“We seek to find a certain man, a Mr. Jean-Nicolas Durand,” said Conall.
“The Frenchman?” The major’s eyes widened. “You will not find him in the city. He is under lock and key. He was found raving mad a week ago and thrown in the tollbooth with the rest of them.”
Conall rose up excitedly. “Indeed? We must speak with him,” he said.
At the same time, Effie blurted, “The rest of them?”
The major glanced between them again. “He is with the others who have been found wandering the streets witless, or even worse, inciting mayhem. It is a sickness that plagues the city due to the lack of work, the same that plagues the rest of this country. As for seeing the man, I fear it is not possible. The afflicted are under strict quarantine.”
Effie barely kept herself from growling. “The banshee’s touch is not contagious.”
“So you say,” said the major. “Yet these preposterous claims of it spread, and the so-called menace grows.” He straightened in his chair. “Do you know what wins wars, miss? Efficient lines of communication and supply. Sever those, and you sever the head of the snake.” He waved an absent hand. “Or whatever this current madness is.”
Effie’s fingers curled into fists, but it was Conall who spoke first. His voice was hard. His face pulled tight with anger. “We must insist on seeing Mr. Durand,” he said. “It concerns Fey Finder business and cannot be delayed.”
“The days of Fey Finders bullying their way into catastrophe are over,” replied the major. “Now, if you have been given orders, produce them. Otherwise, you may see yourselves off these premises.” He curtly plucked another report from his desk and began to read.
A dozen arguments came to Effie at once, some lacking in civility, but she held them all back. She had dealt with men like Major Barnes before. Mentioning Sir Walter or Edward Waite, or even Lord Granville, would do them little good. Mentioning her theories on Aerfenium and the Barrow Witch would do them even less. The man read reports for a living. He would respond to little that did not come from a field manual or direct command. Their best hope was to send a telegram to Edinburgh in the morning and hope for a swift response.
Still, she would not be dismissed without further answers regarding the evening’s events. “We require lodging in the city,” she said. “Can we wander freely, or is the city under curfew?”
The major’s brow furrowed. “I do not have that authority,” he said. “But if you mean to inquire why the streets remain empty, it is due to the purported sightings of a beast. The thing is apparently nine foot tall and glows silver under the moon. Nonsense, of course. It is only tales of fear spawned by a bit of unrest and that damned French airship.”
“Well, it is good to hear I was shot by one of your men merely due to tales of fear,” said Conall.
The major snorted. “The attacks are real enough. It is their source that is fanciful. We have thus far been unable to track down the French insurgents, but we will. I assure you.”
“Are the reports of cannon fire also a part of these tales?” asked Effie. She cursed inwardly. She saw straight away she had pressed with too firm a hand.
“Owens,” the major called. “Please escort Mr. Murray and his companion from the barracks.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You will kindly leave military matters to the army while in this city. The tollbooth may have run out of space, but we would surely find other means for your detention, if necessary.”
The soldier who had led them into the major’s office reappeared. His boots slapped against the floor as he snapped to attention and saluted. Effie forced herself to curtsey to the major. Conall bowed stiffly before spinning on his heel.
“Well, at least we know Mr. Durand has not fled the city,” he said once they were out of earshot of the major. “There is that in our favor.”
Effie grimaced. They emerged into the crisp night air. A low bank of fog had closed over the barracks. It obscured the courtyard, yet she could hear the clink of tin and rustle of leather as men moved about them. She could feel them as well, along with those gathered within the buildings. Idly, she searched through their auras to determine whether any were familiar to her. It was not likely, but the process allowed her a small measure of hope. It was better than doing nothing.
She had almost given up when a slight tingling came to her gut. One of the auras in front of her held fey blood. Her flesh prickled in warning, but she didn’t believe the aura to be tainted. It reminded her of wind blowing through the woods, and of an earthen forest floor thick with pollen in the springtime.
The fey had a human companion, too. They approached in a direct but steady manner. Effie placed a hand on Conall’s chest to alert him as the pair of figures emerged from the fog. They stood on the far side of the barrack’s iron gates. One was a soldier with a face barely of an age to bear whiskers. He didn’t carry a rifle, she noted. The woman next to him wore a modest dress and coat, but the clothes held a week’s worth of wrinkles and dirt caked at the hems. Her hair was pulled under a bonnet. Loose strands of it fell about the sides of her face. Her eyes had deep wells beneath them, as if she hadn’t slept in days.
“Miss Effie of Glen Coe,” said the soldier. His deep-set eyes sat over rounded cheeks and a thick chin. “I am Samuel Harper. This is Mrs. Graives. We would ask to speak with you about her son and daughter.”
Effie studied his uniform and wondered how such a thing was possible. It was he who held the fey blood, a member of Her Majesty’s army.
Charging forward, the woman snatched Effie’s hands. She clutched them against her chest. Her whole body trembled. Her eyes pleaded. “They are taken,” she said. “But the major won’t listen.”
“They are taken by the Banshee of Aberdeen,” said Harper. He glanced at Owens rather sheepishly. “Mrs. Graives and I have seen it and know where to find its lair.”
12
Samuel Harper led them to an old coaching inn off Union Street. It had seen better years. The eaves sagged. The timbers had splintered and were in need of paint. They slumped against the granite stone of the inn’s neighbors. But within, warm light brought a cheeriness to the place. A pleasant fragrance wafted from the hearth. Full of onion and carrot, it made Effie’s stomach rumble.
They received a cheery welcome from the master of the house, despite the hour. The main room held a scattering of unmatched tables and chairs, each lacquered a different shade. A narrow stair rose to rooms above, and a long hall led to the service area at the rear of the building.
Effie chose a table that had a bench with a stiff wooden back, so Conall could rest against the corner it formed with the wall. She sat next to him. Her head grew drowsy the moment her back pressed against the wood, but she shook the weariness away.
“Tell me of this banshee,” she said. Her heart had skipped when she’d heard the moniker earlier, yet she doubted instantly that the name referred to the Barrow Witch. The Sidhe Bhreige toiled at a greater game than terrifying the denizens of Aberdeen.
“The wailing started a fortnight ago, but even afore that there were tales of strange beasts roaming the city at night,” said Harper. He helped Mrs. Graives into a chair and took one for himself.