Hallow Point Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Ari Marmell

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Brief Word on Language

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fae Pronunciation Guide

  Mobsters of Chicago

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM ARI MARMELL AND TITAN BOOKS

  Hot Lead, Cold Iron: A Mick Oberon Job

  Hallow Point

  Print edition ISBN: 9781781168257

  E-Book edition ISBN: 9781781168264

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: August 2015

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Ari Marmell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright © 2015 by Ari Marmell. All rights reserved.

  www.titanbooks.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  For Eugie, who had so many of her own stories left to tell.

  I miss you.

  A BRIEF WORD ON LANGUAGE

  Throughout the Mick Oberon novels, I’ve done my best to ensure that most of the 30s-era slang can be picked up from context, rather than trying to include what would become a massive (and, no matter how careful I was, likely incomplete) dictionary. So over the course of reading, it shouldn’t be difficult to pick up on the fact that “lamps” and “peepers” are eyes, “choppers” and “Chicago typewriters” are Tommy guns, and so forth.

  But there are two terms I do want to address, due primarily to how they appear to modern readers.

  “Bird,” when used as slang in some areas today, almost always refers to a woman. In the 1930s, however, it was just another word for “man” or guy.”

  “Gink” sounds like it should be a racial epithet to modern ears (and indeed, though rare, I’ve been told that it is used as such in a few regions). In the 30s, the term was, again, just a word for “man,” though it has a somewhat condescending connotation to it. (That is, you wouldn’t use it to refer to anyone you liked or respected.) It’s in this fashion that I’ve used it throughout the novels.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pools of light and waves of shadow.

  After hours, the museum’s Hall of Africa was a waking dream, and not a good one. Lit only by sporadic fixtures, the light shook and shifted with every running step, so a great mask or bronze statue loomed out of the darkness here, a wave of blindness swept between me and my quarry there.

  Jeez, but this cat was fast! I’m pretty speedy when I go all out, and he was still pullin’ a good lead on me.

  About time to change up the odds a bit.

  I had my trusty old Luchtaine & Goodfellow wand already drawn and aimed, so all I hadda do was wait another tick, let him pass from another patch of shadow into what little illumination I had, and…

  Bang.

  Or whoosh.

  Abracadabra.

  Whatever you care to imagine magic’d sound like if it sounded like anything.

  It shoulda torn every shred of good fortune from the sap, sent him stumbling, crashing into all sorts of crap, probably even breaking some bones. I wasn’t goin’ easy on him. No way he shoulda been able to outrun me, and I don’t like it when people do shit I don’t expect.

  I missed.

  You got any idea how hard it is to miss with magic? Ain’t as though there’s a bullet involved, as though you need a straight line of fire.

  But even as I felt the power discharge through the wand, the bastard leapt like he knew it was coming. One jump, up and over, he tucked his drumsticks under him, and cleared a seven-foot display case holding a bunch of necklaces and those earlobe-plug things and whatnot, made outta stone and hardwood and seed shells.

  The exhibit made like it had a bomb in it. Glass shattered with a single caboose-clenching crack, thick, ugly shards sailing in all directions. Old twine rotted and frayed, and burst apart, sending pretty little rocks tumbling and bouncing all over the floor.

  I didn’t even wanna know how much that display was worth. Pretty sure there ain’t enough zeroes in Chicago…

  Acrobatics like that, and the goofy hombre wasn’t done yet!

  Me, I’d frozen for just a blink, surprised by the detonating case and having to lean back outta the path of the glass.

  He hadn’t.

  Seemed his dogs barely hit the floor before he jumped again, almost as if he’d bounced. Up high, spinning like Newton’s laws had been repealed, then kicked off the wall beside him.

  And, mid-tumble, he chucked something back at me.

  Couldn’t tell edge-on what it was, just that it was coming fast, and aimed right at my neck. I’d swiped a lot of luck from those necklaces and stuff, and I burned all of it, and still didn’t have enough swift to duck completely clear.

  Sharp pain sliced through my right ear, and a warm wetness ran down the side of my head, making my hair all thick and matted.

  I slapped a mitt to the wound, and tossed the L&G to my other hand. Yep, it had taken a chunk of my ear clean off, right at the pointy part. Hell, if I had human ears, it mighta missed outright. Hopefully, it’d be one of those details you schlubs—that’d be humans, for those who ain’t payin’ attention—don’t ever notice about me. It was gonna be days growin’ back!

  Then again, without my magic, that coulda been a lot more’n a piece of skin and cartilage lying flopped on the ground behind me, beside a bloody…

  Shard of glass?

  He’d snatched a goddamn shard of glass from the display case out of the freakin’ air and hurled it back at me! Who the fuck was this guy?

  I still hadn’t gotten a clean slant on him, and that wasn’t so natural, either. Even in the pools of light, the darkness somehow clung to him, trailing off like vapor until he reached the next patch of shadow. I had seen enough to know he was a big son of a bitch—not a whole lot shorter than the glass case he’d hurdled—and that he was wearing something on his head. Weird hat? Crown? Something.

  This is when anyone with half a brain in their conk woulda decided it was time to leg it, but I didn’t get where I am by not doing ditzy shit. Anyway, I was way too caught up in the chase, and way too curious.

  Figure I was a cat in a past life, and that’s why it’s a past life.

  We were in the main hall, now. The place was huge, stretching up through the next story to a couple light fixtures and skylights with the black of night beyond ’em. Thick pillars and
lengths of wall topped with open arches, that let patrons on the second floor look in and down, separated it from the smaller halls on either side. Display cases ran down both sides of the hall, directing traffic to the final exhibit: a pair of full-sized African elephants, preserved in eternal combat.

  Even they didn’t reach halfway to the ceiling. They coulda stuck a whole dinosaur in here and it wouldn’t have made the place feel any less spacious.

  Some of those upper arches had banners hanging, advertising coming exhibits, and that’s where my quarry’d gone. I’d come in just in time to see him bounding like a rubber kangaroo again. From the floor to the top of a glass display, which didn’t tremble let alone break when he landed. Then from there to the back of one of the elephants, where he took two running paces to the beastie’s head and leapt for a banner just above.

  Something to do with a new addition to the Ancient Egypt section. No idea why I remember that.

  You know what, though? Don’t matter how nimble and tricky you are, you bouncing bastard, you ain’t dodging a damn thing in mid-air!

  I was running again as I fired, and this time I felt the impact. Wasn’t able to hit him nearly as solidly as I’d tried to before—that earlier blast took a lot out of me—but it was enough. The banner, which shoulda taken his weight without hassle, tore from its moorings. I heard him slam hard into the bottom of the archway, and then tumble over onto the floor on the other side.

  All right, not as keen as if he’d fallen back my way, but between the crash and the entangling fabric, he was down for a minute, if not longer.

  More’n I needed, even if I can’t jump like him.

  Wand back in my right hand, I took a sprinting start at the wall, hit it, and kept going. The stone was smooth, too smooth for you—but not for me. Both feet and left hand carried me up in a roachy climb. Matter of seconds, I was at the arch, leaning over, L&G aimed and ready to—

  Urk.

  Couple of fists that seemed less ham hock-sized and more like full sides of beef, closed on me, hard and choking. One on my throat held me aloft over the drop; the other squeezed my wrist until it almost quit in protest and went to find work somewhere else. I couldn’t even try to aim at him.

  What I could do, now—way, way too late for me to undo some real poor decisions—was see him clearly.

  Heavy riding boots. Thick wools and leathers, older’n my wand. A massive chain wrapped around his shoulders, which weren’t that broad across, really. Woulda only taken two of me to equal ’em, two and a half, tops.

  Heavy beard, dark, not so much trimmed as looking as though it’d just naturally grown into a semi-neat shape. Eyes that were pools of liquid dark, like a stag’s. And, of course, his head.

  He wasn’t wearing a hat. Or a crown.

  They were antlers—and they were attached.

  Fuck. Me.

  “Herne,” I croaked.

  “Oberon.” His voice was the growl of the leopard, the roar of the bear.

  “How you doing?”

  Yeah, I know. It’s called “stalling.” Or maybe “panic.”

  Herne the Hunter. Keeper of the ancient boles of the British Isles. Former and probably future master of the Wild Hunt. And not, in general, a mug you want as an enemy.

  Up until two minutes ago, we hadn’t been. Now?

  “Can we just…” I wasn’t in any danger of suffocating, but not breathing does make bumping gums kinda hard. “Just talk for a minute?”

  Looking into Herne’s lamps is like trying to stare down a cat. A cat whose best pal, the grizzly, is standing right behind you. I did it anyway.

  For a long moment, there was bupkis; no emotion, no communication, just my own reflection. And then…

  “No.”

  * * *

  Hmm. Mighta started off telling it with me in too deep already. All right, lemme back up a few steps—and a few hours. Pick this up earlier that night…

  Voices. Voices and muffled pounding from far away, like somebody hammering his way free of a vat of cotton candy. I grumbled something that wasn’t even kissing cousin to a real word, and ignored it harder’n a fourth date.

  “C’mon, Mick!” Pound, pound, pound. “I know you’re in there.” Pound.

  Pound.

  “Scram already! I’m sleeping here!”

  Least, that’s what I think I said. It’s what I meant to say. But since my whole weight seemed to be on my face, which was pressed into the pillow so tight I coulda chewed through to Neverland, I can’t be sure.

  “C’mon, Mick,” he said again—from a lot closer, this time. Not voices plural, then; just the one. Pete. “Kind of in a jam here.”

  “Call the cops.”

  Pete—or Officer Pete Staten, if you’d rather—snorted like a pig inhaling a smaller pig.

  “Beat feet, Pete. We’re closed for the night.”

  “Your door was open.”

  It was? Damn, I musta have been all in when I got home.

  “So what the hell you been knocking on?” I asked him.

  “Doorframe. Then the desk.”

  “Well, shit. You mind shutting that for me?”

  Footsteps, a loud thump.

  “Good, thanks. Beat it. Now we’re closed for the night.”

  I think I told you palookas before, I don’t have to sleep a lot. Not near as much as you do. But when I’m tired enough that I do gotta bunk for a spell, I do not take kindly to being woken up.

  The fact that Pete was a good friend was the main reason he wasn’t wearing my typewriter for a collar already.

  He also pretty clearly didn’t mean to blow anytime soon. Groaning like a ghost in an accordion, I forced myself to sit up.

  “Hey, he lives!” Pete announced all cheerful-like.

  “Makes one of us.” I didn’t bother to knuckle my eyes at all, though I knew he expected me to, and tried to get something close to my bearings.

  I hadn’t gotten undressed or even crawled under the sheets. Just toppled over in a two-dollar suit and coat, both of which were now made of more wrinkles than sheep. Whole office smelled of wet wool—guess there was still enough sheep in my rags to soak up the rainwater.

  Pete leaned back against the desk, half-sitting on it. Judging by the glistening spots on his uniform blues, it was still coming down out there.

  “Jesus, Mick. What’ve you been working on?”

  “Funniest thing,” I groused. “Case of the beat cop who just flat out vanished, right in the middle of bothering a buddy.”

  “Cute, but I haven’t gone anywhere.”

  “Guess you know what you oughta do next, then, don’tcha?”

  My not-so-welcome guest pulled the chair away from the desk and sat.

  “Have a seat,” I told him.

  “I brought milk,” he countered.

  You might remember that’s more or less all I drink—or eat—so of course Pete knew that. Then again, if he’d really wanted to suck up to me, he’da brought cream.

  “Warm?” I asked.

  “Whaddaya take me for? Don’t answer that. Yeah, of course warm.”

  “All right.” I reached out, waited for the feel of the glass bottle in my mitt.

  “Forgiven?” he asked.

  I took a big slug. “Stay of execution, anyway. All right, spill it.”

  He ran a couple fingertips over his mustache, and I almost groaned again. Now that he had me listening, he didn’t wanna sing. No way that was a good sign.

  “Seriously, Mick, what are you working on? I’ve never seen you this joed.”

  “Miles Caro,” I said. “Don’t know him.”

  I sorta waved it off. “No reason you should.”

  Caro was a missing persons job who, the way things’d been going for me, was gonna stay missing. He had a worried family—which was how I had gotten roped in—and he had a few regular joints where he liked cutting the rug or whetting the whistle, all of which had proved about as useful to me as a Braille coloring book. Gink owed some trouble boys mone
y, word was, and had either got himself involved in something ugly trying to pay ’em back, or had lammed while the getting was good, depending on who you asked. Since I don’t much care for working anything gets me too close to the Mob—you saw how well that shook out for me last time—and since clues were proving about as common as an honest alderman, I’d actually been considering dropping the case.

  No, I didn’t much want to. Hate to leave a job hangin’—and the mystery was drivin’ me crazy. But I’d been up to my earlobes in it for weeks, see? Merlin only knows how many other, maybe better payin’, cases I’d missed. I had no idea what was up in the world, since I hadn’t peeped a news rag in days. Hell, I’d only just started hearin’ half-spoken whispers that there were more of us—Fae, I mean—in Chicago’n usual, and that’s the kinda skinny I usually pick up pretty early on.

  I still didn’t know if it was true, or why, but least I could be fairly sure that if the Windy City did have extra guests, they weren’t Unseelie. Newspapers or no, if a buncha the Unfit had been runnin’ around, they’da been leaving enough blood’n bodies behind ’em that I’d have heard about it for sure.

  Anyway, gettin’ off-track here. Point is, I’d been putting every smidge of focus I could into digging this gink up, and I had absolute bupkis left to go on. I’d been pounding pavement for days straight without a break, giving the Caro case one last big push before I hadda admit defeat. All of which is why I was so done in.

  Also all of which—well, maybe not the “there’s supposedly a bunch of us throwin’ a shindig in the mortal half of Chicago” bit, but all the rest—I mighta been willing to explain to Pete if I’d been in a better mood.

  “Pretty sure you proved you didn’t care what I was doing,” I said, “when you barged in here and woke me up.”

  “Aw, don’t be like—”

  “Pete? What? Do you want?”

  Pete sighed. “I need your help on a case.”

  I glared. “Deduced that much. You mighta forgotten, but I am a detective.”

  “Oh, for the… There’s been a break-in at the museum.”

  All right, on the square, that got my attention. “Which one?”

  “The Field.”