Five Dead Herrings by E.J. Russell

Zeke poked his head into my office. “Mal’s back with Ronnie. He’d like us both to observe.”

I glanced at the monitor. I really wanted to see whether I could find additional photographic evidence to support Lachlan’s claims, but since my ambition was to climb out of surveillance mode, I locked the screen and followed Zeke back to the Little Conference Room.

Mal was there along with a cringing Ronnie Purl, who looked much more disreputable in his faded Wranglers and rumpled flannel shirt than he had in the gardener’s uniform of green polo and chinos. He was clutching a rucksack that looked like army surplus from about the 1950s. His gaze darted from Mal to Zeke to me.

“Niall not joining us?” I asked.

“Nah,” Mal said. “Business with his brother.” He grinned evilly at Ronnie. “You know the bloke. Tall. Wears a crown. Friend of the elder god who runs the underworld forge.”

“All you big supes are the same,” Ronnie said sullenly. “It’s do this, Ronnie. Don’t do that, Ronnie. Toe the line, Ronnie, or it’s off to the forge with you.” He bared his teeth. “Last time I was here, you promised. You said it would all be okay, long as I gave the stuff back and showed up for that stupid community service.”

Mal leaned against the table, ankles and arms crossed. “You buggered that, though, didn’t you Ronnie, my lad? You didn’t give everything back.”

“No point, was there? He had me by the short and curlies. Said he’d never agreed to the deal. Said I was going to the forge for the rest of my natural unless I did a job for him.”

Beside me, Zeke sucked in a breath. I tensed, and even Mal stopped looking so relaxed. “What job?”

“Said it would be easy.” Ronnie snorted. “Just pop up to the end of the street and grab a backpack from behind a bunch of trees. ’Cept when I get there, the backpack’s not the only thing lying around. That big guy, the selkie, he’s laid out like a dead mackerel.”

“Didn’t you think to help him?” Mal’s tone didn’t bode well for Ronnie. “Check to see if he was breathing?”

“Oh, he was breathing all right. Like a bellows. But I had my orders, see?”

“Ronnie, you know it’s the responsibility of every supe to watch out for the community.”

He glared at Mal. “Tell that to Martinson.”

“Martinson?” Mal stood up. “Reid Martinson threatened you?”

“Nah. Not him. The other one. His dad. Standing there like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He wasn’t looking out for me, was he?” His grip tightened on his rucksack strap. “Him with his threats, tossing a ball of fire in his hand like he was flipping a coin.”

“Let me get this straight,” Mal said. “Pierce Martinson threatened you with imprisonment if you didn’t steal Lachlan Brodie’s backpack?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“But you’d already returned what you took from him. He had nothing on you.”

Ronnie scoffed. “You think a rich dude like him can’t plant something on a little guy like me? I’m a ferret shifter. Who’ll believe I didn’t take whatever it was he’d say I took? I figured my only chance was to do what he wanted.”

“But Ronnie,” I said, “once you stole the pack, he’d have a hold on you, anyway.”

Ronnie’s shoulders sagged. “I know.” His gaze darted between us again, a sly gleam in his eyes. “So I decided to do things my own way. I snagged the pack, all right, but once I was down the road a piece, I called the SMTs.” He shot a defiant glance at Mal. “I knew I couldn’t help the selkie, but I didn’t want to leave him there on his own. I may be a thief, but I’m not a monster.”

Mal nodded. “Glad to hear it. That’ll speak well for you when this is laid out for the tribunal.”

Ronnie peered up at Mal imploringly. “Can’t we keep it between ourselves again? Another deal? More community service?” He wrinkled his nose. “No more gardening, though, at least not at Martinson’s house. Those effing plants fight back!”

“Give over, Ronnie.” Despite his earlier enthusiasm for hauling Ronnie in, Mal’s tone was defeated. “That’s the only way I can help you.”

He sighed. “Guess you’ll want this then.” He dropped the rucksack to the floor at his feet and unbuckled its straps. He flipped open the top flap and drew out…

Lachlan’s seal skin.

“Holy crap,” I muttered. “You had Lachlan’s skin all the time?”

“Not all the time.” Ronnie gave the short, smooth fur one last stroke and then handed it over to Mal, although he seemed oddly reluctant to let it go. “I wanted to know what was in the pack that Martinson was so keen on. And this…well, I had Moreau’s coat ready to turn over to you, but this was so much nicer. So much softer. So—”

“We get it. You couldn’t resist. So you swapped the skin for the coat? Didn’t you figure Martinson would notice?”

“I didn’t figure he’d care about that. Rich dudes never think they have enough money, do they? Thought he was after the jewels.”

Mal and I shared a dumbfounded look. I strode over to the credenza and grabbed the pack. I’d noticed those lumps when it had been bouncing painfully on my back and legs, and wondered why Lachlan would be carrying rocks around. I unzipped the lumpy front pocket and got an eyeful of bling—diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, all of it jumbled in the pack as if it held no more value than a Crackerjack prize.

“Holy crap,” I repeated. I held the pocket open so Mal and Zeke could see.

Mal glanced from the stones to Ronnie, who was ignoring the sparkling mass and gazing longingly at Lachlan’s skin. “You weren’t tempted to pocket a few of those for your trouble?”

Ronnie gave him a scornful look. “Sparkly stuff isn’t my jam. Besides, I figured that’s what Martinson wanted. He wouldn’t notice one soft thing replaced with another. Besides, the way him and his son rock the black overcoats themselves, I figured they’d be grateful for the addition.”

“You were supposed to return that to Mr. Moreau.”

A blush painted Ronnie’s thin face an unbecoming red. “Oh. Right. Guess that would be a problem, huh?” He brightened. “But since you’ve got the pack now, you must have the coat too. So we’re square. Right?”

“That’s as may be,” Mal said sternly. “Didn’t Martinson check the contents when you turned the pack over to him?”

“Didn’t give it to him.” Ronnie rolled his eyes. “Guys like me don’t go to the front door and speak to the lord and master. I went ’round the back to the tradesman’s entrance and handed it off to that maid of theirs. Then I took off as fast as I could.”

Mal scrubbed his hands over his face. “Gwydion’s bollocks, what a turn up. Ronnie, go straight to your brother’s place and try to stay out of trouble for the next little while. We’ll be in touch. Zeke, if you could see him out?”

Zeke held the door open and with one last wistful glance at Lachlan’s seal skin, Ronnie scuttled into the corridor.

Mal stared at the empty doorway ruminatively. “What are the chances Martinson was just being a good Samaritan and collecting Lachlan’s pack before it could be stolen?”

“Not likely,” I muttered, “not the way he was calling for Lachlan’s head on a pike. Or rather a harpoon.”

Mal shook his head. “Alun said that didn’t happen until after he discovered Reid’s body.”

“So why would he want Lachlan’s skin beforehand? At the point he sent Ronnie after the pack, they had everything they wanted: Wyn engaged to Reid, Lachlan agreeing to the sundering, Wyn shacked up at the mansion. It was almost like they were trying to cut off Lachlan’s escape route before anybody—including Lachlan—even knew he needed one.”

“Not to mention he’d need to know that Lachlan was out cold in the first place, which he couldn’t.“

“Unless he was responsible.” My excitement was rising, despite my exhaustion. “David said Lachlan’s injuries were magically induced, not resulting from external trauma.”

“That kind of spell…” Mal gripped the back of his neck again. “It’s not strictly legal.”

“Not strictly legal? It shouldn’t be any kind of legal. Weaponized magic that the mage doesn’t even need to be present to invoke? For God’s sake, Mal, that’s…that’s…”

“I know, all right? That’s why the council wants to rein in the mages.” His jaw firmed, his eyes narrowing. “I think it’s time we had a little chat with Pierce Martinson, don’t you?”

I winced. “Right now? His son just died. We can’t just show up on his doorstep, can we?”

“Considering his actions may have resulted in his son’s death in the first place, I’m not inclined to give him any more time to cover his tracks. However, I’ll need some time to get dispensation from the council to approach him.” Mal retreated behind his desk and unlocked the special compartment where he kept his broadsword. “The negotiations with the mages are at a critical point, and Martinson is one of their primary advocates. We can’t give them any excuse for claiming our lot don’t take their concerns seriously.” He peered at me. “You all right, mate?”

I realized I was squinting at him in an attempt to focus my blurry vision. I blinked, my eyes gritty. “Fine.” But the notion that Lachlan was out there, possibly still a target of Martinson—who didn’t even have to be there to strike at him—made me chafe at the delay. “Are you sure we have to wait?”

“I’m sure.” He gripped my shoulder. “Get some sleep, mate. Be ready to move by full dark.”

“I need to tell you. My photographs—”

“Later, mate.” Mal’s grip tightened. “We’ll get it all sorted later. But our priority should be stopping Martinson before he can push through an irreversible punitive action against Lachlan.”

I blinked. “But if the judgment is wrong because the charges are bogus, can’t the tribunal rescind their ruling? Drop the charges?”

Mal’s glance was pitying. “You’re talking about supes, mate. Not many of us are ever willing to admit we’ve been wrong, and the higher up you go, the less likely you’ll get any mea culpas. Lachlan’s best shot right now is to make sure that Martinson never gets a chance to make his case.” He let go of me and strode out.

“That’s not right,” I murmured brokenly, something swirling uncomfortably in my middle. I’d dreamed of magic, of the supernatural, of wonder since I was a boy. Finding out it was real had been a dream come true.

But any fluffy cloud can have lightning in its heart.

And any dream can turn into a nightmare.

I was certain I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink. When I curled up on the loveseat in Mal’s office, though, with one hand on Lachlan’s seal skin, I was out before I could count to one one thous—