Bastian relaxed, if going from very stiff to plain stiff was relaxed. “If you were dead, how did you survive?”
“That’s a tale for another time,” I said.
Bastian didn’t participate in conversations. He processed them, one line at a time. His deep eyes, dark wells of iris pinpointed with a rich blue light, stared as if he could read my thoughts. “I shall look forward to hearing it then.”
“I was hoping you could save the Boston P.D. some time and answer a few questions,” I said.
“The Boston Police Department and the Consortium are not on particularly good terms at the moment,” he said.
“All the more reason to earn a little goodwill, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Ask,” he said.
“An elven agent named Alfren was found dead in the Weird last week. Was he one of yours?” I asked.
“At one time. He was no longer in my employ though he did provide occasional information in exchange for funds,” he said.
“He worked for Vize. You had a plant on your own agent?”
“It is no longer a secret between us that I was often in contact with Bergin. Anything I needed to know, he told me,” Bastian said.
“So what information was Alfren providing you that was worth anything?”
“Alfren had connections in Park Square,” he said.
“The Guild? How does a former Consortium agent working for Vize connect to the Guild?” I asked.
“He was quite good, despite his flawed history. Unfortunately, his contact was not as careful,” he said.
“Dead?”
“A fall,” he said.
“The Danann at the power plant?”
“The same,” he said.
Talking with Bastian was an exercise in feints and jabs, admitting to something, then undermining its meaning. Done over beers about politics or religion, it was fun. When it was about murder and espionage, it was dangerous. People died if you misunderstood, and sometimes that was the intent.
“So they were both feeding you information,” I said.
Bastian’s long face cracked a thin smile. “That is the nature of double agents, Mr. Grey.”
And the risk, I thought. Going undercover was a delicate dance. You had to be smart enough to get close to valuable information, which meant you have to provide valuable information. But you had to be careful enough not to expose too much information and make someone suspicious about how you knew so much. If you went deep enough and long enough, you had to pay attention to the line between whom you worked for and whom you worked against. Some people lost sight of it. Those people usually ended up dead.
“You think the Guild had them killed?” I asked.
“Do you want answers or guesses? In coming to me, you have been thrown off the trail by Melusine’s suspicions. Do you prefer I send you down another false trail?” he asked.
In the world of undercover, it wasn’t a coincidence when two people who knew each other were killed within days of each other. “But you don’t know if the Guild was responsible.”
“I am saying that they provided valuable information on Maeve’s troop movements. Now they do not,” he said.
I nodded as if I agreed and understood. Now I had to decide what he was really telling me. Implicating the Guild but claiming he didn’t know might mean he wanted me to go after the Guild. On the other hand, he merely might be helping me sort through the evidence.
“What about the merrow that died? Was she involved with the other two?” I asked.
“That one is a puzzle. She was someone who worked for Melusine, then joined Eorla’s cause,” he said.
“Melusine is the reason I’m asking you,” I said.
He chuckled. “She has always enjoyed stirring the pot between the Guild and the Consortium.”
“All the solitaries do,” I said.
“Indeed. While I do not agree with what Eorla has done, she has given the solitaries hope that someone stands with them instead of relying on the whims of foreign kings and queens,” he said.
“That’s the fey in a nutshell. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy,” I said.
“Yes. What concerns me more is that someone in our operations is a traitor. Undercover agents are understandable. Killing those agents is unacceptable. It is often difficult knowing whom to trust and whom to believe,” he said.
A small prickle went up my spine. When the dwarf Brokke knew he was dying, he told me to believe Bastian. Coming from someone who saw the future, it was hard advice to ignore. Sometimes you had to trust people who lied to you. Sometimes you had to believe people who didn’t act in your best interest. The hard part was knowing when to do which.
Bastian gave me the tiniest smile. “Are we done, Mr. Grey?”
I sighed. “Are we ever?”
21
I paced a warehouse roof in the northern edge of the Tangle as evening settled in. A harbor breeze blew over the desolate remains of buildings that had gone down in a firestorm. The heat had been so intense that the bricks crumbled to dust. From the Tangle to the center of the Weird, entire city blocks had become a wasteland of shattered concrete and brownstone. That was the legacy of a war, a prelude to the conflict Maeve wanted between the Celts and Teuts. Maeve’s war wouldn’t be restricted to a few blocks in a lost neighborhood. She wanted to take countries. She would leave them in worse shape than the soot-stained debris scattering in the wind below my feet.
Gillen Yor had been intrigued over the phone when I pitched him my idea about Manus ap Eagan and the stone bowl. Even Gillen—who stayed out of politics—knew that Eagan was needed in the face of the coming crisis. He arranged for someone to pick me up and bring me out to Brookline, where Eagan lay dying in his own bed.
The exposure of Donor’s death and his espionage tore through the media like its own raging fire. No longer content to let her public-relations people make accusations, Maeve had come out of her compound to accuse the Consortium of an act of war. Technically, she was right—Donor did target and destroy a Guildhouse. He also planned to step it up afterward and go after Maeve more directly. All that said, Maeve was now using the actions of a dead man to justify her own start of a war.
She had moved her troops across the English Channel. Great mist walls of essence hiding her forces had sprung up on sea and land. She had informed Washington that she was sending troops to the U.S. as a precautionary measure. The president agreed, and the American people were distracted by a new argument with Congress over foreign troops on American soil. Meanwhile, the mist wall grew in Boston harbor.
Maeve must have been beyond elated. The Consortium was in chaos, so she had no true opposition there—yet. The human government was rolling over for her, content to let her be the harbinger of war against an enemy they already feared. All of it was in service to her plans. She had moved too quickly for her strategy to be anything but planned. She had wanted this war for a long time.
I understood why Eorla was considering going to Germany. Even if she didn’t take the throne, the Teuts were her people. She had defended them for over a century, lived among them even longer. No one wanted to watch their heritage disappear on the point of a sword. But if she did go, Boston—and the U.S.—would lose a strong opposition voice.
For all her flattery, I didn’t think I could be that voice. I understood her logic—everyone hated me anyway except the people I cared most about. She hadn’t put it that way, but that was the crux of it. Boston needed someone respected—and powerful—to oppose Maeve, if not as an enemy, at least as the friendly opposition. Briallen wouldn’t do it. MacGoren wouldn’t even think of it. The one person that would be able to stand up to Maeve was in a coma.
Manus ap Eagan had been Guildmaster of Boston my entire life. He was also a respected underKing of the Seelie Court. Unfortunately, he had been dying for three years. His illness started as a wasting disease, the fat melting off his frame, then the muscle. The tremendous reserve of essence that his kind enjoyed seeped away
day by day.
In one night, the situation accelerated. Scott Murdock, Leo’s father, shot at me. Eagan blasted him with essence, and Scott Murdock died. The effort almost killed Eagan. He collapsed and had been in a coma ever since, his disease accelerating. It was a miracle he was alive, but it was only a matter of time before he died.
Eagan’s condition baffled Gillen Yor, the foremost druid healer in the world. The night Scott Murdock died, Gillen found a partial answer, which led to a deeper puzzle. Eagan was suffering from the same thing I was—a darkness inside that devoured essence. His version seemed more diffused, speckled throughout his body. If he hadn’t been a Danann, the darkness probably would have consumed him, but his powerful innate body essence kept it at bay. When he fired an essence blast at Scott Murdock, he depleted his natural reserve beyond the point of no return.
When I examined Druse’s body at the Guildhouse, I realized that Eagan’s condition mirrored hers. The leanansidhe resisted the darkness by feeding it essence. When she didn’t have living essence available, she used the stone bowl. I had used the bowl, so I knew it suppressed the darkness. It didn’t eliminate the problem—the thing in my head was much bigger than what I had seen in either Eagan or the leanansidhe—but it helped me function. With Eagan’s more powerful body signature, I hoped the bowl would burn the darkness out of him.
My senses picked up a thin streak of Danann essence against the night sky. My ride had arrived. He took his time coming in—too fast, and he would attract attention—and kept his body essence reined in so that it wouldn’t flare. I spotted him because I was looking for him. He rode the wind currents, his translucent wings shifting around him. The wings didn’t provide lift. They weren’t strong enough. They acted like airfoils, shunting essence away from the body to power a fairy’s flight.
Satisfied that he wasn’t followed, he shut down his essence and plunged toward me. In one smooth motion, he grabbed me by the straps on my jumpsuit and lifted me in the air. Now that he had his passenger, he fired up his essence and shot south at full speed. My body shield tempered the force of the motion, but some wind leaked through and made my eyes tear.
Several streaks of essence burst from the surrounding buildings as other fairies investigated our odd movements. The Danann lost most of them with small effort but dove to street level a few times to shake off the fastest of the pursuers. Several miles later, he slowed to a more comfortable speed and banked northwest toward Brookline. Without further incident, he dropped me off on the front steps of Eagan’s mansion and disappeared into the night.
Tibbet opened the door as I stepped up, a smile failing to hide her worry. She was Eagan’s everywoman—assistant, attorney, administrator, and defender. She was also one hot brownie, tall for her species, with a tawny complexion that set off her warm eyes. Tibs and I were old friends and shared the intimacy of old lovers who had parted on good terms. She hugged me, her long, tiny braids tickling my nose. “Hey, handsome,” she said.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I said.
She took my hand and led me inside. I slipped my arm around her. She rested her head against my shoulder. “It’s hard to see him like this.”
“Has there been any change?” I asked.
“None of it good. Did Gillen tell you what happened?”
“No. He just said to come,” I said.
“I was dozing in the chair last night, and he sent your name to me. It was faint but clear,” she said.
“Just my name?” I asked.
“Yes. I contacted Gillen because it was the only sign of life from him in months. He’s still in there, Connor. He’s not gone,” she said.
I hugged her close. Tibbet had been with Eagan for longer than I had been alive. She kept his life running, and he kept her life interesting. If I couldn’t imagine either of them without the other, I couldn’t imagine what Tibs thought. “He’s a tough old crow, Tibs. Anyone else would have given in by now.”
She nodded into my shoulder. “I tell myself that every day since he fell ill. I almost lost you both that night, and when it happened again, I feared the worst.”
We swayed back and forth as I caressed her hair. The night Scott Murdock died, Tibs had been amazing. She took immediate control of the situation, dealing with the police, taking care of Eagan, and protecting me. She had stood up to the angry Murdock brothers, the governor, and the acting police commissioner, and coordinated medical care, all in the space of hours. As I reflected back on that night, I paused. “Tibs, what do you mean ‘again’?”
She pulled away, wiping tears from her face. “The Solstice Party. I thought I was going to lose the two of you.”
I stared down at her. “You said ‘again,’ Tibs. What do you mean ‘again’?”
She brushed hair back from my forehead. “The night you fought Bergin Vize at the nuclear plant.”
“Eagan fell ill that same night?” I asked.
Her eyebrows drew down together. “Yes. It was chaos. I was getting sendings about your being in critical condition. People from the Guildhouse couldn’t reach Manus. I thought he was ignoring everyone because he was concerned about you, but when I went to check in with him, I found him collapsed here in the grand hall.”
“What did he say?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. Refused to talk about it.”
“How come I didn’t know this?” I asked.
She gave me a wry smile. “You were in the hospital for weeks. We had to deal with the state authorities because of the power grid going down. Time…. I don’t know…. passed. I guess by the time you woke up, it didn’t seem important when things happened. Keeva never mentioned it?”
“She knew?”
“Sure. She was here that night—complaining about you, as a matter of fact. She said you weren’t supposed to be there. Is that true?”
“Yes. I’d forgotten,” I said. Keeva was supposed to take the lead on the next Vize appearance. When we were partners, we used to argue about who was leading an investigation, so we agreed that we would take turns. When we had word Vize might be in the Boston area, I couldn’t resist. He had gotten away from me before, then he was on my home turf. I held back information from Keeva and went to the nuclear power plant alone. I didn’t remember thinking that was stupid then.
Tibbet frowned. “You sound so suspicious, Connor. What’s going on?”
“Think about it, Tibs. Whatever happened to me that night gave me the dark mass in my head, and Eagan went down with it the same night. Don’t you think that’s more than coincidence?”
“Sure, now that you point it out. I never made the connection.”
I looked at the bed. “The bigger question is why didn’t Eagan?”
She glanced up at the balcony above the main hall. “I don’t know. I miss the old grouch complaining about everything. I’d even pour him a drink if he opened his eyes.”
Eagan had a thing for whiskey that was more than a thing. It didn’t appear to be debilitating, but I often wondered if his Danann constitution saved him from alcoholism even as it was a cause. “And I’d join you,” I said.
“Gillen and Briallen are already here. Your friend should be along shortly.”
I kissed her hand. “Thanks, Tibs. Let’s hope this works.”
“Go on up. I’ll join you shortly,” she said.
I climbed the stairs in the great hall, curving around a stuffed Asian elephant until I came level with the John Singer Sargent portrait of Maeve on the opposite wall. I always looked at it. It was impossible not to—larger-than-life, her commanding stare daring you to look away. If everything went well upstairs, she’d soon have a new thorn in her side, and it would please me to no end that I helped put it there.
In his bedroom off the second-floor corridor, Manus ap Eagan lay against soft white sheets surrounded by brocade pillows in shades of silver and blue. He was on his side, his knees drawn up to his waist. His long wings had gone stiff, curling forward around his body like a shroud, a sign of death among fairies
. I had seen something like it before though not in someone as powerful as a Danann.
Essence hovered over the silent figure in hazy layers of gold and white. Briallen and Gillen tended Eagan from opposite sides of the bed. The layers dipped and swirled, flashing and fading along his wings. At brief intervals, his body signature would flare, then dim again as the essence leached away.
“Grey,” Gillen barked. Despite—and often because of—his gruff manner, people deferred to Gillen. He treated everyone the same, though, both as a healer and an acquaintance. Even Maeve had been subjected to his temper and let it pass. Whatever his personality flaws, Gillen cared about what he did and had little patience for other people’s dramas.
I moved forward with reluctance and stopped at the foot of the bed. The last time I was near Eagan, the darkness in my head had fed the darkness in him. It had intensified in both of us, shooting pain into my brain and almost killing Eagan. I worried that my presence might push him beyond the brink.
Gillen peered down at the patient. “Come on this side.”
I did as he ordered. The essence Briallen generated swirled and shifted away. “Now back slowly away.”
I took one step back at a time until I was against the wall. Gillen tilted his head from side to side, essence light scattering through the halo of gray hair around his bald spot. “That’s enough, Briallen.”
She leaned back in her chair. The essence stream from her dissipated like smoke and evaporated as she withdrew. Eagan hadn’t moved.
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked.
With a tired smile, Briallen rolled her head against the crook of the chair to see me better. “We’ve been taking shifts for a while.”
Gillen grunted as he checked a series of stone wards on the bedside table. “He took a turn for the worse when the Guildhouse came down.”
“He was bound to the building,” I said.
Briallen nodded. “A Guildmaster is bound to his place. A Guildhouse rises and falls on the strength of the Guildmaster.”
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