So Very Unfae Page 4

  We moved quickly around the room. There was an open suitcase with a couple of changes of clothes inside, a comb on the dresser, and some shower gel and deodorant in the bathroom. It was a quick, easy tidy-up – or it would have been, had I not tripped on my way out of the bathroom.

  ‘Criminy!’ I cried, sitting up and untangling myself from the offending trip-item. It was a long gold chain, with the ugliest green pendant in the world on it. ‘Oh my stars!’ I shuddered. ‘This is truly awful.’

  Dylan gave me a wry grin and held up his ring. ‘Actually, it’s what these used to look like before Lassie McGrath became the designer.’ He frowned. ‘Hang on. What’s this in his jeans pocket?’ He put down the jeans he’d been folding and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘It’s my address.’ Dylan swallowed. ‘Maybe I really did recognise him. You know, I think I might deliver these things to Mrs Martin in person. Ask her a probing question or two. Will you come with me, Miss Smith? She lives in Dublin, and you’re going there tomorrow anyway.’

  Criminy! This really was beginning to look like one of those intriguing investigations I was trying to avoid. But even as I went over all the reasons why I should tell Dylan a very definite no, I knew that I was going to give in. No matter how perfect I wanted this holiday to be, I couldn’t actually keep my nose out of anything so interesting. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But on one condition. You’re coming to Night and Gale with me in the morning.’

  Far more quickly than I expected, he nodded. ‘Fine. But you should come by the lighthouse so you can finger-click us there. And also because, well … I really want you to see the tree.’

  ≈

  ‘It’s em … it’s …’

  ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I put too much on it, didn’t I?’

  It was early the following morning – pre-dawn, in fact – and I had dropped by the lighthouse to pick Dylan up. I was desperately trying to get his coffee machine to give me some espresso while I stared at the tree. I could feel my entire face scrunch up as I wondered what to say. There was a little star on top, one string of white lights, and a lone piece of tinsel. ‘No. No, I don’t think that’s the problem. Tell you what – we’ll pick up some decorations in Dublin. We can put them on the tree together if you like.’

  ‘More decorations?’ he asked, performing some moves that made the espresso pour into my cup as if by magic (and he called himself unempowered). ‘Are you absolutely sure about that? Because Edward came to see it, and he said I’d gone way over the top. He said I was putting the weredogs to shame.’

  I took the cup from his hands and sipped. Like every cup of coffee that came out of this machine, it tasted divine. I’d get one for the Vander Inn if I could figure out how to work the thing. ‘And you didn’t detect a note of sarcasm when he said that?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  I downed the rest of my drink, shaking my head. ‘You are a truly fascinating man, Detective Quinn.’ I put my cup in the dishwasher and grabbed his gloved hand. ‘Hey, before we set off, just out of interest, do you have any particular feelings about spiders?’

  He spun his head in my direction. ‘Why?’

  Oh dear. ‘Never mind. Best to wait until we get there.’

  6. The Great Sumatran Muffin Eater

  After one or two stops along the way, we arrived in one of Night and Gale’s lower levels. We were far below the hospital in Healer’s Hollow, and it was more than a little bit damp down there. The only light in the area was the small Solas spell I’d sent hovering out in front of us. After scuffing my boots and walking into a few dozen cobwebs, we finally arrived at a large, wooden door, and I knocked eight times.

  Dylan held up the tin of baking soda. ‘Are you going to tell me why we had to stop off at the supermarket to get this, or am I going to have to guess?’

  I was about to reply when the door was wrenched open by a large, brownish-black hairy limb. ‘Aisling!’ A many-eyed creature peered around the door. ‘Did you remember the baking soda?’

  ‘Course I did, Mabel,’ I said, as she shuffled her eight legs aside to let us in.

  Dylan’s reaction was … well, it was a reaction. And it was one I couldn’t say I blamed him for, either. During my first encounter with Mabel, I’d almost vomited with fright.

  ‘You’re one of those Great Sumatrans,’ he said, holding the baking soda out like an offering. ‘What do you need this for?’

  Mabel grinned. Or at least I think she did. It was always hard to tell with her. I smiled back, anyway. I had long since learned that as long as everything went exactly her way, Mabel was quite a pleasant spider-woman.

  ‘I’ll need it for my next batch of muffins,’ she said. ‘Duh. And you’re almost right, puny man. I’m a distant relative of the Great Sumatrans. My kind are known as the Great Sumatran Muffin Eaters. And speaking of muffins, won’t you sit down and enjoy some with me?’

  Dylan pasted a smile on his face and, as Mabel scuttled towards her oven, he pulled me close and whispered, ‘Tell me they’re not made with flies.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I assured him. ‘Mabel only adds flies to her muffins on the eighth of each month. Isn’t that right, Mabel?’

  She (possibly) grinned again. ‘You have such a good memory, Aisling.’

  Of course I did. When it came to remembering what days not to visit this place, I was practically a genius.

  ‘Now,’ she continued. ‘I know you take your coffee black, Ash. I wouldn’t dare forget that. You can be a bit scary, if I’m honest.’

  While Dylan was busy smirking and nodding in agreement, she turned to him. ‘But what about you, Detective Quinn? How do you take yours? I can do you a latte, or an espresso. Ooh, I could even do you a nice cup of tea to go with your blueberry muffin, if you’d prefer.’

  ‘I …’ Dylan looked helplessly at me, the smirk falling from his face. ‘Well, the thing is, I’ve already had my breakfast. And we’re in a bit of a hurry.’

  I grabbed his hand, and pulled him towards Mabel’s groovy yellow table. Her whole kitchen had a sixties vibe, and today she had somehow managed to arrange the fuzz on top of her head into a beehive. I could see eight discarded high heels in the corner of the room, too. Mabel put on an apron (it said Kiss the Cook), and began to take some muffins from the cooling rack before arranging them on a large plate.

  ‘The thing is,’ I whispered to Dylan, ‘when you want to run a secret lab, the best way to do it – according to Florence, anyway – is in a Great Sumatran Muffin Eater’s lair. As long as you sit and have some muffins with her on the way in, she’ll protect your secret with … well, not with her life. Apparently she’ll stick anyone who isn’t supposed to be here in some sort of webby cocoon thingy but … needs must.’

  Dylan’s skin turned snow white, and he said, ‘Sure. Sure. Needs must.’

  ≈

  After a lovely snack with Mabel (we had to eat two muffins each) we were finally allowed to pass on through to the secret lab. As we walked in, Florence’s and Ronnie’s faces did not paint a happy picture.

  Florence was the head healer at Night and Gale, and Ronnie Wayfair was the Potions Professor at Crooked College, as well as a member of the Wayfarers. They were amazing women, and they were the best people possible when it came to working this out. So if they were worried, well, I was worried too.

  ‘Oh, dear goddess,’ said Dylan. ‘It’s gotten out, hasn’t it? Miriam’s gone and told some other prisoner that Ash’s blood took away her vampirism, and now the whole world knows.’

  ‘Whoa there, Mister Happy,’ said Ronnie Wayfair, settling down into a chair. The lab itself was spick and span, but every now and then a shadow crossed one of the many doorways. If those shadows belonged to a few more giant spiders, though, then I was determined to find them reassuring instead of terrifying.

  ‘Yeah, calm down,’ said Florence, with an unconvincing smile on her heart-shaped face. She had such a warm presence, I thought. Even though she was clearly about to give us bad news, I knew tha
t when she did it, she’d do it in the nicest way possible. ‘Everything’s good. It’s just … not as good as we hoped, that’s all.’

  The two women sat close together. ‘I knew it.’ Dylan shook his head. ‘I knew something was going to go wrong.’

  ‘Firstly,’ said Ronnie. ‘Miriam has not told anyone that Aisling’s blood cured her. So let’s just get that one out of the way before you have a conniption, Dylan. You need to be more positive. Has anyone ever told you that?’

  She ignored his scowl, and continued. ‘Miriam’s not telling anyone anything, as a matter of fact, seeing as she’s still insisting she is a vampire, and has taken to biting the staff at Witchfield to prove it. Luckily, her teeth aren’t quite as sharp as they used to be, but she’s in isolation nonetheless.’

  ‘Oh.’ I wasn’t sure whether to be happy about that or not. Yes, she was an evil vampire who had murdered many dayturners and almost murdered me. If anyone ought to be kept in isolation, it was her. But the season was making me far more soft-hearted than usual, and I couldn’t help but hope that they at least offered her some Christmas pudding. Sure, she’d probably throw it at them and demand a pudding filled with blood instead, but it was the thought that counted.

  ‘So what’s the bad news?’ prompted Dylan. ‘I know there’s bad news.’

  Ronnie ran a hand through her short, spiky hair, and kicked her booted feet up on the table. ‘Well, you already know this, really. Our trials have proven that fae blood – or Aisling’s blood, anyway – cures not just the dayturner virus, but the whole shebang. It’s not just bye-bye to the rash and fatal illness you dayturners will get if you go out into the darkness without protection. It’s bye-bye to every single aspect of being a vampire. We’ve tried to find a workaround, but there’s just no way.’

  ‘Yeah, but we expected that,’ said Dylan. ‘There’s more, isn’t there? There’s something else you’re avoiding telling us?’

  ‘Well … yes. The thing is, there’s no way to synthesise Aisling’s blood. We’ve tried but … there’s just no way. Fae magic is a little more mysterious than we’re used to, and it seems like it might be throwing up some defences. We can, however, dilute it a certain degree, and the cure still works.’ She looked at Florence. Ronnie didn’t seem like the sort of woman who would need help with delivering bad news, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that she wanted Florence to step in.

  The healer sighed. ‘Your blood, Ash … it’s a miracle. It’s the breakthrough we’ve been hoping for for years now. But the fae have washed their hands of everyone in the witch-controlled enclaves. I doubt they’re going to be lining up to donate blood anytime soon. Even asking them would be a risk – the more people who know about this, the more chance there is that it’ll get out. So the fact is, we won’t be able to cure everyone. We just won’t. We’ve discussed it, and we refuse to let you become a blood bag, Aisling. Even diluted, you don’t have enough blood in your body to treat everyone with the virus. Even if you did, it’s simply not your responsibility to cure this.’

  I sat back, thinking over what they’d said. They were right – it wasn’t my responsibility. But if I didn’t step up, then who would? They didn’t know it, but the sióga were trapped at the moment. They couldn’t donate blood even if they wanted to. Sure, I was desperately hoping that everyone would be free after Winter Solstice, but if that didn’t happen … well, the Púca were still free to come and go as they wanted. Maybe I could ask my grandmother to send some sióga blood over with them. Or perhaps she’d agree to giving me a little blood during my upcoming visit to her realm.

  Realising everyone was waiting for me to say something, I pushed my thoughts aside. ‘I get what you’re saying,’ I said. ‘Not my responsibility … too dangerous to ask me to donate enough blood to cure everyone … that information has been heard and understood. But just out of interest, how many people could one single fae person cure – if we were to be conservative about it and not turn them into a blood bag?’

  ‘We think ten people per week,’ Ronnie replied. ‘And as we all know, the dayturner virus is spreading a lot quicker than that.’

  ‘But we think we can work with that,’ added Florence. ‘We’ll continue to keep Ash’s involvement one hundred percent secret. We’ll say that it’s a difficult healing spell with rare ingredients, and that there’ll be a waiting list. As long as people remain careful in their turning practices – or better yet, heed the current advice and don’t try to become a vampire – then we might just be able to eradicate this within a decade or so. Assuming, of course, there’s no new mutation.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ronnie. ‘That’s all of it. We have no more news to impart, good, bad or indifferent. We’d like to start the first real trials on St Stephen’s Day, Dylan. And we’d like you to be the first person we inject with the cure. Are you in?’

  He squeezed my hand. ‘I’m afraid if I say no, Ash is going to secretly feed me some of her blood anyway, so yeah … yeah I’m in.’

  I smiled sweetly at him. ‘You know me so well, Detective Quinn.’

  7. An Average Man

  We sat at Eimear Martin’s kitchen table. She lived in a nice three-bedroomed semi, in a human suburb on the west side of Dublin. She’d insisted on making us tea and some turkey and ham sandwiches, to say thanks for dropping off her husband’s belongings. ‘It’s just I have so much food to get through,’ she said. ‘You know what it’s like. Someone dies, and everyone brings you food.’

  My eyes strayed towards the adjoining conservatory, a room that was filled with toys.

  ‘The twins are at my sister’s,’ she said, following my eyes. ‘They’re only two. Too young to be following me to our family solicitor and the funeral planner. Anyway.’ She pushed a plate of sandwiches our way. ‘Go on. Tuck in.’

  We politely picked up a sandwich each, and nibbled. Dylan waited until he’d taken a few bites before opening up the box of Stanley’s belongings. ‘Was it work or pleasure, then, if you don’t mind my asking? His trip to Riddler’s Edge, I mean.’

  Eimear brushed back her brown hair. ‘Work, as usual. Always off to strange places for that job of his. I looked Riddler’s Edge up after I spoke to you. Had trouble finding much mention of it. You can barely see it on the map.’

  ‘Yes, well it’s a small town,’ Dylan said. ‘Very small. Incredibly small.’

  I kept my expression as even as I could. Riddler’s Edge was far from small, once you took its many supernatural enclaves into account. The official population count, however, was only in the hundreds. When Dylan spoke to Eimear on the phone though, he’d gotten the impression that she was human. Given the area she lived, and the fact that she knew so little about Riddler’s Edge, he must have been right.

  ‘Never heard of most of the places he goes to,’ she continued. ‘Maybe they’re all small towns. I always imagined they’d be big, fancy towns and buildings, seeing as there always seems to be such an urgency about his work. I don’t know what they’re going to do when he doesn’t turn up for his next shift.’

  I quickly finished chewing and then asked, ‘They don’t know he’s passed?’

  ‘Well, it’s not as though I haven’t tried to tell them. Wholesome Holdings, they’re called. They own more businesses than you can count, Stanley says. He usually gets shunted around to a different place every week. No set starting time or finishing time. The boss likes to keep her minions on their toes, according to Stanley. Sounds like a right madam, so she does.’

  ‘Sounds like? So you’ve never met her?’ I asked. ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what she’s called, so I don’t. I’ve never met anyone at that place, and I can’t find a number for them anywhere.’

  ‘We found a mobile phone with Stanley’s belongings,’ said Dylan. ‘But the only phone number stored on it was for this house. Is there another phone, perhaps? A work one, maybe, that Wholesome Holdings used when they needed to contact him?’

  She shook her head help
lessly. ‘Nothing like that. He gets messages, not phone calls. Weird-looking folk come to our door, giving him little envelopes with instructions on where he’s working next.’ She let out a bark of laughter. ‘I might have thought he was into something dodgy if I didn’t know him as well as I do. But Stanley and dodgy dealings wouldn’t go very well together. He was an average man. That’s why I married him. He worked hard, provided well, loved me and his kids. What more could you ask for?’ She reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘Actually, you might find some of those notes in his wallet, now that I think of it. He often stuffed them in there. I know he’d get phone numbers for where he was working on the notes sometimes.’

  Dylan shook his head. ‘The only things in his wallet were a driving licence, a debit card and some cash. Nothing about his em … place of work.’ He pulled out a notebook, and I watched him scribble down Wholesome Holdings. When he’d finished, he pulled out the Pendant of Privilege and held it up. ‘Do you recognise this, Mrs Martin?’

  Her nose scrunched up. ‘That ugly thing. Of course I recognise that. Never left for work without it, so he didn’t. It was his … what do you call them things? … a key fob. It was his key fob. It let him into any building Wholesome Holdings sent him to.’ She took it from Dylan and stroked it fondly. ‘It’s funny, y’know. I used to think this was the ugliest thing ever created. But now … now I wish I could see my Stanley wearing it again. Because if he was wearing it, that’d mean he was off to work, and everything was just the same as it always was.’

  Dylan cringed a little, as he said, ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Martin, but I’ll have to ask for that key fob back. We’ll need it, you see. We’ll be able to analyse it and perhaps track down Wholesome Holdings. The name of that company sounds familiar to me. I believe they’re being investigated for fraud so … it would really help us out if we could keep the fob. And also, you know, we could inform them of Stanley’s passing on your behalf. It would save you the trouble.’