The Spy Who Haunted Me

“Oh, wonderful,” said Peter. “This gets better all the time. What did you do, pee in their wishing well?”

“I killed a whole bunch of elven lords and ladies,” I said.

Honey and Walker looked at me sharply with what I liked to think was respect. Even Peter looked at me in a new way.

“I think I’ll get Langley to express-order us some Really Big Guns,” said Honey.

“Nice thought,” I said. “But they wouldn’t help.”

“Just how are you intending to force your way into the Sundered Lands?” said Walker. “I wasn’t sure such a thing was possible, even for the legendary Droods. Even if there is a soft spot . . .”

“Blue had a torc stolen from the Droods,” I said. “Though he never did learn how to operate it, or he’d still be alive. Anyway, after he died, I used a spell built into his elven breastplate to send him home. My armour remembers the spell, and I can use it to force open the soft spot.”

“I didn’t know your armour could do that,” said Walker.

“There’s lots of things it can do that people don’t know about,” I said airily.

But that wasn’t one of them. My armour is strange matter, not magic. Whole different thing. I had a different plan to get us through. When Blue stole his torc from us, he took it to the Fae Courts, and they put their mark upon it. When I absorbed Blue’s torc into my armour, those changes became a part of my strange matter too. Changes I could follow right back to their origin. I could break into the Elven Lands any time I chose.

So why did I lie to my companions? To mislead them and keep them off balance. To keep something to myself. In the spy game, you take your advantages where you can find them.

Honey used her CIA contacts to hire us a boat. It wasn’t much of a boat, just something to run tourists around in, but it was close at hand and we were in a hurry. And it wasn’t as if I was paying for it. The Hope Street was little more than a long paint-peeling cabin set over an antiquated motor, but it looked sound enough. Honey found a discarded captain’s hat, clapped it on her head, and took over the steering wheel as though she’d been born to it. Walker stepped gingerly aboard, poking things with the tip of his umbrella and then shaking his head sadly. Peter dithered on the dockside, reluctant to step aboard.

“You have got to be kidding,” he said unhappily. “Surely we can do better than this piece of shit?”

“It’s a perfectly seaworthy piece of shit,” Honey said firmly. “And that’s all that matters. We’re not even going out of sight of land, technically speaking. It is also the very best boat available . . . at such short notice.”

“You’re CIA,” said Peter, not unreasonably. “Couldn’t you just have commandeered something more reliable on the grounds of national security?”

“We are supposed to be keeping our heads down,” said Honey. “I start throwing phrases like that around, and the local authorities will be all over us. Now get on board, or I’ll have you keelhauled, or something equally nautical and distressing.”

“Should never have given them the vote,” muttered Peter, slouching on board.

I looked over Honey’s shoulder and studied the instrument panels set out before her. They looked reassuringly up-to-date and mostly functional.

“You sure you can run this thing?” I said, trying hard not to sound too dubious.

“What’s the matter?” said Honey, gri

“I can drive anything modern,” I said defensively. “But have you seen this tub’s engines? Wouldn’t surprise me to find they ran on coal. Or clockwork.”

“I could pilot this tub through the Bermuda Triangle and out the other side,” said Honey. “She’s sound. Nothing to it. Easy peasy.”

Walker sank into a battered old leather chair, which creaked noisily with his every movement. “Then let us get under weigh, Captain.”

“I’m still waiting for Peter. Peter! Where are you?”

“I’m here, I’m here!” He slouched into the cabin, peered about him, and sniffed miserably. “I hate boats and I hate the water. In particular, I hate the way boats go up and down when they travel across the water. I just know I’m going to be unwell. I really enjoyed my di

“The water is perfectly calm,” Honey said patiently. “And there’s not a cloud in the sky. If the surface was any flatter, you could Roller Derby on it.”

“It just looks that way,” Peter said darkly. “It’s pla

“Don’t worry,” said Walker. “I know an infallible cure for seasick-ness.”

“Really?” said Peter.

“Of course. Sit under a tree.” He chuckled at the look on Peter’s face. “Ah, the old jokes are always the best.”

We left the Philadelphia docks at a steady rate of knots, heading out to the middle of the river. The Hope Street chugged along cheerfully, the engines reassuringly loud and steady. Peter clung grimly to the arms of his chair, but the water remained calm. Honey stood happily at the wheel, whistling a sea shanty, her captain’s hat pushed back on her head. I did my best to give her a proper heading, but really all I could do was point her in the direction where I’d seen the Eldridge disappear into the green mists, back in 1943. It was entirely possible the soft spot had . . . drifted since then. Still, Honey aimed the Hope Street in the right direction, and we all mentally crossed our fingers.

We hadn’t been out on the water long when dark clouds appeared in the sky out of nowhere. The wind whipped up, and the waters became distinctly choppy. Honey glared at the instruments before her.

“Weather reports didn’t say anything about a storm. Supposed to be calm and su

“Told you,” said Peter miserably.

“It’s you, Peter,” Walker said calmly from his chair. “All your fault. You’re a jinx. Or maybe a Jonah. If I see a whale, you’re going overboard.”

I used my Sight, without my armour. This close, I didn’t need it. The soft spot was hanging on the air dead ahead, strange magical forces churning around it like a vortex. Something in our approach had activated it; perhaps my torc, or the changes Blue had added to his torc. The doorway was forming, becoming more solid, sucking us in. Just its presence in our world was enough to disrupt the weather patterns. The closer we got, the more I could See, and the less I liked. This wasn’t just a soft spot or a natural opening; someone had fashioned a proper door here and wedged it open just a crack against all the powers of this world to heal itself. Someone intended this door to be used.

A growing tension filled the Hope Street’s cabin as we drew steadily closer. We could all feel it: a basic wrongness in the warp and weft of the world that raised ancient atavistic instincts and grated on our souls. The tension grew worse, like an ax hanging over our heads, like a danger we could point at but not identify. It felt like walking the last mile to our own execution. Give Honey credit; she never flinched, never changed course, never even slowed our approach.

I could See the gateway hanging on the air ahead, waiting for us, drawing us in with bad intent. A convoluted spectrum of forces, as though someone had taken hold of space and time with a giant hand and . . . twisted them. And the closer I got, the more I realised it wasn’t an actual door, as such; more a potential door. That’s why my family had never suspected its existence. It wasn’t . . . certain enough to set off our alarms and defences. As though the elves had set this up and then walked away . . . waiting for just the right person to come along and activate it . . . and walk into their trap.