Borderline (17 page)

30

When Berenbaum's Valiant rounded the corner of Pier Avenue, four heads turned. Caryl was leaning casually against the
BEWARE OF DOG
sign while my coworkers orbited her with varying degrees of nervousness. Teo appeared to have actually combed his hair, and Tjuan was squatting down on the sidewalk, letting Gloria pick lint off his button-down. They all stared as we pulled up to the curb.

“Hey, guys!” called Berenbaum, waving from the driver's seat like the grand marshal of a parade. “Sorry it took so long. Traffic was a bitch!”

I got out of the passenger's side and used my cane and the hood to steady myself as I walked around the car. The devil made me lean over and give Berenbaum an airy good-bye kiss on the cheek. His eyes twinkled with repressed laughter.

“Later, darling,” I said. “I'll call you.”

My moment of glory didn't last. The minute Berenbaum drove away, the stares all moved to me, one blank and three decidedly unfriendly.

“We thought you were back at the hospital, or hiding out in a church,” said Teo. “All that time you're just out for a joyride.”

“You shouldn't have called her,” said Tjuan.

“I was working!” I said as Caryl unlocked the gate. “I can't help it if I make it look fabulous.”

Tjuan gave me a look of such withering contempt that it smothered the last gasp of my good humor. What was his deal with me? Teo and Gloria had good reason to dislike me, but I'd never been anything but civil to Tjuan. I tried not to dwell on it; it was far from the first time a clique had reacted to me as though they shared a brain.

“Berenbaum assures me Rivenholt is still alive,” I said more seriously, “and he's going to arrange for me to meet with Vivian Chandler and Inaya West.” Those things were both true. If they chose to connect them in a way that sounded Project-related, all the better.

“It might be too late,” said Teo, offering me his arm as we headed for the sloping sidewalk. I ignored it but made a mental note under the heading Reasons Not to Strangle Teo. “In the ten years I've been with the Project,” he said, “the Queen has never sent an emissary here. I think the shit's already hit the fan.”

Caryl gave Teo a bland look. “Let us postpone hysteria until we have spoken to the man.”

Caryl's use of “man” notwithstanding, the creature sitting in the leather armchair in the back bedroom had not even bothered with a facade. I suppose he looked vaguely human, aside from being beautiful enough to burn trails of fire down my optic nerves. The green raccoonlike markings around his eyes might have passed for a mask in dim light, but the eyes themselves shone like pools of mercury, and on closer examination he had only four fingers on each hand.

“Greetings, allies mine,” he half sang, rising to reveal a height in excess of seven feet. “My name is called Duke Skyhollow, Right Hand of Her Majesty, Queen Dawnrowan of the Seelie Court.” He put his emphasis on all the wrong syllables. Not someone who spent a lot of time on this side of the Gate, apparently.

“We are honored by your presence, Your Grace,” said Caryl. “I am Marchioness Caryl Vallo, and my companions are Viscount Tjuan Miller, Viscountess Gloria Day, Baron Mateo Salazar, and Lady Millicent Roper.”

What the hell?

“I thank thee of thy welcome gracious, my lady,” Skyhollow said with a theatrical bow.

“And I thank you for your patience. How may we serve Her Majesty?”

“The Queen is under large distress,” the duke said. “We wish to know why Her Majesty's agent reports not.”

“Her Majesty's agent?” Caryl echoed. “You must mean our errant viscount. I was not aware that he was representing Her Majesty in any capacity.”

“Nay,” said the duke. “Not a viscount, the agent of whom I speak. It is a commoner.”

Caryl was speechless for a full four seconds, though no sign of shock or distress appeared on her face. “I see. So you mean to say another fey
besides
Viscount Rivenholt has failed to return to Arcadia as scheduled?”

“At this time, the return of the commoner was not to expect. It was to report at dawn and dusk on its progress. However, twice it hath failed to report, and thus demandeth Her Majesty its ASAP return to Arcadia. Thou art ordered in this matter to assist.”

“Because we're so great at rounding up rogue fey this week,” muttered Teo behind me. He seemed to be having an easier time than I was untangling the duke's syntax.

“Give me the commoner's name,” said Caryl with the alacrity of someone given a stay of execution. “I shall locate the corresponding file and begin the search immediately.”

“Of the hircine persuasion is this commoner, and its name is called Claybriar.”

“I know him,” said Caryl. “A regular through LA5. There was nothing on his latest entry form about a mission for the Queen. You are certain the Queen said Claybriar?”

Fuck,
I thought. Out loud, apparently, to judge by the way every head swiveled around to look at me.
Claybriar
. Brian Clay. He was fey, he was fey, he was fey. What the double
hell
.

The duke turned his masked silver eyes on me. “Wherefore doth the lady ejaculate?” Teo attempted to stifle a sudden coughing fit.

“It's Brian Clay,” I said to Caryl.

“That is Claybriar's registered alias. What of it?”

“Brian Clay is the fake cop I've been talking about.”

She stared at me a moment. “If you had told me the man's name,” she said crisply, “it would have saved me a great deal of confusion.”

The duke made an irritated sound. “Speak please to
me
.”

I turned to him. “Tjuan and I, uh . . . Viscount Miller and I ran into this ‘agent' in another part of town,” I said.

“Provide more detail,” demanded the fey.

This was an awkward position for me for a number of reasons. “I . . . I defer to Viscount Miller.”

Tjuan studied me for a moment, his expression shifting
subtly; then he turned to the duke. “This was a couple of days ago,” he said. “He was looking for Viscount Rivenholt. He said something about a missing woman.”

The duke sniffed. “I see.”

Caryl spoke up gently. “Claybriar is one of the few commoners who visits here regularly. He has never posed as a police officer before, however. May we ask the exact nature of his mission?”

“You may not,” said the duke. “In this matter, the Queen and I alone are authorized.” He gave “authorized” the same tone a new bride uses with the word “husband,” half-sincere and half as though it were all a crazy joke.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” I said, “but don't you think it would be easier for us to find Claybriar if we know his purpose here?”

“Mayhap,” said the duke, his silver eyes giving off such an intense radiance that I saw spots when I looked away. “But of less concern to me is your ease than my imperative to following Her Majesty's commands.”

“Of course,” said Caryl. “When shall we report back on our progress?”

“Dawn and dusk, until the commoner is returned,” said the duke. “Advised are you to more seriously adhere on this matter than has done the commoner agent.”

Caryl escorted the duke back to the Gate, and everyone avoided looking at the Gaping Maw of Nothingness as he stepped through. Even so, there was a strange shudder in the air, and my stomach turned a flip. I was pleased to see that even Tjuan looked a bit queasy, and Gloria sat down on the floor and put her head in her hands.

Fascinated, I approached the Gate, averting my eyes from the void in the middle and focusing on the dark glassy arch that surrounded it. “Is it safe to touch?”

“It will do you no lasting harm,” said Caryl, “but it will make you feel very uncomfortable.”

“Can I try it?”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I'm just curious. I tend to try anything once if it can't kill me.”

Teo snorted. “What can?”

I ignored him and reached out to the edge of the Gate, slowly, not quite finding the courage to make contact.

“So how should we go about finding this commoner?” said Gloria, still sitting on the living room carpet at Tjuan's feet.

“He has a name,” growled Tjuan.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” said Gloria, and patted his shin. How he managed not to kick her across the living room, I can't imagine.

“I'll try calling Clay again when I—AUGH!” I didn't mean to scream when I touched it. But try not screaming when someone cuts your elevator cable. That's what it felt like: a horrible rickety noisy rushing and falling that left no room in my brain for anything but
aaaaaaaaugh
.

Even Tjuan laughed this time. I guess it was pretty funny, in the way it's funny when a cat gets a luggage tag stuck to its tail and runs around the house like the devil is chasing it. In other words, funny to everyone but the cat.

I staggered back from the Gate and wondered why my ribs suddenly hurt. Oh, because Teo had slung his arm around them to keep me from toppling to the floor. Everything sounded
muffled, and people looked like those old-fashioned sepia-toned photos with the edges darkened out. It passed quickly, and when my head cleared I was seated semi-comfortably on the floor. People were still laughing, except for Caryl, of course.

“Poor thing,” said Gloria. “Someone really shoulda warned her not to do that.”

“Nah,” said Tjuan, wiping his eyes. He looked like he had really needed that laugh. “That's how it's done. You do it when we're all just messing around, so you know not to do it when you're trying to push some wriggly-ass goblin through.”

There must have been a story to go with that, because Teo made a taunting
oooooh
sound, and Gloria reddened. Another point for Tjuan, because Gloria was quiet after that.

I dialed Brian Clay, listened to ringing, and hung up. “Surprise surprise,” I said to everyone. “He's not answering.”

“So what kind of a thing is this Claybriar?” said Teo. “Green Lantern forgot to mention that, so we don't know if he has any weird powers.”

“He did mention it,” said Caryl. “You just don't know what hircine means.”

Teo shrugged. “Got me there.”

“Hairy?” I guessed.

“That's hirsute,” Caryl corrected me. “Hircine means goatlike or pertaining to goats. So, a faun.”

“Ah,” I said. Then in another tone entirely,
“Aaaaaah!”
I looked at Teo, but he just stared blankly back at me.

“Caryl,” I said, “how common are fauns?”

“Claybriar is the only one I have ever seen.”

“In that case, I need to talk to Baroness Foxfeather again.”

•   •   •

Baroness Foxfeather, Seelie noble and bartender, was renting a posh little one-bedroom apartment during what was apparently an extended stay in our world to search for her Echo. Since Caryl felt that five people was a bit much for an interrogation, she managed to talk Gloria and Tjuan into staying home with her to look through files.

When Teo and I arrived at the painstakingly restored Hollywood apartment building, Foxfeather buzzed us in and answered the door naked.

“It's Ironbones!” she said in delighted surprise, as though I had not identified myself at the buzzer. “What a terrifying honor! Would you like to come in for sex and oranges?”

I'll confess I missed a beat. “I'm honored by the invitation,” I said solemnly, “but we're just here to chat.”

“Okay,” she said, letting us in. She gestured to a closed door off to our left. “Three of my friends are sexing in there, but I told them to be quiet since the Authorities were coming. How can I help the Authorities?”

I tried not to stare at the closed door. “You carved a faun into the bar in West Hollywood.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Now everyone has started carving things. I'm wonderful that way.” She turned and padded off to the right toward the small kitchenette, separated from the living room only by a long stretch of countertop. Her long braid was a strawberry-blond arrow pointing right at her magnificent ass.

“Should I ask her to put some clothes on?” I said to Teo quietly.

“I promise she's safe from my evil groping man-hands.”

“What? That's not what I— You know what, never mind. I'm just going to let people keep thinking I'm an asshole. It's so much less trouble.”

Foxfeather grabbed an orange from a basket on the counter and dug into the peel with her fingers, her eyes hot. “You sure you don't want some?” she said, as the sharp citrus smell began to waft over to us.

“Orange?” I said. “It's just a regular orange?”

“No,” she said with wide, serious eyes. “It's
Valencia
.”

I glanced at Teo. He slipped on his shades for a moment. “It's clean,” he said, and slipped them off again.

“Uh, okay,” I said, turning back to her. “So, this guy you carved, was that someone you know?”

Foxfeather tore a long spiral strip of peel from the orange, shivering with anticipation. Her eyes never left the fruit as she answered me in a dreamy tone. “I don't know the faun
personally
,” she said. “But yes, it did come into my bar one day, and I had to throw it out.”

“Why?”

Foxfeather looked up at me and gave her thumb a long, slow lick. “It was a bad faun,” she said. “Very,
very
bad.”

31

“In what way was this faun bad, exactly?” I asked Baroness Foxfeather, watching her peel long white fibers away from the pulp of her orange.

“Mmm, it put on such an interesting human face, I didn't think to look underneath until we were already talking. And then I had to throw it out of the bar. Filthy thing.”

“So his crime was—being a commoner, basically. Got it. Was his name Claybriar?”

“Probably. That sounds like the sorts of names those things have.” Her fingers savagely tore loose a slippery wedge of orange and pushed the end of it into her mouth. As she bit it in half, her eyes grew fixed and bright with joy. She beckoned me closer with one finger.

I glanced at Teo, who gave me a
go on
gesture. He himself looked like his feet had grown roots in the floor.

Leaning heavily on my cane, I made my way toward her. The countertop was between us; she leaned her elbows on it and continued to beckon me as though intending to whisper. I leaned over the counter helpfully, but instead of speaking she held out the other half of the orange wedge. When I
reached for it, she laughed and moved it behind her back.

I sighed. “Do you remember what Claybriar talked to you about?”

“Not really,” Foxfeather said, holding out the orange wedge again. I didn't reach for it this time. “It had three drinks very fast and asked me a lot of very boring questions.” She was still holding out the orange and beginning to look both impatient and hurt, so I reached for it, only to have her snatch it away again.

I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. “Did the faun ask you about Viscount Rivenholt, or mention the Queen?”

“May Her Majesty, Queen Dawnrowan, reign for eternity. Hold still and open your mouth.”

I leaned my elbow on the counter and did as she asked. Foxfeather leaned forward in all her spectacular nakedness. Either she had put on some of that body lotion with glitter in it, or else a bit of fey was bleeding through her human skin. She slipped the orange wedge into my mouth, making no effort to avoid touching my lips with her fingers. At the contact, her facade dissolved like sugar, leaving me struck dumb by her starlight-and-opal beauty. When she withdrew her fingers, the facade snapped back like a rubber band.

“It hurts a little to touch you,” she said. “It feels like ice water pouring under my skin, and now I'm sleepy.”

I had a mouthful of orange and a head full of fairy and could only say “Mm.” I looked over at Teo. He was watching us intently, but more like he wanted to take notes than join in.

I swallowed and turned back to Foxfeather. “It's very important that you tell us what you remember about Claybriar, and what he said to you.”

“Remembering is hard; I haven't found my Echo yet. Why is this important?”

“Because Claybriar is missing and so is Viscount Rivenholt.”

“The viscount is missing?”

“Yes, we told you that before.”

“I don't think you said that. I would have been worried.”

I could feel a headache starting just behind my left eye. “Well, he is missing, and we think Claybriar may have hurt him, so we need to know everything we can about him.”

“I don't know anything about the viscount.”

“No, I meant Claybriar. I need to know about Claybriar.”

“I'm sorry, I get confused because you keep saying ‘him' like it's a person.”

“He seemed like a person when I talked to him.”

“It's a
facade
,” she said as though I were the stupidest thing ever to crawl out from under a log.

“Just tell me what Claybriar wanted with you. Why he was in the bar.”

“It had misplaced some commoners or something. That was how I smelled something rotten. Why would anyone care if a few commoners went missing?”

Missing persons again, just like “Officer Clay” had mentioned. This had to relate to his mission for the Queen.

“Apparently the Queen cares about at least one of them.”

“She has to pretend she does, or they band together and loot and murder and it gets so
ugly
. Orange?”

I held up my hand in a sharp
no thank you
gesture, fighting the surge of fury that clenched my jaw. When dealing with the unknown, it's important not to assume that it parallels the known. I was 80 percent sure Foxfeather was full of shit about
commoners, but 80 percent wasn't enough to justify choking the magic out of her right there in her kitchen.

“Anything else you remember?”

“It used your language well,” she said, “so it obviously comes here a lot.”

I watch too much TV
, I suddenly remembered him saying at the coffee shop. I felt a weird twist in my gut. I should have known he was fey by the ridiculous amount of sugar in his drink.

“Did he say anything about when these commoners went missing? Was it all at once, or one at a time? How many are missing? Anything you can remember will be a huge help to the Arcadia Project, and to your Queen.”

To her credit, she really did seem to be trying hard to remember. She frowned, and her eyes crossed slightly. “It came in, looking not very pretty, but nice dark hair. It ordered cherry-­pomegranate juice. Talking, talking, talking, missing commoners, it held up its paw like this”— here she splayed her hand out in my face, sticky with orange juice—“then it said bad things about the viscount, so I peeked at its real face. Then I kicked it out. I was mad. I carved it into the bar, but then I forgot to set the bar on fire. It's still a very nice carving.”

I turned to Teo, splaying my hand in the same gesture Foxfeather had made. “The hand might mean five missing. He only mentioned one girl when he was pretending to be a cop, but I don't think it's a coincidence that five is the same number of fey that have been half counted on the census for weeks. I think the Queen's trying to figure out where they've gone.”

Teo studied Foxfeather for a moment. “My lady,” he said, “do you know of any way, or any place, where a fey could be both here and in Arcadia at the same time? Like, stuck in transit?”

Foxfeather laughed. “No, silly. That would be like falling halfway down a hole. Sideways.” She tilted her body charmingly at a near right angle and smiled. “One time, I held on to the edge of the Gate just for fun, but it stopped being fun very fast.”

“No arguments here,” I mumbled.

Teo caught my eye and gestured with his head toward the door, then looked back at Foxfeather. “If you hear or remember anything else, do you know how to contact our office?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Are you leaving?”

“For now,” said Teo.

“Come back if you want sex later.”

I looked at Teo.

“Not a word from you,” he said, and left.

I followed. “How do you know Foxfeather isn't your Echo?”

“I shook her hand the first time we met; I'd have felt it.”

“What does it feel like?”

“I don't know, because it wasn't her. Come on, let's stop by the bar while we're on this side of town.”

The Seelie bar wasn't quite open for business yet, but neither was it locked. I supposed the ward removed worries about people wandering in and looting the place.

Even without all the lights on, the colors of the paint and fabric and glass were breathtaking. The wooden bar, as Foxfeather had suggested, was embellished with new carvings, all of them masterpieces. I'm not sure what Teo expected to find there, though. Foxfeather's homage to the Very Bad Faun was an impressive work of art, but there were no clues to be found in it. The figure was carved from memory by a woman
who admitted to a bad memory, and who had only glimpsed Claybriar's true face for a moment.

The portrait reminded me of Mr. Tumnus in my childhood copy of
Th
e Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
, minus the umbrella and parcels. Hadn't Tumnus been a traitor too? Despite an elongated jaw, the face in the carving could have passed for human. Foxfeather had carved him with a vapid expression, but I didn't read much into that. Was he awkward? Yes. Stupid? Not that I could tell.

I snapped a photo of the carving with my phone, for what it was worth, and then we stopped by the sushi place. Jeff, the guy who'd supposedly spoken to the “cop” about John Riven, wasn't working that day, but I left my number for him and stressed that it was very important. I wasn't holding my breath for a call back, though. I was not the kind of girl whose number guys wanted.

•   •   •

When I arrived back at the Residence, Tjuan was pacing the living room. “Did you see him?” he greeted us.

“See who?” said Teo.

“Black guy sitting in a car about half a block down,” said Tjuan. “Been there an hour at least.”

“You think he's staking us out or something?” said Teo dubiously.

“He doesn't live around here. I went for a run an hour ago, heard his door locks click when I went by. He's still there.”

“What kind of car?” Teo asked.

“Old Taurus. But I looked in when I heard the locks, and he was dressed like some Beverly Hills bullshit.”

I didn't get why a nicely dressed black man sitting in a car
was a big deal, honestly, but I wasn't about to tell Mr. Hostility that he was being paranoid, especially since that might be part of his actual diagnosis. I went into the kitchen for a snack while he and Teo hashed it out. I was on my way back to the living room, banana in hand, when a knock sounded on the front door. Tjuan and Teo and I all looked at one another, me with a mouthful of banana.

Tjuan eased his way to the front door and very carefully peeked through the curtain. He turned back to us as though he'd seen a ghost.

“It's him,” he said. “He's here.”

“Well,” said Teo, “should we answer it?”

“Fuck that,” said Tjuan. “Locking his doors when I go by. Cheap car, nice clothes. This smells bad. Don't open the door.” He looked genuinely panicked, more so than I felt the situation warranted.

Teo held his palms out. “Settle down, Tjuan. I think you're having one of your ‘moments.' Let me have a look.”

While Teo peeked out the curtain, Tjuan paced and took slow breaths. I felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for him.

“From the clothes,” said Teo, “he's either selling something or preaching, and either way he can fuck off.”

“Oh, for God's sake, you two,” I blurted, and made my way to the door, cane thumping on the hardwood, banana still in hand. “Let's at least find out what he wants. I'm perfectly ­capable of slamming the door in his face if he tries to sell me a Bible.”

I stuck the banana in my mouth to free a hand, opened the door, and sighed. There comes a point where surprises start to get tedious. It was the driver of the BMW from the PCH.

I popped the banana out of my mouth. “Relax, guys,” I said over my shoulder. “It's just the paparazzi.”

“Paparazzi do not ring the doorbell,” said the man on the porch. His voice had an effeminate Ivy League snobbery to it that set my teeth instantly on edge. “I'm Ellis Barnes,” he said. “I expect that name is familiar to you?”

It really wasn't. “I've had a rough morning,” I said, still standing in a small wedge of open door between him and the interior of the house. “I'd appreciate a memory jog.”

“I was so sure you'd know me,” he said. “A fellow private eye, working for A-list Hollywood clients, you really should be more familiar with your competition.” His tone was mocking, his words too on-the-nose. He knew I wasn't a private eye.

“You're the guy working for Inaya,” I said. “What do you want?”