Chapter X

Morgan had never been to this part of Joudai before.

The scent of loam, dead foliage and wood smoke was intensified by the rain into a winter aroma. It wasn’t the smell of the inner city, of concrete and steel, but of the sparsely populated countryside. Thirty-eight precinct was a multifaceted backwater, a piece of nature violently carved out from the technology of the central business district in which its occupants painstakingly created their own jungles and forests, side-by-side – magic and science conjoined to make the trees grow and the flowers bloom a world away from their original home.

Morgan had gotten the corporal’s address from the main bureau database. He wanted to apologise to her in person before they continued the investigation; if he did it that way, he thought, perhaps it would come across as more sincere.

Shalia’s home was a contrast to the woman herself, as peculiar and spontaneous as she was dogmatic and strict. It was about ten minutes away from the nearest portal pad and was surrounded by a dense forest of gargantuan trees currently hibernating for the winter, their branches bare. Unseen animals yipped and howled between the boughs, and always the press of voices echoed from somewhere nearby that he could not see. It was undeniably picturesque, if a little eerie in its lack of human activity and so unlike the bustle of the inner city.

Morgan followed the coordinates of Shalia’s address on his Glass. At the heart of the precinct, he spied a massive tree, its trunk the width of his entire apartment block with roots as tall as he was and five times as thick. Built into the side of this monolith and about sixty feet up was a cabin of wooden slats and walls, the sides lovingly painted in a variety of clashing colours and adorned with fae symbols he didn’t recognise. At his feet was a set of great wooden steps that circled the trunk up into the cabin. When he peered up into the branches, the levels at the top of the construction appeared tacked-on, as if as an afterthought or as the solution to a rapidly growing family.

Women’s voices and the creak of wood drifted down from the house on the wind. Morgan studied a crude wooden mailbox to the left of the staircase labelled ‘Balmaris’ before he sucked in the winter air through his teeth, the cold alleviating his nerves. He tucked a box wrapped in brown paper beneath his arm and began to climb. Someone had had the foresight to build a handrail, albeit a crooked and haphazard one, splinters prickling at his fingers with each creaky step. The wood groaned ominously under his weight and the wind lashed at his coat as the ground grew smaller far below. The magic of the place quickly lost its charm the higher he climbed.

The voices grew louder as he circled the trunk. The house was even rougher up close – nails and screws sticking up out of the wooden planks as though a child had attempted to make their own treehouse. It was a miracle the place was stable enough to remain standing. As it was, the wind whistled rather alarmingly through the slats. A blue front door had the sun painted where the peephole would normally be.

Morgan shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. With some trepidation, he knocked.

The voices quieted immediately, followed by the thudding of bare feet on carpeted wood.

‘Yes?’

Morgan swallowed. Standing in the doorway was not the corporal, but someone that looked remarkably like her. The same green skin but longer hair, down to the waist, and a sprinkling of gold freckles across the nose. Her eyes were not amber but a brilliant and alien fuchsia. Morgan couldn’t tear his gaze away, however, from the pair of wings fluttering gently across her back. They were like what he remembered of Shalia’s – green and violet glass with a pulse of gold light running along its length, from shoulder to wingtip. How such small things could carry the weight of a person he had no idea.

‘What do you want?’ insisted the fae, one hand on her hip. She was wearing, of all things, yoga pants and a grey cardigan. Despite the two or so feet difference in their heights, Morgan found himself feeling small under her critical gaze.

He wet his chapped lips. ‘Is Shalia here? Can I see her?’

Disdainfully, ‘My sister? Why?’ She looked him up and down and smirked. ‘She doesn’t usually get gentlemen callers.’

‘We-we’re colleagues. It’s for work.’

‘And I suppose that’s for work too?’ She gestured to the wrapped gift beneath his arm.

‘Kind of.’

‘Whatever.’ Shalia’s sister widened the door for him and ventured inside without another word.

Morgan tried to follow – and slammed into an invisible wall of force that barred his way with a grunt. He placed a hand against the invisible wall like a mime’s act but could venture no further.

‘Uh, hey?’ he called at the fae’s retreating back.

She turned on her heel with a grumble. Seeing him stuck at the entrance, she glanced first at the sun on the door, then back to him. Then she smiled. ‘You can come in. No use letting in all the cold.’

The invisible barrier vanished beneath his touch and Morgan stepped over the threshold. ‘What the hell?’

‘A spell,’ she explained as they ventured further into the house. ‘Sometimes we get some, hmm, unwanted guests.’

‘Burglars?’

She snorted. ‘No. Idiots that think fairy equals pixie dust or an easy lay. Or monsters. What’s the difference. Watch your head.’

Morgan ducked beneath a low-hanging ceiling beam. Everything was low-hanging, actually – as the pair entered the main sitting area Morgan was overwhelmed by the strange décor. Rugs and silk drapery coated the walls and floor to hinder the cold, and cushions and pillows occupied every available surface. Large stained-glass windows looked out onto the sea of forest around them. Little light came from these, the place illuminated instead by candles and softly-glowing gemstones – even the occasional glowing mushroom, reminiscent of the purple one he had seen in his therapist’s office. The scent of woodsmoke, baking and incense was pervasive.

A variety of fae women, more or less identical to Shalia except for the occasional difference in hairstyle and eye or wing colour, were engaged with their day-to-day activities. The home was alive with activity as women worked on their chores or hobbies. Someone was working in the kitchen opposite, pots and ceramic clanging beneath the ever-present chatter. Another fae sat in one of the cushions in the corner, a mug of something steaming to her lips and a magazine poised in her lap. Someone else in the corner, near the window, was working on an array of herbs and spices at her feet, kneading a mixture with a mortar and pestle.

Morgan followed closely as the fae that had opened the door for him nodded to the fae working in the kitchen. ‘Shalia around?’ she asked with her throaty voice.

The woman’s eyes were the colour of the sky on a cloudless day as she spied Morgan over the other fae’s shoulder, and were, to his surprise, lined with crow’s feet. ‘In her room, last time I saw her. Who’s this?’

The other fae rolled her eyes. ‘Co-worker. Apparently.’

The blue-eyed fae gave him a warm smile, laugh lines wrinkling. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Analia, Shalia’s older sister – Ana for short.’ Ana leaned around the other fae for a handshake.

Morgan shook her hand, glad someone in the house didn’t immediately seem to hate his guts. The magic in her soft, lightly-gnarled fingers tingled against his skin. ‘Morgan.’

‘Want a cookie?’ Ana asked as she pulled on a pair of oven mitts. ‘Just finished them now.’

Morgan wondered how they were getting gas in this ramshackle treehouse and whether or not they were scared of using fire amongst all the wood. ‘No, but thanks anyway. Shalia…?’

Ana took out a steaming tray from the oven and broke a cookie in half, giving one half to the other fae. ‘Jules, take him up to Shalia’s room.’

The younger fae, Jules, rolled her eyes. ‘Fine, but I’m calling an extra cookie from the pile.’

‘Don’t negotiate.’ But Ana’s warm smile said otherwise.

Still with cookie in her mouth, Jules said, ‘C’mon.’

She led him up a crooked staircase – everything in the house was crooked to the point where it almost seemed straight somehow – up onto the next floor, where a small hallway lit by a single lantern hanging from the ceiling illuminated a series of doors, some closed, others open, and from which came a blend of voices. They continued up to the next floor, the floorboards beneath Morgan’s feet groaning in protest. None of the fae he had seen up until now had surpassed five foot two and the house was making its complaints known.

‘Must suck being so tall,’ Jules remarked as they alighted onto the next floor.

Morgan ducked beneath a hanging lantern.

This floor had a wide space in the middle dominated by low tables and rugs. Things dangled from the ceiling, beautiful dioramas of glass and silver beside the dried husks of long-dead animals and bushels of herbs. Occult paraphernalia of dead animals and questionable offal occupied the low benches in jars and stone bowls – Morgan tried to not look too closely at these. If he wasn’t standing beside a fae, he’d have thought he’d stepped into the hut of the Baba Yaga.

‘This way,’ said Jules, making a left down into a short corridor ringed with doors, five in all including the one slightly ajar at the far end. She made for the furthest door, where Shalia’s voice drifted down the hall:

‘…I don’t think that’s true. See? If you carry the twelve then you won’t get forty-eight, but seventy-nine instead.’

Another voice, deeper, young and frustrated: ‘I don’t get it…! I wasn’t wired for this! What’s the point of even trying.’

Jules inched the door open. ‘Shal? You got a visitor.’

Morgan peered over Jules’s head into what was unmistakeably Shalia’s bedroom. It was the only room in the entire house out of place, neat steel shelves lining the walls packed with scientific textbooks and computer parts, all neatly stacked and labelled. A massive three-monitor rig dominated the right and a bed – neatly made – was to the left wall beneath a window.

Shalia was at her desk – even her home ware was sombre in slacks and a blouse – where she instructed a young fae with homework. They both turned as he and Jules entered.

Shalia’s eyes went wide. ‘Lieutenant? What – what are you doing here?’ He noticed the moment she remembered she was supposed to angry at him, her expression growing neutral.

Jules and the young fae exchanged a glance. They were even more alike than Shalia, the same freckles and hair, but the young fae kept their hair short and pinned their wings close to their back. Puffing her cheeks, Jules said into the silence, ‘Uh, Morgan, my brother Damaria. Demy, Morgan.’

Demy glanced between Morgan and Shalia and got quickly to his feet. ‘We’ll uh, leave you to it. Thanks for the help.’

‘Anytime,’ said Shalia, her smile forced.

The two young fae could not escape fast enough.

‘Would…you like to take a seat?’

Morgan sat on the edge of the bed. The gulf between the two of them made his stomach ache.

‘What’s that?’ asked Shalia, eyes on the box, wrapped with twine and brown paper, in his arms.

Morgan startled; he’d forgotten about it. ‘O-oh, this? It’s, well.’ He got to his feet and placed the box on the desk beside the corporal. ‘It’s uh, it’s for you.’

Shalia was cautious as she undid the twine and neatly peeled the wrapping – no tearing, of course. Birthdays must be a joy with her around.

Her eyes widened, anger forgotten, as the box inside was revealed – a pair of tactical glasses, the XT-901 to be precise. ‘You…there’s no way…but…’ She turned the box in her hands over and over, as if the thing would vanish at any moment. ‘Lieutenant you really shouldn’t –’ Still with the box in her hands, the corporal stood and pulled Morgan into a hug. He was as tall as she was sitting down.

Into her shoulder he said, ‘You uh, said you wanted it. And, well…’ Morgan inhaled the scent of her, the rustic heartiness of it and the blood underneath. He stiffened.

Sensing his discomfort Shalia let him go and returned to the desk, still turning the box over in disbelief.

Morgan cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to…to apologise. For what happened with Rhiley. And other things.’

The corporal opened the box and carefully unwrapped the glasses inside, leaving behind plastic and securing foam. As she read the instructions, without looking up she asked, ‘Are you sorry I saw it happen or are you genuinely sorry for what you did?’

It was a test of some kind, he knew. A single nexus that would determine their relationship for the future – for better or worse. ‘No, no. Not like that. I’m –’ He ran a hand through his hair, ‘I’m really sorry. I’m not making up any excuses – it was a shitty thing to do. But it’s not just that. I know…I know I’m not the best person to work with. I’ve had partners. I’ve had – what did you call them? – handlers. No one could stand it for long. They always end up quitting or transferring. I’m not guilting you or anything but I get it if that’s what you want to do too.’ But he was nervous. Nervous at what her answer might be. Because, he realised, he did not want them to part ways – this was a relationship he wanted to keep, to hold tightly against his chest.

Shalia was quiet for a moment as she adjusted the glasses in her hands, reading from the instructions. Then, ‘It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Your file is about as big as a novel – took me as long to read, too.’ The ghost of a smile played about her lips. ‘But you’re a good man, I believe. I think it’s something you’ve learned – learned to be better. That means it’s more genuine. It means more coming from someone that has made themselves change. That’s what I believe.’ After turning the screws and dials hidden on the inside temples of the glasses, Shalia placed them carefully on the bridge of her nose.

‘They suit you,’ he offered.

She fiddled with her Glass, pairing the two pieces of tech together. ‘Thank you, lieutenant. I mean it. It must have cost a fortune.’

It had, but Morgan wasn’t a particularly materialistic individual, so he had plenty of money saved. His apartment was spartan at best – no doubt if it hadn’t come pre-furnished he’d be sitting on boxes and milk cartons. He didn’t eat either; the bureau provided most of his nourishment free of charge and if he wanted more, well, there were ways to get it without spending a single cen.

He looked around the bedroom, at the sparseness of it, the only major expense the computer. It was the junk on the shelf that drew his eye – the corporal collected broken things with the hope of fixing them.

‘How’s your father?’ asked Shalia.

‘He’s okay. I made him go home. Had to convince the stubborn bastard, though. Just in case Wrath tries that shit again.’

“Home’?’ she repeated without looking at him, focusing on something within the glass’s lens. ‘Outer plane?’

‘Yeah. We uh, we’re not from around here.’

She nodded. ‘Me neither. You should tell me about where you’re from sometime. Sir.’

Sometime.

So, she wasn’t transferring.

She wasn’t transferring…!

‘If you’re not too busy we should continue the investigation,’ he suggested, getting to his feet, the top of his head brushing the ceiling. ‘If that’s alright with you.’

Shalia pursed her lips. And, as though having come to a decision, offered him a smile. ‘Of course. Do you have a plan?’

‘Believe it or not, I do.’