Unperfect Souls cg-4

by Mark Del Franco

  “What do you want to know?” I asked.

  “If we share information, we may be able to resolve the issue of the Taint to everyone’s advantage.”

  “And your credit,” Meryl said.

  Eorla shrugged. “I have no issue sharing credit for it. In fact, you can have it all if you wish. It’s more important that the Taint be eliminated.”

  I smiled. “You’re afraid the Guild will figure it out and use it as a weapon.”

  Eorla shook her head. “Not afraid. I know that is their intention. Isn’t fear of Consortium dominance what the fiasco on Samhain was about? The only thing that keeps war from breaking out between the Seelie Court and the Elven King is parity. If I have anything to do with it, both sides will know the answer or neither will.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ll end up committing espionage against the Guild and treason against the Elven King at the same time. Even I make better friends than that,” said Meryl.

  “Barely,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

  The Guild had interrogated Meryl for weeks about the purging spell she used on the Taint. Meryl insisted she didn’t know the mechanics of the spell because a powerful fey called a drys actually performed it through her. It wasn’t quite possession, more like having a supercharged battery boosting her already considerable ability, with the drys providing direction. I had more than enough experience with forgetting what happened during extreme essence events, but even I suspected Meryl knew a little more than she was telling.

  Eorla steepled her fingers. “I’ll let history judge that. I’ve been out of favor before. I will find favor again. That’s not the issue. The Taint is.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Meryl asked.

  A slow smile teased at the corners of Eorla’s mouth. “By that question, you confirm my belief that you know something.”

  Meryl frowned a smile. “Maybe it was a rhetorical question. I didn’t just fall out of an oak tree, Eorla.”

  I suppressed a smirk. Meryl might not have fallen out of an oak tree, but at Forest Hills, I watched her fall into one. Literally. One moment, the bark of the tree formed the face of the drys; the next, Meryl jumped into the trunk.

  Eorla pulled a small pad of paper toward herself and sketched a series of runes. Sometimes the act of scribing can activate a spell. Eorla was a pro, though, and broke them into unlikely combinations. For added measure, she smeared essence on the first few to make them resonate differently. She slid the pad across the desk. “Perhaps an exchange of information would make you more amenable. Those are the runes I saw and remember”—she shot me a significant glance—“all of them this time. I believe, Connor, you held back a few as well.”

  I picked up a pen and drew three more runes. I didn’t look at Meryl, but sensed her caution through her stillness. Eorla studied the pad. “It’s ancient. It doesn’t have the nuance of the spells we use today. It’s much more blunt force.” She handed me the pad. “Do you see the rhythm of an elven chant in that?”

  I saw what she meant. “I don’t follow all of it, but, yeah, I see it.”

  Meryl took the pad from me with a mixture of reluctance and curiosity. She scanned the page, then closed her eyes, nodding as if listening to music. She opened her eyes and filled in a few blank spaces. “I think those belong. The syntax looks similar to Old Elvish with maybe an eastern influence.”

  Impressed, Eorla nodded as she reviewed the additions. “The runes were bonded to an oak staff. That changed the nature of the spell by combining Seelie and Teutonic modes.”

  “That was the point,” said Meryl, “to control essence the way the two groups use it.”

  “Why didn’t it affect us?” Eorla asked.

  “That part’s easy,” said Meryl. “We didn’t drink the Kool-Aid.”

  Eorla tapped the edge of her desk in thought. “The drugged ceremonial mead never made it to me for the final toast. That doesn’t explain Nigel Martin’s ability to fight off the spell.”

  “He was sidelined at the Guildhouse and wasn’t at the funeral. He didn’t arrive until after the spell catalyzed,” I said.

  Eorla considered for a moment before bringing her attention back to Meryl. “The drys used you to execute a counterspell, and the control spell collapsed.”

  “But it didn’t collapse,” I said. “That’s what the Taint is. Damaged essence.”

  Eorla leaned back in her chair again. “You broke the Seelie aspect of the spell, Meryl. If that knowledge falls to the Elven King, he may be able to reconstruct the control spell, and we may not be able to stop it again. The Celtic fey would be at his mercy.”

  No one spoke.

  “You have nothing to add?” Eorla said to Meryl.

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember. It wasn’t my doing. The drys used me as a conduit.”

  Eorla arched an eyebrow. “A conduit. I hadn’t considered that.”

  “If you reconstruct the spell, won’t that cause the same problem all over again?” I asked.

  She titled her head. “I’m not re-creating the spell. I’m reconstructing it in order to understand how to undo it. You saw how much essence was involved—controlling all that essence is impossible for one person. I have no interest in dying.”

  A knock sounded at the door. I stood for appearances sake. Another elven guard entered at Eorla’s response. “Your meeting is beginning shortly, Your Highness.”

  Eorla gathered up some papers on her desk, slipped them in an envelope, and handed it to me. “Deliver this by the end of the day, will you?”

  I bowed and left the room. Meryl met me at the elevator a few moments later. We didn’t speak until the doors closed. “I still don’t trust her,” she said.

  “I know. I do. When you do, let me know,” I said.

  She cocked her head at me. “That’s it? No trying to persuade me?”

  I smiled. “I’ve learned my lesson on that score.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  I wiggled my elven ears at her. “Have you ever had crazy elf sex?”

  She watched the lit numbers on the panel as they counted down. She punched the stop button. “Not in an elevator.”

  18

  After a day of political intrigue, it made perfect sense, at least in my life, to shift gears and attend a good, old-fashioned neighborhood meeting. Murdock seemed to think it might be interesting, but I doubted it. Neighborhood meetings were usually dog-and-pony shows, a sop to whoever had a problem, where the powers that be got to pretend they cared and were doing something about it. A neighborhood meeting in the Weird was unusual. The people who lived there didn’t have the time—or clout—to demand community service or political attention. Not when they were dodging elf-shot and bullets. But enough people had complained that one was arranged, and Murdock felt the need to attend.

  Like most of the old buildings in the Weird, the building on Summer Street being used for the meeting was a manufacturing plant for something when it was built. Plate-glass windows lined the street level now, covered with metal mesh. By the sign above the door, someone had tried to turn it into a lighting showroom, “tried” being the operative word. The sign was long faded.

  Snow fell thickly as Murdock parked the car opposite the entrance to the old warehouse. The weather forecast hadn’t called for anything more than overcast skies, but the clouds had a different idea. Light leaked through the mesh grate from inside, casting striated shadows onto the solitaries who gathered on the sidewalk. Bark-skinned men with tangled hair in mats of dark green or brown stamped their feet in the snow and bunched their hands in pockets. A few ash-colored women huddled together, their coal black hair trailing to their waists. At the next corner, police officers in riot gear leaned against cars and motorcycles. Suspicious and angry eyes from both contingents watched each other in the sallow light thrown by the lone streetlight.

  Despite the cold, we moved across the street with a steady gait. Rushing would have looked like we were intimidated by the stares. More so
litaries filled the interior of the warehouse. Some managed to snag the few wooden folding chairs set up, but the majority stood and faced a long table—with a very obvious space heater pointed at it. Mayor Dolan Grant and Commissioner Scott Murdock sat with a city councilor, various aides, and a blasé Guild press agent I remembered. Behind them, I was surprised to see Moira Cashel. When we made eye contact, she didn’t acknowledge me.

  A thin woman spoke waveringly into a microphone about her recent mugging. When she finished, a community activist who worked across the city took the microphone. She didn’t look like your typical advocate for solitary fey. With her simple, stylish black suit and long ash-blond hair, she looked more Back Bay than the Weird. “This has got to be awkward,” I said.

  Murdock gave me a sharp glance. “What do you mean?”

  I nodded at Grant. “That’s Jennifer Grant, the mayor’s daughter. It’s got to be pissing him off to have her criticize his administration.”

  Murdock let his gaze rove over the woman. She was definitely rovable. “I heard they made peace a long time ago. Business is business, family is family.”

  I poked my tongue into my cheek. “Maybe they should talk to you and your father.”

  A corner of Murdock’s lips dipped down. “I don’t think I could contradict him in public.”

  “Maybe you should,” I said.

  Bemused, Murdock shook his head. “Let’s not go there, Connor.”

  “And she’s just one of many stories like this,” Grant was saying. “The Grant administration has to remember that civil rights extend to all our citizens, whether they are fey or human, legal residents or undocumented workers.”

  The mayor leaned forward. “Thank you, Jennifer. I have complete confidence in Commissioner Murdock. The city of Boston must meet the current problems with strong action, and we are working diligently to protect everyone.”

  His daughter scowled back at him. “There have been four unsolved murders in this neighborhood in the last two weeks. That is significant, and I have no information regarding a police response that supports the people who live and work here instead of punishing them through negligence.”

  Scott Murdock tilted his head toward the microphone. He pinned his dark eyes on Grant like she was some kid who had kicked a ball onto his lawn. “‘Negligence’ is a loaded word, Ms. Grant. The police department is doing everything it can to maintain order under the current circumstances.”

  Grant straightened her jacket. “Yes, thank you, Commissioner. Speaking of maintaining order, can you or the mayor please tell us under what legal authority the Guildhouse is policing this neighborhood?”

  From the tight, thin lips on the commissioner’s face, he didn’t like the question. “They are auxiliary forces to help handle the unique challenges of this area.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, sir. What is their legal authority?” Grant asked.

  The commissioner looked at the mayor. Dolan Grant pulled the microphone closer. “As you know, Jennifer, our office is responding to several legal challenges on that point. We believe we have full legal authority to draw on the Guild’s generous offer of resources until the courts say otherwise.”

  The crowd broke out in angry shouts while the mayor held up his hands for quiet.

  Several people moved toward the microphone. Someone grabbed it and began speaking but was drowned out. A ripple went through the crowd, and it parted to let someone through. Zev stepped up to the microphone, and the speaker backed away. The room quieted.

  “When are the barriers around the Weird coming down?” he asked.

  “There is still too much unrest to set a timetable,” said the mayor.

  “People can’t get into the city to work,” Zev said.

  The mayor began to speak, but his press secretary moved in smoothly. “Everyone with a work permit is being allowed through the checkpoints.”

  “That’s bull. It’s taking weeks to get those permits. People need their paychecks,” said Zev. The crowd shouted its approval.

  The press secretary nodded with understanding. “We know there have been delays, and we are working to streamline the process.”

  “When are the barriers coming down?” Zev asked again. More shouts. I felt a pulse of essence. Someone was amping up the emotions in the room. I stared at Moira, but she gave no indication that might tip it was her. Other fey in the room seemed more intent on Zev than anyone. He held more sway with the solitaries than I realized.

  “Let’s move on to the next question,” the press secretary said.

  “That is the next question,” said Zev. “And the next and the next and the next until we get an answer. We are being held prisoner in our own homes while the Guild runs through here like storm troopers.”

  The few people remaining in their seats yelled with the rest of the crowd. The press secretary tried to speak, but her voice didn’t carry over the PA system. Someone banged on the table for order, but the crowd wasn’t having it. A scuffle broke out near the audience microphone, and it fell over with an angry whine of feedback. The people behind the table conferred among themselves, then stood and filed out behind a row of police officers. Moira slid a languid hand across Commission Murdock’s shoulder as she left. The commissioner remained at the table, hands folded with steepled fingers against his lips. He didn’t take his eyes off Jennifer Grant. When everyone else was out of the room, he stood and reached for a bullhorn from a nearby officer.

  He clicked the siren on the horn a few times, an earsplitting sound breaking through the noise. He held the horn up to his mouth. “This meeting is adjourned. Please clear the room.”

  The crowd roared as the commissioner handed the horn back and walked away. Another officer hit the siren and spoke. “You have been issued a police order to clear the premises. Please make your way to the exits.”

  “That was diplomatic,” I said.

  Murdock sighed and nodded. “That’s my dad.”

  Despite the angry shouts and arm waving, the crowd left the room. Anyone in the Weird the past few weeks knew what happened when police orders were ignored. Outside, the officers in riot gear moved in closer from the corner, their dark uniforms shadows in falling snow. Some solitaries lingered, shouting at the warehouse and the line of police. At the opposite end of the block, the mayor’s SUV drove away with a trail of other cars.

  Squad cars lined the street, blocking in Murdock’s car. We sat inside it watching the street theater escalate. The jeering crowd became smaller as people went home, but those remaining became louder. Tussles broke out. Snowballs were tossed, landing short of the line of police. The police didn’t react, even backed up a few times.

  On the other side of the street, I saw Shay exiting the warehouse. I hadn’t seen him inside. In his long white coat, he struggled to cross the street amid a barrage of snowballs. A solitary stumbled into him and knocked him into one of the tree fairies, who pushed him off. As he focused on his footing, Shay pushed back and walked away. Obviously angry, the ash fairy followed him.

  “Looks like I’m cavalry again,” I said, and opened the door.

  With his hood up, Shay didn’t see the fairy charging up behind him. I reached Shay first and took his arm, looking pointedly at the solitary. He stopped in his tracks, glared, and backed off.

  Shay pulled his arm away, then smiled. “Oh, hi. Didn’t realize it was you. Some jerk just pushed me.”

  We walked in the direction of Murdock’s car. “He was about to jump you.”

  Shay looked back with a frown. “He’s lucky I’m wearing a new coat.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Shay’s tough, but he couldn’t hold his own in a fight. He had no problem getting in people’s faces, and his boyfriend, Robyn, used to follow through with the physical confrontation. With Robyn gone, Shay was on his own. “You need to be careful, Shay.”

  He peered at me from under his fake-fur-trimmed hood. “Uno keeps showing up at my apartment. I’m going to die, Conn
or. I’m not going to do that with my clothes dirty.”

  Murdock stood outside his car. The squad cars still blocked us in. “Looks like we’re here until the crowd’s gone.”

  “Why don’t you wait in the car, and we’ll give you a ride?” I asked Shay.

  Shay examined the backseat through the window and wrinkled his nose at the mess. “Uh, no, thanks. Like I said, this is a new coat. I’ll walk. I’ve got a late shift at work.”

  Back up the street, the solitary who had pushed Shay hadn’t moved on and was watching. “Why don’t we walk you a bit?”

  “We?” said Murdock.

  I flicked some snow at him from the roof of the car. “Come on. You’ve got better boots than I do.”

  Murdock grabbed a handful and threw it. “Fine.”

  With Shay between us, we trudged up the middle of the street. “What did you think of the meeting, Shay?” I asked.

  He answered to the rhythm of his breathing as we slogged through the snow. “No surprises. I only went because the Institute asked me to. Some of the clients’ relatives have been complaining that they have to drive around the Weird after work. Poor things in their BMWs. They should try getting to the mall from here without a pass.”

  The snow whipped about us, dimming the light from the few streetlamps. Within a block of the car, mounds of it drifted on the road. The wind howled, a deep, plaintive moan that rose and fell. I pulled my hood down as far as it would go without blocking my vision. We leaned forward with turned heads as the cold crystals pelted our faces. I was beginning to regret the good deed. Murdock was probably ready to kill me. The wind died a moment later. Then it became louder, an eerie wail of voices and the unmistakable sound of howling. As if planned, we all stopped at the same moment. “That’s not the wind,” Shay said.