Pittsburgh, PA
Appropriately enough, the tiny shop was located below ground level. A short flight of concrete steps led down from the city sidewalk to the front entrance of the business, which was identified by a quaintly old-fashioned sign in the shape of a boot which read:
COBBLER
BOOTS & SHOES REPAIR
Max was amused to note that the toe of the boot curved upward in a distinctly elfin fashion. A sly joke on the part of the proprietor or an unintentional admission? In either event, he felt confident that the prism had led him to the right place. Leprechauns were traditionally cobblers, after all.
“After me,” he instructed his bodyguard.
Owens nodded. A tight black T-shirt strained to contain his prodigious pectorals, which owed as much to steroids as to weight lifting. A python was shaved into the back of his close-cropped blond hair. His thick neck would have given a hangman pause. A man of few words and even less personality, the hulking bodybuilder took “laconic” to the extreme; Max wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the man utter more than five words in succession. Not that it mattered—Owens was around to provide muscle, not conversation.
Descending the steps, they entered the shop to find a cramped, cluttered space smelling of glue, polish, and shoe leather. Examples of the cobbler’s craft were displayed on tables near the front of the shop: shoes and boots mostly, but also a handful of purses, handbags, and belts, all lovingly maintained and/or restored. Brown-paper parcels bearing handwritten tags filled rows of shelves behind the front counter, waiting to be picked up by customers who had dropped off their worn footwear to be mended. Wooden shoe stretchers of various sizes hung from a rack. Framed documents testified that the shop’s proprietor, one “Seamus Kincaid,” was certified in orthotics, prosthetics, and pedorthics.
The sound of tapping came from a workshop somewhere in the back. Max visualized the cobbler nailing a new sole onto an old shoe.
Classic, he thought. If a tad clichéd.
A bell over the door announced their arrival. The tapping halted and the cobbler emerged from the back of the shop. Kincaid appeared mortal enough; he was an older fellow with a fringe of receding gray hair who might have been on the verge of retirement. He wore an apron and a visor and was still carrying a hammer in one hand. He was not quite short enough to be called dwarfish, but small enough to invite the question. Max wondered idly if the cobbler was wearing lifts.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Kincaid asked from behind the counter. A trace of an Irish brogue suggested that he had indeed emigrated from the Old Country at some point, along with so many of his countrymen. “We’ll be closing shortly, but I can always squeeze in one last customer.”
“How very accommodating of you.”
Max discreetly cased the establishment while browsing. A quick survey confirmed that no other customers were present, and he sincerely doubted that there were any other workers in the back. Cobblers tended to be solitary sorts and to run one-man operations, which made things ever so much easier. Max paused to admire a pair of high-quality riding boots that had been restored to pristine condition. The leather was supple, the stitching impeccable, the repairs so effective that it was all but impossible to tell how old the boots actually were—they might have been three years old or thirty. Max approved; if there was one thing the Serpent Brotherhood had taught him, it was that even the oldest and most neglected items could be restored to their former glory and power, at least by someone who knew what he was doing.
“Exquisite work,” he observed.
“Thank you.” Kincaid placed his hammer down on the counter. “I’ve been at this trade a long time.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain of that.”
A hint of menace in Max’s tone, along with the looming presence of Owens, put the cobbler on guard. Kincaid’s eyes narrowed warily and his gaze darted to the hammer lying within easy reach. Max caught the cobbler’s sideways glance, and Kincaid noticed Max noticing, much to Max’s amusement. He savored the unspoken tension as well as the cobbler’s growing uneasiness.
Kincaid swallowed hard. “As I said, we’ll be closing up soon.…”
“Excellent,” Max declared. “So we won’t be disturbed then.”
He nodded at Owens, who casually flipped over the “Open/Closed” sign hanging by the entrance to better ensure their privacy. Kincaid’s eyes widened in alarm. Now certain he was in danger, the cobbler reached for the hammer, but Max was faster. His gloved hand shot forward as swiftly as a striking serpent and seized Kincaid’s wrist.
“Consider yourself caught, little man.”
Kincaid feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean. If it’s money you’re after—”
“Please, don’t waste my time dissembling.” Max kept his gaze on the cobbler as he issued a curt command to Owens. “Bind him.”
The bodyguard grunted in assent and removed a pair of custom-made, solid-silver handcuffs from his rear pocket. Crossing the shop, he stepped behind the counter and approached Kincaid, who panicked at the sight of the silver cuffs.
“No! You can’t! I won’t allow it!”
He tried to yank his arm free, but Max maintained an iron grip on the cobbler’s wrist—even as the man abruptly transformed into a huge black bear. Standing erect upon its hind legs, the bear roared ferociously at Max. Bone-crunching jaws displayed a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. Hot breath and drool sprayed Max’s face as he suddenly found himself gripping the bear’s bristling, black foreleg. A massive paw clawed at the counter, gouging the woodwork.
Or so it appeared.
The illusion was impressive enough that even Owens backed away from the snarling “bear,” but Max was not fooled. Steeling himself against the frightening sight and sound and stench of the beast, he kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner and did not let go of the captured limb. The cobbler’s startling transformation merely confirmed that Kincaid was no mere mortal.
“A grisly glamour,” Max quipped, “or do I mean ‘grizzly’?”
The bear growled angrily at his insolence before transforming, in the blink of an eye, into a gigantic striped snake instead. Rising up like a cobra, the monstrous serpent hissed at Max while flaunting its fangs. A forked tongue flicked out. The bear’s arm turned into a scaly length of coil that writhed and twisted in Max’s grip, trying to wriggle free.
“Is this supposed to scare me?” Max laughed out loud. His Ouroboros ring gleamed on his finger as he tightened his grip on the serpent. “You really have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”
Owens kept his distance, no doubt baffled as to how to put handcuffs on a snake. Perplexity undermined his typically stony expression. Max decided this pantomime had gone on long enough.
“No more tricks.” He twisted the snake as he would a man’s wrist, causing the reptile to hiss and spit in fury. Losing patience, Max snatched up the hammer with his free hand and raised it over the trapped coil. “I dislike getting my hands dirty, but I’m not above more direct means of persuasion if required.”
And this, he reflected, was why he left Coral behind on these excursions. As formidable as her brain was, she lacked the stomach for such measures.
“I’m counting,” he said. “Three, two, one…”
“All right, all right!” The snake instantly turned back into Kincaid. “I yield!”
“A wise decision.” Max maintained his hold on the man’s wrist. The bear’s illusory spittle vanished from his face and clothing, just as Max had expected. “What good’s a cobbler with a shattered hand?”
No longer deterred by a giant bear or snake, Owens carried out Max’s order. None too gently, he clamped a silver cuff on the cobbler’s other wrist. Max smiled as he heard the restraint click into place.
The effect of the silver was instantaneous. The leprechaun’s true form was finally revealed. His ears tapered to a point. He shrunk in size so that he hung from the countertop, his feet dangling in the air. His clothes, including his apron, turned various shades of green. Years fell away from the cobbler’s wizened features, so that he now appeared no more than forty or so.
That’s more like it, Max thought.
“Blast ye!” Kincaid railed. Even his brogue and dialect had transformed, becoming more pronounced than before. “Unhand me!”
Max ignored the sprite’s vituperations. He gestured to Owens, who lifted the squirming leprechaun up onto the counter. With Kincaid now bound by silver, Max was free to release the captured wrist so that Owens could cuff both of the leprechaun’s hands behind his back. The bodyguard’s own beefy paws rested heavily on Kincaid’s shoulders, holding the prisoner in place. Kincaid winced at the rough handling and glared balefully at Max.
“Let me guess,” he said. “’Tis wishes ye want?”
Tempting, Max thought, but far too risky. He wasn’t the scholar Coral was, but he knew that magic wishes, be they granted by fairies, devils, djinn, or a mummified monkey’s paw, almost invariably backfired on the wisher, no matter how carefully the wish was phrased. Max considered himself cleverer than most, but he was also smart enough to recognize the very real dangers of hubris. He had no desire to outsmart himself.
“Keep your wishes,” he said. “Where is your pot of gold?”
The frowning leprechaun looked unhappier still. “I should’ve known. Ye’re as greedy as the rest of yer kind.”
“Says the pint-sized miser sitting on a hoard of gold.” An edge crept into Max’s voice as he toyed with the hammer. “You know the rules, little man. Don’t make this any more unpleasant than it has to be.”
Kincaid proved shrewd enough to know when he was at a disadvantage. “So be it,” he said bitterly. “Let me down from here and I’ll show youse.”
Max nodded at Owens, who set the leprechaun down on the floor behind the counter. The silver handcuffs rendered the leprechaun powerless, but Owens kept close to Kincaid anyway, just in case the sprite foolishly tried to make a break for it. Max hoped the cobber knew better.
“No tricks,” he reminded the leprechaun. “We’re wise to your ways.”
“Have no fear on that account,” Kincaid replied. “I want this over and done with even more than ye do. Losing me gold’s a small price to be rid of youse!”
“An equitable arrangement,” Max agreed. “Shall we proceed?”
Kincaid led them into the back room, which was equipped with a sewing machine, motorized grinders, a tidy workbench, and generous stockpiles of replacement heels, buckles, zippers, and soles. Glass cupboards held an assortment of brushes and daubers. In one corner, a wooden barrel was filled to overflowing with random scraps of leather that Max assumed had been salvaged from shoes and boots and purses deemed beyond repair. Glancing around, he didn’t see anything resembling a pot of gold, but this did not concern him. He hardly expected the leprechaun’s treasure to be in plain sight.
Now that would be suspicious, he thought. “Show me.”
“As ye wish, ye divil.”
There was a shimmer in the air, like a mirage fading in or out, and the scrap barrel was replaced by a large black cooking pot filled to the brim with gleaming gold coins and jewelry. Most people would have been transfixed by the miraculous sight, overcome with greed and excitement.
“Damn it all,” Max muttered, disappointed.
It was a genuine pot of gold to be sure, piled high with enough precious metal to cover his operating costs for some time. Coral’s magic prism had once again led them straight to a mythical fortune beyond any ordinary individual’s dreams.
But it was not the Pot.
We’ll have to keep looking, he realized, sighing wearily. It’s only a matter of time.
In the meantime, waste not, want not. Max strode forward to claim the pot, hefting it effortlessly by the handle. Ordinarily, a pot of gold would be too heavy for the average mortal to lift easily, but magic made a difference where a leprechaun’s pot was concerned. Helpful enchantments ensured that such pots were light enough to be transported by even the littlest of Little People.
Handy, that, Max thought.
Disappointed but determined, he headed out with the gold. A limo waited outside to take him to the airfield where his private jet awaited. Already he was thinking ahead, wondering where the prism would send them next.
“Curse ye for taking me gold!” Kincaid spat at his back. “May it bring ye no happiness!”
“Happiness?” Max said. “I was thinking more along the lines of compound interest.”
Only one loose end remained to be attended to. He placed the hammer down on the workbench for Owens.
“You know what to do,” he instructed.
The bodyguard grunted.
Kincaid’s face went pale. “But … but I gave youse me gold!”
True enough, Max thought, but he could not afford to leave any witnesses behind while he was still searching for the Pot. Until he achieved his objective, he preferred to keep a very low profile. The last thing he needed, at this delicate stage in his endeavors, was to attract undue attention from third parties such as the Seelie Court, the Unreal Conclave … or the Librarians.
“Don’t take too long,” he told Owens. “We have places to go.”
He helped himself to that fine pair of boots on his way out.