Havoc Rising Read online

  I began working my way to the south end of the Great Hall, keeping my eyes open as I walked. In a building as old as the MET with that many artifacts, I knew there were other beings around, especially certain types of fae, and I had to find them to see what they knew about the bombing. The task wasn’t going to be easy. First, it was daytime, and second, the place was teeming with people—neither of which made finding fairyfolk, particularly brownies, easy.

  The various types of short fae collectively called “brownies” were actually common. They usually lived in houses and might do chores at night if the residents were nice to them. Brownies—which belonged in the Seelie, or Light Fae, category—tended to tolerate humans and even help them from time to time, unlike their Unseelie, or Dark Fae, brethren. Unseelie Fae despised humans.

  Since brownies hated to be seen, they hid behind veils that made them invisible, and they only came out at night, but they could also cast glamours that gave them the appearance of all kinds of household objects. There were a few different kinds of brownies, including Hobs and Hobgoblins, and I was hoping to find the former because the latter were more dangerous and conniving. Either way, they all loved honey.

  I reached into my pocket to make sure the squeeze bottle I’d swiped from the bagel shop was still there. It had leaked. Great. Now my pocket was a sticky mess, and my rubber glove was covered with goo. Well, at least it was on the glove and not my hand. Gotta appreciate the small victories in life.

  Before anyone started watching me, I snuck out toward the Greek and Roman art collection, just past the Met Store in the Great Hall, and then skirted around the library to the European sculpture and decorative arts exhibit in the middle of the main section of the first floor. I tried to walk as if I were just another investigator as I progressed through the exhibit hall, keeping a watchful eye out for anything out of the ordinary. There were fewer investigators wandering around the museum the farther I got from the Great Hall, and none of the techs I encountered gave me a second glance once they noticed the ID badge on my jacket.

  I was meandering toward the medieval art collection when a collection of ivory statues over a mantel, at the rear of a small room displaying seventeenth-century French furniture, grabbed my attention. The room was laid out to resemble a period parlor complete with gilt armchairs, a red-velvet-topped gaming table, a parquet wood floor, heavy draperies, and all manner of horrendous decorations that I’d hated even back when they were originally in vogue. The ivory pieces, however, were just the kind of items I was seeking, and that room was the perfect place to find a Hob.

  The carved figures over the mantel flanked a gaudy clock set in the belly of a gilded horse. They were mundane in nature, but on an end table next to the fireplace was a small, bearded man twisted into some kind of bowl. Bingo!

  I was sure he was casting a glamour, but it just looked like an impossible yoga pose—Upward Facing Soup Tureen. I stepped over the velvet rope cordoning off the room, walked over to the fireplace, and tapped on the end table near the little fairy’s feet. The small figure opened one eye but didn’t move. I tapped again.

  “I can see you, Hob. I need your help,” I said quietly and then pulled out my goo-covered hand and spread my fingers between my face and the Hob. “Man, what am I gonna do with all this damned honey? It’s just ruined this jacket. I’m going to have to throw it away.”

  With that, the little man’s other eye opened, but he still didn’t move. I could see him eyeing my dripping fingers. His mouth opened, and he licked his lips a bit.

  “I’ll just have to head to the bathroom and wash my hands and clean this jacket.” I crossed back over the velvet rope and walked to the bathroom right around the corner from the exhibit.

  Once I was in the bathroom, I checked the stalls to make sure I was alone, locked the door, placed the squeeze bottle of honey on the sink, and waited. It didn’t take long. I began to scoop the spilled honey from my jacket pocket with my gloved hand, dripping the sticky amber liquid on my shoe, the tile floor and all over the sink, muttering to myself. The door opened just a bit for a few seconds. I left the bottle of honey in the sink, along with my gloves, and crossed to one of the stalls, keeping my back to the sinks, but I didn’t close the door behind me.

  The bathroom door opened again and closed just as quickly. In one of the mirrors, I could see the little Hob hopping from sink to sink toward the honey. I waited until he’d started to eat before I faced him. I didn’t move. I just watched as the pot-bellied, garden gnome-like figure stood in the bowl of the sink, scooped up the honey with his pudgy hands, and shoveled it into his mouth, smacking his lips in obvious delight. It was like watching a dog eat peanut butter—drippy, gooey peanut butter. It was gross.

  I cleared my throat, and the Hob froze. I didn’t know if he was trying to turn invisible or if he was trying to morph into a bowl again—neither of which would have hidden him from me—but he took on the same pose he’d held in the exhibit as I walked closer.

  “I can still see you,” I said, trying not to seem threatening. “On my honor, I will not harm you. The honey is yours, but I am very much in need of some information.”

  Finally, the little guy squinted at me. He was tall for a Hob, maybe a full two feet in height. He wore red boots and blue denim overalls decorated with a purple hippo. He had his bushy beard tucked inside the bib of the overalls, probably so he wouldn’t eat it as he inhaled the honey. He was completely bald, which was fortunate, given how much honey was on his head. He even had honey in the one monstrous ear I could see.

  I mimicked his pose, and his eyes widened. “I told you I can see you,” I said in a pleasant tone, careful not to sound too disrespectful. “I’m not mundane.”

  At that, the Hob relaxed his pose, faced me, and began digging the honey out of his ear and eating it. Ewww.

  “Waste not, want not,” the little brownie said when he noticed my revulsion. “Waste not, want not; waste not, want not. Besides, it’s the best stuff anywhere, and it’s been a while since I’ve had any.” He continued cleaning off his bald pate and repeating, “Waste not, want not; waste not, want not.”

  He was starting to irritate me with the whole “waste not” thing when he suddenly stopped and gazed at me. “Are you a Guardian?”

  “I am. I am Pallas Athena’s, and I am currently called Steve Dore.”

  I learned long ago that Rule Number One in dealing with any nonhuman creature—and some humans for that matter—was to never under any circumstances give out even part of my real name. For those who knew how to use them, like some Parans and most witches, true names were intrinsically tied to their bearers and could be used against them in all sorts of nasty ways—if not for personal gain, then as currency. True names could be used to enact curses or track—or even control—the individual. Names were linked to identities almost as intimately as blood.

  “I simply need to know if you saw what happened at the entrance of this building yesterday or know anything about what was stolen or who or what might have taken it. On my word as a Guardian, I only wish to determine if what happened bears specific consequences beyond the mundane to the mortal world I am sworn to protect.”

  The Hob eyed me for some time. Actually, he alternated between eyeing me and eyeing the honey. I could tell he was nervous—he was far jumpier than a Hob would normally be, in fact. All fae hated answering direct questions, and they rarely gave direct answers, but this guy stopped eating the honey and began looking at the door as if something were going to barge through it at any second. He even developed a twitch in his bushy left eyebrow. It didn’t help that I was asking for very specific information, which was inherently valuable to fairyfolk. But that was why I’d brought the honey.

  “All you want to know is what I saw?” he asked, now eyeballing the honey exclusively. It didn’t escape me that he left out the parts about what was stolen or who took it,
trying to change the deal a bit. The twitch stopped instantly, and I could have sworn he was drooling a little. It was like watching a crack addict waiting for his fix.

  “Did you see what happened at the entrance at the time of the bombing, or do you know anything about what was stolen or by whom?” I asked again, being as specific as possible. While they never lied, fae had a nasty habit of being vague and misleading if you gave them a chance.

  “I saw nothing. I was guarding my charge when the walls shook,” the Hob said, glancing around furtively. “I saw nothing, but I felt a foul, unnatural magic.”

  A foul, unnatural magic. That definitely ruled out anything mundane. “And what of the item that was stolen? Did you see anything or anyone beyond the normal mortals here that day or prior to that day?” I hoped to find out if he had seen any of the Old Ones or any unfamiliar Parans. “Answer me these last questions, and I will leave you alone to enjoy your honey and return to your collection. They are particularly fine pieces, by the way, in pristine condition for items so old.”

  With these guys, “thank you” would end a conversation in a heartbeat, but flattery could work wonders. I walked closer to the door to reinforce the idea that I would leave as soon as he told me what he knew, and I noticed that the damned thing was still locked. I wished I knew how they opened doors without actually unlocking them. It was a trick that would have come in very handy on my more clandestine operations.

  He started hopping from foot to foot, glancing quickly from the door to me to the honey. “Um, yes,” he finally said, grabbing the squeeze bottle in a bear hug and jumping to the floor with the graceful ease only the fae can pull off, especially carrying an item so substantial relative to his size.

  “Well, what was it?” I asked through clenched teeth while throwing my hands up and cocking my head.

  “You said that was your final question and then you would leave!” he screamed at me. “On your honor, you swore!” He began to hop around as if his feet were on fire, hugging the bear-shaped bottle so tight the top might pop off.

  Great. “The deal for the honey was three-fold, and you have given me but a single answer, Hob. Do not renege on me.” I bared my teeth a little, but rather than snarl, I tried to smile to hide the fact that I would have preferred to punt him across the bathroom. I wasn’t sure it worked.

  The Hob froze instantly and peered up at me without raising his head. I could see by the sheepish look in his eyes and the pout of his lower lip that he knew I was in the right. If I had let him go at that point, it would have implied I accepted a change to our original deal. He stood stock-still for a long moment and then suddenly began to bounce around like a kitten high on catnip. “We-kuff,” he said, spinning around like a top. “We-kuff, we-kuff, we-kuff, we-kuff.”

  I had no idea what he was saying or what it was supposed to mean, but if his purpose was to try to irritate me so badly that I’d just let him go, he was succeeding. “What the hell is ‘we-kuff’?”

  The Hob just kept bouncing and spinning around, hugging the bear-shaped bottle like some sort of dance partner.

  “What is ‘we-kuff’?” I asked again, losing my patience.

  “No more questions!” the Hob shouted and then suddenly stopped spinning.

  “Fine. Don’t tell me.” I waved my hand dismissively at him. To hell with the little bastard. “What the hell does we-kuff even mean?” I mumbled, mostly to myself, as I walked to the door, unlocked it, and ran upstairs to see where the Cup had been stolen.

  The little shit blew past me in a breeze that ruffled my jacket. Fucking Hobs.

  CHAPTER 7

  I took the stairs next to the library up to the second floor and followed the sounds of cameras clicking and people talking. There were more and more people the closer I got to the ruined case where I assumed the Cup had been displayed.

  The case was a plain glass-and-steel cabinet illuminated by a single halogen light suspended from the ceiling, mixed in among various other similar cases in a gallery of paintings and photographs just to the left of the museum’s main staircase. According to tags on the glass cabinets next to the shattered one, they were all part of a recent temporary exhibit of a collection of Middle Eastern objects on loan from a Sheik Abdul Aziz Al Hamoudi. At the moment, the Middle Eastern artwork was scattered throughout the museum; its more permanent home was under renovation.

  The displays in the area were all benign, except for the one case surrounded by yellow tape, smashed glass, and people in biohazard suits. Three forensic investigators were busy collecting evidence in the form of a continuous stream of photographs. They were taking pictures of the glass on the ground from all angles, the items on the floor around the case where the “beaker” used to be, the hall, the remains of the case itself—anything and everything. They were probably not the first crew to do this today.

  I stood back to watch. Nothing was unusual—just an ordinary smash-and-grab—but I did notice three surveillance cameras spread around the hall. Whoever took the Cup would have to show up unless the cameras had been fried along with all the other electronics. At the very least, I might be able to see someone casing the display before the explosion.

  After surveying the other objects in the collection to make sure nothing stood out, I walked across the gallery to the balcony overlooking the Great Hall. As I peered down, no details stood out beyond the scorch marks and the circular pattern of the blast. From this perspective, the site of the explosion bustled with life, and the Great Hall echoed with all the activity, but I had little real information.

  The three techs behind me tried to stifle their laughter by quickly taking a few photos. Had I done something funny? I checked my shoes for toilet paper but found none.

  I decided to head back downstairs via the main staircase and then find Agent Wright to get the security footage. As I skirted the investigators, trying hard not to impede their progress, I kept noticing furtive glances in my direction, and one of the techs even snorted a laugh. I surreptitiously checked my fly. It was up. What the hell?

  I walked back downstairs by the most direct route, digging at my teeth—in case there was food stuck there—with my hand over my mouth and keeping an eye out for any other brownies. I didn’t see a single one, nor did I find anything else that struck me as unusual, even in my teeth.

  I was pretty distracted and self-conscious at that point, so it took a second for the total lack of anything unusual to dawn on me. With sudden clarity, I realized that whatever had happened there was actually very far from normal. There had to be more than the one Hob in this museum, but clearly something had scared the brownies away from their treasures, even those outside the area of the robbery. Of course, it didn’t take much to scare a brownie, but I needed to see those security tapes. I knew that there was some sort of magic involved even if I had no clue what “we-kuff” meant in brownie-ish.

  I pulled out my cell and the business card and dialed Agent Wright’s number. She picked it up on the fourth ring.

  “Agent Wright? This is Steve Dore. I’m finished with my walk-through. If you have copies of the surveillance tapes, I’ll pick them up and get out of your hair.”

  “Ah, Mr. Dore. Okay.” She sounded distracted. “Head to the security office, and I’ll have them make you copies. The office is to the left of the entrance. Just follow the signs.”

  I tried to slip downstairs, avoiding investigators, but more and more people sniggered as I passed. It was like running an obstacle course with randomly moving barriers. I stumbled twice, but I finally made it, paranoid as hell and completely perplexed.

  The chaos of the security office snapped me back to reality. There must have been twenty people jammed into a room meant to hold four. I counted six museum security guards, twice as many people in shirtsleeves trying to look important—whom I took to be agents of various government organizations—and a handful of te
chs and cops who all clearly wanted to be anywhere else. I couldn’t blame them, because the steamy place stank like body odor and hot electronics.

  The dark space was full of monitors—some black and white, others infrared—which offered the only real light in the room except for a couple of work lamps hung under the desks so techs could work on whatever was down there. Another wall was full of electronic equipment with flashing red and green lights and wires strung to several rolling cabinets full of machinery marked with DHS and FBI labels.

  A cacophony of voices coming from any number of the guys in shirtsleeves trying to talk over each other, or into radios or phones, echoed through the small area and drowned out every other sound but the techs clacking away on keyboards. I could only guess that they were trying to restore the systems that were blown during the blast. Everyone else in the room looked overwhelmed except Agent Wright, who was standing in the middle of the crowd watching one particular technician intently as he worked. Only two of the cops eyed me when I approached the doorway, and they both glowered, suggesting that another body was unwelcome.

  Despite all the electronics I did see, conspicuously absent from the room were any computer hard drives. Those were probably down in the basement somewhere. This room was for daytime monitoring and quick response.

  I studied the screens until I located the one for the gallery upstairs where the Cup had been, and I noted its number and designation. I also checked the ones that showed the Great Hall and the other entrances. Whoever had stolen the Cup must have passed through at least one of those fields of view at some point.