Sheridan Bell & the Vanishing Beast: Chapter Nine

Lord Anghau smiled and clapped his hands together, “Very good, Mr. Bell! Now, in exchange, I’ll tell you whatever you need to know to help your Ms. Evans.”

Henry opened his mouth to thank Lord Anghau again, surprised that his meager offering was enough for the sídhe who could get anything from anyone, but he caught himself at the last moment, remembering Lord Anghau’s warning. Instead, he asked, “Could you explain what exactly your business does? I know the stories, of course, but how much of those are true?”

“Truth is subjective. If you were to ask any other sídhe, they would tell you the Uí Anghau are wicked usurers who buy your life and soul in exchange for petty, superficial things like wealth or power. They’d say a contract with the Uí Anghau is never worth the price,” Lord Anghau said with a wicked grin. “But our truth is that while we do still make some…high interest deals, there’s more that we offer and good that we do. And even we can be generous.”

Lord Anghau thought for a moment, tapping his fingers against his desk. “Ah, where to begin…? We make contracts, obviously. That much, I’m sure you gathered. We have five negotiators on staff, each possessing the family magic. I include myself in that number, though usually, I only oversee major deals and high-profile clients.”

Before Henry could ask why he, then, was deemed important enough to meet with the Lord of the House, Lord Anghau hurried to keep speaking. “We’ll agree to almost any bargain within our power, and within the confines of the law,” he said. “Once I’ve approved a potential client, the assigned negotiator is given total discretion. Money, power, beauty, youth, sometimes even a taste of magic — if a client’s payment is satisfactory, the negotiator can give it. Of course, this means that some deals offer more gracious terms than others. We are sídhe, after all. We reward generosity and humility, punish arrogance and rudeness.”

“You said ‘within the confines of the law’. Is buying a person’s soul legal now?”  Henry asked, bluntly.

Instead of being offended, Lord Anghau only laughed. “It always has been — for us, at least. The Uí Anghau have been making these deals for longer than Tamarley has existed; both human and sídhe law carved out exceptions for us. As long as it’s agreed to in a valid contract, we can do what we will with our clients.” Lord Anghau paused to let Henry process that, watching his face closely for his reaction. Henry kept his expression carefully neutral, and Lord Anghau continued, “We don’t take lives often. We keep a limited number of those deals open at any time, and I’ve laid down rules our negotiators have to follow in executing them.”

“What are the rules?”

Lord Anghau held a finger up, counting them off as he explained. “One, all major contracts must be in writing. This includes contracts with high dollar values, contracts involving any sort of magical exchange, or any contracts that will result in permanent change to the client. Simple deals like the one you and I just made can be oral. All written contracts are stored in our archives, which I’ll be happy to take you to once I’ve answered your questions. We can check Hathaway’s record there, if he really has one.”

Henry nodded.

Lord Anghau added another finger, “Two, the client must be the one to bring up the ultimate barter. Our negotiators can’t bring up a death deal at any point in the negotiation process. The client must ask to trade away their life.”

“Do they really do that?” Henry asked.

“More often than you’d think, especially if they negotiate a longer term. Your greatest wish granted in exchange for your death in twenty years — that’s a long, long time for you to be able to live and enjoy yourself, and it’s not as if you’re guaranteed to live longer even without our interference.”

“I suppose…”

Lord Anghau smirked. “Three, the contract must contain a buy-out clause. The client must have a way to end the agreement early. The price to do so is often steep, but…” Lord Anghau shrugged. “Their mistakes aren’t our concern. Four, no trading other people’s lives, and no changing others’ emotions. Five, if the client does offer their life, they get to determine the method of death.”

“The cú sídhe don’t carry out the contracts?”

Lord Anghau shook his head. “Nowadays, the hounds are only used when a client breaches the terms of the agreement or tries to flee.”

Henry hesitated, then asked, “Can I ask something that might offend you?”

“I made a deal with you, Mr. Bell. You can ask me anything.”

Not feeling particularly reassured by that answer, Henry cleared his throat. “I can understand coveting a person’s secrets, or wanting something nobody else has, but what do you gain from a client’s death? Surely it would make sounder business sense to keep them alive so they can continue to make deals with you.”

“There’s some truth to that. Humans are rarely satisfied after just one deal with the Uí Anghau,” Lord Anghau agreed. He idly kicked his heels as he spoke, still sitting on top of his desk. “How much do you know about sídhe magic?”

“Little, I’m afraid. I know that every sídhe’s magic is different, and that it varies by family.”

“And I assume you’ve heard the rumors about this house? About me and certain deals I may have made?”

“You’re referring to your deal with death?”

Lord Anghau inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Does that frighten you?”

“No,” Henry said, “But I’m also not certain I believe it.”

“You should,” Lord Anghau said with a wicked grin, revealing the tips of sharp canines. “It’s true that the power of the Uí Anghau comes from death — not from dying, not from the dead, but from Death, the entity. You could call Death a third party beneficiary to our contracts. There is power in life and power in death, and at the end of our contracts, we gain a life’s power by offering it to Death.”

“So when you take a life at the end of a contract, you get magic?”

“Precisely.”

“What if your client is human? They wouldn’t have any power for you.”

Lord Anghau shook his head. “It’s not about the magic. Well…it could be about the magic. When I say there’s power in life, I refer to a power of potential, like the potential of a marble sitting at the top of a hill. Death assesses the life ahead of the victim as well as the life they’re leaving behind. It looks at the number of people who love them or hate them, the impact they’ve had or could still have on the world, and it pays the negotiator accordingly. I get a cut of each deal, of course.”

Henry struggled to wrap his mind around this. When questioning the aes sídhe, he had learned that getting strange, nebulous explanations was always a risk. “Is age ever a factor? Would a teenager, for example, have more power than an older adult?”

Lord Anghau shrugged. “They could; it can be. A person limits their potential by the choices they make; it stands to reason, then, that youth who have the whole world open to them yield a great deal of power. But for some, potential only increases as they age. It’s about the way a person lives their life. Only Death knows people’s fates, how they’d move through the world if given a natural progression toward their deaths. We Anghau have gotten good at guessing potential, though.” Lord Anghau smiled sweetly at Henry. “You, Mr. Bell, have a great deal of it.”

“Ah. Thank you…?” Henry said, feeling suddenly like prey. He cleared his throat again. “Where do souls fit into all of this?”

“Souls?”

“The stories say you’ll take a person’s soul as compensation for a contract. But if it’s only their death that’s important, what happens to…whatever’s leftover?”

“Ah,” Lord Anghau said wistfully. “The concept of souls is purely human. I don’t know what happens to my clients after they die, nor do I particularly care. They’re not tortured for all eternity, or whatever the stories may have you believe. Theoretically, there’s nothing stopping them from crossing over to whatever afterlife they believe in.”

“I see,” Henry said, mulling on that a moment before changing directions entirely. “Are there more cú sídhe than just Etta?”

Lord Anghau barely blinked at the change. “Yes, each of the negotiators has a hound of their own.”

“Is it true the hounds can cross between cities on holy days?”

“My, you really have done your research. It’s partially true. As I said before, the cú sídhe draw on our magic, so they’d need someone from the family with them in order to do it. But yes, on certain days of the year, a hound and its master is able to cross between cities at whim. Any other day, they’d need to pass through Customs like anyone else.”

“Certain days of the year…like this weekend?” Henry asked.

“Ah,” Lord Anghau said. “Yes, the hounds should be able to cross at any time during the Festival of Hares. I still think it’s unlikely your Mr. Hathaway died by the cú sídhe, but I see where you’re coming from.”

Henry sat back, thinking. Some things had begun to make sense, but there were still pieces he didn’t understand. He stayed silent for so long that Lord Anghau finally asked, “Did you have any other questions?”

“One more. Why did you offer to speak with me personally?”

Lord Anghau tutted. “I hope you’re not taking advantage of my generous deal, Mr. Bell. I promised answers related to my business only. You’ll have to give me another secret if you want anything else. So? Care to make a second deal?”

Of all the answers Lord Anghau could have given, that one unnerved Henry the most. Quickly, he shook his head. “Perhaps not. I suppose I’ll just have to sit in my curiosity.”

“Suit yourself,” Lord Anghau said with a shrug. “Come with me, then. We can find out once and for all if Arthur Hathaway made a deal with the Uí Anghau in the archives.”

Lord Anghau led Henry out of his office, locking the door behind them, and back to the elevator. He stood much closer to Henry on the way down than he had on the way up, nearly pressed against his side. With him so close, Henry caught another whiff of that faint rose smell from the lobby, now paired with Lord Anghau’s soft cologne.

Suddenly, Henry gasped.

When Lord Anghau looked at him, Henry found he was close enough to make out every individual freckle on the man’s pale face. He cleared his throat and looked away again.

“Something wrong, Henry?” the sídhe asked.

Henry quickly shook his head. “Not at all. I just remembered something important.”

Despite his obvious curiosity, Lord Anghau chose not to ask, instead letting comfortable silence fill the space as the elevator carried them past the first floor and down to the basement. There, he led Henry out and along another hallway, finally stopping at an old safe door that the sídhe unbolted and opened with a flare of golden magic. Surprisingly cool air spilled out, the safe door sliding magically open to reveal rows upon rows of shelves and identical file cabinets.

Lord Anghau stepped inside first. With a snap of his fingers, the room lit up, the camed glass lamps lining the room suddenly bursting with the glow of hundreds of small suns. “Apologies for the mess,” Lord Anghau said, “And the dust. I’ve been meaning to organize this place for years, but I hate gloomy spaces, and this one has always reminded me too much of my father.”

“That’s quite alright,” Henry said. He peered down one of the rows, squinting to try to see the end, but there was none in sight.

Lord Anghau watched with a faint smile. “Shall we look for Mr. Hathaway’s file?”

Henry nodded, followed Lord Anghau down rows of cabinets until they found one with a drawer marked HAT. The drawer caught when Lord Anghau tried to open it, a file toward the back jutting out at an awkward angle. Lord Anghau pulled that one out first, and turned the problematic file over. “Well, what do you know! Arthur Hathaway. This may be the end of your mystery, Mr. Bell. If Hathaway did have a death deal with us, I can contact your local police and have Ms. Evans released.”

Henry breathed a sigh of relief.

“My, someone shoved this in here in a hurry,” Lord Anghau said, straightening the file out.

“Who has access to this room?” Henry asked.

“In theory, it’s supposed to only be myself and the negotiators. The wards are meant to keep anyone else out.”

“How did I get in?”

Lord Anghau grinned and winked. “You’re with me.”

Ignoring the wink, Henry asked. “You said ‘in theory.’ What about in practice?”

“That’s the problem. My father granted permission to anyone he liked, and I haven’t gotten around to revoking it yet.” When Lord Anghau opened Hathaway’s file, his face lit up with curiosity. “Oh, a repeat customer! It’s no wonder his name sounded familiar — here’s a contract from me, back when I was still a negotiator.” He skimmed it briefly before handing it to Henry. “Research funding in exchange for a sentimental family heirloom.”

Henry glanced over the contract, noticing the item description. “What did you do with a comb?”

Lord Anghau shrugged. “I might’ve saved it, I might’ve sold it. I don’t remember; the thrill is in getting them to give it to you. After that, it’s just an antique.” He glanced over the next contract. “This negotiator is no longer with us. Funds for ‘courtship’ in exchange for five years of part time accounting work for the House.”

Together, they read through the other contracts on file, certainly none of them large enough to be worth the price of Arthur Hathaway’s life. A work promotion, more funding, healthy conception.

“That’s it?” Henry asked, when they reached the last contract.

“I’m afraid so,” Lord Anghau said with a frown.

“But he— he was killed by some sort of sídhe dog and he just happened to have a connection with the Uí Anghau? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I hate to say it, but I agree,” Lord Anghau said. When he went to return the file to the cabinet, Henry stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. He reached between the folders for “Hataru” and “Hatter” and pulled out another contract, one bent at the corner from a hasty placement between the folders. He straightened the bend and read through it, Lord Anghau reading over his shoulder. It was a contract between Arthur Hathaway and Lord Anghau, dated nearly ten years ago to the day. The contract was longer than the others by several pages, but the exchange was outlined in bold lettering on the front page: a fortune large enough to buy Camberley Hall in exchange for Hathaway’s life.

Henry frowned down at the paper. This was what he had come here looking for. With this, he could free Saoirse, and it’s not as if it would get Lord Anghau in any trouble, either. Henry’s job was done.

But something wasn’t right. He knew it even before he heard Lord Anghau’s gasp, before the sídhe turned to him, eyes wide, and said, “I remember the name of every life I’ve taken, Henry. I swear to you, Arthur Hathaway wasn’t one of them.”

“I believe you,” Henry said. He held the contract up to the light, examining it more closely. “To be honest, I had my doubts about your involvement until now, but this contract is a fake.”

“How do you know?” Lord Anghau asked, quiet.

Henry rubbed his thumb along the signatures — they smudged, leaving ink on his thumb. “Whoever made this made it today. There’s also the paper weight: the last contract chronologically was from only three months before — which breaks your six-month rule, by the way — but the paper on that one was thicker, the color creamier. This is more like the intake form you gave me today. There’s also the fact that the Hathaways have only lived in Camberley Hall for four years.”

“Always so clever, Henry,” Lord Anghau said, soft in a way Henry wasn’t expecting.

He cleared his throat, self-conscious, and set the new contract beside one of the old ones. He pointed out the signatures. Lord Anghau’s looked identical in both, illegible except for the fact that his first name apparently began with a T. Hathaway’s, on the other hand, had notable differences. He tapped on the new contract. “In your professional experience, who could have written this? Would it have to have been one of the negotiators?”

Lord Anghau read through the contract closely. “Yes, I think so. Most of this is form language, but the parts that aren’t are well written. But to what end? To dismiss an investigation? If they killed Hathaway without a valid contract in place, they’d be on the hook for murder, but this would get any police who came by asking questions to drop it.” Lord Anghau frowned. “But did they really think I wouldn’t find it and realize it was fake?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Henry said. “I don’t think you’re asking the right question, either. The real question is: did they think you would find it in time.”

“In time for what?” Lord Anghau asked.

“Are there any negotiators who might have a grudge against you?” Henry asked instead of answering.

Lord Anghau laughed. “All of them. They resent my power and my position. They resent that I’m stronger than all of them combined. There’s one, Cian, who was supposed to inherit the house after my father…retired. Another, Eoghan, lost several profitable deals after I implemented my rules and never quite forgave me for it. They’re the most likely.”

“I see. And where were you Friday?” Henry asked. At Lord Anghau’s frown, he clarified, “Hopefully it won’t be necessary, but this will be easier if you can provide an alibi.”

“I stopped by the office in the morning, but had to go home before too long. In the evening, I was at a dinner party until late. At least a dozen people can attest to that.”

“How late is ‘late’?”

“The party ended at midnight. When did Hathaway die?”

“At approximately one o’clock in the morning.”

Lord Anghau shrugged. “Either way, I didn’t have Etta with me. I left her with Brona for the party — which Brona can attest to — and didn’t pick her up until morning. Now: find the contract in time for what, Henry?”

Henry pursed his lips. “I’ve kept some vital information from you, I’m afraid. There’s another reason I know this contract is a fake: I knew from the start that Arthur Hathaway never bargained away his own life. He was never the intended target of Friday night’s attack — I think he only got in the way of it.”

“Who was the real target?” Lord Anghau asked.

“Hathaway’s three-month-old daughter, Ioanna.”

Lord Anghau stilled. As he processed this information, his expression darkened — as did the room around them, the lamps fluttering like flames in the wind, the shadows below them dancing across the marble. Even Henry, who had no magic to speak of, felt the way it radiated off Lord Anghau. “How do you know?” the sídhe asked coldly.

To his credit, Henry managed to keep his voice steady in his reply. “The murder took place in the nursery. The police believe that was because of a charm my client, Ms. Evans, left in the room, but I believe that the killer — the hound — was there for Ioanna. Leading up to his death, Hathaway developed severe paranoia, all of it sídhe-related and beginning shortly before Ioanna’s birth. He hired private security for the grounds, fired the sídhe nursemaid, moved the nursery closer to the bedroom and installed iron bars across the nursery windows. He wasn’t religious, but he had the girl baptized. I think Arthur Hathaway contracted away the life of his daughter, only to regret it once the girl was born.”

Lord Anghau listened to all of this intently, his gaze resting on the fake contract. Finally, he asked, “Do you know why the Uí Anghau’s reputation is as bad as it is, Mr. Bell?”

Henry shook his head.

“In the early days, when Tomaltach Anghau was still Lord of the House, it used to be that you could trade your offspring — current or future — as an extension of yourself. The reason for this is as you’ve already guessed: there’s a great deal of potential in children, which means a great deal of power for the one who made the contract. I would never allow such a contract to be made under my roof.”

Henry watched Lord Anghau with wide eyes. He was like a different man, now, one that lived up to his reputation. Henry could see this man making a deal with death, could see him making vicious deals and sending his hound out to kill; he understood, now, what the receptionist meant about not wanting to cross him.

“Someone must have made it without your knowing,” he theorized. “When the hound went for Ioanna, Hathaway tried to stop it, firing three shots before it retaliated in self-defense. Whoever was commanding the hound knew that the death might, eventually, lead to the cú sídhe, that they had made a mess and there was no legal contract protecting them, and so they made this,” he said, gesturing at the fake.

“But something about this still doesn’t add up,” Lord Anghau said. “Why make the contract in my name? If one of my negotiators did this, why not sign their own name? It’s not as if they’d face any consequences for the kill, either.”

“Now you’re asking the right questions. It’s true that they wouldn’t face any consequences for Arthur Hathaway’s death,” Henry said pointedly. “I’ve avoided your question twice, now, Lord Anghau. In time for what, you had asked. You yourself said that sídhe don’t easily let go of something they’ve been promised.”

Lord Anghau’s eyes widened. “They’re going back for the girl.”

“And tonight is their last night to move between the worlds freely, without having to leave a Customs trail.”

“How do we find the negotiator responsible before tonight?”

“We don’t.”

“We don’t? But Hathaway’s daughter—”

“We don’t need to narrow it down because we’re going to set a trap. Are you free this evening?”

Lord Anghau grinned. “For you, I can be.”

This time, Henry returned his grin. “Then, with your assistance, I’m certain no harm will come to Ioanna.” He checked his watch, then pulled the old slip of paper with Helena’s address out of his coat pocket and passed it to Lord Anghau. “Meet me at this address in the other city at eight o’clock. Come without Etta — leave her with Brona again for the evening, if you must.”

Lord Anghau turned the paper over in his hand. “As you wish. Are you leaving, then, Mr. Bell?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “I have work to do before tonight.”

Lord Anghau sighed, disappointed, but said, “At least allow me to escort you back to the lobby.”