Unperfect Souls (3 page)

Murdock raised an eyebrow. “I hear there’s plenty in the budget to control crime in the Weird at the moment. You want in on this?”

I stared down at the body. If another Dead guy did the deed, I didn’t know if I cared all that much. The Dead had their own rules that the living didn’t understand. But if the killer wasn’t Dead, that meant a nut job was running around the Weird, and we already had too many of those. “Yeah, I’m in.”

A long screech went up as machinery restarted. The air shifted, its foul odor changing to a new foul odor as water rushed through pipes. Conveyor belts rumbled to life with a metallic rattling, and a heavy static tickled along my skin as essence filters resumed their work. Two men in headworks hazmat suits approached the trough, body shields hardened and augmented as they lifted the glass to retrieve the body.

A shimmer of essence scraped across my mind, signaling that someone fey was about to use a mental communication called a sending.

My gaze swept the catwalks. The solitaries who had been watching had returned to work. No one made eye contact with me, and I had no idea which direction the sending had come from. Solitaries didn’t trust many people, authority figures least of all. I may not be a member of the Guild anymore, but people knew I used to be one of its best druid investigators.

Whoever did the sending didn’t trust me either.

 

 

 

 

The wind slapped me in the face as I stepped out to B Street. I backed out of the way as two men from the OCME hustled a gurney through the door. Squinting against the sudden light of the noonday sun, I inhaled fresh cold air. Only a few police cars remained, the interest level dropping once the word went out that the dead guy was nobody interesting.

Hey, handsome.
This time the sending was smooth and familiar and brought a smile to my face. I recognized the sender’s body signature bound up in the message. Up the street, a black car idled at the curb, its exhaust coiling vapor into the air.

I slid into the passenger seat. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Despite the intense heat in the car, Tibbet wore her favorite red hat and gloves with a fur- lined tawny suede coat that almost matched her skin. She knew what looked good on her. She leaned across the seat and kissed me, her lips soft and lingering. She smiled when she pulled away. “I find you in the oddest places these days.”

Amused, I settled against the headrest. “Me, too. How’ve you been?”

She pulled onto the street. Her smile faltered, but she kept it. “It’s been rough. I had a bad week in October, but bounced back.”

She didn’t need to say more. Tibs and I went way back. The Guildmaster’s house, where she lived and worked, had been attacked in October, and Tibs had held off the intruders alone. She had to shed her docile brownie nature to do it and went full-blown boggart in the process. Going boggart was like a mania for her kind, and depending on how deep they went into it, recovery from the transition took some time.

“Am I right in guessing that you didn’t just happen to be in my neighborhood?” I asked.

From Summer Street, she drove into the city. “He asked to see you.”

“In broad daylight? The Old Man must not care about appearances anymore.” Manus ap Eagan had been Guildmaster of the Boston Guildhouse all my life and then some. Tibs had worked for him a lot longer than that as far as I knew. She served a number of roles for Eagan, from driver to assistant to legal advocate.

Tibs compressed her lips, her eyes tearing up. I brushed her hair over her ear. “Hey! I was joking.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a joke anymore, Connor. He’s bad. He’s had a parade of people coming through the house against Gillen Yor’s orders. I don’t like to think what it means.”

Eagan’s wasting disease had baffled everyone for over a year. Danann fairies were among the most powerful fey beings, and they didn’t get sick like other species. That High Queen Maeve hadn’t replaced him was testament to his abilities to lead. That she moved Ryan macGoren onto the Guildhouse board of directors sent the message that she was waiting for the right moment.

“Why me?” I asked.

Tibs inhaled deeply to still her visibly rising emotion. “He was arguing with Nigel. I didn’t like the sound of his voice, so I went in to stop it. As I entered, Nigel was saying to Manus that things could not be more black-and-white, and it was time to decide. The boss looked at me and laughed. He said, ‘The Wheel of the World turns the way It will. I could use Grey, Tibs.’ ”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. Nigel Martin was my old mentor. We’d gone our separate ways after the loss of most of my abilities, and the relationship had slid further downhill ever since. “What did Nigel say to that?”

Tibbet glanced at me. “He said a fool for a fool’s errand.”

I chuckled. “Sounds like Nigel hasn’t changed his mind about me.”

As Tibbet drove into Brookline, she tickled my ear with a red-gloved hand. “I haven’t either.”

I grabbed her hand and kissed it. When Tibbet and I were together, it was sometimes about comfort, sometimes about convenience. It was always mutual. I don’t think I would have called it love back then, but I thought we loved each other now—a truer, former- lovers-who-get-along kind. Not the kind of thing I had going on with Meryl Dian at the moment, which was all passion and frustration and, yeah, hotness. And unexpectedness. “I’m not the man I was.”

A reflective look came over her as she turned through the opening wrought-iron gate to the Guildmaster’s house. “No. But you’re more so.”

The gates closed behind us. Tibbet guided the car through the tall cedars that lined the drive. Manus ap Eagan’s house loomed above an expanse of dead lawn. In the stark December light, it sat forlorn and faded, its facings of brick and shingle worn white and ashen.

Tibbet pulled up to the front steps. “Left at the top of the stairs, last door on the right. He’s waiting.”

I tapped her nose. “Thanks for the lift.”

She grinned. “See you later, handsome.”

“Later, gorgeous.”

I let myself in the house. Despite windows at its north end, the grand entry hall had an air of twilight about it, the clerestory windows above casting sharp beams of white sunlight through shadow and dust. I climbed the wide freestanding staircase to the right, its banister curving around the hulking stuffed mass of a real Asian elephant, a trophy from Eagan’s less-enlightened days. In the middle of the flight of steps, the portrait above the fireplace on the opposite wall came into full view. High Queen Maeve stared at me, eye level. A shiver of recognition ran over me. I never knew how true-to-life John Singer Sargent had captured the bitch until I met her.

Met her was an overstatement. We had come close to each other not long ago, in our minds, if not geographically. Her coal black eyes held no warmth, either then or in the painting. Her sharp-planed face showed the commanding personality she was. She had to be in order to hold the Celtic fey together after Convergence. Her strength kept her adversaries—particularly the Teutonic fey led by Donor Elfenkonig—in check.

I despised her. For all the good she served, she valued life by a strange set of criteria skewed to the strong and powerful. Nothing else mattered. Only I knew she had sabotaged one of her own underQueens, a Danann fairy named Ceridwen, and risked the lives of everyone in Boston to save her own skin. I hadn’t told anyone—yet. As far as the High Queen knew, Ceridwen kept her secret and remained faithful until her death.

But I knew, and I wouldn’t forget. I had no hope of challenging one of the most powerful beings on the planet. But somehow, when the time was right, I would expose her for what she was and make her suffer if I could. People died because of her. She had to be held accountable for it.

The upper floor had the soft, hushed quality of a house with too many empty rooms. As I reached the end of the hall, muffled voices intruded into the silence. The last door on the right wasn’t Manus ap Eagan’s study but his bedroom. He lay propped on several pillows, his wings spread flat and wide to either side. A bare glimmer of essence flickered in their gray gossamer, startlingly feeble for a powerful Danann like Eagan. Nigel Martin sat in an oversize leather club chair to the left, his imperious academic face touched with annoyance. Normally, Nigel maintained a calm air about himself, a cultivated look designed to give his emotional moments more impact. Opposite him, a tall, dark-haired druidess leaned against the bedpost, her head tilted to emphasize the flirtatiousness in her smile. A long mohair sweaterdress managed to show off a body to go with the flirt. Her eyes widened briefly when she saw me enter. I took it as a compliment.

Eagan appeared worse than when I had seen him two months earlier. His long dank hair clung to his pale face, his sunken eyes shadowed. He grinned, a vulpine slash that would have unnerved anyone who didn’t realize he was ill. Reports of his declining health were far from exaggeration. He hadn’t been in the Guildhouse for any length of time in more than three months and had reduced his activities long before that. “Grey! Come in. I’ve been provoking Nigel all afternoon and was running out of ideas. Can you carry on for a bit while I take a nap?”

I stopped at the foot of the bed. “Nothing would please me more, Guildmaster.”

Eagan’s eyebrows shot up. He started laughing, but then coughed from deep in his chest. The druidess placed a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he smirked at Nigel. “I’m not sure he’s joking, old friend.”

Nigel kept his eyes on Eagan. “Yes, well, Grey’s thought process eludes me as well these days.”

I pursed my lips. “Really, Nigel? After you took a shot at me, I would think my thoughts about you would be fairly obvious.”

Eagan’s smile broadened. “You shot at him? Why, Nigel, you’ve been demanding I take you into my confidence all day, and yet only now I’m finding out you attempted to murder one of my staff. How utterly hypocritical of you.”

Nigel met my eyes, his expression unreadable. It could have been anything from regret to indifference. “I make no apologies. The disaster he caused was a result of my failure. And he’s not a Guildsman anymore, Manus, as I’ve reminded you many times today.”

Nigel was my strongest supporter once upon a time. When I lost my abilities, I realized I had been nothing more than a powerful tool to him. I checked my anger, though. I was a guest in the Guildmaster’s house. Causing an argument would be bad manners. Nigel was another person on my list to deal with when the right time and opportunity presented themselves.

The druidess cleared her throat. Manus smiled. “Excuse my manners, Grey. This is the High Queen’s Herbalist, Moira Cashel.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said.

A little too pleased, I thought. “Connor Grey.”

Eagan slowly adjusted his position on the bed. “Since Gillen Yor’s slipped his leash, Maeve’s worried I’m not being cared for properly, so she sent her gardener to take a look at me. Moira thinks she can put the flutter back in my wings.”

Gillen Yor was High Healer in Boston and not one to take orders from anyone. I allowed myself a small smile at Eagan’s playful leer. “I’m sure you will find your patient challenging.”

She laughed, a musical, charming laugh that oozed insincerity. “I’m sure I’ve had worse.”

Eagan shifted his eyes toward her conspiratorially. “Yes, I’ve seen Maeve when she’s in a mood. Perhaps your charms will play better with me.”

She placed an overly familiar hand on his arm. “You have enough charm for the both of us, Manus. I have only my skills to offer.”

Eagan smiled up at her. “Run along then and find someone to help you make a daisy chain or something we can play with later. The mere thought of your ministrations is already making me feel I will rise to the occasion.”

She tapped his arm like he was a naughty boy. “I will be unpacking my things. Don’t exert yourself any more.” She flashed me a big smile as she left in a smooth, gliding gait.

“Can we get on with whatever your game is, Manus?” Nigel asked.

Eagan chuckled. “Look who’s talking games, you old crow.”

“Why is Connor here?”

Eagan grinned. “Because I like him. He irritates people who need irritating—present company included.”

“Um . . . thanks?” I said.

Eagan used a fresh handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “Let me bring you to the present, Grey. Nigel here has tendered his resignation as my acting Guild alternate so he can go off and do whatever it is he does when he disappears. He wants me to appoint Ryan macGoren as Acting Guildmaster.”

Nigel leaned against the armrest of his chair. “Letting him run the Guild while you recover will please Maeve. You know that, Manus. MacGoren is being groomed for great things.”

MacGoren was a player, an aggressive one. Eagan, I knew, didn’t trust him to answer the phone without a hidden agenda. Eagan’s amusement dropped. “Not by me, he isn’t. Maeve can groom whomever the hell she wants, but she knows damned well the underQueens and -Kings won’t confirm someone I don’t support, and if I don’t recover, as you seem to have overlooked as a possibility, I won’t have my successor picked for me. In fact, I’m not conceding I’m dying, so this is all smoke and mirrors.”

“Whether you’re dying or not is not the issue, Manus,” Nigel said. “The Boston Guildhouse needs strong leadership. You do not have the physical constitution to face the current crises.”

“Keeva macNeve would make a better choice,” Eagan said.

“She’s indecisive and inexperienced and not, I should add, an underQueen,” Nigel said.

“Which means she will think before she acts a helluva lot more than macGoren will,” said Eagan. I laughed aloud. I couldn’t help myself. Eagan nodded. “You see my sense of play,” he said.