Unshapely Things

by Mark Del Franco

  But the big payoff of the night came when I went looking at macDuin's files. The name 'Dealle S.' had popped up in a list of contacts relating to the selenite theft the previous fall. MacDuin had made the entry. An 'S' followed by a period was a typical Guild abbreviation for sidhe, and Dealle was the same as the name of the woman Murdock had been trying to contact. In a world where people went by their first names unless they were royalty, the odds of two people having the same name were high. I was willing to bet good money that the odds of two people having the same name connected to two different Guild cases and macDuin were low. I still hadn't heard from Germany about the elf/fairy hybrid named Gethin, but Dealle and her son Corcan were looking pretty interesting now.

  I took my time showering and getting dressed. I didn't want to show up at Dealle's house so early she would be angry, but not so late that she would be gone again. I didn't have to check Murdock's file to know he had tried her house at different times of day. He had even done the before-work check like I was about to. If she wasn't home, I had nothing else to do but sit on her porch until she returned. Dealle Sidhe lived in South Boston, but near enough to the Weird to keep it cheap. I made my way down A Street until I came to Second. The street had a multiple personality disorder. Buildings of every conceivable type had been put up as though the neighborhood couldn't decide what it wanted to be. Blank-faced wooden houses sat next to small warehouses with the odd chunk of row house here and there. Most of them looked abandoned, but the closed-up feel had more to do with protection than emptiness. People did live there, people desperate for a sense of security but without enough money to buy it. It was safer than the Weird, but a far cry from the safer sections of South Boston. Windblown newspapers cluttered doorways instead of white petunias.

  Dealle Sidhe's address turned out to be a wooden triple-decker townhouse. A bay window marked the living room, and a small porch fronted on the street. The upper windows were boarded. At one time, the house had been white, but it had long since gone gray, the paint peeling in sheets. A wire fence of windowpane mesh enclosed the five-foot patch of front yard.

  As I opened the gate, it scraped against the chipped concrete sidewalk. At the base of the steps sat a business card. I picked it up. Murdock's. I was about to mount the steps when I noticed a second card in the grass just off the walk. A third had blown against the side fence. I looked down at the card again. No surprise she hadn't called. Looking up at the house, I wondered if she even lived here anymore. I decided to try the door, or at least leave the card more securely.

  I mounted the steps. No sound came from the house. No one was home. No one at all. Murdock's file had not mentioned if Dealle had a job. It seemed incredible that four visits by two investigators had come up empty. I reached A Street again and turned the corner. In my peripheral vision, I noticed something white flutter into the gutter. I took another step and paused, looking up and down the street. A mild disorientation skittered over me, but A Street looked as it always did. I resumed walking. I went another block before abruptly turning and retracing my steps to where I had first stopped. Stooping, I picked up Murdock's card where I had dropped it. I looked down Second Street and smiled.

  I returned to Dealle's house and stood at the gate. I tried to take a deep breath through my nose, but I still had too much congestion, to sense anything. I looked at Murdock's card and walked up to the steps again. No sound came from the house. No one was home. No one at all. This time I had gone only a few houses away before I realized I had left the porch. Murdock's card was still in my hand. I went back.

  I stared intently at the front of the house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Some fey put small signs for those who could see, a few ogham runes scratched into the doorjamb that could be easily overlooked or perhaps herbs hanging over the door a certain way. I had even seen joke signs planted on lawns that read BEWARE OF THE TROLL. But Dealle's house looked nondescript by any of those measures. It wasn't until my eyes had passed by the woven rush doormat several times that I noticed it didn't sit quite level on the ground. A thin dark line ran along the whole front edge of the mat. I was willing to bet it was a smoothly cut stone, perfect to charge as a ward. Dealle didn't want visitors. Whether it was paranoia or privacy, I was determined to find out.

  The spell was elegant and subtle. Rather than bluntly repelling any intrusions, it answered a question anyone approaching would be wondering—was anyone home? Unless someone had been specifically invited, the answer was no, and to avoid any persistent knocking, the ward deflected visitors calmly on their way. Since it responded to the intent of someone approaching, I changed my intent. My question was no longer was anyone home? I assumed that. Now I had to resist the compulsion to leave. I took a deep breath and strode to the door. I made it all the way to the mat before I felt the urge to run. I pressed forward, reached out my hand, and grasped the handle ol the storm door. Over and over, the thought that no one was home beat against my mind. I held on to the door and the knowledge that Dealle was inside. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I lifted my hand to knock. I could feel nausea beginning to well up from the strain of resisting. I desperately wanted to run, but I brought my fist down firmly and banged against the door. It sounded unconscionably loud. No one answered. I shoved the thought that no one was home out of my head. I banged again and again, keeping my eyes focused on my fist around the handle. I stopped wondering if she were home, stopped caring even. The only thing that mattered was that I kept bringing my fist down.

  The door opened. I almost stumbled from the release of pressure as the ward deactivated. Inside the dim hall, I could see a small figure through the cloudy glass of the storm door. I let go of the door handle and flexed my fingers to relieve the cramping. The knuckles on my other hand were bright red. At least they weren't bleeding.

  "Dealle Sidhe?" I managed to say. I was practically hyperventilating.

  "Yes," she said. Her voice had a soft, musical quality.

  "My name is Connor Grey. I used to work for the Guild. I'm helping out the police with a case. Can I speak with you for a few minutes?"

  I still couldn't see her face clearly. Without speaking, she opened the door and held it for me to enter. I stepped into the front hall. Dealle closed the door and gestured toward the parlor to the left. She was a small woman, dressed in a simple white gown, her long brunette hair tied back loosely. She seemed aged, unusual for a fairy, her face lined with worry. In the dimly lit room, her wings gave off a soft pearlescent glow as they undulated in the small draft of my passing.

  "I will bring some refreshments," she said.

  "That's not necessary."

  She paused. "Please allow me. It will be my apology for the door," she said softly.

  Four large armchairs sat in a loose circle before the fireplace. The room had a Victorian air to it, overstuffed and cluttered, but impeccably clean. Little animal figurines crowded onto several tables interspersed with clocks and candlesticks and finely wrought boxes in metal and wood. An old air conditioner labored in the side window, cooling the air enough that if you didn't move too quickly, it was comfortable. I sat in one of the chairs. I could feel a vague buzz across the back of my head. Dealle evidently had lots of spells simmering about the house.

  She returned with six small crystal glasses on a tray that she placed on the butler's table in the center of the chair grouping. Primly, she sat opposite me.

  "Welcome to my home." She leaned forward and picked up the glass with the water in it.

  I couldn't resist smiling as I picked up the matching glass of water. She was treating me like a formal guest in the old tradition. In Boston, it was saved for special occasions. Since Convergence, it denoted a sign of class in better homes.

  I downed the water. "Thank you, that was very refreshing."

  She returned her own empty glass to the tray and picked up the next one with mead in it. I leaned forward and did the same.

  "I hope you didn't have too much trouble finding the house." She sipped t
he mead more slowly than the water.

  "No, it was quite easy." We both took a moment to look around. A little thrill of discovery ran over me when I noticed a picture on the mantel. It was of a man with an oddly angular face, almond-shaped eyes and completely bald. Even though it was just a head shot, he looked big. He also looked a lot like Shay's description. I wished my sinuses were clear so I could sense his essence in the house. "This room is lovely, by the way. You must spend a lot of time here."

  "Yes, I do. The streets are not safe." She replaced the empty mead glass and picked up the whiskey. She raised the glass. "Slainte."

  "To your health as well," I said and sipped the whiskey. Jameson's. Gods love the Irish.

  "How may I help you?" Dealle asked.

  "I'd like to ask you about your son."

  Her eyes went down to her glass. "Has he caused some trouble?"

  Well, that answered whether he was alive. "Is he at home?"

  She shook her head. "No, he's at school. Well, we call it school. It's more of an institution."

  "Is he ill?"

  Her eyes met mine. The old fey make unnerving eye contact. They have a stillness and patience about them that comes with unimaginable age. Dealle's eyes had a flicker of defensiveness behind them as well. "I believe the phrase current these days is 'mentally challenged.' I suppose that's an improvement. A couple of decades ago, they officially called him a moron."

  "Is his father here?"

  She did look away then. "His father is ... German. I have not seen or heard from him in years."

  "Dealle, I don't mean to embarrass you, but by German, do you mean elfin?"

  She nodded. "When I discovered I was with child, I was ecstatic. I had never had a child. I knew there were risks involved for a child of an elf and a fairy, but I was willing to take them. When Corcan was born, the way he is, his father left."

  "How long has he been hospitalized?"

  "He's not. It's a day program, five days a week at the Children's Institute near Day Boulevard. He's functional, but needs supervision. They teach him basic skills, and he gets to play with other children."

  "Children? He's an adult about fifty years old, isn't he?"

  She smiled coldly. "What's fifty years to me but a flicker of time? He's a child and has the mind of a child."

  "Does he ever go out alone?"

  "Just to and from school."

  "Never any other time? Not at night, maybe, after you've gone to sleep?"

  She hesitated an awfully long time. "No." She gestured toward the front door. "There is more than one ward in this house." Since she was being so forthcoming, I decided not to point out that I had overcome one of her wards. Someone with ability would have an even easier time.

  "Has his behavior changed recently?"

  "Why are you here, Connor Grey?"

  She caught me being sloppy. I hadn't planned the interview out. I was hoping I would show up, recognize the killer's essence, and call Murdock. As it was, I couldn't very well say to this woman I thought her son was a psycho killer with absolutely no evidence. "I'm doing background research into cross-species progeny. It may be connected to a case I'm working. If I could have a better understanding of the behavior of such individuals, it might be predictive of future behavior."

  She leaned farther back in her chair. "What kind of behavior?"

  "Given my profession, it shouldn't surprise you I'm interested in aggression. Specifically, aggression as it relates to fey abilities."

  "My son has hurt no one." I didn't like the harder tone her voice was taking. I was clearly treading on mother-bear territory.

  "I didn't say that, Dealle. But since you've brought it up, what can you tell me about Corcan's abilities?"

  She shrugged. "I've been told he has a strong essence, but he doesn't understand that. When he's angry or upset, rooms tend to get a little overturned. The Institute is working on that. He's never hurt anyone."

  "May I see his room?"

  The question startled her, and she didn't immediately respond. "I suppose. Why?"

  I shrugged. "It's nothing. I'd just like to see the environment he spends time in."

  She rose from her chair and led me back into the hall. Corcan's room was the first bedroom on the left. A large bed took up most of the floor space. It had a bright red comforter with racing cars on it. A straight-backed wooden chair stood against the wall by the door and beneath the window on the opposite side was a small chest of drawers. The walls were vibrant yellow and white painted in Celtic spirals. Centered on each wall, up near the ceiling, pentagrams had been stenciled in blue. They were later additions. The spirals flowed behind them.

  I pointed. "Whose pentagrams are those?"

  "They help him focus when he's upset. He doesn't understand it has to do with ability. We're teaching him how to channel his aggression into calmness. It didn't seem to work at first, but his caregiver kept adding pentagrams. Now there is one wherever he turns. It seems to help."

  I nodded and walked to the chest of drawers. Resting my hand lightly on a handle, I looked at Dealle. "May I?" Annoyance crossed her face, but she nodded. I went through each drawer. The top held some nonsense toys hidden beneath several pairs of underwear. The next drawer held shirts and the bottom, pants. All of it was neatly folded. I made sure not to disturb anything.

  I closed the last drawer and opened the closet without asking this time. More clothing hung neatly, and a few pairs of shoes lined up perfectly against the back wall. The shelf across the top held sweaters. Dealle obviously kept close tabs on her son. No hearts in bottles. I didn't think there would be.

  "Are there any other places your son might keep things?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "He's not allowed in the living room. Mostly he plays in here, watches TV in the kitchen, or plays in the yard."

  "May I see the yard?"

  She led me farther down the hall to the kitchen and pointed at the back door. I looked out the multi-paned window to see a tiny, blacktopped space with a basketball hoop. A couple of balls sat on the ground, and a bicycle was chained to the back fence. Nothing out of the ordinary. No shed to hide things. No turf to bury things. I could feel another nasty buzz at the base of my skull. Another ward must be hidden under the back doormat.

  I looked around the kitchen. Again nothing unusual. The place hadn't seen a remodeling in fifty years. White chunky wooden cabinets with metal drawer pulls. Glass-fronted upper cabinets with plates, cups, and bowls all neatly stacked on the shelves. Next to the hallway entrance was a closed door.

  "Do you have a basement?"

  "He doesn't go down there. He's afraid of the dark."

  We stood uncomfortably in the cool white of the overhead fluorescent light. Nothing fit. Corcan didn't sound like serial killer material, but there had to be a reason Dealle Sidhe's name was in macDuin's files. "Dealle, why did the Guild contact you last fall?"

  She looked at me curiously. "They didn't. I contacted them." She pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. "I thought they could help."

  That took me by surprise. "With what?"

  She hugged herself as an old anxiety creased her face. "Corky didn't come home from school on time one day. When he didn't show up by nightfall, I went looking for him but couldn't find him. I called the police and the Guild. Neither was particularly helpful. It didn't matter anyway. Corky showed up the next day in front of the house. He was scared and confused. He had taken a wrong turn and got lost."

  "Was there any change in his behavior after that?"

  She shrugged. "Nothing surprising. He was afraid to go out by himself for a while."

  "And when was this exactly?"

  "Last September. I don't remember the date. It was the last week of the month."

  I nodded. The selenite stones had gone missing shortly before that. Not to mention that Belgor's strange customer had shown up around then, too. The stones aspect of the case was starting to tie together. "You seem quite adept with wards, Dealle. Do you
ever work with selenite?"

  Her eyes narrowed at me. "It's an old stone to work with. I don't care much for the power of the Moon. It's the work of secrets and sunderings."

  Personally, I couldn't argue with her. Moon-work was mostly women's. I never had much success with it myself. Give me the Sun and a sharp edge any day.

  "It's just a Power. Its use can be positive or negative depending on the user. You know that."

  She smiled thinly. "I'm a bit older than you, Connor Grey. I lived in the True Land before we were thrust into this sickened place. Trust me. The Moon is no friend. The Light of Day reveals all."

  Her phrasing gave me pause. The True Land was how elves, not fairies, referred to their lost home. I suppose given her choice of mate, it shouldn't be surprising. I had a hunch Dealle was an elf sympathizer, as in superior to the rest of us, we-should-rule-the-world kind of way. "And the True Land remains the True Land, beneath the Light of Day/Take me back to the True Land, and out of the World of Decay," I recited. It was part of an old ballad from World War II that the fey of Germany sang.

  Bingo. Dealle's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't think someone so young would know that song."

  I shrugged. "I have an interest in history."

  She sighed with resignation. "Yes, it is history. I was happy in a very sad time, but this is the world we live in now. Truths were told, and mistakes were made. And love lost. Some of my old acquaintances still fight for Faerie. I only have time for Corcan now."

  "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories." I didn't know what to say. She had that exhausted tone that people have when they've lost their ideals.

  "You were born here. You know nothing," she said, her voice bitter. She stood and walked out of the kitchen. I hesitated before following her down the hall to where she held the front door open. I had no authority to insist on staying.

  "I'll be the judge of my memories," she said.