Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free (42 page)

*I do not trust him.*

If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead,
I replied. And really, I didn't have a lot of options.

I hurried to follow.

The road slowly curved and climbed up into the forested hillside. The climb gave Clay plenty of time to regale me with a long joke about a travelling unicorn who had to choose between the daughter of a Polish farmer, a Negro farmer, and a wizard.

Fun fact about vampires: they're mostly bigoted asses. It might have something to do with being privileged immortals, most of whom received their education and position centuries past. If the leader of the Ku Klux Klan hung out in a sauna with a bunch of rich old white dudes from corporate dynasties telling jokes about women, gays, and minorities, he would probably sound a lot like a vampire on a more polite day.

By the time we got to the top of the drive, I was winded, my legs ached, and I wanted to slap Clay into the twenty-first century. Clay whistled what sounded like some Germanic opera tune as he led the way up the steps onto his pillared porch.

Clay's house was a house in much the same way the Pentagon is an office building. A grand, sprawling affair, I would not have wanted to enter without a map and compass. It looked like Frank Lloyd Wright had snorted coke and stayed up all night designing the Grandest. Home. Ever!

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Clay said. “Excuse its poor simplicity, but I am merely a brightblood after all.”

“It is no less than befits an Archon,” I said.

“Well well, look who learned manners!” He motioned to the door. “Please, enter my home, and be welcome.”

I cautiously opened the door.

A banshee scream blasted my ears. I jumped, my heart painfully skipping a beat and stubbing its toe.

Clay's face had an exaggerated expression of shock. “Oh, my, so sorry. That's our alarm system. I keep meaning to have that looked at.”

Alarm, my ass.

Another fun fact: vampires love practical jokes. Apparently, practical jokes were one of the few things that made life less boring and predictable for them. They played them on anyone who came within their sphere of influence, which was annoying, but not usually dangerous.

The practical jokes that vampires played on each other, however, could be deadly to anyone caught in the crossfire. Being both immortal and virtually indestructible, a battle of practical jokes between two vampires could escalate over years, even centuries, to insane extremes. And with so much time on their hands, they were not above setting up jokes that took months, years, even decades to come to fruition, which made it difficult to end a battle since a joke whose foundations were laid decades ago might not bear fruit until years after a truce was called, triggering a response and starting the whole process over again.

Parking meters. Junk mail. Daylight Savings Time. All rumored to have begun as a vampire's practical joke. It's said one ancient vampire was responsible for both the invention of toilets, and of fireworks, just so that centuries later he could do the first cherry bomb in the toilet joke.

I stepped across the threshold, half expecting a trapdoor to open beneath my feet, but nothing happened. The entry hall alone was the size of a studio apartment, with walls of pale wood, stained glass windows, a pair of sofas, and a number of plants. More Martha Stewart than Transylvania Goth.

“You have a nice home,” I offered.

Clay closed the door behind us. “Manners again! Quite refreshing.” He proceeded across the grand entry to an arched hallway, and motioned for me to follow. “Redcaps, waerwolves, trolls, they can be quite cunning in their way, and excel at tearing out the throats of their enemies, of course, and yet I'm sure you will be quite shocked to hear they have terribly poor manners.” His voice took on a low, confidential tone. “Frankly, not all brightbloods are created equal. Not their fault, obviously, but so many have the blood of animals, or the lesser races.” He sighed. “It is rare that I have someone to chat with in a civilized manner. Ah, here, the den. This will be perfect for our talk, I think.”

He motioned to the doorknob, and grinned.

“After you,” I said.

“As you wish.” Clay opened the door without any surprising results, and entered a room of deep greens and browns. I followed.

The den had been decorated to create a feeling of being in the forest. Dark green carpet, walls of brown stone hung with photos of trees, a polished table made from the gnarled stump of a tree, and more plants. A river-stone fireplace had a fake fire crackling on a video screen.

It would have been charming, if not for the lit display cases full of Mammy and Pappy figurines. The little black dolls with the giant red lips filled several cases spaced around the room.

“Ah, I see you've noticed my collection,” Clay said. “I'm quite proud of it. Not as large as my collection of rubber ducks, but it is still growing.”

*Careful,* Alynon said. *He's just trying to push you into reacting out of anger, as either a strategy or a joke.*

Or maybe he's just an ass.
“Actually,” I replied with studied calm, “I've been thinking of collecting figurines myself.”

“Indeed?”

“Yeah. You can apparently find all kinds of Count Chocula items on the web. Though I don't know if my collection would be as large as yours. Let's see. One, one offensive figurine, ah ah ah. Two! Two—”

Clay's red face got a bit redder. “You seem to have forgotten where you are, necromancer. And with whom.”

“No. But I don't have to pretend to like your racism.”

“But you do need my help.”

“And you need mine,” I replied. “Maybe we can get to the part where we talk about that?”

Clay ran a tongue over his teeth as he considered me. I felt quite proud at not bolting for the door.

“Very well,” he said. “Please, have a seat. Would you like a drink?”

“Uh, no thanks.” I sat on the sofa.

Clay cocked an eyebrow. “I do have something other than blood, of course. A soda, or ale perhaps?”

“Really, I'm fine.”

“As you wish.” He sat in an armchair on the far side of the tree-stump coffee table. “Now, you said something about my clan being used as pawns?”

“Yeah.” I told him about what I'd learned, and what Alynon had guessed. That Hiromi had been given orders supposedly from the Forest of Shadows Court, but that Chauvelin had sworn that the orders were forged somehow. That someone appeared to be attempting to upset the relationship between the ARC and the Silver Court, and make it look like the Shadows were responsible and preparing for war with the Silver. Clay asked questions, and I answered them as best I could, or felt comfortable about.

When I finished, at least a half hour had passed. Clay tapped at his chin and stared thoughtfully at the fake fire. As he did, Alynon said, *You have made it sound that someone is doing him a favor by screwing over the Silver and handing the Shadows more power.*

Maybe. But the thing about people in power is, they want control, that's why they have the power. So what good is power if someone else can just usurp or manipulate it at will? And get your minions killed in the process?

*That's a pretty thin argument to lay your hopes on.*

It's the only chance we've got,
I replied.

“There is an ancient proverb,” Clay said finally. “Same crap, different day. I paraphrase, of course. But I have been through enough wars to question whether any power the Shadows gain in the Other Realm from such a conflict would be worth the lives of my clan here.” He considered me for a few seconds, then said, “I cannot simply deny Kaminari her rightful vengeance. I may, however, be able to direct her anger at a new target. Say, whoever was behind manipulating her sister?”

“That's what I was hoping,” I said. “Problem is, I don't know who really gave those orders. Isn't the knowledge that Hiromi was manipulated, that you and the Silver have an enemy in common, enough to at least call Kaminari off until you find the truth yourself?”

“Alas, no,” Clay said, his tone lacking any actual regret. “What if we learn the Silver sent those orders to Hiromi in order to frame my clan as being dangerous and out of control? I would look the fool for letting them recover their strength before loosing Kaminari against them once more.”

“Why would the Silver do this to themselves?” I asked. “They've suffered deaths, and lost trust—”

“Short term, perhaps,” Clay said. “But you think on a mortal timescale. You do not understand the patient sowing of seeds that will bear fruit in decades, perhaps centuries.”

I shook my head. “The Silver—”

A loud fart noise erupted from my seat.

“I say!” Clay exclaimed. “Are you sure you don't want a soda? It's quite good for an upset stomach.”

I noticed Clay had his hand in his pocket, probably holding some kind of remote.

I gave him a level look. “No. I'm fine, thanks. But I don't think—”

Another fart sound erupted from my seat.

“Oh my,” Clay said. “Clearly, attempting to think has upset your stomach. So allow me. You have overlooked one obvious option in discovering the identity of these supposed puppet masters.”

“I have?”

“You have,” Clay said. “The gnomes. You said they passed the secret messages to Hiromi. They further delivered the supposed message from the Silver Archon to destroy the siren's body, a message also forged, if your information is to be believed.”

Great Scott! The gnomes. I could have saved myself serious time and trouble if only I'd thought of that.

Clay leaned back, lounging in the chair with his legs crossed. “I have taken the liberty of summoning a gnome. Let us hope he can corroborate your tale. I have high hopes for that waerwolf you brought, and would hate to start off our relationship by killing his brother.”

“Yeah. That would be quite inconvenient for me, too. But you shouldn't make Pete angry. You won't like him when he's angry.”

“I'll take my chances,” Clay responded.

A knock on the door, and a Hispanic woman opened it to say, “A gnome to see you, sir.”

“Well then, let him in, Consuela,” Clay said.

“It's Corina, sir,” she replied.

“Of course, of course.”

Priapus, the leader of the most powerful local gnome family, entered the room. “Archon,” he said as he entered. “You lookin for more cursed artifacts?” His Munchkin voice had the eagerness of an imminent deal. Then he noticed me. “Gramaraye,” he said with much less enthusiasm.

Priapus stood about as high as my knees, not counting the blue pointy hat tilted jauntily back on his head. His dark beard was cut level across his gut ZZ Top style, and his green vest left bare arms covered in muscle and tattoos. One hand rested on the handle of a small hand scythe whose deadliness, I knew, could not be judged by its size.

Gnome families ruled the black market of the magical world. Stolen goods of a magical nature seemed to find their way into gnome hands—usually because the gnomes were the ones who stole them. They were also good at getting messages to anyone, anywhere. You could put a note requesting a good or service under any gnome statue along with an offer of payment, and if the gnomes accepted the deal you'd soon enough have the object in hand, or the service rendered, no questions asked.

I'd had dealings with this particular gnome leader shortly after my return from exile, dealings that had ultimately provided him with some wealth, but also got his gnomes tangled up in a couple of nasty fights.

“Priapus,” I said. “Honor to your family.”

“Thank you for coming, Priapus,” Clay said. “I need the identity of whoever sent a message via the gnomes to the jorōgumo Hiromi. It was supposedly from the Forest of Shadows Court, but it was forged.”

Priapus shook his head. “You wasted both our times then. Gnomes don't rat on our clients. It's bad for business. That protects you much as anyone, Archon.”

“Really?” I asked. “You don't care that you were used like that?”

Priapus shrugged. “Hey, we don't never guarantee a message is authentic or nothing like that, we just promise that what you give us, we deliver. And we don't tell nobody who you are. Not less it's part of the message to tell them, capiche?”

“Priapus,” Clay said. “Surely there is a clause in the rules that allows you to share such information, if it endangers your own family, for example.”

“Yeah?” he asked. “If there was such a rule, and I ain't sayin' there is, how's this here endanger my family? I hope you're not threatening me, vampire.”

“No threats,” Clay replied. “But it appears someone is trying to start a war between the Forest of Shadows and the Silver Court, playing our brightbloods against each other.”

“Well, that's rough,” Priapus said. “But I don't see as how that's my business.”

Meaning Priapus's clan wasn't Silver or Shadows sworn. “Wait,” I said. “What Demesne
is
your family aligned with?” I realized I had no clue.

“The magical Land of Narnia,” Priapus said. “As in Narnia Business.”

“If allies are drawn into the battle,” Clay said, “your family may have to fight nonetheless.”

Priapus puffed out his cheeks a couple of times, clearly weighing our words. Then he spat. “Bah. Every time I get involved with you, Gramaraye, it ends with my boys in some kind of fight. You're bad luck, that's what you are.” He paced for a second. “Tell ya what. I can't just give ya that information like it's your birthday. It has to be a fair trade. And that information, client information, that ain't gonna be cheap.”

“Don't Jew me,” Clay growled. “I could eat your entire family as a light snack, you Dago dwarf.”

“Woah,” I said quickly as Priapus's face grew red. “Archon, maybe dial down the insults? And Priapus, I'm sure we can negotiate a fair price. Let's not forget this information can help all of us, right?”