The Keeper Ch. 20-22

Chapter Twenty

The small dark wizened man had been known over the years by so many names he had long forgotten the callow youth named Glew he once was. These days, he was one of the Three who ruled Oldtown's vast criminal underground. His part of the pie was the drug trade. Both mortals and immortals on both sides of the border provided a ready market for the designer product that came out of the Dökkálfar alchemists' labs.

The Druid was also a thief, but he didn't steal mundane things like gold and jewels. He stole your lives--all of them.

He felt his wards trip and a frisson of terror raced through him. The boy had crossed the wards in Emory. His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked up North 35th street in Fremont to the passageway to Oldtown. To add to his general feelings of anxiety he wondered and worried why the damned Vampire had called for Three to meet. He was almost certain she couldn't have gotten wind of his latest venture. His survival hinged on the fact that his other plan in Emory was kept secret. His lieutenants would rise and end him quickly if they thought there was even a chance that he was risking a war with the witches and shifters.

He was sure that the Keeper's Boy was the one that the seer had warned him of. So, the boy needed to be dealt with and soon. He had dealt with the other obstacles. The old Keeper was gone. The witch laid up in a coma, effectively incapacitated.

Just the boy remained. But a voice inside whispered--four times you tried to eliminate him and four times you failed. That same voice told him to fold his cards and walk away. But it was too late. His condition had deteriorated too much to allow him to start over at one of the other Thinnings.

His cell rang, causing him to jump. It was the Hag.

"Did you get the shifter pup back," he demanded.

"I had some problems. The mother slipped by me and succeeded in getting the whelp to the Keeper's Boy. I tried to compel him, but he is considerably more powerful than you told me. I hit him with a 12th circle compulsion spell, and he waved it away like it was nothing."

The Druid's heart skipped a beat.

"I called to warn you. He's on his way with the pup to Emory."

"He's there now, you incompetent bitch," he snapped. He took a calming breath. "Thanks to your incompetence, he now knows something is up. He will be staying at the hotel, take him there. Make it look like one of your Coven sisters did it out of hatred for him. There are plenty who do."

"It will be a risk, master. I will try again."

"See that you succeed, or I swear I will flay the skin off your back. witch."

After he disconnected, the little man continued his walk to his meeting. He moved with precise even steps through the afternoon sunlight, trying to smother his frustration. The thought that the success of his plans was out of his control, and in the hands of others, threatened to send him into a towering terror-inspired rage. A weakness that he couldn't afford to indulge around his partners. Any scent of vulnerability they would jump on like a dog on a bone. Lessons down the long centuries of his life had taught him discipline and control was survival.

He was first, last, and always a survivor.

Mistakes had been made. The boy should have been killed at birth. He wished he could bring back to life the midwife responsible for that mistake. Killing the disobedient cow again would do nicely to relieve some of his stress.

Warning bells rang. Were the failures more evidence of his mental deterioration? He had noticed a slight tremor in his hands lately. A sure sign of physical deterioration. Even in the heat of the July sun, he went cold He had second thoughts about the decision to delay switching to a younger body. But soon dismissed his doubts. There was a trade-off for renewal. It took years to recover his previous skill level.

And the trickiest part of the plan was in play.

He took a deep breath and calmed himself. The Druid thought of himself as a long-range planner. He liked to sit back and run scenarios in his head before he exacted a plan. It was the chaos that always followed the execution of a plan that drove him to anxious distraction.

The hag was worrisome. He had cultivated and nurtured her resentments and anger for years. It wouldn't be the first time in his long life he'd recruited a hater to carry out his plans. Their resentments and hate made them easy to manipulate.

The problem was that her lust for more and more power was getting to be a concern. The blood she was spilling was drawing attention. And the fact that she managed to figure out how to summon the faerie worried him. He thought he had broken their influence over her.

Allies were often a far worse threat to good plans than enemies were.

He made a mental note to remind her again about the consequence of failure. She knew, of course, she'd watched him administer punishment over the years, but it didn't hurt to show her again.

His planning allowed for some leeway, he reassured himself. Frustration made his guts twist. Why for once couldn't things just go the way they needed to.

The boy was the wild card.

He sighed. She will fail again; she was a poor tool. He was going to have to arrange for the Brotherhood to take him out--something he had hoped he wouldn't have to do. The Dökkálfar assassins were expensive and tricky to deal with and he was already too indebted to the Fae. The witch could do the summoning, she was plenty strong enough. Just get the boy taken care of and secure the damn shifter pup then everything will work out.

He was accustomed to fear, he had lived with it every day of his long life. The everlasting dread inspired by the druid Brigid's curse had dogged his thoughts--even as his powers deepened. That dread constantly hovered at the edge of thought during every waking moment these days.

"Her child will end you."

He just needed to get into Keeper's cabin and all will be well.

Chapter Twenty-One

The River House, Emory's only hotel, was a huge sprawling Victorian log mansion on the north bank of the Stillaguamish River. It sat in five acres of landscaped grounds that were ringed in with ornate black wrought iron fencing. The house was fronted by a porch that ran down its length with chairs and loungers scattered in artful disarray.

The lobby was crowded with families getting their luggage sorted, children corralled, and checking in. A flagstone fireplace big enough to roast a steer dominated one side and varnished pine bookcases filled with books lined the white clay mortared logs on the outside wall. Boot scarred heart of pine floors had bright woven rugs scattered.

Quinn had been here once before with old Finn and just as he remembered, the room still exuded a welcoming warmth that you couldn't find in a more modern hotel.

He absently checked out the joinery as he waited and saw that whoever had built this place was a master. Even old Finn would have been impressed, although as he thought about it, there was a good chance the old guy or maybe his father or grandfather had been the one who had done the work. Craftsmanship and disciplined work were Finn's gods and the half-wild boy who was placed in his shop to learn soon found out that regardless of his age, his best was expected and excuses not welcome.

A short fat guy with a shock of gray hair and small merry blue eyes manned the desk. Henry Delaney gave Quinn a warm smile as he walked up to the registration desk. Henry belonged to the Crafter community; those half magical artisans that made Emory unique.

"Howdy, Lachlan, it's been a while. We been expecting you. Welcome to the River House."

Quinn smiled despite himself. "The Aunties didn't leave me much choice. Their summoning knocked me off my chair in the middle of a poker game. I had a winning hand to boot. Is there a chance you have a room for me?"

"Well now you make me feel guilty," Henry grinned unrepentantly, "but events are afoot. Us crafters need you here, we been waiting a long time for you to finally decide where you belong and the Aunties, well you know the Aunties--they do tend to get impatient. I put you in the Owner's Room. I think you'll like it."

Quinn nodded thanks and offered his American Express card.

"No. No," he waved it away, "that's unnecessary. Everything's been taken care of."

That was a bit over the top. Quinn thought. "Thanks for the offer, but I pay my own way." Debts were easy to accrue and sometimes hard to pay off.

Henry looked like he was going to argue, then shrugged and took the card and swiped it.

"Is there a special place I need to park?"

"Yup, pull your rig over to the north side, find an open spot, and put this on the dash. Nobody will bother it there. Here's your key. Your room is on the third floor. Sorry, we don't have an elevator but from the look of you, them stairs ain't gonna bother you none."

"By the way Lachlan, it's Founders Week. We got the Duel of the Shootists right out in front of the hotel, so you're gonna be blocked in tomorrow until one o'clock. Hell, you might watch, seems to me you used to love that show."

"Thanks," he said, "maybe I'll take it in."

***

The "room" was a fancy suite. It had a living room with a couple of chairs and a sofa big enough for even him to stretch out his six foot three inches. Both bedrooms had king-sized beds covered with matching old-fashioned white lace bedspreads that matched the fancy lace curtains. Except for the faint scent of apricots, he thought it was the nicest hotel room he had ever stayed in.

But the Hag had been here.

He moved silently to the bathroom door and jerked it open.

A woman in a maid's uniform lay sprawled half in half out of the ancient clawfoot porcelain bathtub.

Quinn had seen enough dead bodies to recognize one when he saw one, but he checked like he'd been trained. She was cold to the touch and dead--probably stroke or heart attack.

He walked into the other room to call downstairs.

"Henry, there's a dead woman in my bathroom. Looks like she's been dead for a while, better call for the Guardians."

He took a seat in a leather wing-back chair that looked like it had graced London gentleman's club in a past life and waited for whoever would show up.

Fifteen minutes later, Henry and a severe-looking woman came in without knocking.

Tulli Gudrun. Quinn groaned inwardly. She was a Guardian--one of the coven's enforcer/cops. She was an elderly woman with hard gray cop eyes, gray hair, and a bitter mouth. She eyed him like she was a scalpel and he was something that needed dissection.

His glyphs warmed as they sensed the power that coiled around her.

"Where," she snapped.

Quinn pointed to the bathroom and stayed put. He didn't need to see the poor woman again. He and Henry stared at each other.

"Well, Henry, it seems he found your missing maid," she said as she came out. "The question is, what happened here? I can sense the blood magic."

She gave Quinn a flat look full of suspicion.

"Why don't you tell me about it."

"Not much to tell. I just walked in and found her. I called Henry and here you are."

She didn't respond, just continued to stare at him with suspicious slate-gray eyes. Cops were the same the world over.

Quinn offered a bland look and waited her out.

Finally, she spoke, "I don't like you boy, never have. I didn't agree with summoning you here."

He said nothing. He knew what their attitude was going to be before he left Seattle. His time away had changed nothing. He kept calm. He'd lost control too many times in the last few days. It wouldn't do to lose it again because of one woman's snarky attitude.

"Henry, get him another room."

She sniffed and walked to the door, turned, and said something Quinn already knew:

"That poor unfortunate woman took a Hex meant for you. You can sense the dark magic a mile away. Somebody wants you dead, boy."

She said the last with a sort of satisfaction. "As I said, trouble follows you like a plague. You better walk small in this town."

"Listen, witch," Quinn had enough, "you bitches are the ones who summoned me here--so back off. And keep in mind, that it has to have been one of your crazies who has gone hag and spelled up the hex."

She bristled, but she stalked out of the room without comment.

Fuck it, he thought. They would keep pushing and pushing till they owned him, and that was NOT going to happen. He wasn't a helpless boy anymore--so fuck 'em.

"Sweet Mother of All, Lan," Henry said as he handed Quinn his new room key, "you don't want to piss somebody like Tulli off. What were you thinking?"

"Who knows Henry, I just need to take care of things quickly and get the hell out of this town."

As he gathered his belongings, he wondered why the Hag was trying so hard to kill him. Then he wondered if the poor housekeeper who had died had a family. Then he added one more poor soul to weigh on his conscience.

Chapter Twenty-Two

After Quinn moved to another room, he decided he needed a good run to bleed off some tension. The events of the last few days had screwed up his workout schedule. If he missed too many days, his PTSD tended to rear up worse than usual and bite his ass.

He unpacked and shrugged into a sweatshirt with a Marine Corps globe and anchor on the front. He slipped on his well-worn Nikes, muttering a promise to his feet to buy another pair, and left the room. He'd seen a trail that ran along the river as he crossed over the bridge. He ignored the guardians shadowing him.

He got back an hour later. A good-sized crowd lined the street. A food truck had arrived, and the rich smell of popping corn filled the air.

Quinn bought a bottle of water and a bag of popcorn, dropped the tailgate on his pickup, and got ready to be entertained.

The Duel of the Shootists was about to begin.

He was glad the little shifter was at Anna's. She'd hate the big crowd and noise. Don't blame you, girl, I don't much like crowds myself.

The Duel of the Shootists used to be one of his favorite things about this week when he was a kid. As he sat munching his popcorn, he remembered working extra hard the week before with all his tutors so Mister MacLeish would give him time off to go to this and the weekend logger's rodeo. The stern old man was grudging when it came to leisure time fun.

The crowd's noise hushed as two gunfighters, one dressed all in black and the other all in white, stalked toward each other down the middle of the street.

"Black Bart, you are a low-down dirty polecat" shouted the one in white. "You insulted my fair lady, Miss Margaret."

Two little boys were standing next to the truck. They looked up at Quinn with excited grins and then swiveled their heads to the gunfighter in black to hear his response.

The man in black was John Kelly who he had seen earlier at the Friendly Tavern.

His friends from the bar were well oiled as they called out mock encouragement to him from the other side of the street.

"Come on Johnny boy shoot straight," they called to him. "You can do it."

Black Bart swayed a bit as his hand hovered over his gun. Quinn looked closer. Black Bart was pale and sweating with a look of pure panic in his eyes.

Odd.

The crowd stirred, then parted to let a teenage girl with blond hair and sparkling gray eyes out onto the street. She was costumed in an ornate white and green striped saloon girl outfit. She strolled back and forth in front of Quinn, twirling a matching green umbrella in one hand, in an effort to keep the harsh sun from her fair skin. The other hand artfully dabbed a lace handkerchief up to her eyes, apparently to clear away a tear that he assumed was from the shame of the terrible insult to her honor.

He smiled at her antics and she shot him a saucy grin.

Miss Margaret, saloon girl and insulted soiled dove, had arrived.

"Julie, that dress is totally dope," called out a petite redhead dressed in a red checkered blouse, daisy dukes, and fringed cowboy boots.

"Be way cool to wear that old-fashioned thing to the prom," giggled her friend. "Samantha would totally shit if she saw you in it."

The saloon girl grinned at her two friends and sashayed around the street. She moved in front of Quinn, gave him a self-conscious smile, took a deep breath, and began her part of the drama.

"Oh, do be careful, my darling," she cried to her hero dressed in white.

The hero, who looked to be all of sixteen, threw her a kiss and turned to give a steely glare at the dirty polecat.

"Draw, you miserable cad," he shouted. The menace in his voice was dampened a bit because his voice cracked and broke at the "miserable cad" part.

Sudden wrongness.

Scent of apricots.

A compulsion spell erupted from a woman dressed in a colorful Mexican serape who stood across the street from Quinn.

His glyphs flared white-hot in response, but the spell was not directed at him. It enveloped the man in black. A blank look shuttered his eyes. The barrel of the pistol slid sideways till it was pointed toward Quinn.

Quinn desperately lunged, trying to shove the teenage girl who stood in front of him out of the way.

Too late.

The guns fired, Black Bart gave a lurch, clasped his hand to his chest, and fell to the ground.

The gunfighter in white holstered his gun to the applause of the crowd.

But it was Miss Margaret who had Quinn's attention. She shrieked and fell, clutching her leg.

"Secure that weapon," he shouted to the guardian who'd been shadowing him. "It's loaded with live rounds."

Moving quickly, he reached into the truck for the Unit One bag he kept behind the seat and was moving quickly back to the girl almost before the echoes of the shot faded.

Screams from the crowd were beginning as Quinn knelt at her side.

He shut out the crowd's noise and let himself slip into the familiar survey routine that lance corporal Bobby Durant of Beaumont, Texas used to call his robot mode. Quinn had done the exact same thing in all kinds of combat situations, so an emergency on the street of a small town posed no challenge. Cool-calm-concentration, his life had burned the discipline into second nature.

Craftsmanship takes many forms.

"What's your name, Miss?"

"Her name is Julie." A girl's voice piped up behind.

"Please let her answer for herself," Quinn said sharply.

The girl's pulse was racing, her face sheet white, her eyes vague and shocky.

Quinn tapped her nose gently to draw her attention. As her eyes tracked and focused on him, he smiled and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Miss Julie, my name is Quinn. The bad news is Black Bart just plugged you in the leg. The good news is the United States Navy trained me to fix things like this and I had plenty of time to practice on Marines, so I got really, really good at it."

"Hurts", she said. She was shivering. Shock setting in. He looked around; it was summer so no coats. He slipped off the USMC sweatshirt he'd worn for the run and draped it around her. Quinn was a big guy, so it was huge on her. He swaddled it around her.

Warmth and comfort, field expedient remedies for shock.

"I don't wanna die. Am I gonna die?"

Quinn looked deep into her gray eyes and gave her a friendly confident grin.

"Listen up Missy, nobody dies on my watch. Now let's get you fixed up."

Blood pooling on the street beside her right leg.

He slipped on latex gloves, grabbed the scissors in the bag, lifted the hem of her dress, and sliced away her pantyhose to expose the wound.

"Call for dust-off," he called absently as he was cutting away her nylon stocking. "Tell 'em we got a GSW, tib-fib. Give them our location. Tell them we need it spooling up and moving right now."

"What,"

Quinn remembered where he was, "Use your cell to call an ambulance.