The Almost-Wedding of John Barron Grey – a Science Fantasy Novella

Excerpt from Chapter One

Really, why would a Fey person ever need to rob a bank?

It doesn’t add up. John Barron Grey, né McCarrig, is not the kind of guy to casually blow up his life. He’s no Feyling; this guy’s heir to the damn Throne, and he’s been running around Earth decidedly uncrowned and uncaught for a couple hundred years. Someone that smart wouldn’t do something like this.

Well, he went and did it anyway, and got himself arrested, babbling the whole time about knowing his rights and wanting his investigator and mugging for every camera he could find until he became an online sensation.

Even if they wanted to bury him, they couldn’t after that. Just the kind of cause that gets people riled: sporting a purple bruise on one lovely cheek, his pouty lips defiant. Startling silver-blue peepers and long, thin ears drooping pitifully past his shoulders, trembling and pink. Ridiculous. Also enough to con the unsuspecting public onto his side, and there are protests.

Why, though? Why’d he do this? That question is probably never gonna be answered for me, and it’s already driving me nuts.

Then, about two in the morning, my rival sends me one of the videos of this guy along with the warning, This guy is gonna ask for one of us.

Scott was right. The runaway prince’s desire for an investigator leads him right to my door.

Fantastic. Because getting tangled up with the gods-damned Throne is exactly what I want to do on a Saturday morning.

At least I’ll get some answers.

---

“Thank you for seeing me, detective,” he says, gorgeous eyes wide, absolutely all-in with his poor-me schtick, and flips his silvery hair over his shoulder, though the effect is dimmed somewhat by the heavy iron bracelets they got him in.

“Real stylish,” I say, pointing at the cuffs. “They make you wear those all night?”

“Oh, they did, detective,” he says, holding them up like exhibit one. “It’s been terrible, cut off from my magic like this.”

I sigh. Human law enforcement still believes in nonsense like cold iron, and forgets which part of the Fey body does the conjuring. It ain’t the hands. “Sure,” I say.

“Unconscionable,” he says, eyes lidded, and with flawless sleight of hand, deposits the still-closed cuffs on my desk.

Mm. Don’t like that. “This needs coffee. Want a cup?”

He bats his eyelashes again like he didn’t just flaunt the law at me. “Please.”

It’s not really a weird choice for him to pick investigation instead of ordinary legal defense. Since magic got revealed to the human world in a freak accident of draconic ascension and civil war, it’s been a lot of adjustments for everybody, and this is one of them: if you’re charged with a crime involving magical shit, you can do a lawyer or an investigator, because human lawyers tend to be a little too siloed to provide a good defense, whereas us good old gumshoes can track mud anywhere.

Still. I got a lot of questions why a renegade Fey prince is sitting in my grungy office. “So, Mr. McCarrig,” I start.

“Just Grey,” he says.

Huh. So that rumor’s confirmed.

I eye him. “You sure? I don’t give a dick about politics in here, but even I know that’s an insult.” Only Fey cut off from the Throne and Scepter, banished to potential death, are given that title.

His smile is one I reluctantly like: a little too bitter to be pretty, but strong, real, sure. “I made it a mark of pride.”

Good for him, if true. “Whatever floats your boat.” I hand him his coffee.

He takes it, and then he sings. Just a hum, really. Barely a la. Instantly, his black coffee lightens, and whipped cream rises from its depths like some reverse glacier.

Fey. I swear. I can sing fine, but my voice don’t do that. “You could’ve asked for cream.”

“You could’ve called for help,” he says with a glance at the useless cuffs.

What, it was a fucking test? “You ain’t been that scary yet,” I say.

He laughs like silver bells. “Flatterer.” He throws back the coffee, gulping it fast, then licks the whipped cream off his upper lip as part of the show.

I slow-clap. “So. Grey. I can’t help being curious why you came to me instead of Scott. He’s more your class.”

After all, there’s only two licensed Kin gumshoes in this town: me and Nate Scott. Scott’s the classy one. I’m the guy who smashes plates.

“Oh,” Grey says with a light, quick tone he hasn’t used before. “That’s easy. You barter. Famously, yeah? Nathanial Scott doesn’t.”

It’s true my rival dearest doesn’t barter. It’s cold hard digital cash for him, or nothing. “True. Though it’s not Nathanial. It’s Natural. Nate’s short for Natural.”

Grey blinks. “How unusual! Poor thing was probably bullied.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he had a real rough childhood chewin’ on that silver spoon,” I drawl. “So why don’t you tell me what the hell brings you in here?”

And back to the big eyes, pitiful and pleading. “I might be here under slightly disingenuous circumstances.”

Uh-huh.

I’m sure my reaction betrays my interest. I can keep my breath nice and steady, but I know my pupils dilate. He’s offering me the biggie: information. “All right. And you’re gonna explain the whole thing to me now, right?”

He actually sniffles, pleading and helpless and pretty. “You see, detective… I don’t need to be exonerated.”

Oh, boy. “Yeah? You like prison?”

“Not exactly, but it’s better than the alternative. I need to stay there for a while.”

“Why?”

He looks utterly ashamed of himself. “Because the Throne wishes to make me marry and produce an heir since I’m, you know, off being distinctly un-heir-like. I won’t do it. So I need to stay out of reach until she changes her mind, and imprisonment is one way to do that.”

I lean back in my creaky chair and study the guy.

Having confessed, Grey watches me back without so much as a guilty twitch. His ears go relaxed, up and slightly out, forming a happy little V of Fey body-language saying, Hey, come closer, I’ve got no bat to swing.

No; no, this sounds too easy. Fey logic broke Occam’s razor years ago and used the shards to make half-truths shiny. He’s running more than one game. “I don’t know that I buy that, Grey.”

Big eyes, absolutely guileless. “It’s all true,” he says.

“I’m sure it is, but it doesn’t quite fill in all the gaps, does it?”

His smile fades.

I count off on my fingers. “Why ask for investigation at all? You could stay in the system without anybody’s help. Just piss off the judge.”

He wrinkles his nose. “And risk them figuring out I’m trying to stay locked up? I’d be extradited at once.”

Hm. Maybe. “Sure. Why not a lawyer, then? They glue up the works, especially when paid by the hour. You came to a guy who gets things done, and that seems to be the opposite of what you’re asking for here.”

“If I don’t seek counsel of some kind, I risk them realizing I don’t want to get out—and a lawyer would never help me do this, anyway.”

I scoff. “But you think I would?”

“Well, yes. Your reputation isn’t just for getting things done, Mr. Night. It’s also for helping those in need.”

“I help real problems. I ain’t so sure this is one. Can’t you just say no? It’s not like you haven’t been defying the Throne openly for centuries.”

His eyes lid. It’s a smart look, wicked sharp, distinctly unlike the whole spoiled-prince shtick. “You researched me?”

“Agreed to see you, didn’t I?”

“The Throne is impossible to say no to in person,” he mumbles.

I give him the look. “Except you did already when you walked out. What’s your real game here?”

“I need to stay in jail.”

Nope. Denied. Buzzer sound. “That’s part of the truth,” I say, starting a mental list of shit the pretty Fey won’t answer. “See, the problem with a case like yours is it’s going to drag out.”

His eyes are pleading. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Three problems with that. One, you don’t actually need me, so this is a waste of both our time. You’ve been around long enough. You absolutely already know how to stay in prison without help.”

“Oh, well,” he starts, but I’m not finished.

“Two is Scott. He’s got a chip on his shoulder. Gets competitive. Does things like float a bet with his one serious rival about finishing a certain number of cases before the end of the year.”

He goes stiff. “You took that bet?”

“I did. I know our styles; nobody’s cutting corners to win. Problem is, your case has no end by design, and it might be enough busywork to keep me from taking on more clients.”

“It’s barely a case. How could it take up that much time?” he grouses, his ears angled back and down.

Because of how I work, but I’m on a roll now. “Three, the Throne has extradition, though she almost never uses it. She can just demand you back whenever she wants, and you can’t tell me you didn’t factor that in.”

I caught him. “Ah-ha,” he says, drooping.

“Yeah. So right now, I’m not seeing a good reason to take you on. You don’t need me. You need a slow-as-molasses lawyer, or your own shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans! Oh, Mr. Night,” He tilts his head, and the pitiful look drops. “You have another reputation, too—of a very annoying tendency to uncover things your clients didn’t necessarily want found.”

That’s it. That’s why he’s here.

Because I do that. I’m good at this, real good, and my clients learn fast that hiding shit from me don’t work out so well. “And what is it you hope I’ll stumble into, Grey?”

His ears twitch. “Politics?” he suggests. “Really, I’m just hoping you make a big enough mess to keep all eyes on you.”

It’s beginning to feel he’s dug a giant trap, hid it under a giant rug, and dangled bait over the middle. “Try again.”

“You know, if you’re not interested, I’ll just consult with Scott after all,” he says, deflecting.

“He won’t take you.” I tap my jaw. “Heard the whole thing. It’s me or nothing, and nothing is extradition.”

Aw, come on, Night, he’d make a great chew toy, says Scott through my implant.

Grey gasps like a poet, pressing his hands to his heart. “You’ve had him listening the whole time?”

Ha. “You already guessed he was.”

He laughs and leans forward, cupping his face, elbows on his knees, and he looks like some work of art, some absolute pixie-ass dream, beautiful to behold, his daggers hidden deep. “Unfortunately, Simon Night, I’m afraid I can’t answer your questions.”

Okay, then. It’s time to play hardball.

The drama of this is how I’m gonna catch him. Yeah, I want this weird case, want to know what’s going on, but it has to be on my terms, not his. Threats will get nowhere. So instead, it’s time for abandonment.

“Then I don’t have a new client.” I stand.

“What?” he says, ears going straight back like exclamation points.

“Guess all those viewers are gonna be real disappointed.”

“Wait, we’re done?” he says like a guy who was just getting warmed up.

“Sorry. The bait’s good, I’ll give you that, but it just ain’t juicy enough for me. Best of luck with the wedding.” I open the door.

Grey looks between it and me, where the cops are waiting out there, shooting the shit and sipping my coffee, waiting to take him back to prison without an investigator. They can’t see us—my own wards are still up—but the point still comes across.

“Wait,” he says.

I don’t close the door. “Off you go,” I say.

He breaks faster than I expected him to. “It involves the Raven King!” he blurts, then hunches down in his seat, ears low, eyes huge.

My blood goes cold, and given my heritage, that’s saying something. I close the door.

What? says Scott in my ear. What did he say?

I sit back down.

Grey’s looking like he has some regrets. “Forget I said that.”

Night. Walk away now.

“Whoa.” I hold up my hand, and it doesn’t even shake. “Whoa, whoa. What? The Raven King? The fucking Lord of Umbra? You’re shitting me.”

He shakes his head no. “Not shitting you.”

Night. Don’t be stupid about this.

I ignore Scott. “You’re telling the truth?”

“Yes?”

“How is he involved?”

“I can’t tell you,” Grey whines. “I shouldn’t even have said that much. I panicked, all right?”

That’s a hell of a bait he’s hung over that rug.

With perfect timing, a ghostly countdown appears in my peripheral—my A.I. politely letting me know I have five minutes left of consult time.

They’re waiting right now to take him back to prison. If I turn him down, Scott really won’t take him on—he won’t touch anything involving Celestial powers—and there straight-up isn’t anyone else in the city qualified for whatever the fuck this is.

I gotta know. I gotta. Carrot, stick. Damn.

Don’t do it, Night, Scott warns.

Grey looks penitent. His ears are up and forward, perky, but they’re trembling; that means he’s fighting the reflex for them to go down and back, tucked out of the way, like a scared little cat.

Don’t do it, Scott says again. You’ll lose our bet.

I have to do it. I have to know. “I’ll do it,” I say, and Scott goes silent. Now that Grey’s my client, confidentiality is triggered, and he’ll be out of the loop. “Cassilda, tell Sargeant Burl I’m accepting the case. They’ll need to set up communication and visits, and give me more time now.”

Got it, says my artificial assistant. Grey sags, and it doesn’t take a pro to see relief in every inch of his Fey self.

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