Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free (22 page)

I tried to feel better by reminding myself that I hadn't chosen the potion, or pulled the trigger. And that this dude was a bad guy.

And the choice made sense, as much as I might dislike it. A truth potion would make him tell the truth if we asked a question, but wouldn't make him cooperative. He would still fight us, attempt to mislead with half-truths or to flee and resist, and unless we asked the right question we could miss important information. A love potion had the opposite problem, potentially—it would make him very cooperative, but some people would lie so as to try to impress the person they loved, or to not reveal anything they feared would lessen them in that person's eyes. The trick was to make them believe you would like them more for telling you the truth, and make sure they didn't think “truth” meant saying just what you wanted to hear. It was a trickier enterprise than a priest working in evolutionary biology.

Alchemist Guy blinked at Heather, then turned his eyes on me, and a look of complete worship swept across his features.

“Uh—” I said.

“He can't imprint on me because of the mask,” Heather said, her tone suggesting she enjoyed this.

“Great.”

*Don't be such a prude,* Alynon said.

I'm not a prude,
I replied.
I'm worried he will want to wear my skin
.

*I don't know why he would,* Alynon replied. *You haven't exfoliated once since taking back ownership of your body. Again, all my hard work gone to waste.*

“Are you okay?” the alchemist asked me, real worry in his tone. “I can give you a little something to make you feel better. Just tell me what's wrong.”

“I'm fine,” I said. Heather nudged me. “I, uh—Ralph, right?”

“Yes!” Ralph said, ridiculously pleased that I knew his name.

“Right. I'm, uh, worried about you. I heard you had some trouble with feybloods the other day?”

The alchemist frowned. “That's what they tell me.”

“You mean you don't remember?”

Ralph glanced around as if someone might be listening, and beckoned me closer. I approached the counter cautiously. He leaned forward, and said in a low voice, “You wouldn't betray me to the ARC, would you?”

“What do you think?” I asked, not wishing to lie to him. That was another thing about love potions—whatever happened to the person while under the influence of the love potion would leave a real psychological impact after the potion wore off. And funny thing was, people who used love potions rarely did so only because they wanted the best for whomever they used it on. So it was not unusual for the impotioned person to develop issues with things like trust or physical contact afterward. I might not think much of this guy, but I wasn't going to be the one to ruin love for anyone if I could help it.

Ralph worked his lower lip with his teeth for a second, then said, “I think … of course you wouldn't betray me. The thing is, I use a potion to wipe recent memories after my more … sensitive transactions, to protect the identity of my clientele and suppliers and such.” He motioned to a couple of hourglass-shaped bottles on the shelf behind him, filled with a milky fluid. “I guess … I must have taken one after whatever happened, because I don't remember it.”

Or the Arcanites had forced him to do so, or wiped his memory in some other way to protect themselves as well as their valuable potion maker from potential questioning.

I glanced at Heather, but her mask made it impossible to read her expression.

“And I'm guessing you don't have security cameras or anything like that?” I asked.

“No. I have more active measures against troublemakers and thieves. Besides, everyone likes me,” he said. “I'm a fun guy, really! Watch this!”

He grabbed three potions off the nearby shelf, and began juggling them. “Do you juggle? I'd love someone to practice with. I don't want to brag, but I'm kind of ambidex—”

One of the bottles fell and crashed to the floor with the sound of shattering glass. Ralph fumbled with the other two to keep them from falling, then quickly stepped away from the fallen potion. “Uh, you're not allergic to goblin blood, or have the power to project nightmares, do you?”

“No,” I said.

“Good, good. Perhaps we should just step over here for a bit anyway.” He moved down to the end of the counter. “I like to, uh, smash a potion every once in a while, just to test my shop's filtration system. You know, in case a customer has an accident.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “Very smart. Look—”

He smiled as if I'd just announced he won the lottery. “Thanks! Not as smart as you, I'm sure.”

I shot a quick glare at Heather, who was doubtless smirking like an idiot beneath her masking spell. I was so going to repay her for this. I turned back to Ralph, a smile on my face. “I don't know. I couldn't make a potion to enslave feybloods to my will, for example. I heard you were working with certain mutual friends on that.”

“Mutual friends?” he asked, and sounded more hopeful than suspicious.

“Friends who know the real danger the Fey represent,” I whispered conspiratorially.

He put his hand over mine on the counter. I had to resist the urge to jerk away.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he said, and smiled.

“Uh, yeah, me, too.” I patted his hand as I carefully pulled my trapped hand free. “I just hope you keep the cure safe. We wouldn't want the feybloods getting hold of that.”

He frowned. “There is no cure.”

“Right,” I said, doing my best to hide my disappointment, and slapped him on the arm. “I was making a joke.”

“Oh! Got it!” He laughed.

“So you have no idea who might have wanted to stir up trouble between you and the feybloods?”

“Naw. Just the feybloods themselves.”

I lowered my voice. “Maybe our mutual friends did it?”

Ralph shrugged, his eyebrows raised. “Maybe. Don't seem like them, though. Why would they want the ARC sniffing around here?”

“Right.”

It seemed I'd reached another dead end. And what little I'd learned was not good. No cure for Grayson's Curse. And if the Arcanites weren't behind recent events, then I really had no clue who was.

“Well, I should go,” I said. “I have some things I need to do.” I nodded to Heather, and started for the door.

“Wait!” Ralph said. “I don't even know your name. Or where you live. Let me just close up the shop and we can go get some food, or—”

“That all sounds really great,” I said as I continued edging toward the door. “But I really need to run some errands first, on my own. It's what makes me happy.”

Ralph looked at Heather with narrowed eyes. “But she gets to go with you?”

“No,” I said. “I'm going alone.”

“Maybe she should wait here for you then. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

His tone suggested otherwise.

“No, I wouldn't want to burden you,” I replied, putting my hand on the door handle. “And this way, when I come back, you and I can hang out alone.”

“I suppose,” he said uncertainly. “I can wait here then, if that's what you want. But hurry back.”

“Thank you,” I said and opened the door. “Take care of yourself.”

I slipped outside, followed by Heather. The gray clouds building overhead made it feel closer to dusk than the 4:30 my watch claimed. A couple of seagulls fought over a food wrapper in the Starbucks corner lot across the street, and a crow cawed from the power line above us.

“Well, that was no help,” I said.

“Maybe,” Heather replied in a distracted tone. “Maybe not.” She pulled a tranquilizer gun out from beneath her jacket, and shot the crow before I could—

The large black bird fell to the ground.

—even ask her, “What are you doing?”

“Lone crow, so I'll bet he has a nest in the area,” she said. “Good chance he saw what went down with your feyblood friends.”

“Maybe, but—oh!”

Of course. The ARC had sorcerers who could read the memory of birds and animals. If this bird really did see what went down with the brightbloods, then it might be enough to prove their innocence. Or it might prove Silene had pushed Veirai into the attack.

“Here,” I said, motioning for the bird. “I'll take it to the ARC and—”

“No,” Heather said, holding it closer. “What if the Arcanites have someone on the inside, or the ARC chooses to have the bird destroyed to avoid scandal with the Fey?”

“Well, what then? Do you have a potion—”

“No,” she said, and gave the bird's head a sharp twist. There came the
snap crackle pop
of delicate bones, and the bird went limp. “I have a necromancer.”

I stared at the now-dead crow.

“And what am I supposed to do with it? Even if I can Talk to its spirit, I don't exactly speak crow.”

“For that, I
do
have a potion.” Heather produced a strawberry milk bottle. “Sort of. It's how I give them commands once I've enchanted them. But it works more by passing images back and forth from mind to mind.”

I sighed, and took the offered bottle. This was a bad idea. But I didn't have any better ones.

I slammed back the contents of the bottle, which tasted less like strawberry milk and more like the ashes of burnt foot fungus. I coughed some up onto Heather's jacket, but managed to choke down enough to do the trick. I hoped.

I shuddered, and shook off the effects of the taste. Then I focused my will, calmed my mind, and summoned the crow's spirit.

It rose up with a fluttering of ghostly wings and an indignant cawing. Images formed in my mind as the caws thrummed across my consciousness like the vibrations of a guitar string, images as if seen through a fisheye lens in black and white, of me and Heather emerging from the alchemist shop, and Heather firing her tranquilizer gun.

I was Talking to a bird.

“I am Dar,” I said, in my best Beastmaster barbarian voice. Except my words came out as harsh caws.

I put my hand to my throat, and turned a questioning look to Heather.

“It wears off quickly,” she said. “Don't freak.”

“Caw caw caw,” cawed the crow's spirit. Images flashed across my mind—of a soaring crow, and a McDonald's sign. I frowned in confusion for a few seconds, then the magic translated the images into the crow's name—Soars over Golden Hills.

“Soars over Golden Hills, I need to know what happened two days before today, when a group of brightbloods gathered here, and one was killed by the man inside that shop behind me.”

Soars' spirit cawed. More images: Dunngo, Challa, Frog Face, and Faun gathering outside the alchemist shop, their brightblood nature masked from mundane sight by the shimmering of glamours. Their trying to discourage arcana from entering the shop while Soars cawed at them to either drop some food or go away. Veirai charging from the alleyway across the street, plowing through her fellow brightblood and the opened door of the shop. Veirai facing back out of the shop, a confused look on her face. Veirai falling forward with an expression of surprised pain.

Veirai on the ground, dead.

My brows furrowed. “Did you see anything in the alley from where the brightblood charged, before or after the attack?”

Soars cawed again. This time, I saw Silene watching from the shadows of the alleyway. Silene with her face blurred as if by a heat shimmer.

And then Romey stood in her place.

Holy Batfey! Romey wasn't just a waerfox, she was a true shapeshifter!

There weren't many brightbloods who could shift shape at will
and
choose the shape. Doppelgangers. Trickster gods.

And of course—

The jorōgumo leaped out of the alley across the street, taking form from the shadows not in a memory but in the here and now and oh crap. Her human body swayed side to side as she skittered forward on the spider legs that grew out of her back.

“Caw caw!” I shouted, releasing Soars' spirit.

*Oh shite,* Alynon agreed.

 

15

If You Don't Know Me by Now

Heather, thankfully, reacted to the look on my face before my second “caw” had even escaped. She dropped the crow's body as she spun. In the same motion, she grabbed a bottle from an inside pocket of her long jacket, and flung the bottle back at the jorōgumo.

“Cawm on!” I said, my ability to speak returning as I grabbed Heather's arm and pulled her in the direction of the alchemist shop. The jorōgumo half-caught half-swatted the bottle to one side with a human hand as she continued to advance on her long spider legs. As I swung open the shop door, the potion struck a Toyota Prius and exploded in white fire. The explosion blasted us through the doorway, and caused the jorōgumo to stagger and scream in pain.

I slammed the shop door closed just in time. The jorōgumo smashed into it. Her screams sounded like Mothra being kicked out of a textile factory.

“Are you okay?” Ralph asked.

“No!” I said. “There's a jorōgumo about to break down your door.”

He reached beneath his counter, and closed his eyes a second, then said, “Not now. My wards are up. And I imagine she's not too eager to strike my door again anyway. I mixed a little something with the paint on this building that's extremely painful for most feybloods to touch. A necessary precaution in my business.”

Indeed, there were no further strikes against the door, and the jorōgumo's furious cries faded into the distance.

“Well, thank you,” I said.

“You're not injured, are you?” he said, sweeping out from behind the counter and striding toward me. “I have healing potions, and antivenins.”

“No,” I said. “I—”

“But he might in the future,” Heather said to Ralph. “I'm sure he'd really appreciate it if you gave them to him anyway.”