We call him the Irishman, and when the Things That Go Bump In The Night tell stories to their kids to scare them into behaving, this is the man they tell them about.

The door opened, and he stepped in. He was big, not just tall, a few inches over six feet and built solid, all thick arms and wide shoulders and barrel chest. He was older, edging out of middle age, threads of gray in his damp curling brown hair, crow’s feet at the corners of his cool blue eyes and lines more suited to frowning than laughing around his stern mouth. He wore a plain white t-shirt and faded blue jeans under the coat, and heavy work boots. He stood casually by the door with his hands in his pockets to hold the coat closed. That was to hide all the weapons, I knew, but for the moment, with a bit of a smile on his face, he managed to look very blue-collar and friendly and innocuous enough. Not at all like the bogeyman, which as far as the supernaturals of Detroit were concerned, he actually was.

He glanced around the store, looking unimpressed, and then his gaze settled on me.

“Alice? A word wi’ ye?” His tone was amiable enough, and there was still a hint of an Irish accent in his voice, mostly around the vowels and R’s, making them more musical. I knew from experience that the accent got thicker when he was pissed, which was often, or being sarcastic, which was also pretty frequent. Or when he was drunk, which was annoyingly and frighteningly common. It was annoying because I hate to see anyone living up to a stereotype, and frightening because no one who wore as many guns as this guy should be walking around drunk.

My heart did a painful double-time beat in my chest and dumped about thirty gallons of adrenalin into my system. The shadow tasted it in my blood and rode the fine edges of my screaming nerves, and sent up her own high-pitched squeal of terror in my head along with an impulse to flee. Our lair is discovered! Predator here! Run!

I’d heard it before, every time he and I were in the same room. I frowned at him, and demanded “What are you doing here?”

The Irishman’s gaze narrowed as he glanced from me to Randall. “I –”

“Didn’t I tell you not to bother me at work anymore?” I leveled a sharp finger in his direction.

“But –”

“Jesus.” I tossed my hands up in a show of utter disgust. “I am working here,” I added, nodding at Randall.

“Is there a problem, Alice?” Randall turned from studying Irish, to look at me, concern in his eyes.

I caught his arm and turned him away from Irish, lowering my voice, knowing Irish would still hear me. Man had ears like a damn bat. “No,” I told Randall, pinching the bridge of my nose like I had a headache coming on. Hopefully that would cover up the fact that I was scared half witless. “He’s a friend of Gene’s,” I added, lying through my teeth.

“Oh?” Randall shot a glance over his shoulder at Irish, then caught on. “Oh. I see.”

“Yeah, well, he turns up sometimes. You know. With questions.” I flicked a quick look over my shoulder at Irish, who was now smothering a smirk, clearly amused. Glad to see he was having fun. What was he even doing here? How in the hell did he find my shop? And if he was here to kill me, how dare he be enjoying himself?

I forced myself to set those questions aside and concentrate on bullshitting Randall. I had to get Randall out of here with a quickness, before either man guessed who the other might be. It’s not like the Arcana had a system of fines, or a probation policy. If they decided one of their members was dangerous or untrustworthy, that person just… went away. Like magic, one might say.

The one man in my shop was a legend, and topped the local most-wanted list. He’d killed magicians, and more than a few. Fraternizing with him was a death sentence, and not only would I get killed for it, they could make it take awhile, and it would hurt the whole time. The other man was a freaking traveling salesman for the Arcana, with contacts all over the country, if not the world. The rumors Randall could spread on his route could get me killed from halfway around the world by the kinds of people who wouldn’t even have to put their book down to do it.

And there was the chance that Irish might up and decide to kill Randall. Just, you know, while he was here. He’s of the shalt-not-suffer-a-witch-to-live school of thought. He’s a member of a sort of radical Catholic splinter-faction going back a few hundred years to simpler times. Times were simpler then because most problems shared a common sharp-edged solution.

“He asks questions?” Randall put on a frown. “And you answer them? Really, Alice, are you trying to piss your Knights off?”

“Well, they sort of don’t know I still talk to Gene’s friends.”

“Do they know anything about you?” Randall arced one eyebrow, an amused twinkle glinting in his eyes.

“Yes. They know I make very good artifacts with mostly fair prices. And that’s all they need to know,” I added, keeping my tone firm as I baited the hook and tossed it out.

“Ah. I see. So, I suppose you’d rather I didn’t mention your visitor to anyone, then?” Randall smiled. It was the happy and predatory smile of a fox walking around a tree and chancing upon a wounded rabbit. Mercenary bastards, gotta love ‘em.

“Now that you mention it,” I said, putting on a vaguely worried expression. It wasn’t hard, since I was pretty damn worried, just not for the reasons Randall thought.

“Consider me silent on the topic, my dear.”

“I appreciate that –”

He patted my ass in full view of the Irishman and raised his voice again as he said “So, dinner, tomorrow? Eight o’clock?”

Perfect. I put on an indignant expression, and made a mental note to make him pay for that pat. Possibly in kind. “Are you blackmailing a date out of me?” I demanded.

“Blackmail? It sounds so bad when you say it like that,” he said, and gave me that devilish grin of his. “Besides, you’d think less of me if I missed the chance.”

“Point,” I agreed, and answered his smile with one of my own.

“I’ll leave you with your business, Alice. Until tomorrow.” Randall scooped up his box of dragon scales and tucked them back in his bag, favoring me with a courtly little half-bow. Still grinning, he tipped a wave in Irish’s direction and showed himself out. The door clicked shut behind him, I let out a breath of partial relief, and glanced at Irish.

“Who’s Gene?” He was grinning, hands still in his pockets, which only sharpened my nerves further despite the fact that he looked years younger wearing that grin.

“My husband,” I snapped. Should I go for a gun? No, bad plan. He was faster than me, and besides, I doubt he would have waited for me to get rid of Randall if he was here to kill me. I was probably okay. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re married?” His eyebrows went up with surprise as he wandered up towards the counter. My shadow cringed and moaned, her fear heightening my own. I wished for the millionth time that she could talk to me with actual words. It’d be nice if she could tell me what she knew and I didn’t about Irish.

“Well, not anymore.” I fought the urge to step back. “What are you doing here?”

“Divorced?” Irish mused, pausing to look at a case full of little beaded clutch purses. Nothing magical about those, but they were good sellers online.

“Widowed,” I answered shortly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Oh,” he whispered, surprised again. His blue eyes filled with pain and sympathy. “Sorry,” he offered, a bit awkwardly. I think he meant it, too, which is a bit off-putting in a sociopath.

“How did you even find this place?” I had been excruciatingly cautious about that in my dealings with Irish. The last thing any magician in Detroit wanted was to have The Irishman know where they live, and I was no exception. Even if we had shared a few beers.

“Oh, reminds me.” Irish tossed something at me and I stupidly caught it out of habit.

It could’ve been a grenade. Wouldn’t have been the first time. When it didn’t explode, I glanced down at it. I was looking at a grimy leather cuff with a shark’s tooth glued to it.

I’ve done more than a few things in my time which caused me to feel a little dumb after the fact, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so stupid in my whole life, staring down at the cuff.

“Uh,” I said, with utter brilliance. I looked up, and thought I detected a hint of mocking amusement in Irish’s eyes.

“And you were bein’ so careful, too.” He shook his head. “That trick where ye had your store listed in Dearborn? You pay your power bill at an address in Louisiana, how does that work? And yer mail being delivered to that mailbox in Sterling Heights, that was a cute one. How’d ye get them to deliver it to a public dropbox like that? And how does it get to you?”

“Magic,” I said, with a certain measure of bitterness and a roll of my eyes.

“More than’s in that, I take it,” he answered, waving at the cuff in my hands, “and lucky for you, too. If I thought ye were sellin’ your witchcraft to poor stupid kids, Alice …” he let his voice trail off ominously.

Yes. If he thought that, he might decide to kill me. So far, we’d managed to postpone the bit where he passed judgment on me as a consort to the Powers of Darkness and killed me, and I really wanted to keep it that way. It was postponed but most definitely not off the table. A change of subject was in order.

“Are you even here for a reason, or did you just need someone to come out and cover your bar tab?”

That wiped the smile off his face. He stepped back and glowered at me. “I’m not drunk.”

“You ain’t sober, either.” I tossed the grungy cuff into the trash, vaguely wondering what might have happened to the poor kid wearing it. Best not to ask. The answer would be unpleasant.

“I need ye to come look at something for me.” Irish frowned heavily at me, crossing his arms.

“Like what?” I demanded, crossing my own arms and preparing to be stubborn. Technically, I had the disadvantage in any meeting with Irish, but I’d discovered that I got a lot farther with him by ignoring that fact. I had a suspicion that he almost respected me for not falling all over myself terrified whenever I ran into him.

“It’s in my back seat. Get yer coat.” He hooked a thumb towards the door, refusing to meet my eyes. I suppose it wasn’t quite fair, calling him a drunk. Irish is more what they call a “functional alcoholic” these days, which I think means you’re only completely shit-faced when it doesn’t count. Still, in the seven or so months that I’d known the man, I’d never seen him stone cold sober. He liked to operate on a pleasant buzz, bare minimum.

“What’s in your back seat?” I bumped the stock room door shut on the way by to grab my coat. Now was not the time for Gene to shamble out and offer drinks. And he would, too. I think the undead son of a bitch would think it was funny.

Irish put a firm hand on my back as I reached him, ushering me towards the door while I shrugged into my thin jacket. He smelled bad, which surprised me. Like, rotten meat and spoiled milk bad. My shadow came along with me, of course, what choice did she have? But she didn’t like it, she didn’t like Irish, and she really didn’t like the stench coming up from his boots.

“What the hell did you step in? God, that stinks!”

I stepped out into the icy drizzle and the door slammed shut behind us. My shop was not in a good part of town, not that Detroit has many of those left. We stood on a cracked and uneven sidewalk, along an empty street full of leaves and trash, surrounded by abandoned, graffiti-strewn buildings. There was a pawnshop at one end of the street still in business, though closed for the night, and a liquor store at the other end, but those, my place, and the darkened Laundromat across from us were the only remaining businesses on the street.

“Why would answerin’ questions for yer husband’s friends get ye in trouble?” Irish countered, nudging me down the street.

“He was a hunter.” It probably wouldn’t do any harm to admit to that, although, as a rule, I didn’t tell Irish anymore about myself than strictly necessary.

“A Hunter? Really?” Irish paused, glancing at me. I’d surprised him again. The Tesla Effect was amazingly good sorcery, but it wasn’t infallible. Sometimes a person had an encounter with the supernatural, and it sort of inoculated them. Sometimes they were too stubborn or stupid to be affected by the Effect. Some people were born immune to it, and these poor bastards could see what was really going on in front of their eyes.

Some of those decided to do something about it, and Gene had been one of them. They usually die young, and he’d been one of those, too.

“Well, part time. He was also a CPA.” I chuckled at the doubtful look on Irish’s face. “Killing rabid wendigos and marauding redcaps in your spare time doesn’t exactly keep the bills paid.” When he wasn’t busy doing people’s taxes, Gene had gone out hunting with the boys – strictly amateur hour for them, though. “Kind of a scandal that I married him,” I said, by way of explanation. “And we’re not supposed to go telling tales to the mundanes, you know.”

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me, either.”

“Back at ya.”

“Huh,” Irish said, bemused and shaking his head. “It’s up here.” He gestured toward a late-model gray Crown Vic parked just down from my store.

“Is that your car? I had you pegged as a pickup man.” I smirked at him. “With one of those hard toppers to hide the bodies in.”

“Very funny,” Irish rolled his eyes, and then grabbed my arm as I made to step up to the car. “Wait, something’s wrong.” His grip wasn’t painful, but it didn’t have any give, either.

“What?” I armed the drizzle off my face and gave the car a once over. I couldn’t see anything; the windows were tinted. I glanced over at him, and found Irish frowning heavily at his car.

“What’s all over the windows?” He started around the car, and I took a second, closer, look, realizing that what I had taken for tinting was actually some kind of dark crud coating the inside of the glass. Irish went around the front, and I leaned to see the back window. “Windshield, too,” he murmured.

“Ditto the back window. Your side?” I was getting a bad feeling about this. I glanced across the roof of the car at him, and he nodded. “Huh. What’s in there, anyway?”

He frowned, and was just that suddenly scary. I could very easily picture him with that same disapproving look of resolve as he decapitated me. I never got the impression that Irish enjoyed his work. A lot of hunters don’t. But just then, I could see him taking satisfaction from it.

“Some twisted thing, looked like it used to be a dog. I gutted the little bastard.”

“Used to be -?” I said, bad feeling getting worse. My shadow, despite being nervously cautious around the Irishman, was also really, really curious. Shielded from view, she drifted up off the pavement and began probing at the seal around the door. Something inside probed back, and we both recoiled, her mental snarl so violent and furious I was amazed Irish didn’t hear it. “You didn’t kill it, gutting or no gutting.”

“Of course I killed it! Cut it’s fuckin’ head off, too, didn’t I? How much more dead does it need to be?” Irish tossed his hands out, irritated.

“Well, okay, that generally does the trick,” I had to admit. “But, uh …” I gestured at the windows with a shrug. “Dead monsters generally don’t black out the windows for privacy.”

“Maybe it… exploded?” Irish ran a hand over his face, wiping the rain out of his eyes.

With a soft thump, a single pale eye pressed up against the glass. It left a trail in the thick black muck as it focused a dull, vacant stare at me.

I swallowed bile as I met the stare with one of my own. I hated it. I loathed it. Knowing that my feelings were those of the shadow, spilling over into me didn’t make them any less intense.

“I don’t think it exploded,” I squeaked as the car leaned my way, like something very heavy inside had lurched towards me.

Table of Contents / Chapter Three >>

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