Nightshade

The wind howled as the Banshee sang her woeful tune. She sounded pretty good, and I wondered if I hadn't already downloaded her CD to my iPod. But I wasn't here to appreciate the floorshow. I had a client, the paying kind. A kilo of elfin gold was stashed under a loose floorboard behind my filing cabinet. It was enough to keep me in bullets and cheap whisky for a year. Everything a Private-Eye needs to survive in this crossroads cesspool of a city.

Nightshade, the city between the worlds of science and magic. You wanna get from one side to the other, you gotta go through here. It was a playground for conmen, smugglers-both human and faery-and anyone on the lam. That was my case, and I'd just found my target. He was in the far back booth, talking with a human I recognized. He was some elflord who had broken one of their strange codes and was trying to get to the other side before his buddies found him. My snitches told me that I wasn't exactly the first gumshoe that High Lord Muckety-Muck had tried to hire. All I had to do was tail him and call the client on his cell.

Most folks don't mess with elves, but I had an edge. An old police nightstick with an 1876, honest-to-God iron nail driven into the butt. Cold iron, heat-forged on a coke fire and beaten into shape with a hammer. Just a touch would drop them the way a charged-up cattle prod would drop me. Don't touch skin, it doesn't even leave a burn mark. Far as I know-and I know a lot about this town-it was the only cold iron this close to the border. One touch, and the fay loose two important things: consciousness, and that day's memories. Ain't no law against cold iron. The Sidhe just hunt you down and kill you. It was an edge, but a risky one.

A fly buzzed my head. My distracted swat almost made me miss his exit. He was a smooth one, alright. He moved with the sinuous grace that only the High-Elven display. I had rear-exit privileges in this joint, but I didn't want to spook him. The back alley offered two directions, but I knew he was heading for the freight yards. The human he met worked the trains.

The alley was empty of all but its smell, he'd had plenty of time to get-out. Another fly-couldn't be the same-buzzed me, close. As I turned my face to avoid contact, I noticed some very well-crafted boots, barely visible behind the dumpster. I pulled my piece and my billyclub, I hated alleys. I approached cautiously, gun out, club low. It was my runner, alright. From the bruise on his head and the upturned cobblestone next to him, he'd been koshed, but good. You can't kill an elf with a rock, but you can ruin his day.

"Mister Reuel." The familiar voice was accompanied by a light pinprick on the base of my neck. I'd seen enough elven blades to know what was there. "Do drop the gun and that ridiculous truncheon."

"Contract's fulfilled, you've found him." I spoke slowly as my gun clattered on the cobblestones. I hadn't let go of the nightstick, yet. "I hope you have the other half of the payment, on you."

"Oh indeed," I could hear him picking-up my gun. I was about to make my move when my left hand felt like it was hit with a blowtorch. My nightstick bounced at my feet. Elven blades burn.

"But unfortunately, I was too late." I heard the high-density ceramic cylinder open, bullets clinked. He'd just unloaded my gun. "It seems the disreputable private investigator I hired bungled the job. When poor Lord Alaron confronted him, he was killed in the struggle."

"Ain't easy killing an elf," I said through gritted teeth. The hand was agony.

"Oh?" More clinking, he was reloading the gun. "Even with steel-jacketed bullets?"

I gasped, but not in pain. Steels weren't just contraband, it would cost millions to smuggle something like that into Nightshade. There were powerful protective wards to be bypassed. Heavy magic. You could kill a freakin' dragon with six steel .38's.

"Son-of-a-troll." It wasn't eloquent, but it was all I had.

"Of course, Lord Alaron would have managed to take your life, even as he died. Now turn around, Mister Reuel." The fly that had been buzzing me flew over and landed on his shoulder.

"Oh, of course," he grinned as he addressed the fly. "You're dismissed."

"You bugged me." My voice betrayed my awe. Enchanting a fly was serious Ju-Ju. Few had the Talent to do it right. By looking through its eyes, he knew exactly where I'd been all day.

"Who is this Lord Alaron, anyway? What'd he do?"

"Let's just say that a public trial might have raised questions that certain powerful interests would rather keep quiet." He was holding my gun in his right hand.

"A few defensive wounds, I think. Lord Alaron was handy with a blade." Agony seared with each light flick of his sword. Chest. Arm. Another on the wrist. I dropped to my knees, head bowed, trying very hard not to scream.

"And now mister Reuel, you would have landed several blows with your truncheon before he drew his weapon. Do hand it to me, please. Handle first, of course."

Sometimes, they just make it too damn easy.

That he was found alone in the alley carrying contraband was the talk of the town. Some said it was a magic tome, others that he was selling faery dust. We all heard about the trial and execution, but nobody said anything about steel bullets. Imagine that, carrying five lethal bullets and being so careless as to touch one with his unprotected hand? No wonder he couldn't remember anything that happened that day.

Five? Everybody needs a little edge, don't they?

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