Chapter Twenty
The small dark wizened man had been known over the years by so many names he had long forgotten the callow youth named Glew he once was. These days, he was one of the Three who ruled Oldtown's vast criminal underground. His part of the pie was the drug trade. Both mortals and immortals on both sides of the border provided a ready market for the designer product that came out of the Dökkálfar alchemists' labs.
The Druid was also a thief, but he didn't steal mundane things like gold and jewels. He stole your lives--all of them.
He felt his wards trip and a frisson of terror raced through him. The boy had crossed the wards in Emory. His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked up North 35th street in Fremont to the passageway to Oldtown. To add to his general feelings of anxiety he wondered and worried why the damned Vampire had called for Three to meet. He was almost certain she couldn't have gotten wind of his latest venture. His survival hinged on the fact that his other plan in Emory was kept secret. His lieutenants would rise and end him quickly if they thought there was even a chance that he was risking a war with the witches and shifters.
He was sure that the Keeper's Boy was the one that the seer had warned him of. So, the boy needed to be dealt with and soon. He had dealt with the other obstacles. The old Keeper was gone. The witch laid up in a coma, effectively incapacitated.
Just the boy remained. But a voice inside whispered--four times you tried to eliminate him and four times you failed. That same voice told him to fold his cards and walk away. But it was too late. His condition had deteriorated too much to allow him to start over at one of the other Thinnings.
His cell rang, causing him to jump. It was the Hag.
"Did you get the shifter pup back," he demanded.
"I had some problems. The mother slipped by me and succeeded in getting the whelp to the Keeper's Boy. I tried to compel him, but he is considerably more powerful than you told me. I hit him with a 12th circle compulsion spell, and he waved it away like it was nothing."
The Druid's heart skipped a beat.
"I called to warn you. He's on his way with the pup to Emory."
"He's there now, you incompetent bitch," he snapped. He took a calming breath. "Thanks to your incompetence, he now knows something is up. He will be staying at the hotel, take him there. Make it look like one of your Coven sisters did it out of hatred for him. There are plenty who do."
"It will be a risk, master. I will try again."
"See that you succeed, or I swear I will flay the skin off your back. witch."
After he disconnected, the little man continued his walk to his meeting. He moved with precise even steps through the afternoon sunlight, trying to smother his frustration. The thought that the success of his plans was out of his control, and in the hands of others, threatened to send him into a towering terror-inspired rage. A weakness that he couldn't afford to indulge around his partners. Any scent of vulnerability they would jump on like a dog on a bone. Lessons down the long centuries of his life had taught him discipline and control was survival.
He was first, last, and always a survivor.
Mistakes had been made. The boy should have been killed at birth. He wished he could bring back to life the midwife responsible for that mistake. Killing the disobedient cow again would do nicely to relieve some of his stress.
Warning bells rang. Were the failures more evidence of his mental deterioration? He had noticed a slight tremor in his hands lately. A sure sign of physical deterioration. Even in the heat of the July sun, he went cold He had second thoughts about the decision to delay switching to a younger body. But soon dismissed his doubts. There was a trade-off for renewal. It took years to recover his previous skill level.
And the trickiest part of the plan was in play.
He took a deep breath and calmed himself. The Druid thought of himself as a long-range planner. He liked to sit back and run scenarios in his head before he exacted a plan. It was the chaos that always followed the execution of a plan that drove him to anxious distraction.
The hag was worrisome. He had cultivated and nurtured her resentments and anger for years. It wouldn't be the first time in his long life he'd recruited a hater to carry out his plans. Their resentments and hate made them easy to manipulate.
The problem was that her lust for more and more power was getting to be a concern. The blood she was spilling was drawing attention. And the fact that she managed to figure out how to summon the faerie worried him. He thought he had broken their influence over her.
Allies were often a far worse threat to good plans than enemies were.
He made a mental note to remind her again about the consequence of failure. She knew, of course, she'd watched him administer punishment over the years, but it didn't hurt to show her again.
His planning allowed for some leeway, he reassured himself. Frustration made his guts twist. Why for once couldn't things just go the way they needed to.
The boy was the wild card.
He sighed. She will fail again; she was a poor tool. He was going to have to arrange for the Brotherhood to take him out--something he had hoped he wouldn't have to do. The Dökkálfar assassins were expensive and tricky to deal with and he was already too indebted to the Fae. The witch could do the summoning, she was plenty strong enough. Just get the boy taken care of and secure the damn shifter pup then everything will work out.
He was accustomed to fear, he had lived with it every day of his long life. The everlasting dread inspired by the druid Brigid's curse had dogged his thoughts--even as his powers deepened. That dread constantly hovered at the edge of thought during every waking moment these days.
"Her child will end you."
He just needed to get into Keeper's cabin and all will be well.
Chapter Twenty-One
The River House, Emory's only hotel, was a huge sprawling Victorian log mansion on the north bank of the Stillaguamish River. It sat in five acres of landscaped grounds that were ringed in with ornate black wrought iron fencing. The house was fronted by a porch that ran down its length with chairs and loungers scattered in artful disarray.
The lobby was crowded with families getting their luggage sorted, children corralled, and checking in. A flagstone fireplace big enough to roast a steer dominated one side and varnished pine bookcases filled with books lined the white clay mortared logs on the outside wall. Boot scarred heart of pine floors had bright woven rugs scattered.
Quinn had been here once before with old Finn and just as he remembered, the room still exuded a welcoming warmth that you couldn't find in a more modern hotel.
He absently checked out the joinery as he waited and saw that whoever had built this place was a master. Even old Finn would have been impressed, although as he thought about it, there was a good chance the old guy or maybe his father or grandfather had been the one who had done the work. Craftsmanship and disciplined work were Finn's gods and the half-wild boy who was placed in his shop to learn soon found out that regardless of his age, his best was expected and excuses not welcome.
A short fat guy with a shock of gray hair and small merry blue eyes manned the desk. Henry Delaney gave Quinn a warm smile as he walked up to the registration desk. Henry belonged to the Crafter community; those half magical artisans that made Emory unique.
"Howdy, Lachlan, it's been a while. We been expecting you. Welcome to the River House."
Quinn smiled despite himself. "The Aunties didn't leave me much choice. Their summoning knocked me off my chair in the middle of a poker game. I had a winning hand to boot. Is there a chance you have a room for me?"
"Well now you make me feel guilty," Henry grinned unrepentantly, "but events are afoot. Us crafters need you here, we been waiting a long time for you to finally decide where you belong and the Aunties, well you know the Aunties--they do tend to get impatient. I put you in the Owner's Room. I think you'll like it."
Quinn nodded thanks and offered his American Express card.
"No. No," he waved it away, "that's unnecessary. Everything's been taken care of."
That was a bit over the top. Quinn thought. "Thanks for the offer, but I pay my own way." Debts were easy to accrue and sometimes hard to pay off.
Henry looked like he was going to argue, then shrugged and took the card and swiped it.
"Is there a special place I need to park?"
"Yup, pull your rig over to the north side, find an open spot, and put this on the dash. Nobody will bother it there. Here's your key. Your room is on the third floor. Sorry, we don't have an elevator but from the look of you, them stairs ain't gonna bother you none."
"By the way Lachlan, it's Founders Week. We got the Duel of the Shootists right out in front of the hotel, so you're gonna be blocked in tomorrow until one o'clock. Hell, you might watch, seems to me you used to love that show."
"Thanks," he said, "maybe I'll take it in."
***
The "room" was a fancy suite. It had a living room with a couple of chairs and a sofa big enough for even him to stretch out his six foot three inches. Both bedrooms had king-sized beds covered with matching old-fashioned white lace bedspreads that matched the fancy lace curtains. Except for the faint scent of apricots, he thought it was the nicest hotel room he had ever stayed in.
But the Hag had been here.
He moved silently to the bathroom door and jerked it open.
A woman in a maid's uniform lay sprawled half in half out of the ancient clawfoot porcelain bathtub.
Quinn had seen enough dead bodies to recognize one when he saw one, but he checked like he'd been trained. She was cold to the touch and dead--probably stroke or heart attack.
He walked into the other room to call downstairs.
"Henry, there's a dead woman in my bathroom. Looks like she's been dead for a while, better call for the Guardians."
He took a seat in a leather wing-back chair that looked like it had graced London gentleman's club in a past life and waited for whoever would show up.
Fifteen minutes later, Henry and a severe-looking woman came in without knocking.
Tulli Gudrun. Quinn groaned inwardly. She was a Guardian--one of the coven's enforcer/cops. She was an elderly woman with hard gray cop eyes, gray hair, and a bitter mouth. She eyed him like she was a scalpel and he was something that needed dissection.
His glyphs warmed as they sensed the power that coiled around her.
"Where," she snapped.
Quinn pointed to the bathroom and stayed put. He didn't need to see the poor woman again. He and Henry stared at each other.
"Well, Henry, it seems he found your missing maid," she said as she came out. "The question is, what happened here? I can sense the blood magic."
She gave Quinn a flat look full of suspicion.
"Why don't you tell me about it."
"Not much to tell. I just walked in and found her. I called Henry and here you are."
She didn't respond, just continued to stare at him with suspicious slate-gray eyes. Cops were the same the world over.
Quinn offered a bland look and waited her out.
