After the War: A Novella of the Golden City (12 page)

“I’m having trouble,” Joaquim said. “I get a brief glimpse of her, but nothing more. That tells me she’s being hidden.”

“Hidden?” Miguel asked, rubbing a weary hand down his face. “How?”

“According to Markovich
—
the Englishman,” Alejandro explained for Miguel’s sake, “our Irish associate is half fairy.”

“So he can cast a glamour around her?” Miguel asked. “Like Mrs. Gaspar does?”

Gaspar, sitting across from them, held onto the hand strap as the coach made a turn. “That’s my guess. If Joaquim is sensing her at all, that means either Phillips doesn’t control his glamour as well as he’d like, or . . .”

“Who is Phillips?” Miguel asked, massaging his forehead now.

“The Irishman,” Alejandro said.

Miguel shook his head and then grimaced. “Wait, is this still the story with the diamonds? With the Irishman and the Russian?”

In the evening light that filtered into the cab, Gaspar fixed Miguel with an intense gaze. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s read that story, Uncle,” Alejandro said.

“I used to read through Jandro’s stories for him,” Miguel said waving one hand as he spoke. “Edit them. I still have a bunch of his older ones in my files.”

Gaspar’s brows rose. “The story I read didn’t mention an Irishman.”

Alejandro puzzled at that.

“There wasn’t an Irishman,” Joaquim agreed. “Not in what we read.”

Miguel groaned. “No, it’s the version Jandro left with me. He made changes to it and left the most recent version with me before he went to Angola. I have that notebook . . . somewhere.”

The driver made another sharp turn. His stomach lurching, Alejandro asked, “Where are we going?”

“Matosinhos,” Joaquim said. “When I do get a flash of Serafina’s location, it’s in that direction.”

“And combined with Rafael’s encountering a fairy seeming there this morning, I suspect that’s where our half-fairy is.”

Alejandro wondered if he’d missed something or if he was just drunk. “A fairy seeming?”

“It looked like a spell circle, so someone sent for the Special Police. That’s what Rafael was off doing while you were with Markovich this morning. It was a diversion, I suspect, or a way to see who would respond.”

Alejandro shook his head. He’d wanted to talk to Rafael, but he hadn’t been at the police station. Had that only been this morning?

“The seeming was already fading away by the time Rafael got there, but he had a feeling about that place,” Joaquim went on. “He’s currently gathering up Markovich. They’ll meet us there.”

Alejandro hoped he didn’t cast up his lunch on the way. Between what Markovich had done to him, the coach’s rattling over the cobbles, too much wine on an empty stomach
—
and worry
—
he was queasy. What was happening to his wife right now? Had Phillips hurt her? He pressed the back of his fist to his mouth.

“Have faith,” Gaspar said. “He needs her to negotiate for the stones.”

“I don’t have his damned diamonds,” Alejandro pointed out. “And I don’t have any idea how to get them back.”

“You mailed them to the Holy Sisters,” Miguel said, eyes squinted shut. “In . . . some town that had beer.”

“Every town has beer,” Gaspar said.

Joaquim turned a sharp gaze on Miguel. “Is that in the version you read, Miguel?”

Miguel was thinking hard, mouth pressed into a grim line. “João gave them to the mail-girl to post, then warned her to leave Armentières immediately because the Germans were about to invade. She wrote the address on the package because João didn’t know it . . .”

João was the name of the main character in that story, Alejandro recalled. The name he’d taken after leaving France.

“Popper . . .
something . . .
was the name of the town,” Miguel added.

“Poperinge?” Gaspar asked.

“That’s it,” Miguel said and snapped his fingers. “The Church of Saint John, for the war orphans.”

An orphanage
. He’d sent the diamonds to a church orphanage.

Alejandro crossed himself as a thousand pounds of guilt lifted from his shoulders. It didn’t help him to get Serafina back, but he silently begged God to be merciful because Old Alejandro had
tried
to make something good out of a bad situation.

Did I know before that Serafina would be taken as a result of my actions? That she would be endangered?
Surely if he’d foreknown that, Old Alejandro wouldn’t have chosen this path.

But it didn’t matter what Old Alejandro had known . . . only what
he
was going to do now. Alejandro opened his eyes. “Did Rafael say anything? About whether we’ll get her back safely?”

Miguel hit Alejandro’s leg with a fist. “Don’t tempt fate.”

“I need to know,” Alejandro hissed at him.

“Rafael said it wasn’t up to us,” Joaquim said softly, “so he couldn’t answer.”

Alejandro blinked at his older brother, appalled. “What does that mean?”

“Serafina has to save herself,” Joaquim said. “If she doesn’t keep herself together, we won’t be in time to help.”

Alejandro managed to shove the blind aside before retching out the coach’s window.

Saturday, 26 June 1920

T
HE LAST REMNANTS
of the fake spell circle could still be seen in the light of the setting sun, overlaid like a shimmering mirage atop the chevron-patterned paving stones of the square. Only a fine tracery now, earlier it would have been bright and alarming. The square lay in front of the magnificent baroque church of Bom Jesus; it was no small wonder that the priests had been offended when they found it. This was what had drawn Rafael away from the police station this morning, when Alejandro had wanted to talk to him.

Alejandro stood there with a terrible taste in his mouth. He wanted to pace, to work off some of his worry, but he felt queasy. Miguel didn’t look much better. He leaned heavily on his cane, his narrow face pale. Neither of them was drunk any longer.

“Where do we go from here?” Alejandro asked Joaquim and Gaspar.

“I’m going to go sit on the bench,” Joaquim answered. “I don’t have a feel for her right now, but if I could concentrate, I might be able to pinpoint her the moment he lets his glamour loosen.”

And that’s our best hope?
Alejandro surveyed the church. Phillips wouldn’t have gone there, not if he was part fairy. They loathed holy ground. They hated moving water, which eliminated the banks of the Leça and the port. Everything around the Douro River as well. How much fairy blood did Phillips have?

Gaspar turned on Miguel. “If you read that version of the story, you’re our best hope for remembering whether Jandro wrote all this down at some point. Think, man.”

Suddenly put on the spot, Miguel frowned, eyes focusing inward. “I . . .”

A carriage pulled into the square at a quick clip. As it rolled to a stop, Rafael Pinheiro opened the door and jumped down without opening out the steps. Markovich followed at a slower pace, expression discontented. The swelling across his jaw had darkened to a livid blue in a few spots, a sign of how hard Roberto had hit him.

“Is that the Russian?” Miguel asked.

“He’s English, but of Russian descent,” Alejandro supplied.

“Hmmm.” Miguel shook his head. “He has to be here.”

Rafael approached the three of them standing near the spell circle, Markovich trailing him. “Miguel, what are you doing here?”

“Alejandro gave me a version of this story to edit, Father,” Miguel said. “So I remember more than he does. I . . . I
know
more, so I’m here.”

Rafael let out a colorful curse. “I should have asked myself about that. So what are we waiting for, Gaspar?”

“Joaquim is trying to get a feel for where Serafina is,” Gaspar answered, then turned to Markovich. “What can you tell us about Phillips?”

“Not much,” Markovich said.

“Not good enough,” Gaspar responded. “You work for the English government, and he’s an Irish separatist. They have to be gathering information on him. Given the threat he poses to you, I’m sure they kept you apprised.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know,” Markovich said.

“The maledictor has to be here,” Rafael said. “But I don’t think he has any information. Son?”

He’d looked to Miguel as he said that.

Miguel closed his eyes, mumbling, “Story with a fairy . . . and a girl . . . and . . . I’m not sure what to say.”

Alejandro wanted to shake Miguel for being so unhelpful. “What do you
mean
by that?”

Roberto returned to the square just then, a paper sack clutched in one hand. “Bread,” he told Alejandro, holding out the bag. “You’ll feel better if you get something into your stomach.”

Ah, that was where Roberto went
. The young man had been talking to Miguel, and then wandered off. Alejandro gave Roberto a heartfelt thanks and opened the bag. It held a loaf of sweet bread. His mouth began watering, and he reached to pull it out.

“Don’t eat that,” Miguel warned him. “We’ll need that later.”

“What is it, Miguel?”

“He’s made a portal,” Miguel said. “He’ll threaten to throw his hostage through it. We need the bread for . . . for the fairy.”

That
hostage
was Serafina. Why was Miguel being so coy about what he remembered? Alejandro folded the top of the bag closed. “What do we do then?”

“We have to find the portal,” Miguel said. “He’ll be there, waiting for us.”

Gaspar stepped away from them and began sniffing the air.

“And how are we supposed to find it?” Alejandro asked.

“A fairy portal?” Markovich sneered. “Wait. You actually believe in these fairy stories?”

Halfway across the square to the church now, Gaspar stopped and said, “My wife is half fairy, son. We don’t have to believe. We
know
.”

Markovich surveyed the men gathered around him, mouth agape. “You’re serious? All of you?”

“If you grow up knowing they exist,” Miguel told him calmly, “there’s nothing strange about it. Everyone believes sereia exist. Why should fairies be any different?”

Markovich gazed at Miguel with disbelief. “Who are you?”

“My son,” Rafael inserted, giving Markovich a warning thump on his back.

Gaspar had returned to sniffing the air.

“Miguel, do you recall where the portal was supposed to be?” Joaquim asked then. “I’m not having any luck finding her.”

“I don’t, sir,” Miguel said.

Alejandro scowled. Miguel had picked a terrible tidbit not to remember. He wanted to scream with frustration, but held it in. If he had his own gift, perhaps he would already be at Serafina’s side. He couldn’t blame Miguel.

Inspector Gaspar stood at one corner of the square now, head tilted back. Alejandro started toward him, hoping that Gaspar knew
something
. “Can you smell the portal, sir?”

“I’ll need to get farther away from the remnants in the square,” Gaspar said, “but I think this is the direction to go.”

Alejandro went to join him, Joaquim and the others following, but Gaspar waved them back. “I need you to keep your distance. Especially you, Markovich. Your smells confuse the air.”

Alejandro stopped where he was. Joaquim limped to stand next to him, the others spreading out about them.

“What is that man doing?” Markovich asked peevishly.

Joaquim sighed. “You are looking at the
meter
, son. You are seeing a magic so rare that God chose to give the world only one. He makes you look commonplace.”

Apparently swayed by Joaquim’s reverent tone, Markovich made his next comment softer. “He’s a meter?”

“No,” Joaquim said. “He’s
the
meter. The only one.”

“There have been meters before,” Markovich objected.

“And they have all been
him,
” Joaquim said softly.

Markovich gave Joaquim a disbelieving look. “You can’t be serious. He’s sniffing the air like a dog.”

“Because he smells magic. I assume fairy magic has a different smell than human magic.”

Gaspar had begun to walk along the sidewalk into the town
—
toward the Leça River. Alejandro followed, not interested in the academic discussion of Gaspar’s abilities. Miguel limped at his side, unusually quiet, with Roberto on the other side. Alejandro noted that Miguel’s limp was growing more marked. His lips were pressed in a thin line. “Will you make it there, Miguel?”

“If I have to crawl,” Miguel snapped.

“You’ll make it there,” Roberto promised. “I’ll see to it.”

Gaspar turned down a side street, heading directly for what appeared to be a stable, and Alejandro
knew
that was the place. He ran across the cobbled courtyard, passing Gaspar and reaching the doors before any of the others.

“Careful!” Miguel yelled.

Alejandro flung the doors open, looking for Serafina. Instead, he saw a dozen carriage horses milling about inside. They wheeled about and ran straight at him to escape the stable.

Alejandro dove out of the way. He hit the wet cobbles of the stable’s yard hard. Hooves clattered about him on the stone, terrifying in their closeness. His breath held; Alejandro tucked his arms about his head, making himself as small as possible. The beasts jumped over him, hooves hitting his back with thumps that jarred throughout his body.

“Jandro!” someone cried out.

For a moment, Alejandro just breathed. Other voices were calling out now, and the hooves sounded far away. He slowly uncurled, cringing when something in the vicinity of his ribs gave a sharp twinge of pain.
Stupid
. He tried to push himself off the ground, but the pain in his ribs told him that wouldn’t work.

Gaspar was at his side then, lifting him off the ground. “Broken?”

“I don’t know,” Alejandro gasped. It hurt; that was all he knew. He tried to pull away from Gaspar. “I have to get to her.”

“Is he hurt?” Joaquim called.

“He’ll live,” Gaspar yelled back. “We wait, Jandro. We’re stronger together.”

Forced by the stabbing pain in his side, Alejandro waited while the others came to the stable doors. Gaspar picked up the bag that held the loaf of bread, or what was left of it. A hoof had landed squarely in the middle, savaging the paper and the loaf. “If we need this, we’re pretty desperate.”