Briallen grinned as she stood and placed both hands on Murdock’s shoulders. Meryl narrowed her eyes, then looked at me suspiciously.
“Leonard, why don’t you take poor, misunderstood Connor upstairs, and he can make us all drinks?” Briallen asked.
“My pleasure,” he said.
We left them in the kitchen and went up to the second-floor parlor. Briallen used the room as a study. When I was a kid, I used to find her sitting by the blue fire that always burned in the fireplace, reading books in languages I didn’t know or standing at the window thinking. Next to the window, a small table held glasses and liquor bottles, mostly ports and liqueurs. I flipped some glasses up and sorted through the bottles while Murdock dropped in a chair.
“I’m beat,” he said.
I found the always reliable Jameson’s and poured a glass. “How’d things go at the station house?”
He shrugged. “It was fine. No one knew I had lost my gun, so I didn’t have to deal with that. I told Ruiz I had a headache in the morning, but it was better.”
Ruiz was captain of Area B, which covered the Weird. I didn’t envy the man having the police commissioner’s son on his team, more than one of them, actually. “You lied? That’s not like you.”
Another shrug. “No one knew what really happened. It would have been a lot of red tape if I gave a full report. It’s over. No harm, no foul.”
“I told Keeva you went missing,” I said.
“Yeah, the old man told me she called. I told him you and I got separated in the storm is all,” he said.
I turned back to the table to cover my frown. Murdock was by-the-book. Pragmatic, but he bent rules more than he broke them. “What do you want to drink?” I asked.
“Do you think Briallen has any Guinness?”
“I was thinking maybe we should run down Jark later, see if he has anything new to say,” I said.
“And?”
Surprised again, I looked at him. “I thought you didn’t like to drink if you were going to be working?”
He smiled. “It’s one beer, Connor. That dinner deserves a nice finish.”
Briallen was a good cook. “I’ll see what she has.”
I slowly descended the stairs, trying to decide if I should be worried about his behavior. Murdock was calm, steady. Honest. The irony that I was worried he was acting more like me wasn’t lost on me. Voices from the kitchen caught my ear. I paused on the last step.
“I said maybe you’re spending too much time with him, not to avoid him,” Briallen said.
“I know what I’m doing,” Meryl said.
“I’m concerned,” Briallen said.
“And I’m not. It’s different this time.”
“Do you remember something?” Briallen asked.
“Do you?” Meryl responded.
A long pause followed. The longer it lasted, the more likely one of them would sense me, so I entered the kitchen. “Remember what?”
Meryl shifted on her stool. “What?”
“I thought I heard Briallen ask you if you remembered something,” I said.
She waved her hand and picked up her wineglass. “Oh, it’s nothing. Briallen and I refuse to tell each other how much we remember of Faerie.”
I covered my curiosity by opening the fridge. “I thought you didn’t remember any of it.”
The fey—the Old Ones—who lived in Faerie before Convergence over a hundred years ago remembered a world far different than the modern one. People like Maeve and Donor wanted to get back to it at all costs. The here-born like me, born after Convergence and never knew the place, were sometimes ambivalent about it. I wasn’t, though. I didn’t care at all.
Meryl chuckled. “Nice try, Grey.”
I faced her with two Guinnesses. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
Meryl won’t tell me if she’s an Old One or not. When the fey came through to this reality, their memories were damaged. Some didn’t remember who they were. Others didn’t remember anyone else. No one remembered what caused Convergence. If Meryl was an Old One, I was having sex with a centenarian. When I thought about it, I waffled between whether that was cool or creepy.
“And Briallen keeps trying, too,” Meryl said. “Until she tells me what she knows, I ain’t tellin’ what I know—if I know.”
Briallen leaned back against the sink and shook her head. “I know more than she wants to believe.”
Meryl smirked. “Back at ya, Bree. For instance, what’s the little game you’re playing with Murdock?”
Briallen looked at me. “I told you that you shouldn’t have invited her.”
I shrugged. “He would have been suspicious otherwise.”
Meryl waved her hands above her head. “Okay, I’m still here and still want to know what’s going on. You weren’t very subtle about it, Briallen. That last bit with the hands on his shoulders lit him up like a candle.”
“He won’t go to AvMem or New England Medical, so I asked Briallen to check him out,” I said.
Meryl arched an eyebrow. “And?”
Briallen smiled. “He’s in perfect health. Extraordinary health for a human.”
I put my arm around Meryl. “I’ll be your best friend if you keep this to yourself.”
She slipped out from under my arm. “Oh, happy me. Just so you know, Grey, I have my own gynecologist, so don’t go doing me any favors.”
She walked out, shaking her head.
Briallen pursed her lips. “Are you going to tell him?”
“Not tonight. Eventually.”
“And what about you? When was the last time you went to see Gillen?”
“He can’t do anything, Briallen. If he had any new ideas, he would have called. He hasn’t,” I said.
She stared at her foot as she scuffed at the floor. “Within the Wheel are many paths, but only you can find the one you need.”
I wanted to tell her about the leanansidhe, but she wouldn’t approve. Whatever the dark mass was in my head, it was beyond Briallen’s knowledge and skill. She’d be concerned if I told her about using the leanansidhe to figure it out. Actually, she’d be afraid. I certainly was. But the normal path wasn’t helping me, and where I needed to go was not a place Briallen would approve. “And if I don’t find my path, it will find me. That’s how you taught me the Wheel works.”
She caressed my cheek. “It’s nice to know you listened occasionally.”
I kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry so much. Things work out eventually. Let’s get upstairs before Meryl convinces Murdock to plant whoopee cushions for us.”
24
After-dinner drinks wound into the early- morning hours. For a brief time—too brief—the events of the world outside Briallen’s second-floor parlor faded behind the softly falling snow. The four of us sat before the blue-flamed fire, laughing and at ease with each other as we talked into the night. Beer and wine and liqueurs flowed, loosening tongues and relaxing muscles. To be trite, it was nice. Nice in the way nostalgia colored our memories or the way a day felt hung in suspension when all the chores and errands were done and there was nothing left to do but curl up and do nothing of consequence. It had been a long time since I’d had the feeling, had it and appreciated it.
But all such times end, time and energy taking its toll, nudging us back to activity and to life. We made our good-byes with smiles and reluctance and ventured into the night. Meryl drove off alone, determined to get some sleep before an early morning at the Guildhouse. Murdock and I, though, decided to make a short pit stop before he dropped me off. A good meal, good drink, and good conversations were great ways to spend an evening, but after a while, memories of murder and unanswered, lingering questions crept back into our minds. It was a good time to visit the Dead.
Murdock pulled up near the old Helmet. The side street off Old Northern was far enough out from the Tangle that the nasty stew of essence down there didn’t muck with my head. Panels of cheap plywood painted black hid the original facade of the buil
ding, and hundreds of silver or rusted staples littered the surface, the remains of long- gone posters. Weathered advertisements for band dates, club contests, and local services lingered long past their relevant dates. The pitted metal sign above the door bore the ghost image of the last three letters someone had removed from the old bar’s name.
We attracted significant looks and stares when we entered. In TirNaNog, if one of the Dead killed a living person, they absorbed the living body essence—the basic life spark—and escaped back into the world. A sort of Get Out of Jail Free card for the afterlife. On this side of the veil, the rules had changed. When the Dead killed someone living here, they didn’t return to life. Their essence didn’t change. The victim, though, ended up very much dead.
Hel didn’t look different from when it was Helmet. Lighting in the wide, square dive ran to blue spots and a flashing dance floor, the better to distract people from seeing much. When the bar was Helmet, the faint odor of damp bodies in cramped spaces permeated an atmosphere of heady sex and drugs. It was amusing to watch who went home with whom at last call.
The change of clientele didn’t change the look. Hel even played the same loud dance music, but the new patrons had that sharper edge of menace the Weird was too well-known for. Nobody danced, probably because they had no idea what to make of modern music. Being Dead made it tough to keep up with the latest dance trends.
The most visible change was that everyone was Dead. It was inevitable they’d find a place to gather. That’s what bars were for, to bring together the like and like-minded, people who wanted to hang out with others with a shared sensibility, drink, or get laid. Being Dead didn’t change any of that. In fact, the Dead had a higher appetite for everything. They all seemed to know each other, definitely drank more than average, and I wouldn’t want to compare notes on dating with them. Take away the risk of dying, and everyone was willing to try anything and more of it. Of course, they still got killed, but what was a mortal wound if you woke up fine the next day?
Murdock and I grew up in a city that had embraced the fey to an extent. I didn’t think twice when the people around me had wings or pointed ears. The scary solitaries gave everyone pause, but that was the point. Individually, solitaries were odd-looking, misshapen, and unattractive by mainstream standards, but the rest of the fey didn’t raise an eyebrow. Until I saw these solitaries who were Dead clustered in a dark bar wearing outdated clothes bordering on costumes, sporting jewelry that went out of fashion centuries ago, and displaying a penchant for physicality not much admired in our more enlightened times.
“Is this job ever going to get easier?” Murdock asked.
“Now what would be the fun in that?” I said.
We eased our way through the crowd. I ordered beer for me and water for Murdock. In bottles. From the end of the bar, we had a clear view of the goings-on. The novelty of our presence wore off among those who had noticed us, and they returned their attention to whatever they were doing before we arrived. For all their strangeness, the Dead acted like anyone else in a bar—laughing, glowering, cruising, drinking, and arguing. Except dancing. Still no dancing.
A woman, a Teutonic norn, leaned over and ordered a drink at the bar. A Dead norn. When druids and dwarves read the future through scrying and dreams, they see patterns and events on a grand scale. A norn’s ability sensed what was and what was to be on a more individual level. Our eyes met, then she indifferently watched the front of the bar. The bartender set a plastic cup by her hand. She sipped through the stirrer, staring at us. Her wide brown eyes slid from me to Murdock. “You don’t belong here.”
Murdock cracked a smile. “Said the Dead girl.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, looked at me. “I remember you.”
Not the first time I’ve heard that in a bar. By her dated clothing, the odds that Murdock or I had known her in life were slim. I decided to be polite. “Then you have me at an advantage.”
“I saw you in Niflheim.”
Niflheim was the Teutonic perception of TirNaNog. I searched my memory, trying to place her, but came up empty. I had spent my time in TirNaNog running away from the Dead and trying not to get Dead myself. Not a lot of time to socialize. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you. I was kinda busy.”
Her eyes visibly dilated as she stared. “You’re like me. You touch the Wheel.”
Murdock and I exchanged glances. He knew what the Wheel of the World was. He got that it was about faith and destiny, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove his Catholicism from the concept. Where the fey see a world that Is, Murdock sees the hand of God, especially after the previous night.
“We all touch the Wheel,” I said.
She feathered essence over me, and my body shields activated. They were too damaged to protect me from anything, but the norn wasn’t attacking. She was curious. I winced as the dark mass clenched. Its rejection of the seers apparently wasn’t limited to scrying.
She paled and backed away. “I see no path for you, druid.”
“I’m trying to find one,” I said.
“Everyone has a path, even if they cannot see it. A norn sees what others can’t. If you have no path, druid, that bodes ill for you and everything you touch.”
I sipped my beer. “Thanks. I’ll update my will.”
“What was that all about?” Murdock asked.
“Norns see personal futures. She basically told me I had none.”
The crowd shifted, and Jark’s vibrant red-orange signature registered nearby. I spotted him sitting in a dark corner. I nudged Murdock. “Let’s try not to provoke him any more than we have to. Keep a weapon accessible, though.”
Murdock unbuttoned his coat. “Most definitely in here.”
Jark held court at a crowded table. He pretended not to notice us, though with all the sendings fluttering around, someone had to have warned him the law was there. The conversation stopped as we sat. The onlookers watched curiously, their eyes shifting from us to Jark and back again. Jark’s smile rippled the scars on the side of his face. He lifted a pint of beer and drank half in a gulp, landing the glass hard on the table. He wiped a gray-streaked beard. “What brings you to this place?”
“You can speak English,” I said.
He snorted. “The plain of Niflheim holds many men from many places.”
“You didn’t mention that at the morgue,” I said.
“You didn’t ask,” he said.
“You said the Hound killed you,” I said.
The crowd around us shifted. People stepped back or moved away completely. Jark downed a long draft of his beer. “And yet you have not hunted him down.”
“Funny thing about that. We heard you’re afraid of the Hound,” Murdock said.
Jark snorted. “Then you’re hearing wrong. Me afraid of the Hound? That’s a lie. The Hound hunts the Dead like a snake. He has no honor. He lurks in the shadows and strikes out of cowardice. I don’t fear men who won’t face me in a fight.”
Jark reached for his beer again, and Murdock pulled it away. “Wrong, Jark? Wrong like you admitting you killed Sekka and here you are drinking a beer? Or wrong like you were lying when you said that Sekka killed you?”
Jark lowered his chin and stared. “I would watch your tongue. No one calls Jark a liar.”
By Murdock’s flat stare, I knew he was about to explode, but antagonizing a berserker was not the way to go. I leaned between the two of them. “We seem to have some wrong information, then, Jark. Maybe you can clear up—”
Murdock interrupted me. “I’m calling you a liar.”
Jark glowered. “I said watch your tongue, whelp. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
A smile twitched in the corner of Murdock’s mouth. “Did you just threaten me?”
Jark drew himself up and puffed out his chest. “I will do more than threaten you, you impudent dog, I will . . .”
Jark didn’t get to finish. Murdock’s body shield flickered on as he yanked the table out of the way.
Jark rocked back in his chair with his hands in the air, the sudden exposure as comical as the surprise on his face. He obviously wasn’t used to anyone coming back at him. Murdock grabbed him by his tunic and slammed him against the wall.
Murdock pressed his face in close. “You will what?”
Jark struggled, color draining from his face at the realization that the human he called an impudent dog was strong enough to pin a berserker to a wall. “I will have your head for this.”
Murdock shook him like a doll. “Really? I’d like to see that. You didn’t seem so tough when I beat you down at the morgue. Remember, my friend, if the law doesn’t recognize what you guys do, it doesn’t recognize what happens to you either. I’m going to tell you this once more. I want the Dead to stop hunting the solitaries. If they don’t, I’m coming back for you, Jark, and I’m going to rip your worthless head off again, only this time I’ll make sure it gets washed out to sea.”
Murdock flung him to the floor. “If one more person dies, start looking over your shoulder.”
He straightened his jacket and strode away through the crowd. No one stopped him. Everything had happened so fast, I was amused to find myself still in my chair with my beer in my hand. I chugged the rest of my bottle as Jark sat up. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, twirling the bottle with two fingers, scanning the crowd. I tossed the empty bottle at Jark, and he batted it away. “I suggest you take his advice. You don’t want to make him angry.”
I followed in Murdock’s wake, enjoying the stunned and fearful looks on the customers’ faces. I couldn’t blame them. After what Murdock did, I didn’t want to see him angry either. He waited in his car by a handicapped ramp. I got in, and he gunned it into the street. “That was impressively ballsy, sir. Did you miss the part where I suggested not provoking him?”
Murdock stared out the window. His body shield flickered as he restrained his anger. “I don’t know how things work in Dead People Land, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone talk to a cop like that.”
“Pull over. This guy’s going to rabbit,” I said.
“You think he’s going to run somewhere?” He glanced in the rearview mirror and made a U-turn on Northern Avenue
Unperfect Souls Page 19
