Unperfect Souls

by Mark Del Franco

  I shrugged. “I don’t think that’s accurate. Respect is a two-way street. I might respect someone’s authority, but they don’t get to keep it if they don’t earn it. The fact that you’re a Marchgrafin or a Guild director means less to me than the things you do and the choices you make.”

  She laughed. “Is the fact that you neglect to mention I am Grand Duchess supposed to prove your point?”

  “Not really. I don’t know why you’re called that, so it’s not really relevant to me.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “What if it is relevant?”

  I smiled playfully at her. “Prove it.”

  She settled into the corner of the seat. “I assume you don’t know elven history. The title is mine by right of birth. My father was Elven King before Donor. He died when Donor’s father challenged him. They killed each other. Since I was an only child with the error of being female, the nearest male heir succeeded to the crown.”

  “You should have been queen?” I asked.

  She pursed her lips. “Not by the custom of my people. When I married, I took the title Marchgrafin to show the world I considered my husband Alvud an equal partner. Now that he is gone, I have resumed the title Grand Duchess to send a different message. Convergence changed the rules of our world, Mr. Grey. Donor Elfenkonig would do well to remember that.”

  “And you wonder why I like you . . . Grand Duchess,” I said.

  She laughed aloud. “And I, you. I have something I need to do and hope you will accompany me. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Not a problem,” I said.

  A sending fluttered in the air, and the driver pulled away from the curb.

  “How is your Taint research going?” I asked.

  She folded her gloved hands loosely together. “Interesting. I am acquiring an understanding of how the Celtic and Teutonic spells worked together. It’s fascinating, actually. We tend to view the two modes as separate and distinct, but there are fundamental overlaps. I will show you, if you like.”

  “I would.”

  A moment of comfortable silence. “Bastian Frye wants to meet with you.”

  Whatever the errand, I couldn’t help wondering if this was the point of Eorla’s appearance. “Why?”

  “If I know Bastian—and I do—he had a hand in what happened in TirNaNog. The Elven King would not have made such a blatant military move against Maeve, but Bastian would have manipulated the opportunity.”

  “He’s working with Vize, then,” I said.

  Eorla pursed her lips. “I’m sure they have contact. In fact, I know they do, but it’s through layers of deniable channels. If Bergin is doing something Bastian approves of, I am sure paths get smoothed when possible.”

  “And why should I help them?” I asked.

  She glanced at me with a slim smile. “You don’t have to, but it presents an interesting opportunity. Bastian adores secrecy. If I were you, I would suggest a public meeting. It will irritate Bastian and drive Ryan macGoren to distraction when he receives word that you met.”

  Impressed, I nodded. “Tell him it’s a date, then.”

  “He will be pleased with me that I persuaded you,” she said.

  When I first met Eorla, she said she used her skills best in the political arena. She wasn’t kidding.

  The car turned onto Harbor Street. Plywood covered the windows of the building in the middle of a row. A smaller piece of wood had been fitted over the glass door. In a few short months, graffiti had found a home on it, much of it lamenting the closing of the place. The sign across the front, faint beneath a rime of frost, read UNITY. Eorla’s husband, Alvud Kruge, founded the place as a drop-in center to help area kids get off the streets. It was where he was murdered, his body hacked to pieces. Eorla stared out the window.

  “Why are we here?” I asked.

  Eorla didn’t turn. “You don’t seem to know much of elven history. Do you know much of our religion?”

  “Not particularly. Most of what I know is related to how elves manipulate essence.”

  She leaned closer to the window to peer up at the building. “Yes, the outward manifestation of power always impresses. I am talking about matters of the soul, Mr. Grey. When at last we leave our bodies, we leave a sign of ourselves behind for a time, a bit of the soul, if you will. That is what my people believe. That is what I believed.

  “But when I last saw Alvud’s body, there was nothing there, no last thought or emotion. It saddened me that my husband did not leave a final remembrance, and saddened me further that my faith was misplaced. I have had a difficult time these last months with no husband and no faith.”

  I clasped Eorla’s gloved hand. She returned the pressure lightly. It was not the first time she shared her grief with me. I don’t know why she did, but Bastian Frye and Brokke didn’t strike me as sources for heartfelt sympathy.

  She turned from the window. “You likely know of these decapitation murders in the Weird, yes?”

  Change of subject, then. “I’ve been helping the Boston police with them.”

  “I overheard a chance remark among my security staff recently. I was not made aware of the full details of my husband’s murder.”

  Not a change of subject, then. Because of his high profile, the Guild investigated Alvud Kruge’s murder. I never read the final report. Murdock and I found his body at the murder scene. Kruge’s body was savaged, blown apart by essence. The force of the attack decapitated him. We found his head embedded in a wall.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Eorla,” I said.

  She withdrew and folded her hands in her lap. “I understand the impulse to protect my feelings, but I wish I had known.”

  “I’m still confused by why we are here,” I said.

  Beneath her outer calm, I felt her emotions rising. “You were the only one who saw what was behind my husband’s murder. I think it is fitting for you to see the final resolution of his death.”

  With the prompting of a soft sending, the driver trotted to Eorla’s side of the car. Even though I overlooked Eorla’s royal privileges, on an embarrassing level, I enjoyed watching Teutonic Consortium agents being used as footmen. They tended to be pushy and arrogant types, so watching them taken down a peg or two was entertaining. Plenty of people felt the same way about me. I joined Eorla on the doorstep of the store as she withdrew a key from her pocket.

  “Please wait outside, Rand,” Eorla said. He hesitated but withdrew after sendings flew between them.

  The place had not changed since the murder months earlier. Cast-off furniture filled the front of the large, dim room, a Ping- Pong table and old metal desks in the rear. After Kruge’s murder, it was a crime scene. It didn’t look like anyone had been inside since the police released it. “Is UNITY closed down?”

  Eorla reflectively observed the room. “I appointed a manager and moved its offices. I haven’t decided what to do with this property.”

  “You’ll sell it?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to deal with Ryan macGoren asking to buy it. He would be inconsiderate enough to try.”

  MacGoren’s desire to turn the Weird into an urban renewal project was one of the reasons Alvud Kruge had ended up dead. MacGoren withheld information from the police, but there wasn’t significant evidence that he could have prevented what happened. Being a callous dirtbag wasn’t against the law. “I’d like to check the office before you see it.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. Kruge’s office was through a large archway. Unlike the front, the room had changed from my last visit. Kruge’s body, of course, was gone. When we found him, blood bathed the office in horrific red. Now, somber brown stains marked the walls and floors in the muted remainders of the murder. To the right, a few feet above my head, darker stains smeared the cavity in the wall where Kruge’s head had been. His attacker had killed a young man, too, a teenager who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I looked over my shoulder at Eorla. “There are dried blood
stains, but otherwise nothing.”

  She wet her lips. “I have seen the carnage wrought on battlefields, Connor, but thank you.”

  Despite her boast, I heard a faint intake of breath beside me. It was one thing to see blood and gore. It was another to know it belonged to someone you knew—loved—no matter how old it was. Her eyes went to the cavity in the wall. “That’s where his . . . where he was?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She muttered an incantation. In a smooth glide, she rose from the floor until she was eye level with the hole. Levitating your own body was difficult, but Eorla didn’t appear to need much effort to raise herself. She stared at the opening and chanted.

  From the darkness of the wall cavity, warm green essence eased into my sensing ability. It peaked and gathered, slowly revolving. Eorla removed a glove and reached in. The essence flowed over her hand and vanished. She stayed with her hand outstretched, as if waiting for more, a subtle look of surprise on her face. She closed the hand into a loose fist as tears sprang to her eyes. Closing her eyes, she brought her hand to her lips and held it with her other hand. A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek as she descended.

  I gently turned her from the wall. She leaned her head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and swayed in place to comfort her. She let me, lost in her husband’s last memories, which had bonded to the blood in the wall.

  “His final thoughts were for the human child, then he said my name,” she murmured into my chest.

  “He was a good man, and he loved you. You didn’t need to do this to know that,” I said.

  She placed her hand on my coat over my heart. Warmth touched me. The dark mass in my head flexed at the sensation but didn’t do anything else.

  Eorla took an audible breath. “Thank you.”

  She adjusted her hat and took my arm. I escorted her back to the car.

  16

  Bastian Frye wasted no time arranging lunch the next day. I walked into the Ritz-Carlton Hotel late, half on purpose, half that’s-the-way-it-is. Taking a cue from Eorla and the Teutonic penchant for order and timeliness, irritating Bastian Frye wasn’t a bad way to start.

  The restaurant at the Ritz had a storied history. The Boston Brahmins made it the home of the power lunch for decades, a stuffy, pretentious room of white tablecloths and blue glassware. As the city’s power structure expanded into the upstart Irish and Italian immigrant populations, the luster of the place diminished until the dining room was a nostalgia trip for granddames and their granddaughters. No restaurant survived on tea and crumpets. Eventually, the hotel owner gave up and leased the space to an elven group, which rebranded the place Feudal, and the power lunch returned, only this time for the Teutonic fey set.

  Frye wasn’t alone. Brokke sat with him at a corner table. The two made an odd couple—the tall, regal elven court officer and the short, floridly dressed dwarven advisor. They weren’t speaking as I approached, but they didn’t need to speak to communicate. Neither expressed surprise when I arrived. They stood and extended their hands, an amusingly quaint gesture since we were all armed. At least, I was. I never left home without the daggers, and I had no doubt that a weapon or two lay hidden among the folds of their outfits.

  “You remember Ambassador Brokke, Mr. Grey,” Frye said.

  “Of course. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

  “I thought Bastian might enjoy my company,” he said.

  Frye’s long sip of white wine covered an expression that looked nothing like enjoyment. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” he asked.

  A waiter appeared and filled my water glass. I picked up the menu. “Sure. I’ll have the burger, medium rare, and a Guinness.” No one was amused.

  “We do not serve Guinness,” the waiter said.

  Figured. I didn’t care for German stouts. Too heavy and long on the finish. I didn’t think it was a prejudice. “Any draft ale, then.”

  Frye slid a long finger along his temple as he leaned on an elbow. “Mr. Grey, as I told you, the Guild believes that the Elven King may have been involved in the recent terrorist attack in this city.”

  “I’m not the best person to explain what the Guild thinks,” I said.

  Frye nodded slowly. “Indeed. I am aware of your history. My concern is that you may be fostering this idea.”

  “I have a number of opinions about the motives of the Consortium.”

  “The Elven King had nothing to do with the event,” he said.

  The waiter placed my beer on the table. I took a slip. “Really? Bergin Vize gained access to TirNaNog through the Irminsul gate in Germany. I’m sure the Elven King’s people don’t let just anyone near it, never mind use it.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Grey, we are investigating the loyalty of the guards,” said Frye.

  “Let’s talk about magical artifacts,” Brokke said. Frye’s long, pointed ears flexed down in irritation. The two of them obviously disagreed on their meeting game.

  I had a feeling I knew where he was going. “Okay.”

  “A spear was in the Elven King’s possession for many years. I wonder how it ended up at the Seelie Court,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. If it’s the spear I think you’re talking about, the last time I saw it was after Vize killed someone with it,” I said.

  “Yes, but he received the spear from you,” said Brokke.

  “Stole it from me is more accurate,” I said.

  “But if it was bonded to you, how was he able to take it?” he asked.

  The waiter returned with our plates. I assembled my burger. “I didn’t understand the mechanism of it. If it was bonded to me, it left me when I needed it most.”

  Brokke pulled at his substantial ear. “Interesting. Where is the spear now?”

  “I already answered that question. Your guess is as good as mine. It vanished when I sealed the veil between worlds.”

  He rubbed his hands against the tablecloth, staring into his lunch. “Lost again,” he muttered.

  “My turn. Why are you protecting Bergin Vize?” I asked.

  Brokke cut his fish, took a bite, and looked at Frye as if he, too, were interested in the answer.

  “We are not protecting him. He is in hiding,” he said.

  “Where?”

  Frye’s hooded eyes seemed to be assessing me. “My guess would be your own neighborhood.”

  With everything else happening in the Weird, an on-the-lam terrorist elf would fit right in. “I’ll take that as confirmation coming from you. Things are not going well in the Weird, and lately when things are not going well in a big way, your friend Vize is lurking in the background.”

  “If the events occurring on the waterfront are getting out of hand, perhaps the Guild might be of service,” said Frye.

  “As you can imagine, that’s not reassuring. If he’s so unwelcome, why aren’t you looking for him?” I said.

  Frye curled his lip in condescension. “As long as he does not make a threat to the Elven King, he is not my concern.”

  “But threats against the Seelie Court and—What are we up to? A few hundred deaths so far?—those don’t concern you either?”

  “That has not been proven,” he said. He shifted in his seat, arching an eyebrow as he withdrew a cell phone from his pocket. “You will excuse me,” he said.

  As Frye left the table, Brokke leaned toward me. “We have only moments before he realizes the insignificance of that call, Grey. I have something to say to you alone. You know I am a seer. I have tried to see the events unfolding here, but no matter how I attempt it, I cannot see you.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I said.

  He glanced toward the restaurant entrance. “I know. I’ve enlisted others in the attempt, to no success. I have seen something that I want you to know. Something will happen, and soon, that will affect the Grand Duchess. I cannot see it. That leads me to believe whatever it is involves you as well.”

  “
You know telling me that won’t necessarily change the future,” I said.

  He nodded. “Truth. The future is the land of the possible, the outcome of choices, not inevitabilities. But sometimes those choices narrow to a point of significance. I believe a time is coming when you will have a choice that affects the Grand Duchess. It will cause a profound change in the Elven Court. When that time comes, Mr. Grey, I implore you to consider the consequences for more than yourself.”

  “I’m not sure if you’re insulting me or warning me,” I said.

  “Neither. I am a seer. I say what I see. What you do with it is your choice. Even now, I feel things shifting, becoming less certain. Remember that royal blood flows in Eorla Elvendottir’s veins, and no one wants that kind of blood on their hands.”

  That startled me. “I’m going to do something that causes her death?”

  He shrugged. “That outcome is likelier than I care to see.”

  “Eorla Kruge is the last person I’d want to see dead,” I said.

  He tapped the table. “I as well, but the Wheel of the World is a relentless Thing.” He placed a pair of workman’s gloves on the table. “You will thank me for these someday. I don’t know why. He returns.” Curious, I slipped the gloves into my jacket. Frye resumed his seat. “Is your presence required elsewhere?” Brokke asked.

  Frye picked at his lunch. “It was minor. Mr. Grey, I will tell you this: You are being watched—by the Guild and by the Consortium.”

  It was hard to miss the obvious elven security at the end of my street or the Danann agents that appeared overhead when I was home. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You are also about to be arrested by the Boston police force,” he said.

  I dropped my burger. “For what?”

  “A substantial list of violations including inciting a riot and murder charges related to the deaths that occurred on Samhain. A movement is under way to involve your federal authorities in a very novel conspiracy-to-commit-treason charge,” said Frye.

  I pursed my lips. “I seem to have pissed someone off.”