September 12 / Ofkillsan 21

  “I’m too old for this shit,” York complained to Jenkins. For the past three weeks, the pair had been tailing MacTaggart, and in all that time she hadn’t put one foot out of place. “She’s either innocent or one of the slickest operatives in the history of South Dakota.”

  “So why are we still trailing her? Jenkins asked.

  “I can’t put my finger on it precisely, but I cannot shake the feeling that she’s into something.” The detectives eyed her as she made her way into one of her favorite haunts, a coffee shop in a strip mall. “Damn, that woman drinks a lot of coffee.”

  “I dunno, Al. Lots of people meet in cafes and coffee houses for business. Hell, I do it all the time.”

  “OK, Cynthia, but this is her third time here today. And it’s only,” York checked his watch, “One fifteen. Who’s she meeting this time?”

  A man in a charcoal gray Burberry trench coat, a fedora jammed onto his head, walked up to Fiona. The two greeted each other with a quick peck on the cheek, European style, and walked into the shop. “I think that’s our guy. I’m gonna head in and grab a coffee. Want anything?”

  “Apple danish. Red Eye with two shots.” Jenkins had long since given up on understanding just how York came to his conclusions, but she knew from long experience to let him roll with his gut in times like these. Besides, she seriously needed some carbs and caffeine right now.

  “OK, I’ll be back.” York quickly got out of the unmarked car and headed inside. On the way back out, while juggling two coffees and the danish, York pretended to see MacTaggart for the first time.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. MacTaggart.” he called out.

  “Good afternoon, Detective York. How have you been doing?” she replied. She was sitting at a table with the trench coat guy. He was tall and thin, with black hair and eyes and a sallow look about him, like he did not go out much at all. “This is Gregory Jehanne, one of my writers.”

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Jehanne.” York set his drinks down to shake hands. “I’ve been fairly busy. And you?”

  “I have been as well as could be expected. Have you had any breaks in Alboim’s disappearance?”

  “Ah, no. No one knows anything, not even that Godunov guy.” York leaned closer, leaning one hand on the table. The tiny microphone he placed under the table was highly illegal and could get him fired and probably jailed if anyone found out. From experience, he knew his camera would not pick up the movement. The other times he’d done this he had taken down a corrupt politician, and disrupted a drug smuggling ring. Still, if knowledge got out, he’d be lucky to survive his prison sentence.

  He continued smoothly. “More than a month without a ransom note is not a good sign. The only good thing is there is no body either. Is it possible to speak with at least the elder sister? It is not impossible that he told her something.”

  “No, detective. I am certain that if Susan knew anything, she would have come to me, and her emotional state is too perturbed for me to upset her by asking her to speak with the police.”

  “I thought as much, Mrs. MacTaggart, but I had to ask.” Alvin nodded politely at the two. “Well, I’ve got to be on my way. My partner is waiting for her caffeine fix.”

  Back in the car, they drove off. He would have to retrieve the bug after they left. He dared not turn on the receiver lest his illegal wiretap ensnare Cynthia Jenkins as well. It would record everything, and he could retrieve it later to listen in the privacy of his home.

  That night, York relaxed in his favorite overstuffed easy chair and cracked open a beer. Carefully, he inserted the bug into a receiver and transferred the file onto his personal computer. Thankfully, it was not linked in real-time to the police data cube like his work computer was.

  “Was that the detective?” Jehanne asked, his voice a little tinny from the speakers.

  “Yes. What do you think of him?” MacTaggart replied.

  “I see why you thought he was dangerous. He has been tailing you for some time. I wonder why he broke his cover now? Surely he could not have known about me.” The man muttered something oddly melodious but indecipherable. “I have woven a sound barrier. Our conversation will not be heard by anyone it is not meant to be heard by.”

  “It is possible, depending on how deep he’s dug. The society is having a more and more difficult time maintaining its anonymity. Surely you know this as well as anyone, Gregory.”

  “True, true. My main concern, Fiona, is he has a bit of the fey about him.”

  “Detective York? Are you serious? The fey?” Alvin snorted into his beer. The two were starting to sound like Mamo Kelly and her wild fairy tales.

  “It is a small connection. His talent probably manifests itself as hunches, foreshadowing dreams, or the ability to avoid danger.”

  A long pause. What the hell were they talking about? He heard a coffee mug being set back onto the table. Fiona spoke. “Getting to the task at hand, you said you had news you needed to deliver in person?”

  “The council has confirmed that the transportation magic was Iosan in origin. We cannot be certain that it was Elaboim who had Alboim kidnapped, but he is by far the most likely candidate. Currently, we are trying to get the old elf to portal to Barugala to check things out, but he is refusing.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “So we have ruled out Brigid’s home-world. Are the girls in any danger?”

  “Yes, and maybe. Few worlds would search the String of Worlds for a peasant girl, not after nearly forty years. We don’t know why Alboim was taken, so cannot properly assess the risk to the Adams girls.” Gregory slurped on his coffee. “At this point, speculation is counterproductive. You must get them trained as soon as possible.”

  “I do not think Agatha is ready for that. And I hate to say it, her protector is weaker than Susan’s.”

  “At least continue the meditation and prayer for Agatha.”

  “Of course. She’s too fragile for anything else right now.” Fiona agreed. Anything else?” a pause, and they said their goodbyes, and with a scraping of the chairs, departed. York turned off the recording. A soft knock sounded on the door.

  Alvin was most definitely not expecting visitors at—he glanced at the clock—ten-thirty at night. He grabbed a pistol and walked to the door. Peering through the eyelet, he saw Gregory Jehanne standing. “So, Detective York,” he said through the door, “I suppose that by now you have listened to the recording and have questions. Would you care to invite me in, and I will answer them to the best of my ability. I will not violate your hospitality.”

  “Why should I trust you?” the detective asked.

  “You have no reason, but trust is a two-way street. I have little reason to trust you either, especially after you illegally recorded my private conversation.”

  “I hear a but in there.”

  “Indeed. I am choosing to trust that you will hear me out, that you will not go to your chief with what you have learned.” Jehanne paused a moment. “I give you my word, I will explain everything. I will not harm you in your home. But I’d rather not have this conversation standing on your stoop. It is a little cold out here, even for my kind.”

  “And what are you?”

  “I am a dhampir.” Gregory answered.

  “A what?”

  “Some call my kind day-walkers. My mother was intimate with a vampire, and I am the result.” His tone was nonchalant. “Some eight hundred years ago.” He added.

  For some reason, Al decided he could trust Jehanne. He unbolted and opened the door. “May I get you a beer?”

  “Thank you, no. One of the traits I inherited from my father is a distaste for alcohol. Coffee though, or black tea would be nice.”

  “I have some old cold in the pot.”

  “That would do nicely. No need to warm it up. Microwaving it destroys the taste.” Gregory folded himself onto the couch opposite the overstuffed chair. “So, as promised, here is the truth about Alboim. I ask that you do not divulge this to anyone.”

  “OK, I’ll bite.” He waved his guest to the couch and crossed to the kitchenette. After a brief search for a clean mug, he filled it with cold coffee and brought it to Jehanne. He sat in his easy chair and lifted the beer to his lips.

  “You’ve read the Summoned Mage cycle?” Alvin nodded, and the dhampir continued. “Nearly every word is true. The end, where the hero and her lover escaped back to her home world though, is not. I do not know why, but they chose to come here and landed in the Kingdom of Serbia.

  “I belong to an organization of magical and mythological beings. We strive to hide in society; humans with their technology could easily destroy us if we are caught, so we try to stay out of the way. Earth is a refugee world of sorts. Magic users from other realities come here for several reasons. It’s actually rather well known in some circles. My organization got in touch with Wilson and Brittany, and got them here to the US.”

  “So, then,” Al asked, “are the Wilsons not human?”

  “Oh, they very much are. Human beings are one of the most common races in the string of worlds.” Gregory shrugged eloquently. “I have never left Earth, nor am I a scholar, so I cannot speak to the mechanics of it, but almost every world has an insane amount of overlap among species. Plants and animals are more mundane than you would think. And many species that are extinct on Earth are still found on other worlds. No dinosaurs though. Mostly animals within the last six million years. So, very late Miocene and Pliocene.

  “And the laws of nature are different on other worlds. Specifically, many alternate Earths allow for magic. Earth does too, but we are in a dormant stage, as you knew from your illegal recording.”

  “Curiosity got the better of me,” York admitted. “Kidnappings are not common here.”

  “I am not castigating you. There is no need to apologize. I assume that you had a premonition to do so; if that is the case, then you needed to know all of this.” Jehanne sipped from his coffee mug. “The upshot is, as far as we can tell, Alboim has been taken to his father’s world, and should be fine. We don’t know why, though. My organization is trying to find a way to that world, Iosa, to see how he is doing. Also, we would like to invite you to join us.”

  “Do not worry; we do nothing nefarious or treasonous. Strictly speaking, some of our activities can be described as illegal, but our illegal activities are more like the actions of Harriet Tubman or Robin Hood. Or you.”

  “What happens if I refuse?”

  “Oh, we won’t threaten you. Your life is not in danger. If you choose not to join us, you will be given a choice: either have your memories modified, or have a geas placed that forbids you from revealing us.”

  “I see, and what will be done with the Alboim Case?”

  “It would be best to allow it to fall into the cold cases. Stop spending time on it and let it go. If you would like, I can arrange for you to travel to Iosa to search for him, once we can figure that out.”

  “OK, Gregory, I think I would at least like more information about your group. I do not think you are lying about your purposes, at least.”

  “That is excellent news. One more thing: please seek some training. Your magical abilities are not particularly strong, but you must train them to make the utmost use of them. If you’d like, I can arrange for someone to come teach you the ways of the fey folk.”

  York pondered for a long moment before nodding. “I think I will take you up on that offer.”

  Jehanne smiled. “Excellent. I would suggest leaving a saucer of milk and a wedge of cheese out in the entryway as payment.” He rose smoothly and drained his mug. “Thank you for hearing me out. I will take my leave.”

  And with that, as quickly as he had appeared, the daywalker was gone. Alvin sat, nursing the beer for a fair amount of time. Finally, he drained the last swallow and stood. He tossed the bottle into recycling and left a slice of Swiss on the counter along with a tumbler of milk.

  In the morning, they were gone, and the kitchen was immaculate. Forgive me, Mamo, Alvin prayed for the first time in years, I’m starting to think, maybe there is more to the old stories than I believed.