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  “Three tae five, then. Let’s hear them, ol’ man.”

  [One is that I die. I have to be honest: That’s my least favorite way out.]

  “I understand.”

  [Two is that the person who cast the curse on me dies. I like that much better, but, unfortunately, I don’t know who did this to me. Brighid said it might be someone with god-level powers, so even if we do find out who did it, killing them might be impossible.]

  “That’s bitter news, so it is. Like fast-food coffee with no cream or sugar.”

  [Three is that you leave my service, cancel the contract. There are risks to that, however.]

  “Like wot?”

  [Like the curse might still go off in any case, now that you’ve been exposed. There’s simply no way to know. But also, if I release you from your contract, you’ll need to return to the Fae planes unless you can get another contract to remain. I’m not sure you’ll be able to. I’m pretty certain none of the other sigil agents are in the market for a hobgoblin.]

  “Hold on, now. I know the man in Philadelphia isnae—Eli whatsisname—because he made it clear he doesnae have use for hobgoblins. Plus he let his dog hump me while I was unconscious that time and he took pictures. Wot about the others?”

  [Diego is extremely handsome and doesn’t like anything that distracts from that. He has his own personal gravity and doesn’t want anything to yank people out of his orbit. Shu-hua tends to avoid the company of men, and Mei-ling is so old that she thinks that I’m young and rash at age sixty-three. So: no. I’m the only one daft enough to draft a hobgoblin into service.]

  Hearing it spoken aloud—that I was daft—caused an unexpected self-inflicted wound. Or, rather, tore the bandage off a wound that had not healed. The fact that I’d been so slow to discover the nature of my curses and completely missed the criminal activity of my last apprentice still stung. I was long past the time when I was supposed to have my shite together, yet I very clearly did not.

  “So that’s all the options?” Buck demanded. “I’m boned like a fish on Friday?”

  I couldn’t resist ribbing him. [Well, option four is that you die somehow completely unrelated to the curse, and then you wouldn’t have any worries.]

  “Oh-ho.” He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Ho-ho-hooooh. The revenge I’ll have on ye for this will be written down, MacBharrais. Written down in the anals of history, it will, whispered in the dark as a warning to wee weans—”

  [I think you meant to say annals. The extra n makes a small but vital difference.]

  “Don’t interrupt me! The anals of history is what I meant!”

  [That’s not even a thing.]

  “It’s gonnay be! Sign me up for service and then tell me two months later I’m gonnay croak like a choir of bullfrogs? That shite belongs in the anals if anything does!”

  [Okay. Let’s focus on how to fix the problem, shall we?]

  “I thought ye basically said it cannae be fixed in any way that works out well for us.”

  [We have a year to work on this. Every apprentice made it at least a year before an accident befell them. If we can find out who put the curse on me, we might find a solution.]

  “How long have ye been living with it so far? Eleven years? What makes ye think ye have a shot at figuring it out now?”

  [I’m properly motivated. I didn’t realize that there was a second curse killing my apprentices until Brighid told me so. When I thought I was the only one suffering, I could live with it, because I’m Scottish. Now it’s different because there’s vengeance—or at least justice—due for my apprentices. And saving you.]

  The hobgoblin deflated and sighed. “Gods below, I could use a beer. Ye want?”

  I nodded at him, and he hopped off the counter and disappeared from my view. But I saw the refrigerator door open, and then he nimbly leapt up to snag a growler of stolen ale. A few more leaps around the kitchen and he had a couple of pints set before us. He stood on a stool next to mine and grabbed his pint with both hands. It was quite nearly half his height.

  “G’wan, then. Dazzle me with what ye have so far.”

  [If we are looking at pantheons that are traditionally known for curses, the Olympians and the Egyptians were both known for bestowing curses upon mortals, and both happen to be in my territory as a sigil agent. I have no doubt annoyed them both just by doing my job.]

  “But those each have, wot, fifteen gods or more?”

  [Easily more.]

  “Well, that’s sobering. But this should fix that.” He promptly drained half his glass at one go.

  [There’s also the infernals. They quite enjoy a good curse.]

  “Who are they?”

  [It’s a catchall term for any of the demons in the various hells.]

  “Why would they want tae curse ye?”

  [I’ve killed a couple of them in my time. They might have had friends, if demons have friends. Not too clear on that.]

  “Is that it?”

  [Not remotely. I could be collateral damage. Someone who was mad at Brighid might have discovered they couldn’t curse her directly, so they hurt me to hurt her. Or it’s payback for some slight I committed in my youth, by some entirely different pantheon, and it only seems unconnected because gods have plenty of patience.]

  “Wait. So it could be anyone? Ye haven’t really narrowed it down at all?”

  [Well, it’s probably not someone mortal.]

  “Still, MacBharrais. Still. Ye’re telling me this business is wide open and insane, like yer maw.”

  Before I could summon an appropriate response to his inappropriate jibe, my phone rang, which meant I’d probably need to answer it. I had it set so that only known numbers in my contacts would make it ring; unknown numbers automatically went to voicemail. But anyone who really knew me would know that texting or email was a better option, since too much exposure to my voice would trigger the curse and that would be the end of our relationship. So it was with no little curiosity that I pulled out my phone and looked at the caller ID.

  Chen Ya-ping, it said. I couldn’t think of who the hell that was or why she would be calling me at first, but then it clicked.

  [Pop away somewhere for fifteen minutes,] I typed quickly for Buck. [I need to take this.]

  He teleported away without a word and I answered the call. “MacBharrais.”

  “Mr. MacBharrais, thank you for answering,” a young woman’s voice with an Australian accent said. “This is Ya-ping, Sifu Lin’s apprentice.”

  I had many questions, like why Shu-hua’s apprentice in Melbourne would ever have reason to contact me, but wanted to use as few words as possible to avoid triggering my curse, so I settled on asking, “How can I help?”

  We had never spoken, and I only had her number in my contacts for emergencies. Whenever an agent took on a new apprentice, that apprentice’s contact info was given to all the agents and vice versa, in case it was ever needed. I dearly hoped she simply wanted to surprise Shu-hua with a gift for an upcoming birthday or something and I could get properly miffed about the call.

  “I wouldn’t have called unless it was an emergency,” she said.

  Well, fuck.

  “Yes?” I asked, prompting her to get to it.

  “Sifu Lin has gone missing.”

  “When?”

  “She left Friday afternoon. It’s now early morning here, six a.m. on Monday. We’re nine hours ahead of you in Glasgow.”

  “And why are you calling me? Wu Mei-ling is in Taipei and much closer.”

  “She’s missing too. I called her first.”

  “What’s going on down there?”

  “Well, it’s summer for us right now, so like most summers, large parts of the country are on fire.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard. Bushfires are always a problem.”

  �
�Yes. As far as trouble is concerned, that’s mostly it. But Sifu Lin realized that at least a small portion of the fires were being inflamed, if you will, by extraplanar visitors. The Iron Druid even came up from Tasmania to fight one in the Blue Mountains.”

  That sounded like an enormous problem right there. “She went somewhere with the Iron Druid?” Trouble seemed to follow him like remoras attached to a shark. A mortal who’d managed to extend his life past two thousand years tended to outlive most problems, but he also gradually acquired immortal enemies and therefore a class of obstacles most of us would never have to confront.

  “No. She’d just heard from Coriander that he was on the mainland. But it got her thinking that there might be more problems out there like the one the Iron Druid had come to address—or that certain visitors were attracting yet more visitors—and she went to the Yarra Valley to follow up on a twinge to one of her territorial wards. She told me she’d check in twice a day, but she hasn’t checked in at all.”

  “She left Friday afternoon, hasn’t checked in like she said she would, and you haven’t been able to get in touch with Mei-ling?”

  “No, I just said she was missing too. I called and got hold of her and she said she was on her way, but I’ve heard nothing else since and she’s not answering any more calls.”

  “What about Mei-ling’s apprentice?”

  “Hsin-yi is not responding either. And I’m afraid that Sifu Lin’s partner may also have gone looking for her and not come back.”

  “Her partner? Remind me of who that is?”

  “A woman named Sarasvati Ramamurthy, though she goes by Sara. She does IT work in the city but for the last three years has also done extracurricular work for Sifu Lin.”

  “In other words, she’s your hacker.”

  “Yes. And very much in love with Sifu Lin.”

  “So that’s four people missing all told. That’s sounding pretty dire. All right. Let me make some calls and get back to you. Do you have the Signal app?”

  “No. I use something else for texts.”

  “Signal is encrypted and all the agents use it, so you might as well download it now. I’ll contact you through that from now on, soon as I can—but I’ll probably use a different phone number than this one. It’ll be a burner phone, because I can’t bring this one instantly to Australia or someone will ask questions.”

  “Understood. Thank you, Mr. MacBharrais.”

  The first question I had when I hung up was whether I had actually been speaking to Chen Ya-ping or not. This might be a genuine missing-persons case, or it might be a trap—one that had already engulfed two sigil agents and maybe two other people as well.

  I knew that Shu-hua was from a third- or fourth-generation immigrant family there and Ya-ping was as well, so the Australian accent fit, at least. But that didn’t mean it had really been her.

  Pulling up Signal, I fired a text off to Shu-hua: Check in with me and your apprentice please.

  Next, to Mei-ling: Are you okay? Worried about Shu-hua, and her apprentice says she can’t reach you.

  Then identical texts to the American sigil agents, Eli Robicheaux in Philadelphia and Diego Salazar in Chattanooga: Shu-hua’s apprentice, Ya-ping, says Shu-hua disappeared two days ago. Mei-ling not answering calls. Do you know anything?

  Eli replied almost instantly: WTF. I don’t know jack.

  Diego a moment later: I know nothing except that Santa Muerte seems happy lately, and that should worry us all.

  I replied to Eli: Will you please call Ya-ping and ask her what’s up? I’d like to see if you get the same story as me. Not entirely sure it’s Ya-ping on the other end. If Shu-hua is compromised, then Ya-ping might be as well.

  Eli’s reply: Okay, Al, but I am gonna say right now that there is no damn way I am going to Australia over this.

  Understood. I would just like some sense of whether this is a trap or merely a situation.

  On it. Stand by, he Signaled.

  Just to be thorough, I checked my office email remotely to see if there was anything in there that landed after close of business on Friday. I tried to avoid the business email on the weekends, so it was conceivable that—yes. There was a brief email from Mei-ling dated Friday night, but it would have been early Saturday morning for her in Taiwan. It was informative but gave me no sense of urgency; I didn’t know, however, that Mei-ling would ever try to characterize anything as urgent in written communication. If something was urgent, she tended to address it and then declare that the matter was taken care of, if she mentioned it at all.

  Al,

  I’m going to Melbourne to look into a possible problem with Shu-hua. I am taking Hsin-yi with me.

  Mei-ling

  It was an unusual missive in that Mei-ling rarely informed me of her movements—the five sigil agents operated independently in their own territories and traveled as needed. So the bald fact that she sent anything was an indication she thought this warranted my attention. But the addition of her apprentice was puzzling, since I didn’t know if that meant Mei-ling thought it was safe or if she thought she’d need all the help she could get.

  A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and I stalked over to peer through the peephole. Nobody there. No—wait. It was Buck. He moved into view by backing up in the hallway so I could see him down there. He had a brown paper bag full of groceries and a huge grin on his face, his pearly white caps searing my eyeballs. I opened the door and glared at him, raising my eyebrows in a question and chucking my chin at the bag.

  “Awright to come in? Ye done with yer jawin’?”

  I pointed at the bag and widened my eyes.

  “Wot? This? Nothing here but a fine selection of wines and cheeses liberated from the kitchen of a smashing wee local eatery, where the capitalists go tae eat and chuckle smugly over how they’re gonnay exploit the working classes tomorrow. Fancy a late-night hunk of Red Leicester?”

  My thumbs flew on my phone to a saved and oft-used phrase on my speech app, which was sadly more of a UK accent than the app on my laptop. [Damn it, Buck.]

  “Naw? Maybe a nice Spanish cheese, then. I got Cabrales, Manchego, and—”

  [You can’t spend fifteen minutes without stealing something?]

  “Why should I waste time like that, is what I’d like tae know,” he said, as he pushed past me into the flat and leapt up onto the kitchen island with his purloined picnic goodies. His vertical leap was truly impressive. “The Christians have a saying about idle hands, right? Something about the devil playing on their mounds.”

  [Idle hands are the devil’s playground. There are no mounds.]

  “More’s the pity. So what’s the problem?”

  [The Australian sigil agent might be in trouble. Trying to confirm that independently now.]

  “Is that sumhin we need tae worry about?”

  [Yes.]

  Buck froze, a wedge of Manchego in his right hand. “Let me rephrase. Is that sumhin we need tae do anything about?”

  [Yes. We may need to go to Australia.]

  “Where’s that, again? I havenae been out of the UK except for that time ye took me tae Philadelphia and I got high on salsa.”

  [It’s in another hemisphere. Bloody big spiders there, about your size.]

  “Naw, ye’re taking the piss.”

  [It’s true.]

  “It has spiders my size and people live there on purpose?”

  [Aye. It’s also on fire most of the time, lately.]

  “Why do we have tae do it?”

  [Because it might be a trap. And unlike the other sigil agents, I don’t have family waiting for me to come home.] My son, Dougal, hadn’t spoken to me in eleven years because of the curse on my heid. I’d like nothing more than to talk to him again without sending him into a murderous rage. A quick chat about the weather with him, no
rmally meaningless, would mean everything to me now.

  “Well, that’s easily fixed. I could wait for ye here. How would that be, ol’ man?”

  [Come on, Buck, what’s a little fire and spiders to a legendary hobgoblin like you?]

  “I’m no legendary yet!”

  [This will help, then, won’t it?]

  The wedge of Manchego was suddenly thrust at me accusingly. “Ye know what ye’re like? That heavy-breathing space bastard in the cock helmet who’s always changing the deal. Wot’s his name? Dark Vaper?”

  [Close enough. But you know I’m not altering our deal. I told you up front that being in my service would be dangerous at times, and it’s written in the contract as well.]

  “The contract doesnae mention fire and spiders.”

  [It says, dangers, many and sundry.]

  “Damn it, MacBharrais!”

  My phone pinged, forestalling any further ranting. It was Eli, confirming that he had spoken with Ya-ping and her story remained consistent. His attempts to call Mei-ling, her apprentice, and Shu-hua had all failed. Straight to voicemail, he Signaled.

  They could all be asleep—it was still early there. They could be in the shower in some Australian hotel. Away from their phones for any number of reasons. It didn’t necessarily mean they were dead. But it did mean I’d have to go down there to investigate.

  [Pack your best flame-retardant outerwear, Buck,] I told him. [And whatever anti-arachnid weaponry hobgoblins typically carry with them. We’re going to Melbourne.]

  My ticket to Australia was through Tír na nÓg with a Fae escort, but to get that escort I needed to make it to Gin71, a bar in the Merchant City neighborhood, before it closed. It was open until midnight on Sundays, so I had a couple of hours to spare. The time would not go idly by. I needed to pick up some sigils in my office and let some people know I wouldn’t be around.

  I fired off three Signals as we walked from my flat to the office on High Street. One to Heather MacEwan, the bartender at Gin71, whose real name was Harrowbean and who would arrange my speedy passage to Australia through the Fae planes. Another to my receptionist, Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite, to let her know I’d be visiting Australia on business for a few days and to reschedule any appointments for the upcoming week. A third to my shop manager, Nadia, letting her know that she was in charge until I got back but that I’d contact her from a new phone number so she could reach me while I was away.