The Keeper Ch. 04-05

,Chapter Four

The next morning Quinn awoke, after a night of tossing and turning, to a perfect cloudless June day--precious to anybody who lives in Seattle. He put on a pair of shorts and a green t-shirt with an 8404 Devil Doc logo. He slipped on his favorite New Balance running shoes and jumped in his pickup and drove to the Arboretum and prepared to run his frustration into the ground.

He usually ran from his duplex in Ballard, but the morning was so perfect he decided it was an Arboretum Day. He got his truck parked and set off down Azalea Way, his earbuds blasting the first of his running tunes, Radar Love.

Quinn loved old-time rock-and-roll.

A mile later he thought it was going to be a good run until he came out of the shadow of the tree-lined lane and onto a sunlit wildflower meadow. Four college-age guys were tossing a frisbee around, showing off for the gorgeous blue-eyed, golden-haired woman who was stretching in the shade.

Fucking Niamh Harpe. The blessings keep piling up.

"What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like? I have been waiting for you,"

She got to her feet and started stretching her quads. Two of the college kids ran into each other trying to catch and watch at the same time.

Quinn took a breath trying for patience and asked again.

"Nim, what do you want?"

"I told you. By the way, I followed you from your house. You are criminally careless. You have two witches shadowing you and you blunder along like a man with no enemies."

"No surprise there. I have no enemies. I'm a regular fucking guy. And I know about the girls. They aren't bothering me, so I don't bother them."

She finished her stretching.

"Let's run. We can talk along the way."

They started in companionable silence, strides matching perfectly. The whole time, Quinn bitched and moaned in the back of his mind because the day had been perfect until fucking Niamh Harpe came out of nowhere to ruin it. He finally spoke up, trying his best to keep the irritation out of his tone.

"What does the Shifter Council want with me? As far as I know, I have broken none of your laws. So why send you down here to hassle me?"

She gave him an amused glance that said she could read the irritation he was trying to hide and didn't give a damn whether he hid it or let it loose.

"My bosses have heard the Covens have requested your presence in Emory."

"Demanded more like. They cast a Summoning and sent Charming to deliver their demands."

"Charming," Niamh's nose wrinkled, "if ever there was a woman misnamed, it has to be her."

"Don't change the subject. Keep talking."

"Rumor has it the witches have had Cayden MacLeish declared dead and your name has popped up as a replacement for him."

Quinn laughed. "Never going to happen. Can you imagine me as Keeper? You know what the witches are like. They don't like me, and I hate being around them. Except for a few crafters, they consider me the mundane trash that the old man neglected to put out on the curb for the garbage truck. Now that I think on it, your Council thinks the same way. Your grandfather always looked at me like I was something he stepped in. As far as I'm concerned, both of you magic-fucked crazy people can fight your own battles. I'm going fishing."

"Poor Lachlan." Niamh mocked. "You and I both know you are something more than a random mundane that the old man took in on a whim. Until now you have gotten away with it. But now the Covens have taken an interest in you. That has made my bosses curious about you. They hate being in the dark. They want to know if you are going to be the wild card in all the chaos that has been unfolding."

"So, they picked you to come calling. That's interesting, don't you think? Does your grandfather still have his fat fingers around the Council's throat?"

"Yes, but I do not work for him. Anyway, my boss wants me to keep an eye on you, so that is exactly what I am going to do. By the way, when you go back to Emory--and you will have to go, despite all your big talk. Watch yourself. With your attitude, Mr. Regular Guy, those bitches are going to eat you alive."

With that, she turned and ran back the way they'd come.

Quinn watched her go. He suddenly remembered the rumors that Niamh had another job besides being a detective. She was the one the Council called on to sanction those people the Council suspected would bring harm to their community.

Chapter Five

Interlude

Eighteen years ago

The boy, Lachlan Quinn, had lived in his new foster home for two years. Two years of sixteen-hour days. From the first day, he found that Mr. MacLeish, as the boy called the stern remote man who was his new father, had specific ideas of how a young boy should be educated. Ideas that came more from the German Apprenticeship Model rather than old Horace Mann's ideas of primary and secondary schooling for children.

The boy had tutors that over the years eventually included half the magic crafters of Emory. He found working and learning from them fascinating and frustrating. Try as he might, he could never seem to approach the level of perfection that they achieved with the products/art they produced.

He found them confusing as well. When Mr. MacLeish brought him around, almost all of them gave him a warm welcome (contrary to the welcome he received from the witch-crafters). After they saw he was a serious boy, hardworking and polite, most were eager to show him their craft. They encouraged his endless questions--unless they were in their magic-induced Flow State--then their personality change was profound and radical. They went from warm to remote; he learned early on that a boy who interrupted for any reason during Flow State was quickly banished from the shop.

For the first two years, Lachlan had washed pans as a baker's boy, He sorted willow reeds for the basket weavers. He shoveled sand for a master glassblower. He pulled weeds and watered plants for a master landscaper. He mixed clay for the potter. And a score of others.

When the group consensus found he had a knack for working with wood, Mr. MacLeish placed him in the shop of an acerbic furniture builder/carpenter known as Old Finn.

His general education was not neglected. He spent four hours a day seven days a week in a classroom with a retired Harvard history professor along with ten neophyte witch-crafter girls. The professor (who also taught him how to fish) was determined to give them all a classical liberal arts education.

An ageless silvan-halfling man named Hunter came out of the Opari every morning at 6:00 to lead him in an exhausting series of precise slow-motion katas along the twisting pathways of the ancient meditation labyrinth behind the Keepers House.

The halfling was relentless. He expected Lachlan to have perfect control of his body and breathing at all times. A difficult thing for a boy growing like a weed into feet and hands too far too big for his body. Any inattention or clumsiness received a sharp painful rap on the body part had moved away from what he considered ideal.

Young Lachlan didn't mind all the working and studying, he enjoyed learning. He was less successful at ignoring the young witch-crafter girls who played tricks on him with their newly acquired spell-craft and looked down their snooty noses at him daily.

He desperately wanted what the crafters-mentors who taught him had--that ultra-confident air that comes with expertise. The more he learned, the less he'd have to depend on people. Eventually, he'd be free to live on his own. He might even be rich enough to buy a truck.

Young Lachlan was as happy as he'd ever been. Surprisingly, given his street-smart cynicism, he never thought to ask what price he was going to have to pay for all this education.