Who Needs Enemies
Page 2

Relieved, I turned left and headed for Matthews Street. The few people who were out and about barely looked at us. It was far too early—and far too cold—for people to stop and stare.
Lyle groaned again, and I glanced at him. His face really did resemble freshly tenderized meat. One eye was closed and puffy, his cheeks were bruised and battered, and a raw looking cut thrust from this temple to the back of his head, the oozing blood caking his thick black hair. His shirt hung in tatters from his thin frame, revealing pale flesh that was covered in welts and cuts.
Trolls took their work seriously, and they were both fast and meticulous. If someone had wanted Lyle dead, he would have been so long before I’d gotten there. As it was, he didn’t even have any broken bones. Either this was a warning, or the trolls had wanted something from him before they’d gotten to down to the serious stuff.
Maybe, I thought with a chill, it was about whatever he’d wanted me to do. And if it was bad enough for trolls to get involved in, then maybe I shouldn’t be.
Yeah, an inner voice snarked, how has that gone for you in the past?
Up ahead, Matthews Street Station glowed brightly in the shadows of the morning and, like the rest of the city, was beginning to come to life. People hurried down the steps and joined the small crowd waiting for the pedestrian lights to change. A faun in a brightly colored caftan stood on the steps and idly played his flute. The happy sound of his music slid through the early morning murk like sunshine through rain, and people smiled and threw money in the cap at his feet as they passed him by.
I turned into Matthews Street and headed for the old Banana Alley vaults. Maggie Tremaine had her store down there, dispensing both new age medicine and ancient wisdom from the old bluestone shop. Despite the early hour, I knew the old witch would be getting ready for the day’s trading.
I half-dragged Lyle down the steps then kicked the old wooden door with the toe of my boot.
“Piss off,” came the reply. “I ain’t open ‘till seven.”
Polite and to the point, as ever. “Maggie, it’s Harri. I need some help out here.”
“Harri? What the hell are you doing out this early, girl?” Chains rattled, then the door swung open. Maggie’s matronly form filled the doorway, her grey eyes widening as she studied the two of us. “What happened to Lyle? He had a run-in with a tram or something?”
“Worse,” I muttered, wishing she’d step aside so I could get in. Lyle might be little more than a bag of bones, but he was beginning to get heavy. “He was set upon by three trolls. You were the closest medical help I could think of.”
“And one of the few specialists of Elven anatomy who will help a couple of outcasts,” she noted, voice dry. She finally stepped to one side. “Well, bring him in and I’ll see what I can do.”
I entered carefully. Her store was literally bursting at the seams and the unwary could really hurt themselves. Herbs and dried animals bits hung from the ceiling, some low enough to brush skeletal fingers across the top of my head. Baskets and boxes spilled across the floor, their contents overflowing into each other, creating a riot of texture and color. Weird-shaped bottles crowded the shelves that lined the four walls, mingling easily with an unusual array of pots, brooms, and other witchy paraphernalia. The smell was incredible—a heady concoction of cinnamon, orange, eucalyptus and sage, all mixed with other, less definable but no less pleasant scents.
“Head on through to the back, Harri. I’ll grab some medicinals.”
I zigzagged through the store and pushed past the heavy curtain. I might as well have entered another world. Everything here was orderly, all the bits and pieces stacked in neat little piles on the shelves, with nothing overflowing or creating hazards on the floor. People expected witch stores to be untidy, Maggie had once explained. Give them what they want, and they’ll keep coming back. She obviously knew her market—she’d been in this store for close to fifty years now, and was still one of the most sought after witches when it came to alternative medicines.
I placed Lyle on the worn sofa, then rolled my shoulders in relief. Maggie bustled in, arms full of bottles and bandages.
I got out of her way and walked across to the kitchenette to help myself to her coffee. Lyle’s face looked no better with the blood and grime washed away, and with the brightly colored salves Maggie was currently plastering all over him, rather resembled someone who’d been attacked by a squadron of kids armed with finger paints.
“He’s lucky,” she said eventually. “No broken bones, no internal damage that I can sense. His face is pretty bad, but then, it was never much to look at anyway.”
I grinned. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear you say that.”
Maggie waved a gnarled finger in my direction. “Mention one word,” she said, voice sharp but grey eyes twinkling with merriment, “and I’ll curse your sex life for the next year.”
I snorted. “Curse away. It can’t get any worse.”
She shook her head. “How can a siren have such a pathetic love life?”
“Because I’m a siren who can’t actually sing, remember?” And sweet talking didn’t achieve a whole lot when all prospective dates wanted to do was inspect your ears and talk about Elven society. Elves may have been around for as long as anyone could remember, but they were an aloof lot at the best of times, and there were whole chunks of society that knew next to nothing about them. I’d come to the rather sad conclusion that it was my lot in life to attract the persons who would rather chat to an elf than bed them.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Have I mentioned Nicolas, the very nice—and very eligible—son of a good friend?”
“Probably.” In fact, in the last few years I’d met every eligible male in her immediate and extended family, and she was now doing the run through the family of her friends. Unlike myself, she hadn’t yet realized it was a lost cause. I motioned towards Lyle. “Is he going to wake up any time soon?”
She grunted and shoved a vial under the old elf’s nose. Reaction was immediate. He jerked away from the scent and coughed harshly for several minutes before glaring at her with his one good eye.
“What the hell are you doing, woman? Trying to kill me?”
“Got your attention, didn’t it? How are you feeling?”
“Surprisingly, like I’ve just been set upon by a trio of trolls.” He hesitated, his gaze sliding across to me. “That was a pretty brave thing you did.”
Brave or stupid—and I was betting most people would vote for the latter option. “I could hardly let them beat you up, even if you are a worthless bag of bones.”
“Takes one to know one, half-breed.”
I smiled. His quick retort at least proved his brain wasn’t rattled. “So who did you annoy this time?”
Lyle snorted. “You got ten hours?”
My smile grew. At one time, Lyle had towed the family line, becoming first a lawyer, then a magistrate. He’d even looked likely to replace his brother—not my father, but Marquane, the oldest of the three—on the high court bench. Then, to the despair of his family and the horror of his wife, he’d given it all up to work with legal aid down in Sandridge. Said wife had long since departed in disgust, but the family still retained hope, alternating between trying to persuade him to return to his former—and to their eyes, at least—more acceptable lifestyle, or attempting to get him declared insane. Which never went well simply because he was one damn fine lawyer when he put his mind to it.
Right now, his kin were in the middle phase—ignoring him. How long it would last was anyone’s guess.
I took a drink of coffee and sighed in pleasure. Maggie, like most witches, only bought top shelf—at least when it came to her own supplies. The free stuff in the main store stunk—literally and figuratively.
“I can’t imagine anyone in the oh-so-proper Phillecky clan deigning to mingle with the likes of trolls,” Maggie commented. “Even in an attempt to rein in a rogue brother.”
“You’d be surprised,” Lyle said, voice weary and still edged with pain. “There’s more than a few skeletons stuffed in the family closets.”
“Yeah, and not all of them are dead, I’ll wager.” Maggie climbed to her feet with a grunt of effort. “But I’ve seen your brothers work a few people over in their time, and they certainly don’t need troll assistance.”
“No,” Lyle agreed heavily. “They don’t. And I wouldn’t mind one of them coffees, Harriet.”
I filled two mugs, handed them across, then refilled my own. “So what have you been up to in the last week that warrants trolls being unleashed upon you?”
“I don’t know.” Lyle scrubbed a hand across his face, smearing the bright dabs of salve. “The only thing I’ve been doing is working a case in the siren district.”
“Which one?” There were three main districts—Sandridge was the biggest and oldest, but both the Barport and Frankston areas were growing fast.
As a general rule, the sirens were a well behaved, peaceable lot, and so were the men caught by their song. They had to be, because sirens had no tolerance for the drug or alcohol affected, and tended to preclude those types from entering their area. How they did this no one was really sure—other than the fact it had something to do with their aural shield—but it generally made them a welcome addition to any neighborhood, despite the risk of the occasional husband straying.
Maggie dragged in a chair from the other room and plopped down. “You after anyone we know?”
Lyle shrugged. “Doubt it. A man by the name of Reg Turner has gone missing before his trial, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay. He’ll be thrown in jail if he doesn’t front up to court this time.”
“You think he’s been caught by a siren’s call?” I asked.
“Maybe. He was shacked up with one last time this happened.”