Chicago
Despite the tumult of the night before, which they were officially blaming on “a crazed opera singer on drugs,” the pub had drawn a decent post-lunch crowd. Ezekiel yawned as he shared a table with Baird, consuming a coffee of the non-Irish variety. They had spent most of the night and the better part of the morning helping Bridget clean up after the banshee vandalism and had even managed to put some Saint Patrick’s Day decorations up as well, in anticipation of the festivities tomorrow. A large plastic pot of fake gold pieces sat by the fireplace, not far from where Grady was softly playing his fiddle. Stone was again behind the bar, assisting Bridget, who was still recovering from last night’s haunting, which had been a little too up close and personal for comfort.
“Still no word from Cassandra or Jenkins.” Baird stared worriedly at her phone. “I don’t like this. How long can it take to talk to some leprechauns?”
“Depends on whether you’re after their Lucky Charms or not,” Ezekiel joked. “Seriously, what’s keeping them? Don’t they realize we’re stranded here until Jenkins gets back to the Annex and can open a Magic Door for us?”
“Well, we’re not exactly ‘stranded,’” Baird said. “There are still such things as cars and planes, you know.”
Ezekiel shrugged. “What can I say? The Magic Door has spoiled me. Who wants to spend hours in transit when you can just—”
Baird’s phone chimed, interrupting him. She hushed him as she checked her messages. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. “About time.”
Ezekiel leaned forward. “Is it—?”
“It’s Cassandra,” Baird stated. “She and Jenkins are back … and they have news.”
* * *
“The Pot O’ Gold,” Max observed, amused and intrigued by the pub’s name. He trusted that Coral’s magic prism had not been deceived by a bit of not-so-clever marketing. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”
Owens grunted as they entered the pub.
Max glanced around the establishment, noting with annoyance that the number of customers present precluded any immediate action. He would have to be content to case the establishment at present and return later, perhaps after closing, to actually procure whatever genuine pot of gold must be hiding in the vicinity, behind the usual tavern trappings and the festive paper shamrocks strung about here and there. He wondered what the late, unlamented Padraic would make of the tawdry holiday decorations festooned in his name.
A shame he didn’t end up on Lady Sibella’s altar instead.
A nudge from Owens called Max’s attention to a patently fake pot of gold on display by a stone hearth. Max briefly considered the possibility that their prize might be hiding in plain sight, a la Poe’s purloined letter, but suspected that he was overthinking matters. Chances were the holiday decoration was nothing more than that. The real Pot would not be so readily on display.
It was too valuable to play games with.
A more promising clue presented itself as the men approached the bar and ordered a couple of pints to blend in. Taking a seat, Max admired what appeared to be an authentic gold coin, boasting the unmistakable image of a certain pagan deity, before reading a plaque that identified the coin as coming from an actual leprechaun’s pot.
“An audacious claim,” he said to the bartender, a weary-looking redhead who mustered a welcoming smile as she served their drinks. Max couched his query as polite conversation. “How much truth is there to it?”
“That’s the story,” she said glibly, having no doubt been asked the same question more times than she could count, “passed down through my family from one generation to the next. You can believe it as much as you like, although I find it goes down easier after a drink or two.”
“Your family, you say?” Max suddenly found the bartender much more interesting. “So the Pot O’ Gold belongs to you?”
“Such as it is,” she said. “Bridget O’Neill, at your service, and this pub’s been in my family for six generations.”
“Fascinating.” He found it hard to imagine that she was actually a leprechaun in disguise, but maybe she had a silent partner? Max found himself growing increasingly optimistic regarding this expedition. It was possible, he supposed, that the prism had merely steered him to a single piece of authentic fairy gold, but where there was one lucky coin, there might well be a pot as well, perhaps even the Pot. “And how did your illustrious ancestors earn the goodwill and beneficence of one of the Little People?”
“Nobody really knows,” she replied, “or if they did, nobody passed that part of the story along. I have to admit that I’ve sometimes wondered that myself.”
“Got some fresh ice,” a gruff voice interrupted as a second bartender emerged from a back room, bearing a heavy tub of crushed ice, which he dumped into a trough behind the bar. Max glanced briefly at the man, then paused and looked again. The bartender’s rugged American features looked vaguely familiar, but Max couldn’t immediately place him—until Bridget addressed the newcomer by name.
“Thanks, Stone! We were running low.”
Stone? Max managed to maintain a poker face. As in Jacob Stone?
He suddenly realized where he knew the other bartender’s face from. Max had never personally crossed paths with the Librarians before, but as a high-ranking member of the Serpent Brotherhood he had naturally familiarized himself with the Library’s current agents. Turning away from the bar, he covertly surveyed the pub—and quickly spotted Ezekiel Jones and Colonel Eve Baird sitting at a nearby table, busily engaged with their phones. He chided himself for not noticing them earlier.
Two Librarians and their Guardian, Max counted. Notably missing were Flynn Carsen and Cassandra Cillian, leading him to wonder where exactly those two personages were at the moment. Carsen had a reputation for flying solo, but Cillian was reported to be more of a team player. Max gave Bridget a second look, just to confirm that, yes, she was indeed a different redhead
This unexpected complication left Max conflicted as to his next move. The Librarians seemed unaware of his identity, so he was tempted to discreetly slip away without engaging the enemy. On the other hand, what did it mean that the Librarians were here? Did they know something he didn’t about this particular Pot O’ Gold? The very presence of the Brotherhood’s ancestral foes made this site all the more promising. Perhaps he had finally tracked down the Pot at last?
He weighed his options. He was not about to cede the prize to the opposition, not if he had truly struck the mother lode, but he had to be considerably more circumspect now that the Librarians were involved. Perhaps it would be wiser to retreat, regroup, and come back after closing time with a larger force at his disposal. Owens was formidable, but he and Max were undeniably outnumbered at present, and Max knew better than to underestimate the Librarians. Dulaque had made that mistake, and Edward Wilde before him; Max liked to think he was smart enough to learn from history.
“Come,” he instructed Owens. “We’re going.”
He was leaving a few bills on the bar to settle their tab when a clumsy customer accidentally knocked over a glass behind them, causing it to crash onto the floor. All heads turned toward the crash, including Owens’s blocklike cranium, so that the back of his head, with its shaved-in serpent design, was reflected in the cracked mirror behind the bar. Max frowned at the sight, suddenly questioning the wisdom of such ostentatious markings. Was it possible Stone wouldn’t notice?
Not a chance.
The undercover Librarian stiffened behind the bar as he glimpsed the back of Owens’s head. His alert gaze darted toward Max, who moved to cover his telltale Ouroboros ring, a second too late.
Oh well, Max thought. So much for a stealthy retreat.
* * *
“Nice ring,” Stone said, looking the stranger in the eye. It occurred to him that he had first encountered the Serpent Brotherhood in a tavern, while chatting up a woman with a serpentine tattoo who had turned out to be one of the Brotherhood’s top assassins. Funny how history sometimes repeated itself.
“Nice of you to notice,” the stranger said in a posh British accent. He uncovered the ring, clearly realizing that there was no point in trying to hide it anymore. His arch tone implied that he knew that his cover was blown and he knew that Stone knew that he knew. “In retrospect, possibly a bit too conspicuous, but there’s something to be said for maintaining the old traditions, don’t you think?”
Stone pegged the Englishman as the brains of the operation and his scowling, thick-necked companion as the muscle. Stone’s own sinews tensed as he rapidly assessed the situation. He glanced over at Baird and Ezekiel, who had not yet registered the brewing situation at the bar. How could he alert them to the Serpents without endangering the pub’s unsuspecting clientele? Heck, how could he warn Bridget that their new customers were big-time bad guys?
“Some traditions are better off dead and buried,” Stone said, with enough of an edge to his voice that Bridget picked up that something was amiss, as did the big guy with the crew cut. She cast a worried look at Stone, who kept his eyes on the Serpents. “If you know what I mean, Mister…?”
“Call me Max,” the man said, without volunteering a surname. “And I think we both know what you mean, Librarian.”
Crew Cut got off his stool and loomed behind Max, shielding his boss from view as the Englishman discreetly drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and aimed it at Stone, who was surprised to find himself on the business end of so mundane a threat. Poison darts, lightning bolts, hellfire, and ninja stars were the kinds of weapons he’d gotten used to facing.
“A gun, really?”
“Don’t try anything rash, Mr. Stone,” the man said, laying his cards on the table. “We wouldn’t want to raise a ruckus with all these nice people about. There’s no need for any collateral damage.” Keeping his voice low, he addressed Bridget, who had frozen at the sight of the pistol. “And please don’t go anywhere, Miss O’Neill. I’m most interested in learning more about your family’s curious history.”
Crew Cut cracked his knuckles for emphasis.
Stone fumed inwardly, his fists clenching at his sides. “What are you after anyway?”
“To be honest, I had been planning to slink away unnoticed, the better to preserve the element of surprise, but it seems matters have come to a head prematurely.” He indicated the coin under the glass. “I’ll have this intriguing souvenir, if you don’t mind. And, please, don’t make me ask twice.”
Bridget swallowed hard. Her hand went to her chest in a way that worried Stone despite the recent repairs to her heart. Surgery or no surgery, she’d already had one heart attack—and that was before all this new stress. Stone wasn’t sure how much her troubled ticker could take.
“Fine.” Stone wasn’t going to risk Bridget’s health or safety over the coin. From behind the bar, he was able to slide out the glass pane over the coin, allowing Max to pocket it. “But don’t think you’re going to be able to get the drop on me again.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance as well,” Max said sardonically. “Now then, we’ll be leaving with the gold … and its lovely owner.”
Bridget gasped. “This is it,” she murmured. “My doom … just like the banshee warned!”
“Leave her alone,” Stone snarled. “What do you want with her?”
“Simply to have a discussion regarding a literal pot of gold, albeit at a somewhat less public location.”
There you have it, Stone thought. The Serpents were after a pot of gold, just like back in the fifth century. And this time Saint Patrick wasn’t on hand to chase them away.
But Stone did have a Guardian and another Librarian on his side. Ignoring the gun pointed at his chest, he peered past Max and his goon to see Baird and Ezekiel rising to their feet on the other side of the pub. Wary expressions indicated that they had belatedly noticed that there was a situation of sorts playing out at the bar. They started making their way toward Stone, who suddenly hit on a way to bring them up to speed. Pouring a random bottle into a pair of empty glasses, he called out in his best bartender’s voice.
“Two Snakes in the Shamrocks! Who ordered the Snakes in the Shamrocks?”
Confused patrons shook their head, no doubt wondering what kind of exotic concoction that was, but Baird and Ezekiel surely got the message: there were Serpents in their midst.
“That’s enough,” Max snapped, unamused. “Owens, watch my back. Miss O’Neill, please step lively and come out from behind—”
“Excuse me, sir, would ye mind holding me fiddle for a minute.” Grady squeezed up to the bar, having somehow slipped past Owens. The fiddler seemed oblivious to the abduction-in-progress. “I’m powerful thirsty, so I am.”
“Let me alone, you old fool,” Max said curtly. “Make yourself scarce.”
“Och, don’t be like that.” He thrust the fiddle at Max. “It’s just a wee favor I’m asking.”
“I told you, leave me alone or—”
Max’s jaw dropped as he found himself grasping the neck of the fiddle instead of the gun, which was now somehow in Grady’s grip instead. He blinked in surprise at the unexpected switcheroo.
“How the devil…?”
Stone was equally dumbfounded. He couldn’t tell how it had happened, but now Max had the fiddle and Grady had the gun, all in the blink of an eye.
That’s some sleight of hand, Stone thought.
Before Stone could figure it out, Max angrily swung the fiddle at Grady, knocking the gun out of the old man’s grip. The dislodged firearm flew over the bar, causing Bridget to duck in alarm. It crashed to the floor somewhere behind the bar—or possibly in the ice trough?
Stone saw his chance. No longer being held at gunpoint, he vaulted over the bar to confront the Serpents. He didn’t bother scrambling for the gun; hand-to-hand combat was more his speed anyway, experienced as he was in both barroom brawling and the martial arts. At the same time, he saw Baird charging at Owens, whose telltale haircut made it clear whose team he was playing for. Grunting, the bruiser snatched a bottle of malt vinegar off a table and smashed it against the edge of the table, turning it into a jagged weapon—and throwing the whole pub into a panic again.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, customers bolted from their seats and tables to get away, jamming the exits. Fleeing bodies jostled Stone as he faced off against Max, who looked more vexed than worried by the escalating conflict. Stone figured Baird could handle the big guy on her own, which left the head Serpent to him.
Fine by me, Stone thought. “I’d offer you the chance to give up now, but, honestly, I’d rather teach you a lesson first.”
He threw a right at Max’s goateed chin, aiming to knock him out with one punch, but Max expertly blocked the blow with his forearm, revealing good reflexes and no little training, while countering with an open-handed palm strike at Stone, who dodged it with a split second to spare. Impressed, Stone tried to sweep Max’s legs out from beneath him with a roundhouse kick, but Max leapt high above the kick, landing nimbly atop the bar, where he kicked an empty glass at Stone, who spun sideways to avoid being beaned by the missile.
“It appears I have the higher ground,” Max gloated, not even winded.
“Says who?” Stone sprang onto the bar as well, where he adopted a fighting stance taught to him by none other than the Monkey King himself. Upset drinks crashed onto the floor. “Bring it on, snake-boy.”
“If you insist.”
Fighting atop the bar, the men engaged in a rapid-fire exchange of strikes, jabs, snaps, kicks, feints, blocks, parries, and old-fashioned haymakers that proved them all too evenly matched. Stone quickly realized that Max had serious skills; he was going to have to bring his A game if he wanted to squash this Serpent.
Okay, he thought, if that’s what it takes.
“Nice technique.” Max asked as he tested Stone’s defenses by combining a driving punch with a right-reverse kick. “You’ve studied in Shangri-La, I take it?”
“From the best.” Stone parried Max’s attacks and retaliated with a sideways elbow strike that Max somersaulted backward to avoid. The man’s fighting style reminded Stone of Lamia, a top-flight Serpent operative he had tussled with a few times before karma caught up with her. He wondered if she and Max had studied under some of the same teachers. “You?”
“Two years at the Midnight Dojo in Jigoku.” Max sprang back onto his feet before launching a flurry of ridge-handed chops at Stone’s head and throat. “Plus a supplementary course in dirty tricks from an exclusive fight club in Manchester.”
“Bet that came natural.” Stone flipped over Max’s head to land on the bar behind his smirking opponent. A backward kick targeted the Serpent’s lower back, but Max spun around in time to grab Stone’s leg and swing him off the bar onto the floor, which was now strewn with broken glass and spilled booze. Stone grimaced as he hit the ground hard, just as Max hopped off the bar after him. Stone rolled out of the way—and was nearly flattened by the big thug fighting Baird, who came flying through the air at him.
* * *
A few moments earlier:
Snakes in the Shamrocks? Baird thought. Seriously?
Not that she didn’t appreciate the heads-up where the Serpent Brotherhood was involved; it had been a few years since the Librarians had last tangled with them, but she hadn’t forgotten how dangerous they could be. She should’ve known they’d show their slimy faces eventually, but what were they doing here at Bridget’s pub?
She’d have to figure that out later, she realized. Right now she had a muscle-bound goon with a bad attitude and a broken bottle to deal with. The belligerent bodybuilder had a few inches and several pounds on Baird, but that wasn’t enough to intimidate her. Compared with the banshee the night before, taking on some hired muscle was right in Baird’s wheelhouse.
Thugs she knew how to handle. Banshees not so much.
“Growing your snakes big these days,” she said, wanting to keep the goon’s attention on her while the civilians made a break for it and Ezekiel scrambled under and around the tables to get to Stone and Bridget. Her eyes tracked the jagged glass bottle in the thug’s hand, on guard for any sudden movements on the goon’s part. “But not any prettier, apparently.”
The thug growled in response.
“Guess we’re not doing the banter thing.” Baird shrugged. “Works for me.”
She grabbed the back of a wooden chair and swung it at the goon like a club. Reacting faster than she expected, he turned sideways to absorb the impact as the cheap pine chair crashed against his linebacker’s shoulder, which felt as solid as a slab of meat. The blow elicited a grunt from him, but failed to knock him off his feet. Snarling, he seized the bottom half of the chair and yanked it out of Baird’s grip, flinging it across the pub. It slammed into the bogus pot of gold, sending fake plastic coins everywhere.
“Nice try,” he said smugly.
“How about that?” Baird said. “It speaks.”
He lunged forward, the broken bottle slashing through the air at her, but Baird was ready. Relying on her training, she darted toward him, inside the path of the weapon. His thick neck presented a perfect target, so she rammed her palm into the vulnerable nerve cluster just above the clavicle, delivering a textbook brachial stun that would have dropped a less cement-like opponent. Even still, the man spasmed as though zapped with a Taser. His eyes rolled in their sockets as he tottered unsteadily, not quite falling down.
Geez, she thought. He’s not making this easy for me.
She took full advantage of his dazed state. Without a single wasted motion, she grabbed the back of his neck with one hand and the wrist of his weapon hand with the other, shoving the arm holding the broken bottle away from her body while simultaneous yanking his head down into her knee, which shot up to meet his face with as much force as she could muster. The collision kept the goon on the ropes as she pivoted to one side, wrenching his arm until he let go of the bottle, which shattered as it hit the floor.
Damn it, Baird thought. We just swept up this place!
Baird released the goon’s wrist as he stumbled backward, clutching his nose. His brutish face flushed with anger, showing that he still didn’t know when to give up. He charged at her like an angry boar or minotaur, both of which she had some experience with. All he’d have needed to complete the picture was steam billowing from his nostrils.
Baird smiled.
I like it when they’re too mad to think straight, she thought. Makes them sloppy.
Employing some basic jujitsu, she turned his weight against him, throwing him over her shoulder so that he went flying across the pub—where he nearly landed on Stone, who looked like he was having some trouble with the other Serpent. The goon crashed into the bar only a few inches away from Stone’s head.
“Oops!” she blurted. “Sorry about that.”
Grady tugged on Bridget’s arm as they crouched behind the bar, hiding out from the violence that had erupted in her pub. Her heart pounded recklessly in her chest.
“Come along, me girl,” the fiddler urged her. “We need to get ye safely away from here, while yer new friends keep those blackguards occupied.”
Bridget hesitated. “But we can’t just desert them!”
“Don’t ye worry about them! It’s ye those greedy Sassenachs are after!”
“But why?” Bridget had no idea what was happening. What did any of this have to do with the banshee?
Unless, she reminded herself, this was the doom the spirit had foretold.
* * *
“No problem!” Stone said after Baird nearly nailed him with Crew Cut. “Just watch where you’re throwing that guy!”
Meanwhile, Max was moving in for the kill. Stone tried to scramble to his feet before the Englishman could exploit his vulnerable position on the floor, but the wet, slippery tiles, not to mention the broken glass all around, made that more difficult than Stone would have liked. He was still trying to stand when Max seized a metal barstool to throw at the fallen Librarian. Stone threw up his arms to defend himself, but doubted it would do much good against the heavy object. He was about to be battered.
“Pleasant dreams, Librarian.” Max raised the stool high. “Seems you needed a few more lessons at Shangri-La.…”
“Or maybe he just needs a little backup!”
Ezekiel sprang out from beneath a table to tackle Max before he could take Stone out. They slammed into the bar as they grappled, the stool crashing harmlessly to the floor instead of ramming into Stone, who backed away from the falling bar furniture in time.
“Watch out, Jones!” Stone finally made it to his feet, grateful for the save, but worried about his friend. Ezekiel was a thief, not a master fighter, and no match for somebody like Max. “He’s got major moves!”
His warning proved superfluous, however, as Max proved his point by effortlessly breaking Ezekiel’s hold and spinning the plucky-but-outclassed Librarian around so that Max could seize him from behind. In a heartbeat, Ezekiel went from rescuer to hostage and human shield as Max twisted the Librarian’s arm behind his back while placing a single finger against his temple in a way that made Stone’s blood run cold.
Crap, he thought. This isn’t good.
Max smirked at Stone from behind Ezekiel’s shoulder. “Ah, I see you recognize this clever little move.”
“The Yucatan Death Touch,” Stone said grimly. “A technique forbidden by every honorable fighting system.”
“Honor is subjective,” Max said with a shrug. “In any event, you understand why this pointless, if invigorating, donnybrook is over. The time has come, I think, to remove ourselves from this increasingly chaotic situation before your fellow Librarians can arrive to further complicate matters. I’ll thank you not to interfere with my departure … for Mr. Jones’s sake.”
Baird hesitated. “Stone?”
“He’s got us over a barrel,” Stone confirmed. “For now.”
Max nodded. “Listen to your esteemed colleague. He knows whereof he speaks.” He called out to his recovering bodyguard, who looked ready for another round with Baird. His bruised face had seen better days. Blood trickled from a squashed nose. “Owens, get the door.”
Glowering at Baird, the bruiser nevertheless did as instructed. Max backed across the pub toward the open door, dragging his hostage with him. Stone watched in frustration, unable to keep the Serpents from absconding with his friend, who was looking distinctly unhappy about the way things were going.
“Hang on!” Ezekiel protested. “What exactly is this Yucatan Death Touch thingie anyway?”
“Trust me,” Stone said. “You don’t want to know.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better!” Ezekiel said.
“Get the car ready,” Max ordered Owens, who exited the pub ahead of his boss. Max paused before the doorway to get his gloat on. “Don’t feel too bad, Librarians, Guardian. You can’t win all the time.”
A shot rang out, stealing Max’s thunder.
All heads turned toward the bar, where Bridget stood gripping Max’s lost pistol with two shaking hands. Her face was pale but resolute as she pointed the gun at Max.
“Let Ezekiel go,” she ordered. “You hurt him and you’re not going anywhere except six feet under!”
Max blanched at the sight of the gun, but held on to his composure, as well as his hostage. “I hardly think you’re in a position to dictate—”
Bridget fired again. The sharp report of the gun startled Max, distracting him long enough for Ezekiel to demonstrate that he had some moves of his own. Twisting his head toward Max’s lethal finger, he bit down hard on the deadly digit while simultaneously driving his foot into Max’s ankle, causing the Serpent leader to cry out for two reasons at once.
“Blast it!”
Choosing the better part of valor, Max angrily shoved Ezekiel away from him, with enough force that Ezekiel fell forward onto the floor. The Englishman cradled his injured hand as he dashed out the door.
Stone hesitated, torn between chasing after Max and checking on Ezekiel.
“I’m fine!” Ezekiel said, lifting his face from the tiles. “Follow that snake!”
That was good enough for Stone. He started after Max, but got only a few steps before he heard Bridget gasp behind him. Spinning around, he saw her slumping against the bar, looking like she could barely stand up. She dropped the gun onto the bar as she gasped for breath. Her face had gone as pale as the banshee’s and her head reeled atop her neck as though she was on the verge of blacking out.
Her heart?
“What is it?” Baird asked urgently, obviously sharing Stone’s concern. Pursuing Max suddenly came in second to making sure Bridget was okay. Baird got her phone out. “Should I call 911?”
“Not yet,” Bridget said unconvincingly. Short of breath, she barely managed to get the words out as she tottered unsteadily. “Just need my pills.”
She fumbled with a vial of prescription medication, spilling a handful of small white pills into her palm before tossing one into her mouth. Popping up behind her, Grady poured her a glass of water to wash the pill down.
“Thanks,” she said.
Stone kept a close watch on Bridget as he helped Ezekiel to his feet. The pill seemed to do the trick; within a few minutes her color returned and she began breathing easier. Working together, Baird and Grady assisted her to a chair so she could rest her legs as she recovered from the shock of the attack.
“Oh, God,” Bridget said. “What just happened? Who were those men?”
“The competition,” Baird said succinctly. “They’re called the Serpent Brotherhood … and they’re serious bad news.”
That’s putting it mildly, Stone thought. He scowled at the open doorway, figuring Max and his flunky were long gone by now. “And they just got away with your lucky gold coin.”
“Did they?” Ezekiel opened his palm to reveal the supposedly purloined coin. “Then what’s this?”
“Hang on,” Stone said. “You picked his pocket?”
“Naturally,” Ezekiel said. “You don’t think I let him capture me by accident? I’m Ezekiel Jones. Getting caught is against my religion.”
Stone wondered if his friend knew just how close he’d come to having his brain turned to yogurt. “Nervy move, pal. Just saying.”
“We’re Librarians,” Ezekiel reminded him. “Since when do we play it safe?”
Fair enough, Stone thought.
“But what were they doing here?” Bridget asked. “Why were they after that coin … and me?”
“Funny you should ask that,” Baird said. “Right before the craziness started, I heard from Jenkins and Cassandra. They’re back from their own investigation … and they may have some answers for us.”