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“Holmes, stop!”
He instantly stilled, one foot hovering not six inches from the stone bridge as he scanned our surroundings for danger. He would find nothing, however. A hand on his shoulder quickly dragged him well away from the edge.
“Stay on this side of the river,” I ordered quietly, repeated glances noting the various etchings decorating the stonework as I pitched my voice to avoid carrying. “Surely you can investigate without crossing?”
Holmes had been on the trail of a repeat murderer several miles north of Manchester for nearly a week, and while I saw no signs of a troll in the area, that irritated negative announced he expected to find the culprit on the other bank. A gesture ordered me to explain my reasons or let him go.
“Holmes, if this bridge truly hides a murderer, you will die before you reach the other side. What led you here?”
That got his attention. Impatience disappeared behind concern, though I did not understand why he glanced at me the next moment.
“Tracks,” he finally answered. “Most disappeared from this area, but the most recent one was last night, and her trail ended in the rocks twenty feet up the bank. It does not resume further down.”
Suggesting she either crossed the bridge or made a hard left back towards town, I finished.
“And what did you intend to do if you found this m—blackguard?”
A flicker of confusion confirmed he had noticed my “slip,” but he did not call me on it. Even after so many years, he still struggled to remember that not everything led back to a human culprit. Confronting a troll in its own home was a death sentence for anyone in a hundred-yard radius, especially this far from magical help.
“I intended to scout the bank and wait for a shelter to be empty,” he admitted, however grudgingly. “There are no houses in this area, so they must have a hide of some sort.”
“Which in itself might be a trap,” I added. Our next lesson would be diving further into how to identify a magical presence in the area. “Do you have any other leads you can follow before this one? Or a way to reach the other bank without crossing this bridge?”
His silent negative solidified my plan. If we must inspect the most magical bridge I had seen on this trip, I would be going first, with Holmes on hand to pull me out. One hand fished around in my pocket, and Holmes’ studiously blank expression confirmed he knew what I intended as I held my amulet up for him to see.
“Stay behind me. If this flares red, run. Promise me.” He nodded, once. “Aloud, please.”
“I will run,” he swore. He would grab me as he went, but he would run, not fight. I led the way back to that bridge, stopped inches from the first stone, and waited. Holmes hovered close enough to feel his breath on the back of my head.
Seconds passed in silence, with me scanning both water and stone and Holmes watching the amulet in my hand. Just as I began to hope that whoever had once called this area home had moved on, rhythmic thumping carried from the brush on the other side. The next moment nearly froze my amulet to bare skin.
“Watson?”
“Hold,” I murmured in reply. “Cold is alert, not warning.”
The thumping grew louder, rustling the bushes as if an animal darted through. The cause emerged a moment later.
Only slightly taller than a nisse, pointed ears proved only the first clue in identifying the being rapidly approaching us. Clean shaven cheeks displayed a beauty impossible for a human, and long, thin fingers held the reins of a horse-like animal only a high-ranking fae would dare ride. Instead of becoming a spellcrafter for one of the born immortals, this faery had gone into either government or warfare. Maybe government and warfare.
The animal came to an abrupt halt at the crest of the bridge, its rider staring at us from the slightly elevated vantage point. Holmes found his wrist tightly squeezed to abort the question I heard forming. The rank insignia on the faery’s shoulder announced she would speak first.
“Who goes?”
“Greetings, Commander.” A gesture of respect tried to become a partial bow, and another nudge felt Holmes copy me. “I am Doctor John Watson. Behind me is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The local law enforcement hired us to track a string of disappearances, which clues led us to this bridge. Are you the caretaker?”
Keen eyes studied the magic in my hand before recognition slightly eased the stiff formality. “Mr. Kringle’s favored.” The low murmur barely reached audible, and another few seconds studied both me and Holmes as she decided how to reply. “We arrive from two ends of the same trail, Doctor. I may tell you only that the Seelie Court’s fifth regiment has disposed of a disturbance harassing the locals, both magical and non.”
A troll, then. Probably one of the more bloodthirsty ones, if the Seelie Court had decided to eliminate the beast, but I nodded without saying as much.
“We will consider the case closed, then. Are there any human remains to return to families?”
“Nay.” A sharp gesture took the place of an emphatic negative. “No kin would desire what we found. Tell your officials the remains were too deep to access, and you were forced to complete the burial to prevent disease.”
“Very well.” I released Holmes to give the closest approximation a human could manage of a faery’s respectful farewell. “I am glad your regiment was on hand to deal with the problem.”
A flicker of surprise confirmed I had the gesture accurate, but she merely inclined her head and turned her ride around. Only when the hoofbeats had faded from hearing did I firmly push Holmes three steps backwards, then put my back to the bridge.
“Will the superintendent listen if you suggest a rabid animal died in a den nearby? People need to avoid this area for a few days.”
“He will listen.” Confusion glanced between me and the crest of the bridge. “Are you going to tell me what just happened?”
“Yes, but not here.” I turned toward town, grateful when Holmes fell in beside me without complaint. A few years of secondhand lessons would not have let Holmes follow that exchange, but details had to wait until we did not risk tripping whatever alert the commander had set. She would not be so formally kind a second time.
He barely let the door close behind us before impatience tried to pin me in place.
“Explain.”
“She was a faery.” The willing first sentence let me shed my coat and claim an armchair. “Probably the highest ranking in the regiment she mentioned. ‘Commander’ is both her rank and her title, and she serves the Seelie Court—the ruling court for all magicals this side of their territorial line. If the bridge had been several miles north, we would have met a member of the Unseelie Court.” His mild look of alarm derailed the rest of my explanation and left confusion in its wake, but a glance at the hotel’s bookshelf reminded me of our many shelves at home. He had mentioned reading my entire shelf, and learning he had continued the research outside of our lessons would not surprise me. He must have found some of the court histories.
“The folklore missed some details,” I added quickly. “Millennia ago, the crown prince had a twin who wanted to rule as well, so the island was divided into sister countries. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts each have a king or queen, and that monarch can be faery, pixie, nisse, elf, or almost any other sentient magical creature, though the royal family for the last half millennium has been faeries. They follow a separate but connected naming of heirs, and the ruling monarchs are never more distantly related than fourth cousins. Twins have primacy, though. An heir’s twin will rule the opposing court for as long as the heir rules the primary, regardless of the opposing court’s original heir.”
Building tension relaxed at the more detailed description, though he needed a moment to form his next question. I pulled the tray closer to my chair.
“What ‘disturbance’ did they address?”
“Probably a troll,” I replied easily, most of my attention focused on pouring a drink from the teapot the innkeeper had left on the hearth. “Semi-sentient but predatory, each court has to eliminate a few every year that starts preying on local populations. You remember the one in that alley?” The barely visible horror I glimpsed when handing him a cup confirmed he did. “They typically live under bridges, usually with the etching you saw denoting an available portal to the magical realm. Anyone who crosses inadvertently walks through the portal and finds themselves hunted. Only magicals have a chance of escape.”
“So a magical nearby managed to escape and send a message to…the court?” he asked.
“Who came to either relocate or eliminate the beast,” I confirmed. “I prevented you from speaking because I have not yet drilled you on formal wordings with each species. Informal situations do not differentiate, but formal encounters require different verbiage for faeries, elves, selkies, and the rest. She would have been within her rights to kill either or both of us for even an inadvertent insult.”
“Is that why you did not thank her?”
I had wondered if he had noticed that. Wordless agreement let me sip my tea. “Never thank a faery for doing their job. Thanks imply they went above and beyond to put you in their debt. The closest I could come was expressing pleasure that they had dealt with the problem.”
A low hum acknowledged the concept, though several seconds proved he assimilated the information before replying. A long moment stared through the wall—evidently in search of some memory.
“A rabbit, a canary, and a lizard,” he murmured, then abruptly focused on me. “Each are creatures of creativity. Is this what you found near the inn hiding twenty people?”
The inn hiding—oh. “You mean the one where I spent the night on the other bank?” He nodded. I had nearly forgotten about that. “Partially. A troll had been there but died before they disappeared. Those people got on the wrong side of a selkie.”
The slightest frown made me lean back in my chair. Our lessons had not yet provided much detail on selkies, and between that old case, trolls, and today’s faery, this would be a long lesson.
I still preferred endless questions over callous rejection.