Unperfect Souls (6 page)

“The Dead are doing the beheadings,” Zev said, returning to what we’d been discussing before the Dead elf showed up. “They’ve been hanging at the old Helmet. They call it Hel now.”

“The corpse we saw was a Dead guy. Why would they kill their own?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Death is a game to them. I don’t care what they do to each other. But now they’re going after solitaries, and the police and the Guild aren’t doing anything about it. No one misses solitaries.”

“How many, Zev?” I asked.

He leveled his white gaze at me. “How many do you need?”

I frowned. “It makes a difference in how to approach an investigation, Zev. Get the chip off your shoulder.”

“Four that I know of.”

Meryl downed her beer. “The Dead are playing the same games they played in TirNaNog. Dying is an inconvenience if you just wake up again the next day. I think we’re seeing a power struggle.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

She twirled her glass. “The missing head. Someone’s playing for keeps. Without the head, the Dead can’t regenerate.”

With a smug look, Zev hunched over his bottle. “We don’t have to hide from someone who can’t regenerate.”

I had a feeling that what decapitation meant to the Dead wasn’t news to Zev. “Sounds to me like some solitaries have figured out a way to level the playing field for themselves,” I said.

It didn’t bode well for anyone.

 

 

 

 

Meryl didn’t come home with me, which wasn’t always a given. Probably a good thing, considering that Eorla Kruge, the Teutonic representative on the Guildhouse board of directors, projected herself into my dreams that night. I knew it wasn’t an ordinary dream because the vision was wrapped in Eorla’s body signature. Damned surprising to have a beautiful elven woman appear asking me to come see her, especially when she’d neglected to wear clothing. I can’t say it wasn’t arousing.

I stared at the meager collection of clothes in my closet. It seemed only courteous to dress up a little more than normal. Eorla’s status as elven royalty played only a small role in the decision. She knew I wasn’t thrilled about monarchies and wouldn’t expect full court regalia from me anyway. Where some people—like my former Guild partner Keeva macNeve—reveled in the antiquated system, Eorla was more indifferent to it all. Still, she was a business-woman, so worn-out jeans with holes in them weren’t appropriate. A clean pair of black dress slacks and a black turtleneck would work.

I left myself plenty of time to get to the Consortium consulate in Back Bay, so I could take the T instead of a cab. The Boston subway system wasn’t the fastest in the world, but it worked, and I didn’t have to tip anyone. Money was still not my best friend. At least, it neglected to show up when invited.

Copley Square was bustling with shoppers. December brought a gift-giving holiday to the fey as well as humans. Which meant it was the time of year when people argued over whose holiday first included decorated evergreen trees or whose deity laid claim to an actual birthday and on and on and on. Me, I liked exchanging sweaters. Boston is too damned cold in the winter.

Not far outside the square, a tall, slender statue of Donor Elfenkonig, the Elven King, guarded the Teutonic Consortium consulate on Commonwealth Avenue. The Teutonic fey may have respected their warrior-king, but they also feared him. Donor’s rule was driven by dominance over his competitors and opposition to High Queen Maeve at Tara. For years while I worked for the Guild, I spent time in counterintelligence against his operatives.

A vapor of pale essence drifted off the statue and floated in the direction of the Guildhouse across town. I never noticed it before. It was so subtle I doubted many other fey could see it. It wouldn’t surprise anyone, though. Once upon a time, the statue had included a niding pole with a cursing spell. The horse skull at the top of the staff was long gone, but everyone assumed the curse still existed. Throwing bad vibes at each other was standard procedure for the Guild and the Consortium.

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.

“How 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.”