Unshapely Things (26 page)

"So now what?"

"So, feel free to come on in. I have a fair idea of where you might want to look, but I've locked down certain areas that are just asking for trouble."

"What if I want to get into those areas?"

"This isn't a negotiation, Connor. I'm protecting my access. You go anywhere I don't want you to, and session ended. Needless to say, this line and the account will disappear after you log out."

"Will the Secretary disavow any knowledge of my activities if I'm caught?" I asked sarcastically.

"The Guild already has," she shot back.

"Why are you doing this?"

I could picture her shrugging. "I like having people in my debt, and this is a big one. If you get caught, I will trash your system so bad, the new box you get to replace it won't work. Have fun and make it quick." She disconnected. The static popped like a soap bubble. I hung up the phone with grudging admiration. I didn't know what game she was playing with me. Whatever it was, I had a feeling she was merrily leading me down the path to hell.

I decided to play by her rules and just get in and get out. She had guessed I'd be interested in macDuin and had left his files wide open. I checked to see what word-processing documents he'd been working on recently and what databases he had accessed. I grabbed copies of anything that looked interesting. He'd also spent a lot of time looking up books in the Guild library. I scooted over to the library log and grabbed whatever searches he had run. Then I entered the open cases database, found the files for the murders and the selenite theft as well, and took those.

I looked for Keeva's files and found them easily. Meryl had locked me out of email, but everything else was open territory. I just skimmed. Keeva was smart enough not to leave a paper or electronic trail, and the slim amount of material in her directories proved it. I didn't even bother opening anything. I was tempted to crack the emails, but truth be told, it was more about ego than a desire to read them. I felt voyeuristic enough already. While I had no compunction about violating macDuin's privacy, I at least owed Keeva some courtesy for her recent intervention. That, plus, I had a sneaking suspicion she was helping more than she wanted me to know.

I sat for a moment, willing myself to think quickly and, if possible, brilliantly. Once I logged out, I'd have a hell of a time getting back in. I would have dearly loved to just sit and do some spell research, but that might show up as a lot of time on the system. Without knowing how well camouflaged Meryl's account was, it might raise questions. I ran a mental checklist like a nervous shopper before leaving the store. Taking a deep breath, I logged out.

I stared for a long moment at the list of files now innocently residing on my hard drive. I'd never stolen files before. I'd used my back door in the system when I occasionally lost access under my regular account or had to go into someone else's files for more information than they were willing to share. But I'd never considered those times as theft. I always had the rationale that I had a right to the information that someone else hadn't quite figured out yet. But I'd never actually taken anything I simply shouldn't have. Having entered the Guild and wandered around unseen, I wondered if I had realized Meryl's dream and sealed my own fate. If I was going to end up dead, I might as well find out why. I opened the files.

I woke to the sound of crunching. Rolling over, I peered into the kitchen through the predawn light. Stinkwort sat on the edge of the counter, an almost empty bag of Oreos lying beside him. I fell back on the bed, rubbing my eyes. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Busy," he said. A moment later, his voice was closer. "I just got a half-dead glow bee about an hour ago."

I opened my eyes again. He hovered over the bed.

"I'm pissed at you, you know, but it's too early to yell."

He shrugged. "Then don't. Come on, get up. The sun's rising."

I swung my feet onto the floor. Stinkwort doffed his tunic and let it flutter to the coffee table. He flew to the window, facing out, his arms and wings spread wide. I stood up and pushed the futon closed. The sun crested the horizon, and I automatically started the greeting ritual. Stinkwort swooped and whirled around me in a complex aerial pattern, his wings occasionally touching my skin as he wound about me. We began to move in our own rhythm, pulling the sun's energy in and reflecting it back and forth between us. A pleasant resonance developed between our bodies, amplified by our movements. It felt very sensual without being sexual. As I relaxed more, I let my body respond, shedding the strictly prescribed motions I normally practiced. My limbs felt fluid, more in tune with the ritual than usual, as Stinkwort swirled and dove, his wings becoming so bright the edges lit white. I lost myself in the sway of the light. I became still, more by feel than any conscious -thought. The newly risen sun blazed in my eyes, and it felt glorious.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I felt simultaneously exhilarated and spent. I went into the bathroom and came out wearing my bathrobe. Stinkwort had dressed and settled on the coffee table.

"What just happened?" I asked.

He stretched. "Now you know why flits like to greet the sun together."

"I can't believe how good I feel. Even my headache's gone." It was true. The thing in my head caused a chronic low-grade headache. I had become so accustomed to it that I judged my discomfort by its severity instead of whether I was in pain or not.

"It's a flit thing, Connor. We can ride the currents of someone else's essence. When a clan flies together, we generate enormous power. The Danann Sidhe would, too, if they would let it happen, but you can't get two of them to agree on the time of day, never mind surrender to someone else's flow. And, of course, you druids can't fly."

As he spoke, he kept flexing his fingers and stretching his left arm. A sharp white scar wrapped around the forearm vividly displayed the path the knife had taken as he had twisted away from it. "How's the arm?"

He looked down at his hand and waggled his fingers. "It's numb in the morning, and I never seem to have any strength in it. The Lady Briallen did something to my right arm to make it stronger. I'm taking that as a sign the left won't get any better."

"You were foolish to face him alone."

Stinkwort flew away from me and stood on the win-dowsill looking out. "I don't want to talk about that night. What happened to your eye?"

"I got mugged. Where've you been?"

"I've been looking for that damned belly-crawling sarf," he said sharply.

"And?"

He shrugged. "And nothing. I put the word out to the clans, but no one's found anything that feels as ska as this bastard. Wherever he is, he's got heavy protection wards. What about you?"

"I stole some files from the Guild."

Stinkwort gave me an indifferent stare over his shoulder. "That's it?"

"It's a failure, Joe. I've resisted doing it because it would mean I couldn't do anything else. I tried to solve this case like I've solved my other cases: by using my abilities. But I couldn't do it, so I stole some files."

He looked back out the window, scanning the docks below. "So, you stole some files from the Guild. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is I've been reduced to breaking and entering. I can't do anything anymore."

Stinkwort tapped his chin in thought. "Bullshit."

"Don't patronize me, Joe. If I still had my abilities, I would have caught this guy a long time ago. I could have done a scry to find out things. I could have cast a spell to trail him from the first murder scene. I could have chased him the other night and caught him with my bare hands. If I still had my abilities, Tansy would still be alive."

He sat down on the windowsill and crossed his arms. "Connor, I've lived too long to play this game. It's pointless, and you know it. You use what you have. Wishing doesn't make a flit a fairy."

I smiled in spite of myself. It was an old saying mothers used. The obvious implication being, of course, that it's better to be a fairy. I didn't think I'd ever hear a flit say such a thing. I raised my head and saw that Stinkwort had a small, curling sneer on his lip. Some people might think it's better to be something else, but no flit thought it was better to be a fairy.

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

Stinkwort fluttered up. "I have to go, Connor. I've got people waiting."

"I think I know the blood ritual he's using." He hovered for a long moment, just staring at me. I leaned back in the chair and made myself comfortable. "I don't know exactly, but I've found an empowerment spell. The stone used is bloodstone, ironically, and the blood is goat. I imagine fairy blood could be used for greater results."

"Connor, knock it off."

I ignored him. "The spell's only temporary, but it definitely has the ability to increase the strength of the spell-caster's essence. I'm not quite following the substitution of selenite, though. It's mostly used for moon rituals, which we know is related now, and I'm guessing it gives the spell an added boost."

"Connor..."

I ignored him and just kept talking. "The problem is the temporary nature. My guess is our guy's dying, and he's trying to save himself. All the other ska births have turned up dead. Whatever this guy's doing, he's playing for keeps. He knows he can't keep killing fairies. He's figured out a way to maintain the stolen essence. But from what I've surmised, it takes a lot of power to catalyze the spell and make it permanent. If he had that kind of power, he wouldn't need to do all this in the first place. It's got to be something about the selenite. What do you think?"

"I think you're out of your freakin' skull. You don't guess with blood rituals, Connor. And you don't go off trying to figure them out on your own. I've got enough goin' on without worrying about you."

"Tell me what you know about them."

"Trust me, Connor. You're in no condition to mess with blood rituals. When things go wrong with them, they go seriously wrong. Ask the Lady Briallen. She knows."

"I've already asked. She said no."

Stinkwort flew straight up with his hands held out against me. "If she won't tell you, I sure as hell won't. Keep out of it, Connor. Let the Guild handle it."

"Joe, it's not like I'm going to perform the ritual. I'm just trying to figure it out."

"Then do it the sane way. We both got his scent that night. Help me search that way."

I gestured toward the bruise on my face. "I can't smell a damned thing."

He stared down at me. "Fine. I'm going to find this guy before you get hurt." He vanished.

"Well, that went well," I said to the empty room.

I let my head roll against the back of the armchair and stared at the ceiling. I could understand Stinkwort's concern. Plenty of spells could be done without innate ability. Even humans could activate an enchantment with the proper tools. The four elements of Air, Fire, Water, and Earth could generate a flow of essence from their natural surroundings. Even chanting under the right circumstances could be done with decent results if the environment were prepared. The power of words could bend ambient essence even to a novice's command. Problems cropped up when someone did something beyond their ability, or lack thereof. It's pretty easy to snuff out a candle if you need to. It's another thing entirely if you've accidentally caused a bonfire. No matter what the ritual, spell, or incantation, blood was like gasoline. One of the first things you learn on the druidic path is don't mess with blood. The injunction is strictly enforced. Even promising students can find themselves shunned by mentors for mild transgressions. After over twenty years of study, I had still not been initiated into the workings of blood. At the rate I was going, I wasn't ever likely to be.

I had found the blood ritual in the late evening in an old poem tucked in among folklore from Eastern Europe. Either the author had thought it inconsequential, or she had missed editing it out. It gave me enough to figure out what it could do. If you read enough spells, you tend to recognize a True one from neopagan chuckles.

But the big payoff of the night came when I went looking at macDuin's files. The name 'Dealle S.' had popped up in a list of contacts relating to the selenite theft the previous fall. MacDuin had made the entry. An 'S' followed by a period was a typical Guild abbreviation for sidhe, and Dealle was the same as the name of the woman Murdock had been trying to contact. In a world where people went by their first names unless they were royalty, the odds of two people having the same name were high. I was willing to bet good money that the odds of two people having the same name connected to two different Guild cases and macDuin were low. I still hadn't heard from Germany about the elf/fairy hybrid named Gethin, but Dealle and her son Corcan were looking pretty interesting now.

I took my time showering and getting dressed. I didn't want to show up at Dealle's house so early she would be angry, but not so late that she would be gone again. I didn't have to check Murdock's file to know he had tried her house at different times of day. He had even done the before-work check like I was about to. If she wasn't home, I had nothing else to do but sit on her porch until she returned. Dealle Sidhe lived in South Boston, but near enough to the Weird to keep it cheap. I made my way down A Street until I came to Second. The street had a multiple personality disorder. Buildings of every conceivable type had been put up as though the neighborhood couldn't decide what it wanted to be. Blank-faced wooden houses sat next to small warehouses with the odd chunk of row house here and there. Most of them looked abandoned, but the closed-up feel had more to do with protection than emptiness. People did live there, people desperate for a sense of security but without enough money to buy it. It was safer than the Weird, but a far cry from the safer sections of South Boston. Windblown newspapers cluttered doorways instead of white petunias.

Dealle Sidhe's address turned out to be a wooden triple-decker townhouse. A bay window marked the living room, and a small porch fronted on the street. The upper windows were boarded. At one time, the house had been white, but it had long since gone gray, the paint peeling in sheets. A wire fence of windowpane mesh enclosed the five-foot patch of front yard.