address everyone around him. Ultimately, he settled on a burning glare. “How stupid do you think we are, Oberon? How gullible?”
He really didn’t want me to answer that first part. As to the second…
“I don’t think you’re gullible at all,” I lied.
“Did you think we wouldn’t see through you? This is an attempt—and a pathetic one!—to trick the rest of us into giving up so you can find Ahreadbhar for yourself!”
I didn’t bother trying to correct that particular wrongheaded idea. Even if he’d believe a word when I said I didn’t want the damn thing, figured this wasn’t the time to try and explain the specifics of my particular rock and hard place.
What I said instead was, “All right, Raighallan. You’re so positive the Spear of Lugh’s in Chicago? Why don’tcha tell us all why?”
Bastard opened his trap… And stopped.
“Rumor, right?” I asked.
“Well…”
“Guessing it was rumor dragged all of you here?” To the chorus of reluctant nods, “Rumors that coulda been planted by just about anyone? Course you’re none of you jingle-brained. Wouldn’t have believed rumor alone, right? Woulda blown into town, dug around some, and split. Except…”
Áebinn sounded as though she’d rather gargle molten iron that speak up, but give her credit; once she saw it for what it was, she didn’t let her dislike of me stop her.
“Except we found everyone else had also heard the rumors, and we all stumbled across traces of some occult power throughout Chicago,” she said.
“Bingo. So tell me. Raighallan, have you—have any of you—found one shred of evidence that the spear’s even here, other’n rumo
r and a fake lingering aura?”
“You still ain’t proved it’s fake!” someone shouted from the crowd. “You’re just supposin’!” A few murmurs of agreement followed, but they weren’t too sure of ’emselves. I’d gotten everyone pondering, and they weren’t happy with what they were coming up with.
“The curator!” Raighallan grinned all triumphant, mouth stretching beyond human. “The man saw the spear when someone tried to hide it in the museum!”
I’d known someone was gonna bring that up, but I can’t pretend I wasn’t extra glad it was him.
“You’re talkin’ about the break-in at the Field?”
“Of course I’m talking about—”
“The break-in that was perfectly timed to reinvigorate everyone’s hunt, shore up those rumors, when a heap of you were startin’ to give up on the whole shebang? Hell, it’s almost as if someone was afraid you’d take your peepers off the prize and start payin’ attention to somethin’ else.”
Murmurs were growin’ even less happy.
“The human saw it,” Raiggy insisted again.
“‘The human,’” I said. “You mean Morton Lydecker? Assistant Curator. Older guy, looks like a brush?”
I could taste his frustration so bad I wanted to brush my teeth.
“You know damn well who I mean!”
“The same Morton Lydecker who’s recently been paid close to ten thousand checkers from some secret admirer?”
Dead silence.
“Áebinn, I know the cops think you’re a Prohibition agent. Feel free to check in with ’em, if you figure I ain’t bein’ square with you. It was all on the up-and-up. Got a warrant and everything.”
I looked and smiled sidelong at Ramona, who was just sorta dazed at the whole thing.
“Thank your boss for me again, wouldja?” I said to her.
“Very well, Oberon.” Herne took a single step, and the murmurings that’d been building again died out. “You make a compelling case. Nothing you offer is proof, but there’s certainly sufficient…” He paused, groping for a word.
“We call it ‘circumstantial evidence,’” Áebinn told him. He jerked her a nod in thanks.