“Fair is foul, and foul is fair,” mumbled Tom as we stood on the broad steps before the front of The Holy Tinity Chruch in Stratford on Avon.

“Nonsense,” snapped H. As usual she was dressed in black. She placed her head against the front of the door, near the lock. “It is what it is,” she hissed. “You’re talking like someone from Faerie.”

H was one of the three daughters of The Morrigan, one of the numerous nobility of Faerie, and she was also my girlfriend, last time I looked, however, lately she was being rather stand-offish. She was also one of the most intense people I had ever met.

“Well, he is a Fomorian,” I ventured.

Fomorians were ancient Irish Gods associated with the malevolent powers of nature. I’m not even sure ‘Irish’ was a term I could use here. They existed a long time before there was an Ireland, and would probably exist a long time after. The story goes: they lost the war with the Tuatha de Dannan and the Tuatha lost the war with the Milesians. Now the Fomorians, under the banner of Elatha, wanted the earth back. Some of the Tuatha supported him and some didn’t, but the real problem was that there were some eight billion ‘Milesians’ standing in his way and he was a psychotic killer.

“Remind me again, why we’re here,” said Tom. “I mean, if we want to see Shakespear’s grave, why not just wait until opening hours. Then we can pay our respects like normal people.”

H had done something to the lock because it clicked. She looked up at Tom testily. “First of all, we’re not ‘normal people’ and second of all, I don’t think people would like us smashing open his grave.”

Even though H had been able to take out the street lights I could see Tom’s face blanch.

“You never said anything about smashing open his grave! It’s cursed.”

“’Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare, To dig the dust enclosed here. Blessed be the man that spares these stones, And cursed be he that moves my bones,” I said. One of the irritating things about my mind was that I could almost remember anything, except details about my own life.

Tom immediately began to fumble with a pack of cigarettes and was about to light one when H knocked them from his hands. “Don’t you know, smoking is likely to get us all killed.”

“Sorry,” said Tom continuing to fidget.

I placed my hands against the door and opened it. Shutting the door behind us we were suddenly encased in darkness. In the chancel, at the far end of the church, was where they kept the graves. Tom took a couple steps, the hard heels on his cowboy boots making loud echoing noises that bounced off the high ceiling ricocheting back down on us.

H stared at him and jabbed a finger at his boots. “Take them off,” she hissed.

Tom gave an anemic complaint but used my shoulder to hold himself up as he struggled to pull them off.

In the chancel we were surrounded by high walls and tall stained glass windows, and in front of an alter we found the graves marked with black plaques. On the wall, just visible in the dark was a bust of Shakespeare, his bald headed effigy brooding down on us as he signed a sack of grain.

“Behold,” whispered Tom worshipfully, “the Immortal Bard.”

H gave him a perturbed stare. “Would you shut up?” She turned on me accusingly. “I really don’t know why you insisted on bringing him along. He doesn’t even know who he is.”

“Just a little while ago, I didn’t know who I was...I still don’t, not really. Besides, he’s now a card carrying member of the Finnan Finn.”

That was another thing. When I turned eighteen, I was supposed to remember who I really was, but I didn’t, much to the disappointment of my aunts, both of who were druids. Supposedly, I was from Faerie. My mother and dad, to preserve my life, had fled the place, and my aunts had cast a memory charm over me, one that wouldn’t be lifted until I came of age. The idea was to keep me safe: what I didn’t know wouldn’t be able to hurt me. It was an idea, not a very good one, but an idea. However, when I turned eighteen, for some reason, it didn’t lift, although I do have some glimpses, like a vague shadow of a memory, of people, of places, of things. In itself, a strange thing, but add to it my photographic memory and it gets even stranger. So, instead of being good old Will Suntag, I’m actually Fionn, the Captain of the Finnan Finn, who are a bunch of ex-military, blood lusting bikers. I didn’t ask for it. It had been bequeathed to me by my father who was Captain before me. So, one of my first actions as a Captain was to let Tom join. He had been crazy to accept. Besides, I owed it to his mother, Cliodhna, the goddess of love, who had tried really, really hard to kill me and my mother...

“Deep thoughts?” demanded H. This was as close to being sensitive as she got.

“Nothing homicidal.”

“Good.” She nodded somewhat satisfied. One of the side effects of spending too much time in Faerie is that you tended to develop and overwhelming desire to kill things. Fortunately, they had a system of visas that helped vent those nasty desires. That’s where I met H. She was a librarian and I was a co-op student, before things got really crazy.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” asked Tom as he swung the sack he was carrying onto the ground.

I knew what the round object was.

“It’ll work,” snapped H. She was on her knees looking at what was written on the plaques.

“It’s probably the one outlined with the black cord,” said Tom. “Anne Hathaway is to the left.” He was a rabid Bardologist.

H was running her hand over the surface of the floor. “It’s the right one. You see, the stone was replaced awhile back.”

She quickly rose to her feet and hefted the sledge hammer she had been carrying. She was about to smash open the grave of William Shakespeare, when a beam of light hit us.

“Drop the hammer and put your hands into the air this is the Police.”

I could sense H’s fury, a dark anger coalescing about her. The outline of her skin became blurry. That was another thing about a lot of people who lived in Faerie, they could shape shift. H could shift into a black panther.

“Don’t do it, not here, not now. They’re innocent,” I hissed into her ear. The other thing was that when she shifted she had the tendency of killing anything that got into her way.

She calmed taking a long breath. I had been teaching her yoga, but she preferred kung fu.

An officer in a short sleeved shirt, flak jacket and a forge cap with a distinctive checkered band around it, continued to instruct us to raise our hands. H dropped the hammer and it clattered harshly onto the floor. A female officer shone a light at the bag and bent down to investigate.

“What do we have here,” she said reaching into the bag.

“Better be careful,” said the male. “It might be a bomb.”

“Don’t be daft. What are they going to do, bust open a grave so they can plant a bomb in it?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he said defensively. “Remember the guy who tried to blow up a plane with his underwear?”

I tried not to laugh.

“Think that’s funny pretty boy,” snapped the female officer shining the light into my face. “What’s this?” And she pulled the skull out of the bag.

“It’s a skull,” said the male constable.

“Obviously,” she said, “you three better start talking, before we have you up on murder charges.”

The interrogation room had a table, two chairs and a one way window. I knew they were watching me from the other side of the window, letting me ‘stew’. I always liked cop shows, but I wasn’t to terribly excited to be in this one. I knew we were in deep trouble because we hadn’t discussed what our story was. Whatever they were asking Tom and H, our tale was bound not to be the same.

The door opened and a squat detective in a blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wet stains spreading out from his arm pits waddled into the room. He had a round, pug like face and was grossly overweight. He glared down at me with blood shot eyes. Plopping down into a chair he tossed his clip board onto the table. In his other hand he carried the skull.

“You know why I’m here?”

It was an interesting opening statement. I almost asked him if he was looking for a doughnut.

“No.”

“Because London has too many freaks!” His eyes narrowed. “They were afraid I would hurt someone.”

I glanced hopefully at the recorder. “Shouldn’t you turn that on or something?”

He glanced at the recorder and laughed. “Why would I want to do that? Someone might get the wrong idea...that I actually cared or something.”

“Where are my friends?”

He looked at me in feigned surprise. “Oh, they’re being taken care of, just fine. Now,” he placed the skull on the table. “Why would you be breaking into a church with a five hundred year old skull?”

“Well, at least you can’t accuse us of murder.”

The detective sucked in his amble cheeks and blew out a hot stream of air. “A funny boy. No, no, I really can’t do that, but I can charge you with the desecration of human remains, breaking and entering with the intent to vandalize.”

My mother always taught me the following: when caught in a compromising position, always tell the truth, no matter what. It was a tact I usually avoided, but in this circumstance I think, perhaps, it was a good idea.

“Are you Irish?”

This caught him by surprise and his eyes narrowed, suspicious of a trap. “What are you playing at?”

“The answer to the skull.”

“He’s Irish?”

“No. The skull belongs to William Shakespeare, but we got it from the Rovers.”

The detective’s face went white and his mouth dried up so that when he spoke his voice cracked and squeaked. “You can’t be serious...” The Rovers were one of the most dangerous gangs in Ireland.

I didn’t want to go into details of how Goll mac Morna and his brothers had busted into the Rover’s cash and made away with the skull. I reached out and took the skull and looked into its vacant eye sockets. “Are you familiar with Fionn mac Cumhail?”

The detective relaxed a little and let a strained laugh slip out his lips. “I am.”

“I am Fionn.”

He gave a great barking laugh. “The next thing you’ll be telling me is that you were breaking into the church to reunite Mr. Shakespeare’s head to his body so that he could walk the earth again.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Shakespeare is a Fomorian. He offended a lot of them by mixing magic in with words, so they removed his head.”

The detective just stared at me, his face turning a peculiar shade of reddish-purple. He must have forgotten to breathe.

Just then a commotion cut through the interview door. The detective, now thoroughly rattled got up, opened the door and looked out at the front desk. The police station was in commotion. It was like a sea of dark blue and in the centre stood a figure in fatigues, a form fitting red barrette on her head. She looked distinctly like H, relatively small in stature but standing with a lethal confidence that made you take notice. Instead of black hair, like H, her hair was red. It was H’s sister, Red. She had been one of the Finnan Finn, when my father had been its Captain. She had also been with him when he had died.

The detective trundled over to her. Even though shorter than most people in the room, Red seemed much taller. It almost looked as though the detective gave her a little bobbing bow as he knuckled his forehead. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it was quick and to the point. He turned and bustled back into the interview room.

He didn’t look pleased. He waved a big sausage finger in my face. “Fionn, right. I don’t know who you are, funny boy,” he picked up the skull and thrust it into my arms, “or how you came by this, but you’ve got friends in the Commissioner’s office.”

“So...” I said holding onto the skull.

He swung the door open. “So, sod off.”

On the street, half on the sidewalk, half on the street, crouched a massive vehicle. It was a dun coloured Mastiff PPV. The driver in the narrow window signaled me to go around to the back. When I did so, the back doors swung open and H reached out and pulled me in. There were several bucket seats in the back, plenty for everyone.

Tom was so excited he looked ready to burst. He was staring at Red adoringly.

“This is...this is...”

“I know. How are you doing, Red?”

She motioned me to take a seat, her mouth a tight slash. She pounded on the roof of the vehicle which started to move, and then she turned to me, her eyes burning. “Don’t call me that. You haven’t earned the right to call me that.” She stared at her sister. “How did he know to call me that?”

I caught a warning glance from H. The daughters of The Morrigan were three: Birghid, who had blonde hair and had an affinity for poets, H, who had black hair and was more partial to artists that built things, like black smiths, and then there was Red, who liked to heal people. Right now, by the way she was glaring at me, it looked as though she wanted to damage not heal me.

“Sorry. Thanks for bailing us out in there.”

Red turned to H. “And you’re absolutely sure he’s the Captain?”

H gave her a bit of an embarrassed nod, which stung a bit.

“Hey, you’re supposed to support me,” I complained.

Tom who was examining the lights on the ceiling said: “I support you.”

“Who is he?” asked Red. Then in exasperation said, “No, he didn’t make him a member of the Finnan Finn.”

“It’s a long story, don’t ask,” responded H.

“This is awesome,” said Tom.

“Seems a bit skinny to be a Finnan Finn,” said Red.

“Hey,” protested Tom, “I heard that.” He made a muscle with his arms. “I may be wiry, but I’m strong.”

“What do you think you were doing back there at the church?” demanded Red. “You might as well just stand in the middle of the street and start shouting, hey, we’re here! We’re going to do something incredibly stupid, come get us.”

H seemed to bridle at this. “It was a good plan. They took Shakespeare’s head for a reason.”

“Did you ever wonder about that,” countered Red. “Maybe they took his head, because even amongst the Fomorians he was considered too dangerous.”

“They were afraid of a playwright?” I asked.

Tom was shaking his head as though I had just said the most unknowledgeable thing in the world. “His words were power, man. Sit through three hours of King Lear and tell me how you feel afterwards. You feel altered.”

“I know how my bum would feel, nub,” I said didn’t get the calculated laughter I was fishing for.

“I’m sorry,” H said apologizing for me.

Red fixed me into place with riveting eyes. She certainly had a dominating personality...much like her mother. “He’s right. Words, in this dimension, are words. We can sense their power, but words in Faerie can create, can destroy. Poetry...Birghid can explain it better than me.”

“So, you think Will crossed Elatha?” I suggested. “All the more reason to bring him back.”

“We don’t know that,” countered Red. “There’s a lot of secrecy around the event. If you do reunite the head with the body, you have no idea what you would be bringing back, and once he’s back...If he sides with Elatha...”

“Yes, but what if we can get him to join us,” said Tom heatedly. “Imagine if he’s like Prospero in ‘The Tempest,’ where he can command the very wind itself.”

“It’s too dangerous,” said Red stubbornly. “I’m going to take you back to HQ and then we’ll decide what to do next.”

I wondered what it would sound like, if you were inside a big tower bell when they began ringing it, and suddenly, when the explosion happened I knew. I went deaf instantly. We were tossed around the interior of the Mastiff like rag dolls. I hit the ceiling and then bounced onto the floor. Red hit her head and was knocked unconscious. H was dazed, and Tom was...I couldn’t see where Tom had gone. It was as though he had just vanished.

The back doors to the Mastiff were flung open and standing there, his pearly white teeth reflecting the light from the sun was Elatha. He had brought help. Behind him were what looked like a dozen ninjas, except Instead of carrying knifes, they held automatic weapons.