I straightened and looked off to the west, where the sun was balancing atop the high rises.
It was time to turn the screws on Van Zant. The wraith had to have come from someone who was associated with him. It was too big a coincidence that it had gotten my name out of Gregory, killed the club owner, and then come after me in the netherwhere. Gregory and I had only spoken twice and both times it was about Van Zant. That was our only connection.
Van Zant wasn’t the one actually commanding the wraith—that had to be a Fae—but I was certain it linked to him somehow.
I went back into the MonsterFit vestibule and traced certain sigils in the air with my index finger and whispered the magic words that opened doorways.
My destination wasn’t Carnival as I’d intended before. Instead, I used the doorway to travel to a pub in the Duergar realm. While I would need Maxen’s help to get into the Duergar palace where Nicole was being held, there were plenty of other places within the territory I could go without a bureaucratic chaperone.
The Aberdeen Inn was a pub in a Duergar-held realm in Scotland. Yep, as long as I knew the right sigils to draw, I could step through a doorway and go from a Vegas-anchored Faerie realm to a Scotland-anchored Faerie realm in a matter of seconds. Who said being Fae didn’t have its perks?
My destination doorway took me directly into the pub. I arrived in a corner that was roped off to keep anyone from loitering or moving a table there that would trip up visitors coming in from the netherwhere. The wooden planks under my feet were worn and bowed from thousands of years of countless Fae who had stood in this spot when they’d come and gone through the Aberdeen doorway.
The light was dingy and the aromas of beer, fried food, and sweat hung like a mist in the air that held a pleasant humidity compared to bone-dry Las Vegas. The pub was filled with a rainbow of Fae races, all showing their true forms. There was no need for any humanoid-illusion glamour in a place where non-Fae weren’t allowed. Every race of Fae could let their freak flags fly in places like the Aberdeen.
I flipped a wave to a couple of Fae Guild mercs who were obviously off-duty, but I wasn’t there to socialize. My time to track down Van Zant before I had to join Maxen for the trip to the Duergar palace was dwindling, and I had to find out who was behind the wraith. I needed to talk to the owner of the Aberdeen Inn.
Morven was a rare Ghillie Dubh, the only race of Fae allowed to remain independent from any kingdom. He stood behind the bar with his hand on a tap, looking like Santa Claus if old Saint Nick lost fifty pounds, started a serious weightlifting regimen, and trimmed his white facial hair to a neat quarter-inch of stubble.
No one save Oberon really knew how old Morven was or exactly where he’d grown up. He seemed like one of those institutions who spontaneously sprang to life just as he was now—gently wizened, sharp-eyed, and one of the most well-connected people in Faerie.
Aside from lack of kingdom affiliation, the other curious thing about Ghillie Dubh was that they had no qualms about coming to the aid of others. I could ask Morven for help without risk of the usual obligation that other Fae would normally incur. But a favor from a Ghillie Dubh wasn’t without a price. It was a price paid right away, and it wasn’t one that everyone could afford. You had to be very strong in magic, preferably with some unique quality, and possess nerves of steel. I had the first, my New Gargoyle blood gifted me the second, and my training and background provided me with nerve.
Morven’s gaze slid to me as I approached.
“Ah, Petra Maguire,” he said in his thick, rolling Scottish brogue. The way he pronounced my name always sent a little thrill up my spine. It somehow made me feel connected to the Old World. Even though I’d been raised in a realm anchored in the New World of the United States, Faerie began as territories anchored to the Old World—mostly Scotland, Ireland, and England. All of our roots were there, even mine.
“Hi, Morven.”
I leaned on the bar and watched as he finished filling the mug he held, stopped the tap to pour off some of the foam, and then added another half-inch of beer. He pushed the frosty, thick glass mug across the bar to the waiting hand of a tall Elf. He gave Morven a respectful nod and then moved away from the bar and looked for an empty seat at a table, even though the barstools were all unoccupied. The stools along the bar of the Aberdeen were almost always empty. Fae were generally a bit wary of Morven, keeping their distance as if they feared he would reach out and take a piece of them. He wouldn’t do that, of course. Not unless you asked him for help.
Morven lifted the corner of his dirty apron and wiped his hands on it. “So, you need the help of the Ghillie Dubh?”
“I do,” I said.
I appreciated the way Morven cut straight to the point when it came to requests. And somehow, he always knew when I was there to drink and when I was there for help.
“Why don’t we step upstairs?” He curled his hand, beckoning me to follow.
I walked behind him up a claustrophobic wooden staircase. It was so narrow Morven’s broad shoulders brushed the walls on either side. There was a smooth, smudged line at his shoulder height, evidence of decades, maybe centuries, of his passage up and down.
The stairs let out into a loft with a peaked ceiling overhead that revealed the roofline. Partitions partially divided the space, but there were no visible doors. The smells of the bar below had drifted up and gone somewhat stale in the stuffy space. We stood in an area set up as a little sitting room, with a thick but worn woven rug underfoot, a small coffee table, and three large, matching, high-backed wooden chairs that looked as if they’d come from a dining set.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to one of the chairs, waited until I sat, and then lowered himself to the chair angled toward mine.
He crossed one ankle over the other knee and leaned on the armrest with a jolly Santa Claus smile on his face. His posture was easy, as if he had all the time in the world and not a care in his heart. But his twinkling eyes had turned intent with a faintly predatory gleam.
I swallowed and pushed my palms down the thighs of my jeans. I’d done this before and knew what to expect, but that didn’t make it easier. I couldn’t do this often—I didn’t want to—but sometimes it was the fastest route to something I needed.
“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.
For one crazy second, I could almost imagine that I was a little human kid, ready to go sit on Santa’s lap and whisper my Christmas wishes in his ear.
“There’s a vampire, third generation. He goes by the name Van Zant,” I said. I saw a flicker of recognition in Morven’s eyes at the vamp’s name. That was good. It meant Morven had heard of him and might have information. “I need to know who’s escorting him around Faerie. And if you happen to know where he is right now, that would be helpful, too.”