SEASON ONE Sensation & WonderDaryl the Wendigo #1
Boston.
The restaurant hummed with activity, despite the rainy Tuesday night that lay just beyond its subtle front door. Hidden away, those that frequented the diner called it Boston’s best-kept secret, a hidden gem among hidden gems; yet for such an apparently undiscovered locale, it was scarce that a table ever stood empty. Busboys hastily cleared plates and cutlery from finished meals just as soon as patrons departed, not wasting a single second; there were always more hungry customers, eagerly waiting to sate their appetites. Waiters weaved across the floor, the foods they carried so deliciously fragrant that you could practically see the smell coming off the plates like some '60's Hanna-Barbera cartoon. Delicacies both exotic and banal in their origins were welcomed with equal enthusiasm, and the building was filled to the brim with an unbridled passion for the culinary arts.
It made Daryl very uncomfortable as the spirit railed against him, even more uncomfortable than the low ceiling that had him hunched over and his neck at an awkward angle as his towering frame struggled to fit through the door. His belly rolled and rumbled, and let out a churning growl. Cpt. Ben Daimio raised a single eyebrow in a look of disapproval that felt all-the-more withering coupled with the permanent, artificial sneer afforded to him by the rippling scars across the left half of his face. The captain put a hand to his earpiece as Daryl looked away, filled with shame.
"Are we sure that bringing the spiritual incarnation of famine to Chicago's premier non-human eatery was the best tactical decision?" He asked, and if Daryl still had blood he was sure his cheeks would be blooming from embarrassment. All the Wendigo wanted was to eat the world; all Daryl wanted was for the world to eat
him.
Daimio's earpiece crackled as Kate Corrigan picked up the receiver to respond.
"Don't be insensitive. His rehabilitation has taken huge strides in the last few years, and he's been cleared for field duty. This was the perfect assignment; Daryl's well-equipped to maintain composure here, and when he does, he'll have proved to himself that he's in full control of his curse."
Daimio just grunted in non-committal reply, but Daryl swelled inside. No one believed in him like Kate. Not even Daryl. She was right, though, as she often was - if he could suppress the Wendigo in here, with carcasses and cuisines alike being ferried beneath his nose, then he would demonstrate with finality the control he had trained so long for.
The maître d' approached, regarding Daimio and Daryl with nothing less than amicable professionalism. On the table directly behind him, a Domovoi clapped in delight as it was served a large pot of Borscht, submerged in which Daryl could see were lumps of charcoal. The maître d' was a neat gentleman, his suit pressed and strictly creased. His skin was pale and almost ethereal, his hair ashen-white and slicked back tidily, and his eyes an eerie, cosmic lavender. He paused in front of them, and then a welcoming smile erupted across his face in what Daryl recognised as a well-practiced professional technique.
"Gentlemen, how curious to see the authorities this afternoon. May I take your names?"
Daryl looked at Daimio, who did not look back but instead stared straight at the maître d' without meeting his eyes.
"No. But you may be taught how to refer to us." Daimio replied, and Daryl noticed the most subtle tightening of the maître d's lips even through his unfaltering smile. "Captain, and Agent." Daimio continued, gesturing to himself and Daryl respectively. There was a pause, and then the maître d’ gave a slight, courteous nod in response. Apparently satisfied, Daimio carried on. “We’d like to be granted audience with the highest authority in relation to the operation of this establishment, and speak face-to-face as equal parties.”
At this request, the veneer broke, and they were met with a patronising scoff.
“Your organisation knows not who it asks after.”
Daimio wore his own polite smile now.
“My organisation knows very well what we desire - and how to get it.” He reached into the back pocket on his jeans and produced a gold coin, placing it pointedly on the host stand. “We understand you’ve been receiving trouble from a Dullahan. They despise gold as much as you do iron. Place this by your door and your intrusions will cease.” Daimio put a finger on the coin and slid it purposefully across the wooden stand. “It is our
gift to you.”
At the word ‘gift’, the gentleman’s nostrils flared and a benign sneer became a malignant snarl. He snatched the gold coin up with equal amounts of eagerness and reluctance, and tucked it away beneath his jacket. He beckoned tightly, and as he led them through the restaurant - Daryl’s head low and swinging nervously, trying to avoid the candles that flickered on the chandeliers - Daimio looked rather pleased with himself, in a particular vindictive kind of way.
Three flights of stairs up - glorious, widely-set,
tall stairs that Daryl climbed 6 at a time with a wonderfully straight spine - and Daryl once again ducked his head as they squeezed into a plush, ornately-decorated office. There was a woman at the end of the room, who shared the snow-pale skin and galaxy-purple eyes, but her hair was a shimmering, rich gold, flowing down her body and stopping just before her hips. She turned, and her beauty stunned Daryl; there was a moment wherein the man he had been was deeply moved just to look upon her, and then the coldness of the Wendigo swept over and turned it into just more Hunger. Her violet gaze locked with his black pits, and then moved up and down his body with a look of tempered consideration. Daryl swallowed.
“You smell like a kelpie drenched in brine.” She remarked, and Daryl broke away to look down at the floor and his crooked, awkward was-feet. She looked at the maître d’ who had led them here, and he avoided her eyes.
“Why did you bring them here?” She asked, and he almost flinched beneath her demand - but produced the coin Daimio had given him downstairs, holding it out clearly between two fingers.
“They did me a favour.” He said, with a weary sorrow in his voice; the woman sighed and turned around to look out the window in the back wall of her office.
“Go home.” She said, and the maître d’ left. There was a pregnant pause, but it was only when the woman began to speak again that Daimio interrupted her with:
“We’ve come to strike a bargain.”
And at that, Daryl could smell the most peculiar mix of ecstatic curiosity and apoplectic fury erupt into the room. He had to give her credit though; for all the stench of it in the air, she did nothing to show it past taking a seat at the desk and carefully producing a leather-bound ledger with yellowing pages.
“As the approaching party, state your desire. Then we will see if you can afford it.”
Daryl and Daimio shared a glance, and Daimio nodded. Daryl sat on the floor in front of the desk, his legs splayed to the side but his head still grazing the ceiling. A deep groan came from within him, a grumble moving up from his chest into his throat.
“Nnn…n-nAme…f-firST.” He said with a voice like a winter storm through dead trees , pointing a singular claw at the woman. She regarded him carefully, and Daryl could see pin-prick goosebumps of fear flash on her shoulders, but she steadied herself and was once again composed.
“You may know me as Shailagh.” She answered, and Daryl did. He pointed to himself, and then Daimio, replying:
“DaaA-ryl. Ben.”
And then he extended his open hand, proffering it across Shailagh’s desk. “EEeequals…”
Shailagh looked at Daimio, who offered no reaction, and after another long pause, Shailagh took Daryl’s hand and they shook. Equals. Daimio nodded, and approached the desk as Daryl took back his hand.
“We need information.” He began, and this elicited the patronising scoff that Daryl was beginning to feel was instinctual for faeries.
“Information is an expensive thing. It’s the
most expensive thing.”
“We are prepared to meet the cost.”
“Humans are prone to over-promising and under-delivering. We do not let debts lie unpaid.”
“That’s as may be; but we will hear your price nonetheless.”
Shailagh considered this, and for all the tension in the room she looked faintly amused. It was rare the fae dealt with humans that knew
how to deal with them. The change of pace was almost refreshing. She nodded, and Daimio forged on; he produced a thin file, and flicked through it. Daryl noticed Shailagh subtly crane her neck in an attempt to see what was contained.
"Eleven months ago, a woman died in her apartment in Boston. A tragic case, especially as she was pregnant, and the child was lost, but standard fair for the police. No man in the picture. No signs of forced entry. No wounds on the woman. No evidence of foul play. Coroner chalked it up to a freak accident. Case closed. Papers didn't run it. Probably because she was an immigrant."
Shailagh sat quietly, listening carefully. No questions had yet been asked. Daimio removed a photo print from the file and tossed it onto the desk. It depicted viscera that poked the Wendigo something fierce, but Daryl recognised it as a corpse.
"Eight months ago, a man's body is found on the streets. Gutted. Organs missing. Eyes gone. Body torn open. Police put it down to 'gang violence'. Case closed. Papers didn't run it."
Daryl watched Shailagh carefully, but if she had any thoughts or held any secret emotions, she didn't show it.
"Six months ago, same thing." Daimio continued, throwing a second photo to the desk. "Five months ago." A third picture. "Three months. One month. Last week." Three more photos. Daimio came to a stop, and Shailagh took the photos in hand, fanning them out like playing cards. "No media buzz on a single one. Nothing mainstream, anyway. And one detail - the
same detail - has been redacted from every single police report."
A low, subtle rumble emanated from Daryl's depths. Shailagh raised an eyebrow. Daimio ignored it.
"Nothing happens in this borough without the Boston Fae knowing about it. And if the Boston Fae know about it,
you know about it. So, here's what we want:" and at this, Shailagh finally became animated, "we want to know where in Boston grows the highest density in concentration of Plumeria flowers."
Shailagh paused. She pursed her lips. She looked from the photos, to Daimio, to Daryl, and back at the photos. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Daimio's file, its blank covers still as unreadable as they had been minutes ago. She looked at the photos again, before turning them over and leaving them face-down on the surface of her desk. Finally, she stood up, walking once again to the back of the room to look out the large window that comprised most of the far wall. On the desk, her ledger rustled, old pages crinkling in an unfelt breeze, before settling on a blank page. Atop it became scribed in dark ink their names; beneath Daryl and Daimio's, more words appeared:
"KNOWLEDGE ON THE GROWTH OF PLUMERIA FLOWERS IN BOSTON", and beneath Shailagh's:
"SINGULAR POSSESSION OF THE WENDIGO SPIRIT". At the bottom of the page, the final etching was a line upon which each party would sign. Daryl and Daimio read the words upside-down from their side of the desk. Daryl felt a sliver of something colder than any winter the Wendigo had experienced pierce through his gut. Daimio merely blinked.
"You ask more than what you offer. This is not fair bargain."
Shailagh rounded on them both with a speed neither could have expected. There was perhaps the notion of a single step forward, and she had crossed the room before either agent could blink; the room seemed to swell with her fury, but was just as quickly dispelled, replaced with a tranquillity that felt all the more eerie for the tension it had replaced.
"You intrude on Fae territory, give freely favours to Fae, plea to bargain for Fae knowledge. Yet you are not Fae. Consider the cost in part taxation for outsiders."
Daryl rumbled.
"Weeeee...
shOOk. Equals..." He said, and Shailagh pivoted to look at him. Scar bedamned, Daimio smirked. "Knowl-edge fffor kn-nowlEDGE."
Shailagh locked gaze with Daryl for an uncomfortable length of time. Something black and evil sparkled in Daryl's eyes. Something dubious and cunning sparkled in Shailagh's. Behind them both, on the desk, the wording in the book beneath her name changed to:
"KNOWLEDGE ON THE CONTAINMENT AND CONTROL OF THE WENDIGO SPIRIT". There was the slightest nod between them, and Daryl raised a heavy arm to touch a single claw on the line; from the tip, spider-web frost spilled out in the shape of crude lettering, spelling his name. It settled onto the page quickly as ever-ice. A signature befitting the Wendigo. The quill beside the book lifted, and scrawled simultaneously an elegant cursive on the opposite line. As soon as Daryl lifted his hand from the paper, the quill fell to the desk and the book slammed shut.
"I found our meeting to be one of great curiosity, Mr. Tynon. Beneath Trinity Church." Shailagh said. Daryl loomed over her. Daimio stepped forward to shake her hand.
"Our colleagues will share our research with you." He said, already putting his hand to his ear to speak to Corrigan as he turned to leave. Daryl lingered briefly. Neither he nor Shailagh had broken their gaze.
"UN-til...nEXt time." He said, awkwardly, and then followed Daimio out of the building.
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