Chapter 32

Dark gray clouds menaced Seattle’s skyline. Lightening flickered over Ballard as Quinn pulled off I-5 at 45th Street. He had decided to drive to the Fremont and park the truck and walk to the Leprechaun’s bar in Oldtown. He was going to get wet, if it was raining there, but there was no help for it. Earth tech did not work there. As he slid into the opening behind Lenin’s Statue, he was pleased that it was a warm summer day in Oldtown.

Quinn was immediately accosted by two skinny girls with frightened eyes. They looked to be eleven or twelve. The tallest one’s thin coat gaped open, revealing the silvery sheen of a slave torc around her neck.

“Please sir, me and Macy will go with you only we need a bite of food first then we can party.

Despite the reception he received at Mandy’s clinic; Quinn’s anger had remained on a slim tether ever since the farmyard. Now, it flared anew. The two girls stepped back in reaction. He tamped it down.

“Sure, girls. Some chow sounds good. Little Tommy’s okay?” He pointed to the diner across the cobblestone street.

They nodded meekly,” Yes, master,” and followed him over to the restaurant.

The waitress came up to their table. She looked at the two girls and gave him a look that should have torn the skin off him.

“We feed slaves in the back.”

Quinn ignored her.

The owner or manager shouted from the kitchen, “Did you hear her mister, we feed slaves in the back.”

Quinn beckoned the girls to come to him. He placed both hands in turn on their necks. The torcs fell away. The girls swayed in response and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught them.

“No problem, lady. These girls are slaves no longer.”

The waitress stared at him, open mouthed, rooted in place.

“I ain’t never seen nothing like that. How are they still alive?”

“Magic. Give us some menus. And tell that cook to mind his manners. If I have to get up and have a talk with him, you’re gonna need a new cook.

“Yes, Master,” she said quickly and scurried away to do his bidding.

“Girls let’s introduce ourselves because that’s what new friends do. I’m Lachlan.” He looked expectantly at the oldest.

“I’m Kari Olsen and this here’s Annie, my little sister.” The little girl gave him a shy smile.

“Honored to meet you ladies,” Quinn gave the littlest one a grin. “I used to know a little girl named Annie. She was the bravest person I ever knew.

Annie gave him a timid smile back. “Does she live here?”

“No, she’s up in heaven with the angels. Now, you two go ahead and order anything you want. Personally, I’d suggest we start with chocolate milkshakes. They are really good here.”

Kari nodded, then after some whispering with her sister, shyly pointed out two selections to the waitress.

“Okay, while we wait for our meals. Why don’t you tell me your story?”

The two girls’ story was heartbreaking but not uncommon, Quinn had heard scores like it during his time in the System. They had no memories of their father. Their mother was a waitress who had been injured in an automobile accident. Like many others, she had gotten hooked on the Oxycodone that the doctors had proscribed to manage the pain so she could work. Then her prescription ran out. After that it wasn’t long till she was well down the path to junkie hell. Eventually she had OD’d on fentanyl. leaving the two girls alone.

Quinn had been streetwise since he was seven. He immediately recognized that these two had not been on the street long enough for experience to transform their innocence into a hard protective shell of cynicism. The girls were still shell-shocked by the turns their life had taken. They clung together like two kittens.

A half-blood Fae named Sophie had tempted them across the border and into Old Town. After three days without food, they met a “wonderful” man who had saved them. He gave them some soup and their special necklaces. He promised them a safe, warm place to stay and plenty to eat if they would do some favors for him.

Quinn could see that man’s persuasive spell-craft was such that they never questioned the “special favors” the man wanted them to do.

The f•©king Leprechaun.

The problem had been that most of the men they approached had ignored them—except for a couple of creepy guys that they had had to run from. Quinn was their first good prospect.

“I’m going to get you guys to a way better place, but first I need to do some stuff. How would you like to go see some puppies while you wait for me?”

The two girls looked doubtful. “But Sir, the man will be mad at us. He told us we couldn’t tell, or he would be mad.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m going to see him right now, and I guarantee he’ll be happy to hear that you guys found a better opportunity.”

Quinn led the two girls across the street to Steve and Edie’s Clinic.

Edie’s sister Norma was at the counter when they walked in.

“Hi Lan, haven’t seen you for a while. Who’re your little friends.”

“Hey Norma, these guys are my friends Annie and Kari. They haven’t been to a doctor for quite a while. I’m hoping Edie could check ‘em over. I also promised they could see the puppies.”

“Girls this my friend Norma. She’s a real nice lady and you’ll be safe here until I get back. Then we’ll go find a store and get you some better clothes to wear.”

Edie came out to the front as Norma was leading the girls back. Quinn had known her for a couple of years, ever since he’d had a hand in remodeling the new wing to the clinic.

She gave Quinn a questioning look.

“Long story Edie. For some reason this is my week to stick my nose into things. Those two are street kids that the Leprechaun enslaved. Would you check them out? I’m going down to see him now.

“Sure, I can do that,” she said. “but Lan, I don’t want his thugs showing up here looking for them.”

“I’ll take care of that. Have you seen Niamh Harpe around?”

“As a matter a fact a couple days ago. She told me she was heading down to the Leprechaun’s place, but that was a couple of days ago.”

“Thanks, see you soon.”

It was late afternoon when Quinn arrived at the Leprechaun’s club.

His increasing outrage had turned his normally bright green eyes to pools of a green so dark that they appeared black. The runes on his back throbbed.

The place was stirring with the early shift employees arriving to prep the place for opening. A horse-drawn wagon was delivering produce another a cart was delivering two sides of beef. Two squat mountain trolls with gold tipped under-tusks who Quinn assumed functioned as door guards were sweeping the front sidewalk.

They stiffened as he walked up.

“What clan Troll.” Quinn grunt-growled in trollish.

Both of them widened their eyes at hearing their mother tongue from a human mundane.

The male puffed up and gave him a glare. The female answered as was the custom—troll society was a matriarchy. Her voice was oddly high pitched given the fact that she probably weighted north of five hundred pounds.

“We are High Granite Clan, White Stone Sept, human,” she said politely. Her purple eyes looked Quinn over curiously.

Quinn pulled up the sleeve on his right arm and showed the tall female the tiny rune under the silver band of the dragon whip that lay on his arm.

She immediately lowered her eyes and started to shiver.

“How may we serve, Master,” she asked.

“I’m looking for shifter called Niamh Harpe. I was told she came by.”

“She entered this place two nights ago. She has not departed through these doors.”

“Thank you, sister. Go now and call any of your siblings who work here and leave—and sister, I hope for your sake that I never see you working for a Child-Slaver again.”

Quinn started to enter. The male put his arm out to stop him. The female gave a moan. She grabbed the male’s arm and jerked him away from Quinn.

“Please don’t kill him, Master. He is young.”

Quinn nodded and walked into the club.

“You fool.” the female hissed. “Did you not hear me call him Master? Have you ever heard me call anyone Master, let alone a human? He would have taken your head in a heartbeat. He is Death, and he’s come for the McGuire.

They were both gone before Quinn had walked three paces.

The club was brightly lit. A cleaning crew of four women with slave torcs were wiping tables and sweeping.

They watched uninterestedly as he entered.

By now, Quinn was fully merged and centered. Hyper-aware. The dull looking middle-aged slaves smelled of unwashed despair. The spill they were cleaning had the yeasty odor of badly brewed beer. A clank of dishes and a muted complaint about somebody’s wife could be heard from the kitchen area. A half-blood female goblin bartender was chewing juicy-fruit gum and slicing lemons at the bar. She eyed him as he walked up to the bar. Her eyes widened. He heard her heart rate suddenly accelerate—apprehension evident on her face.

“The McGuire in, Miss?”

She nodded nervously. She pointed to a doorway with a trembling hand.

“Go home, girl.”

She reached under the bar, grabbed her purse, and immediately hurried out.

Quinn waved to the slaves.

“You ladies stop what you are doing and go to your sleeping place and wait for me.”

They’d been slaves for a while. They left immediately, without any questions.

The office door was heavily warded; no fewer than five high order spells guarded the entrance.

Quinn touched the door. His runes flared. The wards dissipated.

He opened the door and walked in.

The squat figure of the leprechaun called the McGuire sat behind the massive desk. The room stank of musky-sweat and cigar smoke. The McGuire had a large cigar clamped between stained square teeth. His head sat atop sweaty rolls of fat of that jiggled as he counted out what Quinn assumed must be the previous night’s receipts.

Just as he always did, he thought, Sweet Mother of All, it’s Jabba the Hutt.

A tall Dökkálfar elf lounged on a blood-red velour sofa flanked by a scarred mountain troll.

The ancient leprechaun’s face registered annoyance at the interruption that morphed into surprise when he recognized his uninvited visitor.

He gave Quinn a politician’s practiced smile.

“Why sweet Mary Mother of God, if it tisn’t Lachlan Quinn come to visit.” His rich voice rolled the words soothing and compelling. “Be at ease and tell us why you’re a-visitin’ me poor pub.”

“Well, Mister McGuire, originally I thought to inquire for news about a shifter named Niamh Harpe, but today I came upon two recently enslaved children. You might remember from our last meeting the warning I gave you.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s some misunderstanding—but you busting into my pub a-hurling accusations be hurting my feelings.” He glanced over the Elf and the Troll. “I have some friends now who can pick the slack for me.”

“Take him.”

“Wait,” Quinn looked at the troll and snapped in trollish “What Clan, Troll.”

High Granite, Black Diamond Sept,” he answered.

“Go home, Troll. You don’t have to die today.”

“I took this man’s money.”

“So be it.”

Quinn loosed the dragon.

The whip sheared through the troll’s thick neck like a hot knife through warm butter. Its head toppled to the floor. Its body stood upright, spurting blood. The heart didn’t realize it was dead.

The elf stood open mouthed at the casual suddenness of the troll’s death.

“Elf, go back to your Prince now or I will feed your life to my dragon,” Quinn sang. “If I see your face again, I will harvest you.”

The elf made a gesture and disappeared.

He looked at the leprechaun who had not moved a muscle.