Street Magic

swallow and speak, scraped painfully.
    "A… I… lager on tap?" The necessary connective tissue for a complete sentence eluded her.
    "Would you like mead? Or maybe an oaken ale," said the publican. He leaned in and Pete could hear the drums, smell the smoke of the Beltane fires and the bloody screams of the rival tribesmen who had died under his blade.
    "Oaken ale," Pete murmured, thinking with that sensation of being outside herself that she was very, very close to a man whom she didn't know at all, thinking wild savage thoughts about him, and that she couldn't be arsed to care, because he was beautiful. Wild. "What's that?"
    "Something you don't want," said Jack, leaning on the bar next to her.
    With an audible snap, whatever was holding Pete in the publican's eye broke and she sat up straight, her cheeks hot.
    "I was just having a bit of fun, mate," said the publican with an amused look that telegraphed unbearable smugness. "Didn't know she was spoken for."
    "You do now," Jack snarled. "And the next time you try to pass off your bloody Fae nectar on a human, I'll shove your little horned head up your arse and hold it there until you stop twitching."
    "No harm done!" the publican exclaimed, holding up his hands. "Didn't realize she was mortal. Take your ease, old-timer, and have something to drink."
    Jack's hand flashed out, like a fatal serpent, and gripped the publican by the throat, fingers digging into his voice box. "Do you know who I am, you sodding barn animal?" he hissed. The publican gurgled. "I'm Jack fucking Winter," Jack said, releasing him with a push that rattled clean glasses on the bar back.
    The publican bleached even paler than he already was, if it were possible. "I—I didn't know, sir. Forgive me, mage." He dipped his head again, this time to avoid eye contact with Jack.
    "Give me two pints of the Newcastle," said Jack, "and piss off."
    The publican filled his order and retreated to the opposite end of the bar, where he assiduously pretended to polish glasses.
    "Creepy wanker," Pete muttered, shaking off the last vestiges of the publican's cold, ancient aura.
    "Just a satyr," Jack said. "Walking bollocks with a brain-stem attached. Pay that one no mind."
    "Please tell me he is not who we are here to see," Pete muttered. She felt like she'd touched rotted meat, or a brick wall slick with mold and moss.
    "No." Jack gestured over his shoulder. "He's back there, alone. As usual."
    Pete's gaze was drawn to the back corner of the pub, where roof beams and lamplight conspired to create a slice of shadow. A solitary figure sat, fragrant green-tinged smoke from his pipe rising to create the shape of a crown of young spring leaves before dissipating.
    Jack nudged her arm. "Come on." He picked up the two pints of Newcastle Brown and started toward the table with a measured step. If Pete didn't know better she'd call it reluctance, or a sort of respect.
    The man seated alone and smoking was unremarkable, as far as men went. Pete would pass him boarding the tube or in a queue at the news agent's without a glance, although he did have lines of mischief at the corners of his mouth and eyes, and they glowed pleasantly brown. He was older than Jack, wearing a well-trimmed black beard and a soft sport coat patched at the elbows.
    Jack set the pints down on his table and grinned. "Been a long time, Knight."
    When the man turned to look at them, Pete heard a rushing sound, as if a spring wind had disturbed a sacred grove, and with great clarity she saw a tree, ancient, branches piercing the sky while the roots reached down and grasped the heart of the earth.
    "Well," said the man. "Jack Winter. I next expected to see you lying in state at your premature funeral, yet here you are disturbing my evening. Well done."
    Shaking his head, Jack gestured between the man and Pete. "Detective Inspector Caldecott, Ian Mosswood. Mosswood, this is Pete."
    Mosswood raised one eyebrow in an arch so critical Pete felt the urge to stand up straight and comb her hair. "Pete. How frightfully unusual."
    "You know, Mosswood," said Jack, slapping his shoulder, "in this ever-changing world, it's good to know you're still…" He gestured to encompass Mosswood's jacket. "Tweed."
    "I presume," said Mosswood, eyeing the pint of ale, "that since you came over here and bothered me you have some reason." He turned his pipe over and tapped it out against the table's edge. Fragrances of grass and cut wheat filled Pete's nostrils.
    "Bloody