The Banshee Chronicles

A Fairy's Word is Gold

“Liam, it’s this one.” Meara indicated the back door to a narrow row house located in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn.

“All right.” I said, stepping up to the door. Placing two fingers on the lock, I listened to the tumblers slide aside before opening the door and stepping inside. Meara followed excitedly.

We were in the home of a lawyer named Howard Grove. He was a middle-aged man, recently divorced. He was also a serial killer known as the ‘Axe Man’. The FBI had been trying to determine his identity and whereabouts for almost a year. During that time he had kidnapped, tortured, and decapitated five people. The headless bodies of his victims showed up in parks scattered around the city. This murderer could have claimed another four victims before the FBI finally caught him, except he made one mistake. His latest victim was an O’Neill. She was supposed to die today, but Meara and I weren’t going to let that happen.

As we stepped out of the back alley and into the kitchen of the row house, Grove’s dog responded immediately to the intrusion. With a loud bark and teeth bared, he came bounding across the wood floor.

“Halt!” Meara commanded with an outstretched hand, and the large Doberman immediately skidded to a stop.

“Good boy.” She commended him. The dog gradually lay down on the tile floor and whimpered softly as Meara continued to speak consolingly to him in ancient Gaelic. The rest of the house was silent except for the steady tick-tock of an old grandfather clock. I looked for the door to the basement. I found it, and magically released the lock. The door swung open revealing old stone steps leading down to a concrete floor.

“This way.” I called out to Meara. She was beside me in a moment. We descended the stairs together. The air down there was musky. Meara flipped on a light switch when we reached the bottom. Stark, artificial light revealed a long work bench covered with neatly arranged tools. Meara picked up a hacksaw that had dark bloodstains on the serrated blade.

“We’re definitely in the right place.” She commented, with a hint of disgust in her voice. My eyes observed the prominent bloodstains in the middle of the floor before wandering over to a large oaken chest that sat against the far wall from the stairs. There were several small holes drilled through the lid of the box. Bending over it, I pressed my ear against one of the holes. My keen hearing could barely pick up the sound of shallow breathing.

“She’s in here.” I said, as I anxiously reached for the clunky old padlock that held the chest shut. I drew my hand back with a curse the moment my fingers touched the metal lock. It is difficult to explain to a mortal the power that cold iron has over the fey. With a mere touch, it burns the skin like the hottest fire, rattles the nerves like the tremors of an earthquake, and stings the heart like the barb of a scorpion.

“What happened?” There was a trace of concern in Meara’s voice.

“It’s this blasted lock!” I hissed, clutching my wounded hand. “The bloody antique’s made of iron.”

“Let me see.” Meara requested, leaning over me, eager to inspect my wound.

“No time.” I said, indicating the chest. “We’ve got to get this open.”

Meara stood up straight again and glanced about the room. She walked over to the work bench again and then quickly returned.

“How’s this?” She asked, wielding a bloodstained axe in both hands. “Stand back.”

I backed away just in time as my partner shattered the iron lock with one overhead swing of the heavy axe. I immediately opened the lid of the chest. Tracy O’Neill lay scrunched up inside the felt lined oaken box. Her auburn hair was a sweaty mess, her light green dress was in disarray, and her wrists and ankles were bound with thin rope. She was dangerously dehydrated, but otherwise appeared unharmed as she lay there unconscious.