"Hey, I'm wounded," I protested. "Have a heart."
"You were wounded." His foot impacted again, this time with a little more English on it. "You are lazy. Let us work on making that past tense as well." He stood. "I teach three classes today. I'll be home by six. We'll go hunting then."
There was a barrette on the dresser in my room, all that was left of one of Sawney's victims. Katie the tomboy's sunny hair clip. "I'm ready for a little hunting trip," I said with determination. I could call Ishiah and ask to get my shift switched from tonight to this afternoon. He wouldn't have a problem with it, and if he did, I'd sic Goodfellow on him.
As it turned out, Ishiah wanted to speak to me, the sooner the better. I showed up at the Ninth Circle an hour later, wondering, not for the first time, if it was Ishiah's dark sense of humor or if there was more to peris than Robin knew.
"Good. You're here."
I continued to wrap the bar apron around my waist and nodded. "Here I am," I confirmed, puzzled. Ishiah wasn't usually one for berating the obvious. "Although, trust me, I deserved a sick day."
"You found the elusive Sawney Beane, then?" His wings were out in force and rustling impatiently.
"Rumor mill's already working overtime, huh?" The bar was mostly empty, but last night it would've been full, and monsters like to gossip the same as anyone else. "Yeah, we found him, and he pretty much kicked our asses." I poured myself a glass of tomato juice. Not as manly as a slug of whiskey, but better at replacing iron from blood loss. "So, what'd you want to talk to me about? Am I going to be employee of the month? Is there a plaque involved?"
"After impaling that Gulon with a beer tap? It seems unlikely," he said with annoyance.
"He brought in outside appetizers. It's against the rules." Not to mention that the appetizer had been a dog. A big playful mutt who hadn't had a clue what was in store for him. The beer tap had cleaned right up when I'd finished with it. No harm done, although the Gulon probably wouldn't agree with that assessment. "How is Rover doing, by the way?"
"That is beside the point," he said, eyes stony. I wasn't buying it. One of the other bartenders, a peri named Danyeal—Danny to me—said Ishiah had kept the dog, which was now fat, happy, and a veritable fountain of urine whenever his master's back was turned.
"And what was the point again?" I asked innocently.
"Never mind." He got out while the getting was good and folded his arms. "I want to talk to you about Robin."
"Goodfellow?" I said curiously. "You're not going to ban him from the bar, are you? He'll only show up more often if you do. Probably move the hell in."
"No." The wings were spreading now. It was the unconscious reaction of peris to stress or danger. Danny flared his wings at even the hint of a bar fight, but as the steely Ishiah was about the furthest thing from high-strung as you could get, I was betting that danger of the big and bad kind was the option here. "I'm hearing things," he announced quietly.
"What kind of things?" I prodded.
"There's word that Robin is being targeted. I heard it just today." Catching a glimpse of feathers from the corner of his eye, he hissed in exasperation and the wings wavered like a heat mirage and disappeared. "I don't know who's behind it. I don't know if it's true, but the rumor is out there. I would tell him myself, but his harridan housekeeper won't put my calls through. And if I showed up at his home in person, I might have to tell him over crossed swords."
I still wanted to know what had led to the peculiar animosity on Robin's side versus the vexed watchfulness on Ishiah's, but now wasn't the time. "Targeted?" The museum. "He was attacked two days ago by a sirrush. We thought it was a random thing. Shit." I grabbed my cell phone. "You don't know anything? Who's behind it? Why?"
"No. Nothing. It's the flimsiest of hearsay, the source of which I can't determine." His jaw set as his eyes narrowed. "And I've made the effort." His hand clenched into a fist. "An extensive effort."
Damn. If Ishiah couldn't get to the bottom of it, it was going to be a hard nut to crack. Goodfellow's answering machine picked up and I swore again. "I've got to go." I ripped off the apron as I came around the bar and tossed it on the counter.
"Make sure the son of a bitch watches his back," he commanded.
"I'll do one better," I responded as I hit the door. "I'll watch it for him."
When I arrived, I was sweaty and breathing hard from my run up twenty-five flights. I didn't take elevators. A good fight was about defense and offense. It was hard to get a good defense going in a steel box—a giant mousetrap, for all intents and purposes. And I wasn't fond of anything with the word "trap" in it.
After I'd pounded my fist against the door, Seraglio opened it and looked up at me with disapproval. "You most surely are a loud young man."