“Looking for Crystal?”
She bit her lower lip and looked at me sideways. “You know where she’s at?”
“That answers my next question. She’s not here, Mrs. Finch. I got the feeling inside she wouldn’t be welcome.”
She flipped her hair and stared directly at me know. Cool, hard eyes, not the type I would find comforting if I were looking for a little short-term company. “Ain’t no Mrs. Finch. That was Crystal’s daddy’s name. You a cop?”
“Not really. But I’d still like to talk to Crystal.”
“Oh, you’d ‘like to talk to Crystal,’” she mimicked. “Get in line, buddy. I haven’t seen her in three days. When I heard about Denny, I thought I might get her here.”
I glanced up at the house. Murdock had made his way onto the steps and was talking to the last couple of kids remaining. “You don’t seem very upset.”
She shrugged. “Not my kid. Shit happens.”
“What can you tell me about Crystal?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Crystal? How about she’s an ungrateful little bitch who owes me seventy-five bucks, and if she don’t turn up real soon, she can just stay wherever she’s landed. How’s that?”
“Very maternal,” I said.
She curled her upper lip. “Go to hell, Mr. Not-really-a-cop. You see Crystal, you tell her I want my cash.” She walked away, her high heels boring holes into the sidewalk. I watched her go and thought you don’t have to be fey to land on the wrong side of the street around here.
I went back to Murdock’s car to wait for him. Night descended on the city, a darker night than usual. Death may be the great equalizer, but the Weird is a close second. That two people died there, one so prominent, the other so not, demonstrates it. The fact that they had a connection to each other shows how the high and low can both find the same knock on the door.
5
A high-pitched ringing jolted me out of sleep. I knew that sound and dreaded it every time I heard it. One of my protection wards had gone off. I slid out of bed into my jeans in one smooth motion. In less than two seconds, I was across the room and standing to the side of the door with a classic Louisville slugger in my hand. The bat had two functions: it was charged with a deflector spell that would activate if someone threw essence at me, and it hurt like hell if I whomped someone with it. In either case, the idea was to give me some breathing space to call for help if I needed it.
Several wards protect my apartment. Some of them are passive—they act like barriers against charged essence. Some are reactive—like those that test for an individual’s essence to determine whether that person is someone I trust. That’s how people like Murdock and Joe can come and go without freaking out the wards. And some are active, doing a regular scan for any unusual activity. None of them will completely protect me. That’s where the signal wards come in. They’re scattered around the building and keyed to my essence. I touch one, and an emergency signal shoots to the Guild. Only I know where they all are. They are my fail-safe, presuming I live long enough for help to arrive.
My apartment is on a dead-end hallway, so anyone making the turn at the top of the stairs has only my place to go to. The alarm that had gone off was a simple proximity alert at the end of the outside hall. It’s a silent alarm—only I can hear it in my head. I felt another alarm go off, the one within five feet of the door, followed immediately by a banging.
“UBS,” a voice called out.
I relaxed, but only a little. It wouldn’t be the first time someone pretended to be a delivery service before they turned all assassin on you.
“Got any ID?” I called back. I did not move to look through the peephole. That would be expected. Whoever was on the other side of the door would know where I was standing at that moment and could take it as an opportunity to, oh, blow a hole in my head.
“Hello?” the voice said with an edge of annoyance.
I gave a quick look through the peep. He looked like a brownie—tawny skin, curly hair, button nose. The essence trickling through the door verified it as well. And he had the standard brown UBS uniform with the yellow shield sewn into the pocket, though that could have been filched.
Brownies aren’t the most powerful of the fairies. They didn’t have enough essence to make much of a living charging wards or serving as useful bodyguards. They are good at helping with simple tasks that people hate doing, like house-cleaning. A lot of brownies actually did market themselves as housekeepers. The one drawback is their tendency to take insult over the slightest matters. At which point, they mutate into boggarts and become obsessed with vindication. Where they could be quite shy and pleasant as brownies, their boggart aspect is relentlessly annoying. Some bright guy turned that into an advantage by starting the United Brownie Service, one of the most reliable delivery services in the world. When UBS comes calling, you either answer or risk being stalked by an angry boggart.
“How’d you get in the building?” I asked.
“The door was open. Look, I’m double-parked. I’ve got a letter for Connor Grey. Are you him?”
“Just leave it,” I said.
“I need a signature.” Definitely annoyed now. I gave another look-see. His eyes were bulging a little. If I teased him out a bit more, he’d go boggie. I once knew a guy in a divorce case who lived on the run for three months with a screaming, maniacal boggart chasing him down with a subpoena. Not pretty.
I decided to risk it and open the door. You can’t live your life assuming every nutty fairy at your door wants to kill you. The brownie gave me a grudging, almost relieved, smile. I doubt they like going boggart any more than someone likes being on the receiving end of it. Going boggie is a mania and has got to be exhausting.
“Are you Connor Grey?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I need to see your ID.” I didn’t argue. It would just make him upset, so I pulled out my wallet.
He nodded and made a notation on his clipboard. “An emergency meeting of the Guild board of directors has been called for tomorrow.”
I leaned against the doorjamb. “And that concerns me because…?”
He looked down at his clipboard. “You are the druid Connor Grey, right?”
“Yeah, but…”
“So I have you listed as Lady Briallen ab Gwyll’s alternate. She’s out of town.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”
He gave me an annoyed look and held his clipboard up. There it was, an official notice from Guildmaster Manus ap Eagan for a board of directors’ meeting tomorrow. Sure enough, there I was, listed as Briallen’s alternate.
“Sign here,” the brownie said, pointing. I chuckled and signed. The brownie handed me an envelope and snatched the clipboard back. “Thanks.”
“Please shut the front door for me.”
“Sure!” He gave me a ridiculous smile. I could not fathom being that happy doing errands. They prefer their brownie aspect over the boggart. By their very nature, they can swing between the two in moments, so having the opportunity to be helpful to me probably took the edge off his initial annoyance with me.
Briallen was an old friend and mentor. She had been on the Boston Guildhouse board of directors since its founding. I knew she was traveling in the Far East over the summer on some obscure educational junket that I could never quite clarify no matter how often I asked. I remember a discussion with her years ago about listing me as a temporary alternate director. I couldn’t believe she had never changed it, especially after the events of the last two years. It wasn’t like her to overlook something like that. On the other hand, what would be like her, though, is to remember exactly that and purposely not change it. For all her professions of being a scholar, which she is, she’s not above a little politicking here and there.
Since the accident that left me ability-impaired, I had effectively been banned from the Guildhouse. The envelope contained a copy of the meeting notice and a Guildhouse building pass. Normally, I couldn’t get in the front door of the Guildho
use without an escort, and here I was being invited to a governing board meeting. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Keeva’s face.
I could guess what the meeting was about. Alvud Kruge had been a board member. While the Guildhouse board had become more and more ineffectual over the years, fractured as it was by partisanship, with any luck it should be able to muster a coherent statement of condolences.
Now that I had the keys to the palace, I thought I’d drop in and surprise a couple of people. It would give me a chance to fill Keeva in on what had happened with the running shoe evidence and see what leads she was following for Kruge. If she would tell me. I never knew with her.
I spent the rest of the morning doing what I could to research gangs off the Internet. Not much help, really. Mostly newspaper articles talking about gangs on the Web. I did find a couple of local sites on the Weird, but they just referenced the usual suspects in the neighborhood in an odd travel guide style.
By early afternoon, I stood in the wide foyer of Boston’s Ward Guildhouse. To the left, applicants snaked through a queue, a litany of the fey world’s woes etched on their faces. This is how the fey deals with the world: A bad thing happens; you can’t solve it yourself; you go to the Guildhouse and fill out an application for assistance; then you go home and never hear from them again unless you’re really wealthy, really powerful, or really, really in trouble. In other words, most people don’t get their fey problems resolved.
I didn’t have to go through the rigmarole since I had a bona fide building pass. Which meant I could go through the much shorter queue to the right. It didn’t mean all that much. I still didn’t get to use the private employee entrance without a live employee with me. I used to. And I used to feel so cool doing it. That’s the problem with being arrogant. Lame-ass things make you feel cool. But since I don’t have much of anything to be arrogant about anymore, it’s all about my lack of patience.
The elf at the desk checked my driver’s license against the pass. Not a flicker of recognition passed over her face. So much for past glories. She returned the license and pass with a little clip I’d seen people use to hang their passes on their jackets. I slipped it into my pocket and strolled through security to the elevator lobby, checking myself out in the mirrored hallway.
As much as I despise the Guild these days, the Guildhouse itself is still a fascinating place. As the local Boston headquarters for the fey world, all manner of folk work in the building. You get a heady mix of politics and scholarship and even some danger. No one leaves their animosities at the door. Old grievances play themselves out through misplaced memos or nuanced wordplay or meeting roulette. Despite its egalitarian philosophy, it’s still a Seelie Court animal, though. The Celts hold sway. Sure they let in the elves and dwarves, but most of them get relegated to minor diplomatic meetings or, if they are actually employed by the Guild, rarely progress beyond midlevel positions. It’s the same story on the other side of town at the Teutonic Consulate, only in reverse. One day the fairies and the elves will settle their disputes and immediately start arguing over whose building to use for a unified fey world.
The elevator descended so slowly it felt like it wasn’t moving at all. The numbers lit up, flashed past the lobby and down. The third subbasement light flashed on, and the doors opened to the sound of blaring heavy-metal guitar. I walked down the long, vaulted corridor, idly running my finger along the bricks. Halfway to an opened door, thick oak on iron hinges, the music cut off, and I could here the unmistakable laugh of Meryl Dian.
“Stop making that face. I’m telling you that’s Grieg’s 54-3,” she said.
“Then why not listen to the Grieg?” A deep, male voice replied. As Meryl laughed again, I froze in midstep. I hadn’t heard that voice in a long time.
“This is listening to Grieg, only fresher,” she said.
I started walking again and stopped at the open door.
“I like the stale version,” said the man in her guest chair. He cocked his head back to look at me, then stood with a fluid, casual movement that belied his age.
Nigel Martin stood a little shorter than me, thin, his mostly silvered, wavy brown hair thrust back from his hair-line to graze the top of his collar. He had that solid presence of someone sure of himself, gained from years of experience, which in his case was at least a century. His eyes were at once youthful and deep, and green like a sea storm. He wore regular street clothes—simple brown chinos, a white button-down with a hound’s-tooth jacket. He could usually be mistaken for a stuffy professor at an Ivy League school.
Meryl gave me a broad smile. “Hey! Who let you in?”
“Hello, Nigel,” I said, looking at him. I could feel how uncertain the smile was on my face as I extended my hand and almost breathed in relief when he clasped it.
“Connor. Meryl tells me you’ve been doing well.”
I looked at her quickly. She remained seated, leaning back in her chair behind her desk piled high with the usual assortment of papers. Her eyes shifted back and forth between Nigel and me, a curious, observant look on her face.
“Yes, thanks. I didn’t know you were back,” I said.
He smiled a careful, warm smile. “I’ve been busy.” He tilted his head toward Meryl. “Ms. Dian, it was a pleasure as always, but I must go.” He turned back to me. “Don’t be late tomorrow, Connor.” He stepped forward, and I backed awkwardly into the hallway to let him pass.
“I won’t,” I said.
“’Bye, Nigel,” Meryl called out, the enthusiasm trailing out of her voice.
I watched him walk the length of the corridor in his signature steady stride that showed of many foot journeys. He reached the elevator and hit the button. The doors opened, and he stepped inside. Not once did he glance back at me, even when he pressed the inside panel. The doors closed on his back.
I looked at Meryl. She wore one of her customary black outfits, a lace top with a formless V-neck sweater. She had decided to let her hair grow longer this year, almost shoulder-length. Today it was blond with magenta bangs. I thought it was cute, though I wouldn’t admit it and deny myself the chance to rib her about it.
She furrowed a brow. “That was strange. Was that strange?”
I dropped myself into the vacated guest chair. “That was strange.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I said, frowning. It hit me immediately. Nigel was pissed because I had done nothing. Here I was, two years after my accident, and I had not made any effort to deal with it until recently. Nigel is, maybe “was” now, my mentor. I had been his prize pupil. Briallen verch Gwyll ab Gwyll had initiated me into the mysteries throughout most of my teen years. When I hit a strapping eighteen years old, she turned me over to Nigel.
Nigel wasn’t in the States when I had my accident. He didn’t come back either. I didn’t take it personally. He often disappeared for months at a time. It didn’t occur to me, though, that this had been the longest stretch of time between our meetings. “When did he come back?”
Meryl closed one eye as she thought. “July.”
“Three months! And you didn’t tell me?”
She looked annoyed. “I wasn’t aware I was your social secretary. Besides, I assumed you knew.”
“And yet you never mentioned him.”
She gave me a level stare. “Uh, excuse me, neither did he, and it’s not my job to keep you up-to-date on my social life.”
I playfully curled my lip at her. “Fine, fine. I’m just annoyed. I can’t believe he didn’t call.”
“If I remember correctly, a lot of people don’t call you,” she said sweetly.
“Ha-ha. Guess why I’m here.”
She rolled her eyes. “You need something.”
“Funny.” I smiled and held up the building pass. “I’m attending a Guildhouse board meeting tomorrow as Briallen’s alternate.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “Priceless. The place really is going to hell.”
“Go ahead, keep that
up, and I won’t invite you for coffee,” I said.
She leaned back in her chair. “I hear you got tossed from the Kruge investigation.”
I love the Guild. Like all organizations with secrets, it’s a huge rumor mill. “I didn’t get tossed because I was never on it. I just happened to get to the crime scene before Keeva, and she pulled rank.”
Meryl nodded. “I heard she wasn’t too happy about it. She’s been desperately trying to impress Manny. It’s driving him crazy.”
“Manny? Since when do you call Manus ap Eagan ‘Manny’?”
“We’re old friends. He wasn’t always Guildmaster, you know.”
That gave me pause. Manus ap Eagan had been Guildmaster almost my entire life. I searched Meryl’s face for some hint of her age, but she looked no older than late twenties, early thirties. I didn’t sense any glamour about her either. It was even possible she was over fifty. Druids and druidesses live extremely long lives, and our physical appearance changes very slowly compared to human normals. I was almost forty years old, but looked and felt like a human normal in my twenties. I could tell she knew what I was thinking by the smirk on her face. Questioning her would be useless.
I smirked. “My, my. Guildmaster Eagan. Nigel Martin. Pretty impressive company you’re keeping these days.”
Her eyes went wide. She leaned forward and grabbed her phone. “Shoot! That reminds me. I was supposed to call Maeve back.”
“What!”
She punched in a phone number. “She called during Buffy. I almost forgot.”
My jaw dropped. “The High Queen of Tara called, and you let the machine pick up because you were watching Buffy?!”
She held her hand over the receiver and pitched her voice low. “It was the ‘Dark Willow’ one. I don’t have it on DVD.”
We stared at each other. The corner of her mouth twitched, then she broke into a grin.
“You’re a jerk,” I said.
She laughed and hung up the phone. “Way too easy, Grey. So tell me about Kruge.”
I filled her in on what I knew, including Dennis Farnsworth. “…and I think this gangbanger might be related,” I finished.
Unquiet Dreams Page 6