Uniformed elves guarded the doors and sidewalk in front of the building. A month earlier, they had stood guard inside the lobby, but after the rioting on Boston Common on Samhain, everyone had beefed up their security. The Guild and the Consortium worried about the growingly antagonistic human population as much as they did each other.
A guard challenged me by blocking the path to the doors.
“Connor Grey to see the Marchgrafin Kruge,” I said.
The Marchgrafin Eorla Kruge was without a doubt the most powerful elf in the city. Since the death of her husband, she had become a formidable presence on the board of the Guildhouse, irritating Manus ap Eagan in general and Ryan macGoren in particular. Her status as a highly connected elf within the Teutonic Consortium weakened her ability to make effective change in the Guild because they didn’t trust her, but she managed to sway a vote or two.
I sensed a flutter in the air that indicated the guard had done a sending. “You are not on the appointment calendar,” he said.
“Tell the Marchgrafin’s secretary that I am here. I have a feeling she will see me.”
After another flutter in the air, he stepped aside. “Proceed.”
The other guards watched with suspicion as I entered. Inside, four more guards surrounded me and escorted me to the elevator. No one spoke. Elven swordsmen were not the warm and cuddly type. On the third floor, they led me to a closed door. More flutters in the air, more sendings. The lead guard opened the door and stepped aside.
I had been in the same receiving room once before. Last time, it was empty except for a few chairs. Now, a library table covered with documents sat in front of the lit fireplace. Eorla worked at the far end of the table. She glanced up as I entered, her dark almond-shaped eyes glittering with the power of a long-lived fey. She appeared to be in the prime of her life, though, with her dark green fitted jacket showing off a trim figure and her upswept ebony hair emphasizing the smooth line of her neck.
An ancient elf in a black robe leaned on a staff, the quintessential pose of a Teutonic shaman. His long, pointed ears flexed back when he saw me. We had never met, but you couldn’t spend much time at the Guild without learning about Bastian Frye, the Elven King’s most trusted advisor. By his reaction, he knew who I was, too. Despite being kicked out of the Guild, I felt a measure of pride that I had caused him a headache or two over the years.
By the fireplace, a dwarf wearing ornate court attire perched on a chair. He lowered a document and peered at me over the top of his reading glasses.
I bowed. I wasn’t a fan of monarchial protocol, but in Eorla’s case, I didn’t mind. She didn’t demand it out of form. I gave it to her out of respect. “Marchgrafin Kruge, it is a pleasure as always.”
She smiled. “Mr. Grey, the pleasure is mine. Since my husband’s death, I have reclaimed my original title, Grand Duchess as well as the Elvendottir family name. Do have a seat.”
I passed the chair nearest me and took the one to Eorla’s left. Frye’s posture stiffened noticeably. “I had a dream about you,” I said.
She nodded. “I apologize for the unorthodox method of contact, but I required the utmost security.”
“Unorthodox” wasn’t the word I would have used. “No apology necessary. Dreaming of you was not a burden.”
The dwarf clicked his tongue loudly as he whipped his glasses off. Eorla murmured a chuckle. “Let me introduce you to Brokke, my cousin’s dwarf.”
Brokke replaced his glasses roughly on his nose and lifted the document he had been reading. “I am no one’s dwarf.”
“And that is Bastian Frye, my cousin’s assassin,” she continued.
Frye barely nodded. “I am the king’s first counselor, sir.”
Eorla clearly enjoyed the moment. “I asked you to come, Mr. Grey, because I have received word that Bergin Vize would like to see me.”
Bergin Vize had become the bane of my existence. When I was a lead investigative agent with the Guild, I attempted to arrest him for terrorist activities more than once and failed. The last time we fought, he somehow destroyed both our abilities. I held him responsible for that and a lot of other things, including the events that led to the destruction of the gate to TirNaNog and the current clampdown on the Boston fey. His actions led to the problems. “That sounds like an ideal way to bring him into custody.”
She pursed her lips. “Yes, therein lies my dilemma. While I do not condone his activities, I cannot help feeling responsible for him in a way.”
“How so?” I asked
“How so, Your Royal Highness,” Brokke spat.
Eorla didn’t look at Brokke. “Ignore him. I raised Bergin Vize as my own son.”
If I had been standing, I probably would have fallen over stunned. “I had no idea.”
She nodded slowly. “You see my problem. I have an obligation to him of safe harbor, yet I have an obligation to the law as well.”
“Why does he want to see you?”
She leaned back in her chair. “For my protection, of course. If I speak with him, I may discover what has driven him to such ends; but the moment I do, I will be obligated to protect him. That will put my cousin in a very difficult position, to say nothing of my own standing on the world stage. My question to you is, will it be worth it?”
Frye approached the table. “I object to this conversation, Your Royal Highness. It is improper for you to consult with this . . . Celt on matters of security to the crown and your person.”
“I know, Bastian, but I also have an obligation to Mr. Grey that you will never understand. Remain silent,” she said.
Bergin Vize had personally tried to kill me twice and indirectly several times. I wanted him imprisoned or dead so much I could taste it. I took a deep breath. “Someone once advised me to let the Wheel of the World determine his fate. I offer the same advice to you.”
A quick smile came to her face as she tapped the arm of her chair in thought. “Excellent advice indeed. I believe I shall take it.”
“Your Royal Highness, I must . . .” Frye began.
She glared at him. “You ‘must’ nothing, Bastian. I told you to remain silent. Brokke, ask your questions before I change my mind.”
The dwarf slipped off his seat and bowed. “As you wish, Your Royal Highness.” He moved closer to the table, removing his glasses again. “I advise the king, druid. His Royal Majesty is concerned that I could not discern the recent events in your city. You are the common connection to all of them.”
Dwarves had the ability to see into the future by scrying, which involved infusing water with spells. The talent wasn’t exact, more a sensitivity to likely outcomes. The future changed as events progressed. Some people thought they could influence coming events by knowing the possibilities. I didn’t doubt they could nudge a thing or two, but no one I knew ever truly predicted the future. “Is that a question?” I asked.
He pursed his lips. “Are you a diviner, Druid Grey?”
Druids and dwarves had a long-running pissing contest when it came to who predicted the future more accurately. When we were being honest, the ability seemed to be roughly equivalent between the two. Of course, no druid or dwarf admitted that to the other. “I once had some talent for scrying and trance. No longer.”
“Have you tried?”
My impulse was to tell him to mind his own business, but my ability problems had become common knowledge. Given that he was in the same room as the Elven King’s master spy, he probably already knew the answer anyway. “Not in two years. The last time was just after my . . . accident . . . when I lost my abilities. I ended up unconscious for a day and a half.”
Despite losing my abilities in the duel with Vize, my essence-sensing ability had gone off the charts. Every time I thought it couldn’t get any more acute, it did. Brokke was using his own sensing ability to examine me. It was subtle, even delicate, and not typical of the skill of dwarves. I imagined he didn’t become a king’s advisor because he had average talent.
“H
ow damaged are your abilities?” he asked.
Just because he knew more about my situation than he probably let on didn’t mean I had to make things easier for him. “Why do you want to know?” I asked.
He started to speak, then clenched his jaw. I had a feeling Brokke was not used to being questioned. “A druid with damaged abilities can be a dangerous thing.”
“You could say the same thing of an elf. How’s Vize these days?”
Brokke narrowed his eyes. A sending fluttered through the room. Old Ones—the fey who lived in Faerie before Convergence like Eorla, Bastian, and Brokke—didn’t normally show evidence of using sendings. I had no idea who had spoken to whom, but Brokke seemed to be one end of the conversation.
Frye shifted his staff into the crook of his arm. “Druid Grey, the Elven King is very concerned about your involvement in the recent catastrophes in this city. His Highness is not pleased that his people are being implicated as well. You invite more scrutiny by your reticence.”
I frowned. “So, just to be clear here, should I be taking that as some kind of threat?”
Eorla made a show of tilting her head toward Frye as if she wondered, too.
“I mean only that you might find yourself answering questions you may not care to,” he said. “The Elven King is not the only one concerned. Should you find yourself in particular difficulties, I am authorized to assist you.”
I fought off a look of surprise. I still didn’t know if I was being threatened. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Eorla waved her hand dismissively. “Enough. I wish to speak to Mr. Grey alone. I will send for you when I am done.”
“I do not think it wise to remain alone with this druid,” Frye said.
Eorla arched an eyebrow. “For me or for you?” Frye compressed his lips rather than answer. “You are dismissed. Both of you.”
They bowed and moved down the length of the table.
“Bastian?” Eorla said. She held up a fist, palm toward him when he paused. With an abrupt opening of her hand, she muttered a short phrase in Old Elvish. Bright green motes of essence shot from her fingers and shattered two ceramic urns to either side of the fireplace. “In the future, Bastian, I suggest you think again before you tune listening wards to eavesdrop on my conversations.”
Frye did not meet her gaze but bowed. As he followed Brokke out of the room, Eorla called his name again. “That urn by the door, Bastian? Take it with you and strip the listening ward from it. I rather like that one and would prefer not to destroy it.”
Frye removed the urn in question from the bookcase by the door. He held it against his chest, bowed to Eorla, and backed out of the room. Eorla chuckled. “He tries my patience.”
I smiled. “Something tells me you try his a little bit.”
She smiled back. “I hope so.”
“Why are you telling me about Vize? You know I want him in prison,” I said.
She shifted in her seat. “Bastian and Brokke want me to meet with him, but I won’t. It irritates them that I spoke to you instead.”
“Where is Vize?” I asked.
Eorla arched an eyebrow. “I truly don’t know. Bergin isn’t why I asked to see you. I have been having dreams about Forest Hills. I want to know if you have, too.”
Forest Hills was one of those lovely catastrophes Bastian Frye referred to. A spell created to control essence got out of hand. Eorla and Nigel Martin tried to stop it, but it overwhelmed them. I did stop it, but I couldn’t remember how. “I don’t remember any of it.”
“You remember the staff that was used, don’t you? And the runes that were bound to it?” she asked.
I nodded. “That I remember. I saw it before I did whatever I did. The staff held the essence of the oak, and Teutonic runes were bound to it. I don’t know what they meant, though.”
She gestured to some paper on the table. “Can you show me the runes you remember?”
The spell had damaged essence and produced what everyone called the Taint. The Taint provoked highly aggressive behavior in anyone who touched it. I hesitated as I picked up a pen. I liked Eorla well enough, but we had been uneasy allies at best. I wasn’t sure piecing together a dangerously powerful control spell was in anyone’s best interest—and helping the Consortium do it could be trouble. Then again, I had never been more angry with High Queen Maeve, so if something I did caused her a problem, I wouldn’t be all that upset. I wrote on the paper and slid it to Eorla. “I remember these four the most. They were floating and revolving around the staff. I’m not sure of their order. I didn’t focus on them. ”
Eorla added more runes. “I remembered three and dreamed two more. We have some overlap.”
I studied the five new runes. “I don’t know many elven rune spells.”
“It intrigues me that a Celtic staff and Teutonic runes worked together,” she said.
I shrugged. “It’s just a means to an end, isn’t it? Essence is the same either way.”
She stared at the runes. “True. Something ancient teases at my memory—a spell I might have seen long ago.”
“Why the interest, Eorla?”
She folded the paper and held it on her lap. “A Guild initiative, actually. The Taint still plagues the city. We’re hoping to undo the damage.”
I sighed. “Good luck. The only person who seems to be unaffected is me, and that’s because of the dark spot in my head.” Our eyes met in the silence. “Unless you know someone else in a similar situation.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t spoke to Bergin since before the two of you fought. I have no idea if the Taint does or does not affect him.”
I leaned my elbows against the table. “If it’s a Guild initiative, why the secrecy?”
She steepled her fingers, the gems on her many gold and silver rings glittering in the firelight. “It’s not my secret, but yours. Don’t misinterpret Bastian. He speaks truly when he says many people are watching you, Connor. Maeve sent an underQueen to interrogate you after what happened at Forest Hills. Now my dear cousin, Donor, has sent Bastian. When you have the two most powerful fey in the world interested in you, it doesn’t go unnoticed by others. The less nervous people are about what you know or can do, the safer you will be.”
“What’s in it for you?”
She stared at me with an amused look, drawing the moment out. “I don’t know yet. But since we are the only two that know we remember some of the runes, I suggest we trust each other, shall we?”
I held my hand out. “You have my word.”
Without hesitation, she clasped my hand. “And you have mine. Thank you for coming.”
I bowed. “Eorla, it was a pleasure as always.”
Out in the hall, guards positioned themselves around me as an escort. They didn’t follow me more than a few feet out of the building, but I felt their eyes on my back the rest of the way down the block.
I didn’t doubt for one minute that Eorla would throw me to the wolves if it suited her purpose. We played an interesting hand together to our mutual benefit. I had held back one of the runes I remembered. I’m sure she had, too. Until we knew we could trust each other—really trust each other—that was how the game was played. I agreed with her assessment of my position. I was caught between High Queen Maeve and the Elven King. It amused me that it wasn’t until I lost my abilities that I came to the attention of the movers and shakers of the world. Once that happened, I needed all the allies I could get, and Eorla Kruge, Grand Duchess of the Elven Court, was not a bad one to have.
6
The answering machine was blinking its little red light when I returned from the consulate. The usual collection of pointless messages droned out. I used my cell phone for people I knew and wanted to talk to. The apartment phone handled the solicitors and the bills. I gave them the courtesy of listening before deleting and ignoring. The last message surprised me.
“Hi, Connor Grey. I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Shay. I need your advice on something. If you
could stop by 184 A Street later this afternoon, I’d appreciate it. I think I might have a problem.”
Shay was hard to forget. When I met him, I thought he was female. I’d never met a guy who looked so much like a woman—and an attractive one at that. He flirted with me outrageously—and with Murdock and with anyone who came within ten feet of him.
I never learned his whole story, but he’d had a hard life. Like so many other kids, he thought he’d find a place to call home in the Weird. He did, too, but probably not the one he hoped for. Most people didn’t aspire to turning tricks for a male clientele who were into the transgender scene. As if his luck weren’t bad enough, he got himself tangled in a serial killer’s murder spree and lost his boyfriend. I didn’t think there was a chance I would be forgetting Shay anytime soon.
The address on A Street was near the old Gillette razor plant, a short stretch of warehouses that had been converted to working lofts where painters and jewelry artists tried to stand out by living on the edge of the scary neighborhood. Boston artists were a world of their own. New York was not so far off but was a different scene entirely, more competitive, more commercial. More New York. Boston was about the art and, yeah, the money, but Boston artists had an earnestness about them that you usually see only outside the expensive cities.
I huddled in the doorway of the building address Shay gave me to avoid the cold, stamping my feet to keep the blood flowing. A slender figure in a full- length white down coat appeared at the corner. A lock of jet-black hair escaped the round hood fringed with glossy fake fur and waved in the air. I didn’t need to sense Shay’s essence to know it was him. The wind pinked his face as he walked carefully down the sidewalk. When he saw me, his Cupid’s-bow lips curled into a smile, and he raised a mittened hand, more acknowledgment than wave. “Sorry. Work ran late.”
To my surprise, he pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Surprise because last I knew, Shay lived in a squat up on Congress Street.
I followed him up steep, wide stairs. “You live here?”
He shifted lightly mascaraed eyes to me. “I have a studio.”
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