The Keeper Ch. 32-34

Quinn pulled up the sleeve on his right arm and showed the blocky female the tiny rune under the silver band of the dragon whip that lay on his arm.

She immediately lowered her eyes and started to shiver.

"How may we serve, Master," she asked.

"I'm looking for a shifter woman called Niamh Harpe. I was told she came by."

"She entered this place two nights ago. She has not departed through these doors."

"Thank you, sister. Go now and call any of your clan's siblings who work here and leave--and sister, I hope for your sake that I never see you working for a Child-Slaver again."

Quinn started to enter. The male put his arm out to stop him. The female gave a moan. She grabbed the male's arm and jerked him away from Quinn.

"Please don't kill him, Master. He is young."

Quinn nodded and walked into the club.

"You fool," the female hissed. "Did you not hear me call him Master? Have you ever heard me call anyone Master, let alone a human? He would have taken your head in a heartbeat. He is Death, and he's come for the Leprechaun.

They were both gone before Quinn had walked three paces.

The club was brightly lit. A cleaning crew of four women with slave torcs were wiping tables and sweeping.

Their eyes followed him apathetically as he entered.

By now, Quinn was fully merged and centered. Hyper-aware. The dull-looking middle-aged slaves smelled of unwashed despair. The spill they were cleaning had the yeasty odor of badly brewed beer. A clank of dishes and a muted complaint about somebody's wife could be heard from the kitchen area. A half-blood female goblin bartender was chewing some sort of minty gum and slicing lemons at the bar. As he walked up to the bar, her eyes widened. He heard her heart rate suddenly accelerate--apprehension evident on her face.

"McGuire in, Miss?"

She nodded nervously. She pointed to a doorway with a trembling hand.

"Go home, girl."

She reached under the bar, grabbed her purse, and dashed out.

Quinn waved to the slaves.

"You ladies stop what you are doing and go to your sleeping place and wait for me."

They'd been slaves for a while. They left immediately, without any questions.

The office door was heavily warded; no fewer than five high-order spells guarded the entrance.

Quinn touched the door. His runes flared. The wards dissipated.

He opened the door and walked in.

The squat figure of the Leprechaun called the McGuire sat behind the massive desk. The room stank of musky sweat and cigar smoke. The McGuire had a large cigar clamped between stained square teeth. His head sat atop sweaty rolls of fat that jiggled as he counted out what Quinn assumed must be the previous night's receipts.

Just as he always did, he thought; Sweet Mother of All, it's Jabba the Hutt.

A tall Dökkálfar elf lounged on a blood-red velour sofa flanked by a scarred mountain troll.

The ancient Leprechaun's face registered annoyance at the interruption that morphed into surprise when he recognized his uninvited visitor.

He gave Quinn a politician's practiced smile.

"Why sweet Mary Mother of God, if tisn't Lachlan Quinn come to visit." His rich voice rolled the words soothing and compelling. "Be at ease and tell us why you're a-visitin' me poor pub."

"Well, Mister McGuire, originally I thought to inquire for news about a shifter named Niamh Harpe, but today I came upon two recently enslaved mundane kids. You might remember from our last meeting the warning I gave you.

"Oh, I'm sure there's some misunderstanding--but you busting into me pub a-hurling accusations be hurting my feelings." He glanced over the Elf and the Troll. "I have some friends now who can pick up the slack for me."

"Take him."

"Wait," Quinn looked at the troll and snapped in trollish "What Clan, Troll."

High Granite, Black Diamond Sept," he answered.

"Go home, Troll. You don't have to die today."

"I took this man's money."

"So be it."

Quinn loosed the dragon.

The whip sheared through the troll's thick neck like a hot knife through warm butter. Its head toppled to the floor. Its body stood upright, spurting blood. The heart didn't realize it was dead.

The elf stood open-mouthed at the casual suddenness of the troll's death.

"Elf, go back to your Prince now or I will feed your life to my dragon," Quinn sang. "If I see your face again, I will harvest you."

The elf made a gesture and disappeared.

He looked at the Leprechaun who had not moved a muscle.

"The troll was worth a thousand of you. He had honor. Where is Niamh Harpe?"

The fat leprechaun recovered from his shock quickly. His piggy eyes grew calculating.

"Before I answer your question, Lachlan Quinn," his rich voice throbbed with his magic, "why don't you tell us what you want with her."

The compelling magic of the voice washed over him with no effect. Quinn sighed. He realized that the fat being didn't believe he was in mortal danger in his heart of hearts. He had lived so long in power that he thought he was invulnerable.

"Look, just answer the question, please. I'm not a being who likes to inflict pain, but I will make you an exception."

The fat being's eyes widened as they looked over Quinn's shoulder and then flipped a knife.

Quinn didn't distract. He stepped aside, easily dodging the small kunai throwing knife.

He riposted instantly. The whip sheared off the leprechaun's arm at the elbow.

And the screaming started.

"I will ask again, what have you done with Niamh Harpe," Quinn's voice was a monotone--calm and patient.

"Ye cut off me arm, you bastard," The leprechaun cried, his eyes wide with disbelieving shock.

"Tell me."

"Alfheim, I sent her to Alfheim."

"One more question. One of Three has its fingers into matters up in Emory. Is it you?

"That fucking Druid. I curse..."

Quinn's wrist twitched, and the dragon took his head before he could utter his death curse.

The Leprechaun's head lay with eyes open still showing shock amidst piles of Oldtown script and mundane dollar bills.

"I warned you."

He picked up the bag that contained the club's receipts, dumped them out, and shoved the gristly head in.

He had one more stop.