Unshapely Things (11 page)

"Your accent needs work," she said with a chuckle. Tapping the edge of her glass, she lost herself in thought a moment. " 'Ska.' An interesting word."

"I've never heard it. Joe translated it as 'bad,'" I said.

Briallen tipped her head from side to side. "That's simple at best. Its meaning has broadened in more rustic areas to mean something that's annoying or unsettling, but its true sense is more a physical description. One of the many oddities about flits is that they breed like bunnies, but you rarely see them in groups. They can be indifferent to their selection of mates and, coupled with their clan pride, tend to enter unions too close in the bloodline. The result is invariably a stillbirth and is called ska, meaning 'that-which-is-not-to-be' in the sense that the world has rejected the birth. There's a connotation of 'unbelonging' to the word, meaning the child not only doesn't belong to the clan but doesn't belong anywhere."

I looked back at the flames. The Tuesday Killer made everyone who encountered him uncomfortable. Assuming even Belgor's stone customer was the same guy, he had a troubling essence that upset people because they couldn't place it. Maybe they couldn't place it because it had no place. Maybe prostitutes were perfect victims because they accepted people out of the ordinary. And maybe such a person had found a ritual to make himself feel less out of place.

"I'm wondering if the killer is a ska birth that lived," I said.

"That would be a bit of a contradiction, etymologically," Briallen said. "Given that he lived, maybe he was meant to live. 'Ska' inherently means he shouldn't have lived, never mind grown up to kill three people."

"Then maybe 'ska' is only the closest word to describe him. Maybe he's unique."

"And for that we can be thankful," Briallen said, raising her glass.

"I've been thinking about the point of the murders," I said. I detailed my idea about the heart essence. Briallen became very quiet. Too quiet. "So, tell me, is this a teaching level I've stumbled across?"

She stared into her glass before answering, then looked at me directly. "To a point, yes. Such knowledge exists for the adept. It's forbidden to use."

I took a deep breath to calm my excitement. "Stinkwort said essentially the same thing. Could you teach me?"

She swirled the port in her glass for a long moment, the ruby color catching small flashes of light. Carefully, she placed it on the small table beside her chair. Standing slowly, she walked to the window and gazed out into her garden. "No."

A cold wave of disbelief swept over me. I hadn't expected her to be so direct. She turned to look at me, her eyes a cool measure of deliberation. "To be blunt, Connor, you're not worthy of the knowledge. You stepped off the druidic path years ago, striking out on your own to further your own personal needs. That's just not how it works."

I could feel heat flushing my cheeks again. "Are you saying you don't trust me?"

She shook her head. "It's not about my personal feelings. These are matters greater than anything so minor as a personal relationship. These are dangerous things, knowledge that should have died as soon as it was thought."

"Ska," I said with a slightly derisive tinge.

Briallen nodded. "In effect, yes. If I can, I will tell you what you need to know to stop this maniac. If I can't, I will step in myself to stop him. Either way, I won't teach you. I can't. Not now. Not in your current condition."

I rubbed my hands over my face. I tried to sigh against the great weight sitting on my chest. "This has to be the most uncomfortable night I've spent with you," I said.

"It's been no easier for me. The big issues rarely are," she said.

"I should go," I said.

Briallen walked from the window and left the room. I followed her down to the front hall, where she stood with the door open.

"You'll look into my idea?" I asked.

"Yes. I think it's a very good idea," she said. She took my head in both her hands and pulled me down to kiss me on the forehead. "We'll get through this, Connor. All of it."

I gave her a hug. "It's so hard to be angry with you."

She squeezed my shoulder. "Maybe you're not trying hard enough. Oh, wait a moment, I have something for you." She hurried off into the kitchen and returned in a moment with a small plastic bottle. "Here, it's for your sunburn. Use it liberally." I held the bottle up to the light. I could just make out a gel-like substance through the opaque plastic. "You made an unguent for sunburn?" I asked, surprised that she would even take the time to think of such a thing.

She laughed. "No, love. It's aloe vera. Some things work just fine the way they are."

In the dim light of predawn I woke with a start, my heart racing, my forehead damp. The entire night after leaving Briallen had been broken by troubled dreams. I ran from an unseen terror. I fell off buildings. I struggled up from deep chasms of water. Futilely, I would raise my arms to ward something off, or raise my voice in a broken chant, only to feel the breath leave my body. And then I would wake, my pulse pounding.

I rolled over toward the window, kicking the sweat-damp sheets down around my feet. Outside on the harbor, a lone sailboat edged across a muddy pink horizon. The boat moved lazily, its single sail full out as it tried to catch the light wind. A dull shimmer across the water marked the path of the rising sun, the waves swelling sluggishly. I loved the water but not boats. I had learned to sail on the Charles River, but I had never particularly liked it. Sailing relied too much on chance. Even as I watched, the wind died and the sail fluttered slack. Some poor sucker out there had a long wait coming.

The edge of the sun pierced the horizon. As if on cue, a small breeze rippled the boat's sail, and it started to move. I thought I could just make out the small figure of someone jumping back and forth to manipulate the boom. The sail caught, brilliantly white in the rising sun, and the boat began to cut sharply across the water.

Getting out of bed, I pushed the futon aside and stood naked before the window. As the sun rose, I chanted an invocation of greeting, my arms upraised, my head thrown back. The morning light washed over me, my chant drawing its energy into me, renewing me. It was a minor feat, a most basic exercise. The equivalent of giving my essence a shower. It didn't hurt. In fact, it felt good. Very good. Briallen was right; if regaining what I knew meant starting from scratch, then that was what I had to do. Otherwise, I was just a boat waiting for a breeze.

After I took a shower, I called Avalon Memorial and left a message for Gillen Yor, my healer. I had no sooner replaced the phone on its cradle than it rang. It was Gillen.

I glanced at the clock. "Gillen, you're up early. I was just calling to make an appointment."

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. I thought I'd come for another evaluation."

"I was concerned something happened. How's noon?"

"Only if you're not skipping lunch."

"I'm the healer, Connor. You just show up for a change." The line went dead. As I replaced the receiver, I couldn't blame Gillen for his brusqueness. I had bailed out of more than one appointment.

I spent the morning planning a course of study. My pride wouldn't let me seek a teacher, but for the steps I was going to take I didn't need one yet. I would start at the most rudimentary lessons and build from there, studying incantations, exercising my memory and doing small invocation spells to strengthen my core essence.

A true druid never abandons the search for new knowledge. And the true druid can only continue by passing on the knowledge gained. I was qualified to teach, but I had let the world of the Guild seduce me into stepping away. It is possible to stay on the path and be in the Guild, but the choice to take the financial benefits for their own sake had proved too tempting for me.

Ability is inborn, but only intense study brings out its potential. It takes endurance. Most people don't have the stamina or enough ability to walk the true path. They abandon their skills or leave the life of study for more worldly concerns, content to gauge the weather for the local village or give vague warning of coming events. They are no longer considered part of the circle, true druids of the path. If the truth of my condition were to be known, I had to discover the truth of myself first. I had to step back onto the path.

At five minutes before noon, I dutifully sat in Gillen Yor's waiting room. As chief healer at Avalon Memorial, Gillen enjoyed a large office suite on the top floor of the ten-story building overlooking the Charles River and Cambridge. Several other people sat in various levels of anxiety around the room, most of them alone except a woman with a small boy who had a bent horn growing out of the side of his forehead. Looked to me like someone had been messing in his parents' potions cabinet. The phone on the abandoned receptionist's desk rang constantly while glow bees hovered around the empty chair.

At precisely noon, Gillen Yor stalked into the waiting room from the outside corridor. He was a small, bony man, about five-foot-three, shiny bald on top, with a long, white beard. Penetrating dark brown eyes peered out from incredibly long eyebrows. Beneath his standard white lab coat, he wore navy blue pantaloons and brown suede boots that came up to his knees.

"Grey," he barked without even looking around the room, and disappeared into his office.

I got up and followed. He was already behind his desk as I entered, and when I sat down, he flicked his hand at the door. It slammed shut. He folded his hands on the clean desktop and leaned forward. "What's the matter?"

I tried to relax. "I had dinner with Briallen last night, and she convinced me to try again."

His eyes narrowed. "She's been treating you."

"No! She checks me out every time I see her, but she doesn't actually treat me."

"Good. It's bad enough you don't do what I tell you without someone else mucking about in that thick head of yours."

The thing I loved about Gillen Yor was that you could never decide whether to laugh or to be angry at him. He was one of the most irascible people I'd ever met, and the best healer in the Northeast, if not the States. The story goes that when he decided to come to America decades ago, the Seelie Court demanded he remain in Ireland or on the Isle of Man. Gillen politely informed the queen that he was not one of her subjects. When she insisted, he left anyway, then sent her his business card with a note to call first for an appointment.

He placed the palm of his hand on my forehead and muttered under his breath. A surge of heat pulsed through my head. A moment later, he removed his hand and took his seat. Talking to himself, he turned to his computer and began typing. From an angle, I could tell he had pulled up my records. His phone rang. He ignored it. He read the screen, scrolling down several times before turning back to me.

"According to my notes, it hasn't changed," he said. His phone rang again. He glared at it but didn't pick up.

"Briallen thinks I should be retraining myself to see if going through the process will help me regain my skills," I said.

The phone rang again. He grabbed it and yelled into the receiver. "I'm at lunch." He slammed it down and looked back at me. "That's not a bad idea. We haven't really explored the extent of the blockage." The phone rang again. Gillen jumped up and stalked to the door, flinging it open. A cloud of glow bees swirled around him. I tried not to laugh as he batted them away. He moved out of view for a moment, yelling someone's name. He stuck his head back in. "I'll be right back. I have to go fire someone. Don't leave."

I leaned across the desk to look at my file. Most of the entries were similar, noting the lack of progress. I slouched and looked around the room. My gaze fell back to the computer. I glanced at the door, then went around the desk.

I pulled up the main menu and opened the clinical directory. I typed "ska" in the search window and immediately got a dictionary definition, not much different than Briallen's. There were referent links to incest, stillbirth, and cross-species progeny. The incest referent was just another definition linking back to the other two. I hit the jackpot with cross-species progeny. As part of a differential diagnosis link, the text recommended that a healer request the presence of a flit when dealing with patients who exhibit unusual congenital manifestations that could not be accounted for physically. Flits apparently have a unique sensitivity to cross-species progeny and might be able to identify a disruption in a patient's essence.

I glanced anxiously at the door. Exiting the main menu, my patient record popped back up. I backed out of it to Gillen's main page access. Moving quickly, I jumped into various access links until I found case research. With mild misgivings, I punched in "cross-species" and got fourteen hits. Typing rapidly, I scanned abstracts of each file as fast as I could, dumped the information, and put my record back on the screen. I managed to get into my seat just as Gillen returned.

Restless with annoyance, he sat behind his desk. "We'll have to schedule a real appointment, Connor. I thought I could fit you in today, but I can't. In the meantime, write up your plans and email them to me. I expect progress reports."

"That's fine. I understand this was short notice." I rose and walked to the door. Noting the still-empty receptionist desk, I said, "I'll call at a better time to schedule."

His eyes narrowed again, and he cocked his head toward his PC. "One thing you might practice is not leaving your damned essence all over the place. It's probably not a good thing in your line of work."

Trying not to look guilty, I nodded. "I'll try."

As I started to leave again, he called my name. "Just for the record, if the presence of your essence on my side of the desk is not a result of your condition, I'll make your current problems seem like a mere distraction. Understood?"

Now too guilty to hide it, I looked away. "Yes, Gillen. I'll see you soon."

Outside the emergency exit, I scanned the street for Murdochs car. I had called him for a ride, and he was late. Boston's a small enough city to get around easily without a car, not that I could afford one, and most people walk. Even at a brisk pace though, Avalon Memorial is a good half hour from my place. I was not above scrounging a ride when I could. Just as I was about to give up on him and head to the subway, Murdock pulled into the fire lane. I removed a pizza box from the passenger seat and tossed it in the back.