Micah walked down the long, winding alleyway that led to Sammy's nightclub. Less than four blocks from City Hall, yet few mortals even knew it existed. The city’s club scene crowd talked about it in hushed whispers. Some even claimed to have been there. Since cell phones with GPS tracking became widely available, Sammy had been far more choosey about who he let in.

The line that used to stretch almost two city blocks was only half a block long, tucked in after the third twist in the alleyway. At the head of the line stood Sammy's Door Warden, a willowy young woman with long, straight, blonde hair and a thin silver pen she used to scribble notes on her anachronistic clipboard. Micah was sure it was the same woman he'd met eighty years before, the night he won his wife's heart.

As he approached, the Door Warden shot him a sour look. Not only had he skipped her precious line, but he did so without being dressed outlandishly or expensively. Instead, he wore his working clothes, a simple, serviceable suit, cut to a style at least two years out of the current mode. Worst of all, she had to let him in. Micah wasn't sure if it was because of his wife, his daughter in law, or just long acquaintance, but he had a place on Sammy's permanent admit list.

"Sir, I'm not sure your attire meets the minimum requirement."

The Warden waved her pen to take in his jacket, pants, and shoes. He cocked his head and stared at her. The pounding in his head ate away at his temper, and he was in no mood to play games with Sammy's flunky. She glared at him, but he'd looked into the eyes of the Morrigan's daughter and laughed. Her pique slid off him like water. After a few moments, she looked down at the list.

"Your name, sir?"

"Micah. As you know very well, having seen me hundreds of times before."

"Ah, yes. Here you are. Consort of a Princess of the Unseeleigh, creation of the Artisan. It appears you are to be permitted access in whatever attire you wish to wear. So sorry to inconvenience you."

She stepped aside, and Micah moved toward the door. The hulking brutes to either side of the door moved to block him. He didn't bother looking at them; they were too stupid to intimidate. Instead, he turned his gaze to the Door Warden, who now stood well within his reach.

"Well?"

"Ah, yes. May you find what you seek in Sammy's demesnes."

With that ritual phrase uttered the brutes stepped back, returning to their endless, motionless wait to either side of the door.

Micah entered the club, his temper even shorter now. He ignored the pointed suggestion of the coat check, turned a blind eye to the beautiful oak bar that ran the length of one wall, and strode across the dance floor ignoring music, lights, and dancers alike. At the far end of the club, directly between the entrance to the kitchens and one end of the bar, Sammy sat at the table Micah had never seen him leave. Today he sat alone at a round table with enough seats for a half dozen people. He watched Micah approach, a small frown on his face.

Micah was in pain, annoyed by the behavior of Sammy's door warden, and in no mood to engage in pointless revelry, but that didn't mean he would be stupid. Micah had no idea what Sammy was, but even Micah's daughter-in-law, who was literally some kind of angel, tread lightly around Sammy. Micah stopped a few steps from Sammy's table and bowed his head briefly, acknowledging the club's lord.

"Sam."

The moment Micah's head bobbed, no matter how briefly, Sammy's frown disappeared, subsumed into his customary knowing grin. He waved Micah to a seat at his table, waiting until Micah was seated before he spoke.

"Micah! What an unexpected surprise. I don't often see you here, and never unaccompanied by your ravishing bride."

"No offense meant, but some of us have work to do, Sam."

"None taken, dear boy. That work ethic is why you've done so well for yourself, I'm sure." Sammy rolled his eyes, waving a hand to encompass the bar, the dance floor, and the booths along one wall of the club. "I've never taken to work myself; you know. It just doesn't agree with me."

Micah looked around the club, following Sammy's gesture. It was only polite to admire his host's accomplishment, after all. His gaze quickly tracked back to Sammy, who raised an eyebrow.

"So impatient. Is there a reason for your rush today, Micah, or is this simply your nature overcoming your better judgment?"

Micah sighed. Verbal sparring with Sammy was to be expected, and Sammy was the best way to get in touch with his mother-in-law, but neither of those facts made his head stop aching. The trouble, of course, was that showing weakness to someone like Sammy was a Very Bad Thing. The best he could expect at that point was to leave in Sammy's debt without contacting The Morrigan. The worst didn't bear thinking on.

"I apologize, Sam. Work stress. You know how it is."

They shared a quick, sardonic smile. They both knew Sammy hadn't done anything resembling work since Micah moved into the city nearly a century before. He collected secrets and favors, he dispensed advice and introductions, all without ever leaving his club. There was no one in Philadelphia with more connections in the supernatural world, and they both knew it.

"Ah, well. I hope you have time to stay for dinner, at least?"

It wasn't a question, nor a suggestion. When Sammy asked, you did, or his supply of favors mysteriously dried up. Micah nodded his acquiescence, then took a drink of water to hide a particularly bad spike of pain. He didn't hide it well enough.

"Is something wrong, Micah? I can't have one of my oldest and dearest friends suffering. Can I get you an aspirin?"

"Thanks for the offer, but it's nothing. Work does that to a man."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Sammy grimaced, "I'm glad I've never indulged, then. I'd been told some addictions have bad side effects. I never had any from any of my vices, but I guess I got lucky."

A waiter arrived with a tray bearing a selection of appetizers from Sammy's kitchen. Both men remained silent until the waiter left them alone with the food.

"I recommend the bruschetta. The tomatoes are fresh from local a farm in New Jersey. The bread is baked daily at Amoroso's, and the chef is using an old family recipe."

Micah lifted the recommended bruschetta to his nose, inhaling the smells of herbs, the crisp notes of fresh bread lightly toasted, the tang of garlic, and the faintly acrid smell of tomatoes and vinegar. Before he took a bite, he looked at Sammy out of the corner of one eye.

"The cook's family or yours?"

Sammy's laugh was a strange thing, half honest mirth, half hints of secret sources of amusement. He waved a hand, indicating his guest should take a bite. When Micah did, his eyes slipped closed in pure gustatory bliss. For a moment, he was unaware of headaches, mortality, or the perils of his wife's unrestrained magic. The only thing that existed was a bruschetta perfectly like the ones he'd first had in Italy three centuries before.

When, two brief bites later, the appetizer was gone, Micah opened his eyes and smiled at his host.

"Thank you, Sam. That was incredible. Is there anything else you recommend?"

Sam replied with a Gallic shrug. "Nothing particular. The calamari is acceptable. The small pastries are popular, but I suspect that is more due to the high fat content than any real quality. The pickled vegetables are quite refreshing, if you like that kind of thing."

"I wish I had time to properly appreciate all of them, but..."

"But you do not. Always with the rushing around, Micah. When are you going to retire? Or even take a vacation? For that matter, how long has it been since you took a break longer than a few hours?"

"I don't know, Sam. It's... It's been a while. Right now, though, this isn't about work. It's about... I need to get in touch with Phil's mother."

Sammy's knowing nod told Micah he'd probably said too much. His head was pounding with renewed vigor, as if to make up for allowing him a moment's respite while he ate. His many worries were rushing in circles through his head, nattering at him while he waited for Sammy to reply. He would help or he would not, and the price of his favor was always the same; a similar favor returned with interest at some point in the future.

"Is Ophilia feeling all right?"

It was all Micah could do to keep himself from going over the table at Sammy. He told himself it was pointless; Sammy wouldn't let him get halfway before he called on some Power or another and ejected Micah from the club. That didn't matter. Hearing the considering tone in Sammy's voice when he spoke about Phil drove Micah into a fury, which his headache turned into a murderous rage. The only thing that kept him in his seat was the knowledge that if he moved on Sammy, the only hope he had of helping Ophilia would evaporate like mist on a summer morning.

Before he could grate out a reply, Sammy spoke again.

"She is not. Neither are you. I see as much from your reaction. Were I a less courageous man, I would send you forth at once; any plague which could strike at both of you could easily lay me low as well, but... well, let us say I have a professional interest in this."

Some part of Micah's brain carefully recorded Sammy's words for later consideration, but most of his attention was taking up with reining in his pain fueled temper. When he was sure he had it under control, he forced his tone to something approaching civil speech.

"Thank you, Sam. Can you contact The Morr..."

"Micah!" Sammy's sharp interruption drove a spike through Micah's head, goading his temper. Before he could control himself enough to respond with words or actions, Sammy was speaking again, his voice a soothing, gentle balm. "Please, she is an old spirit, one who can hear her name when it is spoken at a meeting place such as this."

Micah forced the words through gritted teeth. "So, she'll hear me. Aren't I trying to get her attention?"

"Well, that depends. If I come into your museum with a lit torch and an impact hammer, will I get your attention?"

The pain had worn through Micah's control. His words were a growl, daring Sammy to reply. "Yeah, you won't like it, though."

"Well then, when I ask you not to summon your wife's mother in such a peremptory fashion while you sit in my abode, can you at least do me that simple courtesy, as I do you the courtesy of never bringing a weapon into your museum?"

That stopped Micah cold. "You've been to the museum?"

"Of course. How could I not visit my oldest and dearest friends in this city?"

For a moment, surprise overrode the constant, nagging pain in Micah's skull. "You never let us know. I'd have..." he stopped; at a loss for what he would have done had he known Sammy was visiting.

"You'd have what?" said Sammy, echoing Micah's thoughts. "Thrown some kind of gala event in my honor? Please. That would be so gauche."

"Well," Micah said, "you might have stopped by my office. I could have shown you around." Even as he spoke, he knew the protest sounded weak.

"It's quite all right, Micah. I preferred seeing your museum as just another guest. I must say, your collection is eclectic and fascinating. I commend your acquisitions officer."

Despite the pain in his head, Micah smiled. "That would be Phil and I."

"Ah, I should have known as much. Between the two of you, there is a wealth of knowledge regarding objects of art unrivalled by any mortal, is there not?"

Now it was Micah's turn to shrug. "I wouldn't say unrivalled, but we certainly know enough to have an idea what we're looking for. The real reason we do it ourselves is that we can't afford someone who could do it better than we do."

While Micah spoke, a young man dressed as part of the club's wait staff walked up to Sammy's side. Sammy waved him closer, and the waiter leaned down and whispered in Sammy's ear.

"I am sorry, Micah, but an urgent call has just come in. Would you be terribly offended if I deal with it? I believe it will be quick."

"Go ahead."

Sammy took a cell phone earpiece from the young man, clipping it to his ear and activating it with a single smooth motion.

"Yes, Sammy speaking." Sam listened intently for a bit, his expression growing predatory as he did. "Of course, I can help you. Send me a list of what you will need, and I will see that it is done." Sammy paused again briefly, this time with a smile completely at odds with the pleasant friendliness of his voice. "As I said, let me know. I'm rather busy at the moment... I'll be sure to let him know you called if I do. Au revoir."

Sammy returned the earpiece to his minion and returned his attention to Micah.

"So, you were saying you and Ophilia do all of your own purchasing, because you could not afford someone with more skill than either of you, let alone both of you put together. In much the same way, you could not afford the services of a better restorer than Ophilia, or a better security chief than yourself."

"That's about the size of it."

"Have you never thought that there are those who, while they are less capable than yourselves, would still prove more than adequate to the tasks at hand?"

The moment of clarity passed rapidly. Once again Micah felt a thump inside his skull with each repetition of his Words. His words slurred slightly when he spoke.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Only that you are overqualified, my friend. Overqualified and overworked. You must learn to let go, or you will work yourself into an early grave. You might not care for yourself, but Ophillia would be distraught."

"Yeah. Yeah. Look, can you just tell The... Tell Phil's mom that I need to talk to her. It's urgent."

"I will pass the message along."

"Any idea when you'll be talking to her?"

"For you, since you are such a good friend, and your need is so urgent, I will make a special effort to contact her."

"Thanks. I won't forget it, Sam."

"Are you certain I cannot get you an aspirin, or even a drink of some kind?"

"Thanks for the offer, but I don't think it's going to help, Sam. I've got to get going."

"As you will. Be well, my friend. Return in... shall we say three hours?"

"Sure. You take care too, Sam."