“A rat?” Royston finished the thought in unison with her.
Her wide eyes turned on him, and she nodded.
“When angry, he also has a tail,” Royston said. “It is hidden beneath his cloak and, I suspect, cannot be seen by any of the villagers.”
“Rat features,” she repeated in a contemplative whisper. “Does he ever not wear his red cap and cloak?”
“Never,” Kirby said.
“He has rat-like features, plays dastardly tricks, smells of something rotten, produces unnerving noises, and, I suspect, no one has ever seen him eat.”
Royston looked to Kirby, unsure of the answer.
“He’s thrown back many a pint in here,” Kirby said, “but never have I seen him eat so much as a crust of bread.”
Tallulah tapped her free hand on the table. “He’s a fear dearg, I’d bet m’ life on it.”
“A far darrig?” Royston repeated the words phonetically, not being at all certain what they meant
“’Tis a lone Fae, a solitary creature, and not one at all inclined toward friendliness. These monsters are known to play horrid, often cruel, tricks on humans. They look like humans except for their rat-like fur, face, and tail. And they always wear red: sometimes limiting themselves to a cloak and cap, sometimes wearing red from top to tail, as it were. In Irish, fear dearg translates to the Crimson Man, named so on account of the color they always wear.”
“Any idea why it is that we, who are from here, cannot see the squire in his true monstrous form?” Kirby asked.
“The Fae are connected to their homes in strong and often mystifying ways,” Tallulah said. “It could be that tucking himself in this foreign-to-him corner of the world protects him, hides him.”
“Could be, could be.” Kirby leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin as he pondered. “Royston could see him because he is not from here. And you could as well because your origins lie away from this village.”
“Not only away from Chippingwich,” Royston said, “but your origins reach back to the country of the fear dearg. I’d wager you can see him better than any of us. And perhaps that is why you can smell things we can’t and hear things we don’t. He cannot hide as entirely from you.”
“Have you any idea why he doesn’t eat?” Kirby asked.
“The fear dearg do eat,” Tallulah said.
“Do I dare ask what?” Royston had a suspicion it wasn’t anything pleasant.
“They eat carrion, carcasses.”
“Human?” Kirby asked, his voice small and cracked.
She nodded. “And animal.”
A heavy silence filled with uncertainty and worry settled over the all-but-empty pub.
“As far as we have been able to discover,” Kirby said, “he cannot be killed. Many have tried, and all have failed.”
“He can be,” she said, “but only with the right weapon.”
“And what weapon would that be?” Kirby sighed, his voice weighed down by years of defeats and frustrations. “We’ve tried everything we know.”
“They can be defeated only with a blade of iron,” she said. “Iron is dangerous to most Fae,” she said. “’Tis the reason we hang iron horseshoes above a door; not for general luck but to protect ourselves from the Fae.”
“Have you tried iron?” Royston asked Kirby.
“I can’t say that we have. It isn’t a common metal for weapons any longer.”
“Can one be obtained?” Tallulah asked.
“I will see to it, but we must be careful about the arranging of it. Should our efforts be discovered . . .”
“I have a shipment of cloth arriving in a few days,” Royston said. “We can secret the weapon in that. My disguise will go far to preventing the squire from growing suspicious.”
“Your disguise?” Tallulah asked.
“We did not know how to defeat him. And, had he known how well I can see his true form, he’d have killed me, I’m certain.”
“What disguise did you assume?” she pressed.
“That of an unreliable, selfish, flirtatious—”
“Rogue,” she finished in a tone of realization. “You make yourself seem too frivolous to appear to the squire to be a threat.”
“Facing him would require selflessness, and he is certain I have none.” A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to him. “Did you let on that you could see what he truly looked like?”
“Not intentionally,” she said. “I spent most of that encounter attempting to hide from flying glass.”
“You and I alone can see him for what he truly is, though only entirely when he is at his most dangerous. It is for us, then, to face him and free this village of his reign of cruelty and terror. But that is a task fraught with danger. I do not for a moment believe anyone in Chippingwich would hold you to that knowing you did not arrive here with this end in mind.”
“Courage that exists only when one has a choice is not courage at all. True bravery lies in facing those dangers one did not expect and is not required to face simply because it is the right thing to do.”
“Then we’ll face him?”
She nodded. “Together.”
A half-dozen members of the DPS gathered in Hollis Darby’s flat. ’Twould only be his home for another fortnight, after which he and Ana Newport would be married. Fletcher had answered Albie’s message in precisely the way Brogan had predicted, but rather than allowing Brogan to address the Dreadfuls at headquarters, Fletcher had agreed to gather a few members at a neutral location and discuss only what the Dread Master would allow.
Stone, Doc, Hollis, Martin, and Elizabeth were tucked into Hollis’s small sitting room, watching Brogan with both curiosity and uncertainty. They whispered among themselves, but he stood too far distant to overhear.
A hush fell over the room as Fletcher strolled inside. He was a commanding presence, even moving so casually. He made his way to the front. He took off his tall hat and set it on the mantelpiece. Fletcher then dropped into an empty chair with all the theatrical drama of a vagabond who’d usurped a throne.
“How’s tricks?” His grin could not be mistaken for anything other than enjoyment. Fletcher hadn’t a demure bone in his body.
“Some of us have other things to see to today,” Elizabeth said. “Please move directly to the matter at hand.”
He gave her an undeniably flirtatious glance; their romantic attachment was well known to everyone in attendance. “You don’t usually object.”