Unshapely Things

CHAPTER 14

Tuesday morning I returned to my apartment without the usual cleansing feeling I get from my five-mile run. Instead of doing my normal route around the old fort, I had spent much of the time running through the Weird and passing the murder sites. The experience was both frustrating and strange. I tried to find some pattern to the locations, some unifying characteristic that would clue me in to where the killer might pick next. A simple glance at a map demonstrated no pattern other than the general neighborhood and opportunity. All the deaths had occurred in places with only the similarity of isolation. Not much help-most people try to keep out of sight-when they are gutting someone. Running from empty, trash-filled alleys into the brash activity of the Avenue made the whole experience surreal. Midsummer activities were coming into full swing, with all manner of people roaming the main streets, laughing and singing. I had to wonder if they were blissfully unaware of the killer in their midst, coldly indifferent, or merely unconcerned. As I sat at my computer, I reviewed the evidence again. Contrary to my conversation with Stinkwort, I wasn't all that sure I had the stone ritual nailed. I had a strong hint at best, but the effects of substituting different types of stone remained a mystery, to say nothing of whatever incantation might be involved. Thinking of the stones made me realize I hadn't heard from Meryl. I took that as a sign she was keeping her word not to disclose their mysterious return to the Guild until Thursday.

I looked back at the case files. All the evidence had been consistent until the last death. The killer had left dirt in the chest cavity of the most recent victim. Or, more precisely, sand. Clean, sterile sand according to the analysis. I had an uncomfortable tactile memory of my hand covered with sand grit and blood.

I opened the file on Ragnell, the first victim. The P.D. had taken its time with tests because Ragnell's clothes were so dirty. He had been sleeping on the street. He couldn't have charged much for his services unless the client was into unwashed clothes. I had no delusions that such people didn't exist. Murdock had appended an undated forensics report. It read like a catalog of debris: cat and dog hair, multiple human hairs from different people, food particles, bits of lavender, hawthorn leaves, hore-hound, cloves, unidentifiable ash, and good old marijuana stems.

The hawthorn leaves didn't surprise me. The tree was sacred to fairies, and many of the fey carried leaves as protection or touchstones. The lavender, clove, and dope didn't surprise me either. Even humans, mostly of the alternative music bent, would have them these days. But the horehound struck me as odd. It was used mainly as a curative for coughs and colds. I skimmed back through the rest of the report, but I didn't see any indication that Ragnell was sick. A red flag jumped out at me. The medical examiner had made a note that ash had been on the body, not just the domes, but the body itself. Some of it was near the chest wound. I sent Murdock an email to see if he could find out if any herbs were in the wound. I didn't think I was wrong though. I had no doubt they were on the body, at least in charred remains. Ingested in certain forms, horehound could be used for colds. But burning it in conjunction with hawthorn leaves was a restorative of spirits. That fit neatly with my theory about the killer trying to heal himself.

I scrolled through the forensic reports of the other victims. My momentary elation began to fade. No herbs showed up in the other cases. The only odd thing about Pach, the second victim, besides the gaping hole in his chest, were a couple of fresh minor burn marks. No ash residue. There were no indications of anything like herbs or ashes on the third victim. It had been raining that night, and the body, like all the others, was naked. Some evidence had probably been lost. And men me fourth victim just had the sand.

I made a list of one to four on a piece of scrap paper and wrote the anomalies for each victim: ash, minor burns, nothing, and sand. The first two items obvious were connected by fire, but that left me with two more unrelated items. I looked back at Gamelyn, the third victim, and read through the file again slowly. Nothing. I stared at the crime scene photos.

I remembered that my senses were in overdrive that night. Because of the rain, everything had smelled more intensely. It was how I had caught Tansy's essence even over the stench of the dumpster. That night had been the last time it had rained in two weeks. Weather forecasters, the meteorologist kind, had remarked that every storm front in the last two weeks had skittered south toward Cape Cod without touching the Boston metro area. Strange for the region, especially this time of year. At number three on my list, I wrote the word "rain" next to the nothing.

Some people get goose-bumps when they realize something exciting. Me, I get a rush of adrenaline. As I looked at my list, I got one huge burst. It wasn't about the ash. Ash was just the residue when incense is burned. Incense is burned to invoke the power of Air. Another check of Ragnell's scene photo revealed a candle stub in plain sight. Dripping wax could burn skin. Candles are lit to invoke the power of Fire. Gamelyn was killed on a rainy night. That everything at the scene was wet would have obscured the fact if Water had been present in the ritual. And then there was the sand at the last scene. Earth. I knew now that only one more murder waited to occur in two days' time. A new moon on Midsummer's Eve would complete the lunar cycle of the ritual. While many people work with the four natural elements, a fifth element can be included, and I was sure it was about to be invoked: Spirit, which some call Essence.

Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and Spirit. The five primal elements of Power. The five points of invocation of every ritual invoked with a pentagram. With his surprising room decorations, Corcan Sidhe was back in the picture.

In reviewing macDuin's files, I had come across numerous library searches for old grimoires. I had reprints of some of them in my study, but none made any connection for me. I spun in my chair and called Meryl. She answered on the first ring.

"Hi, Meryl. I'm in my apartment. I feel safe here because the Guild put in protection wards."

I listened to several moments of nonresponse while I hoped Meryl got me message.

"I'm busy now. I'll call you tomorrow." She hung up. I quickly turned off the ringer. Anxiously, I stared at the caller ID on the receiver. The display changed from idle mode to indicate someone was calling from a masked phone number. I put the receiver to my ear and hit the on button. A familiar sensation of static bristled out of the phone and surrounded my head.

"So you think your apartment's bugged?" she said.

"Just a precaution. I'm getting paranoid."

She sighed. "Hang on." I heard her drop her phone, papers rustling, the crash of something falling followed by cursing-the vulgar kind-then some typing, some tapping, a couple of beeping tones and, finally, an ear-piercing wave of static.

Meryl got back on the line. "Oh, okay. You're cool. As far as I can tell, your line's clean."

"I need you to do something for me."

She sighed so heavily, I thought I could feel a ripple in the envelope of static. I was starting to get used to the feeling. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"

I grinned. "No. I get that a lot. I don't need anything that will jeopardize your position. MacDuin was researching books. Two in particular I know aren't available outside the Guildhouse. One is a collection of manuscript fragments of the writings of the druid Cathbad. The other is something called The Brown Book of Cenchos."

She laughed. "That's a joke, Connor. It's a book of nonsensical spells attributed to the Fomorians. They call it the Brown Book because it's supposedly bound with the tanned skin of a Tuatha de Danann king. Cenchos is the mythical bogeyman of the Sidhe. Legend has it that he twisted the de Dananns he captured and founded the Unseelie Court. He was defeated by being spell-bound into the sea with his followers."

"What makes the spells nonsensical?"

"They mix things up, use herbs and stones in ways that make no sense. Plus, they're written in what is supposedly Fomorian, which apparently sounds like a garbage disposal backing up."

"I still need to know if any of its spells have to do with blood, selenite, and pentagrams."

"You're assuming I can read Fomorian."

"I've never underestimated you, Meryl."

She snickered. I read the call numbers off to her. "I'll call your cell phone if I find anything."

"Wait, before you go, I wanted to ask you why macDuin's interview about the selenite theft isn't in the file."

"Oh, that's easy. He wasn't here. He was on leave."

"Meryl, he was here. He did these library searches the week of the theft, and if I'm reading these codes right, he entered several storerooms in the Guild basement, including the one where the stones were."

"Hold on." I could hear her typing for several moments, then the sound of a chair being pushed back. Several papers were shuffled around. "Nope. I was right. There are several references to preparing reports for when he came back. He was in Germany. He was gone about a month and mad as hell about the stones when he came back."

I got a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Meryl, listen to me carefully. I think macDuin may be involved in the murders. I'm finding several connections, and if he said he was in Germany, I think he's lying. I need that spell info, but don't let anyone know what you're doing. Don't leave a trail of any kind. And whatever you do, don't tell macDuin you found the stones."

"I'll give you this, Grey, you keep life interesting." The shield around my head evaporated as she disconnected.

MacDuin had firmly moved onto my suspect list. Whatever he was up to, he clearly was intimately involved. I cursed to myself for being an idiot. I should have realized weeks ago that I had a security breach in my own apartment. Someone from macDuin's office routinely recharged my protection wards. Any one of them could be a recording stone. Since I didn't have any ability to test whether any of the wards were actually recorders, I couldn't just toss them all. I did need the ones that were actually protecting the place.

In a few minutes, I had a knapsack packed with some clothes, a disc with the Guild files on it, and my cell phone charger. Standing in the middle of the living room, I tried to think of anything else that should be tossed. I had blabbed out loud to Stinkwort about the stolen files. I copied the case files onto another disc, then deleted them from my hard drive. I knew they were still on the drive like ghosts in the machine, but I didn't have time for a deeper scrub. At least it would slow someone down. The only other necessary item was my leather jacket — I never traveled without it. I grabbed the jacket and hit the street.

As I left the building, I found my disability check from the Guild in the mail. I didn't know whether to take it as a sign of irony or farce. In either case, I needed the cash. I stopped at the Nameless to cash it. There wasn't a bank or an ATM anywhere in the Weird, but the Nameless took even my personal checks. They wouldn't hesitate to take the Guild's. I grabbed a sandwich while I was there and headed out to Congress Street.

I could hole up in some cafe and plan my course of action, but the Weird was getting a little too chaotic for me to concentrate. People were already filling the side streets with Midsummer revelry. Besides, if anyone came looking for me, that was where they'd expect me to be.

Meeting Corcan Sidhe for myself seemed as good an idea as any. The Children's Institute in Southie was an easy hike. I took the same basic route I had taken home from Murdock's the other day. Once I had passed into me more genteel section of the neighborhood, the only signs of Midsummer celebration were tasteful wreams on the doors. Holly and oak, the emblems of the Wood Kings, graced the doors of both fey and human alike. Everybody likes a fun holiday.

The Children's Institute had started out life in the last century as something called the Idiot Asylum. Depending on how delicate your sensibilities were, you thought that was either quaint or barbaric. Over time, it was abandoned, then reopened years later as the Children's Institute, where once again "mentally challenged" individuals found treatment. Some of its buildings were torn down until what had once taken up the entire block bordered by M and N Streets between Eighth and Ninth was now a small cluster of squat ugly brownstone buildings that huddled on the Ninth Street side. Neighborhood kids still called it the Idiot Asylum.

I cut between two barracks-like buildings into the remnants of an old quad in front of the administration building. Children played on a pathetic patch of lawn, more crab-grass than turf. The trees and shrubs scattered here and there were bedraggled and sad, like someone had stepped on them, and they had desperately tried to upright themselves. A few kids sat in circles on the ground, while others held hands and played running games I didn't recognize. They looked awkward, everyone a bit off-balance and moving in slow-motion. It took me half a moment to realize that staff members were among them, wearing street clothes instead of the traditional whites. I had almost reached the steps to the main building when I heard a deep, distinctly adult, laugh.

To my left, two people stood off by themselves. A woman who apparently was staff tossed a ball back and forth with a large, ungainly man. The woman had her back to me, her dark hair falling loosely and brushing the collar of a simple white T-shirt on her petite frame. The misshapen elf-like man with her wore a sloppy gray sweatshirt and worn cotton workman's pants. His head was as smooth as an eggshell. I recognized him from the photograph in his mother's living room. Corcan Sidhe ran wildly, clutching clumsily after the ball. A huge grin broke on his face when he caught it and threw it back.

The woman laughed as she caught it, turning enough to the side for me to catch a glimpse of her face. I had one of those strange moments when I'm surprised but not surprised at the same time. I strolled over. "Hello, Shay."

Shay looked at me, the smile on his face dying instantly. He tossed the ball hard over Corcan's head, and the big man lumbered after it. Shay crossed his arms across his chest. "Couldn't this wait until I got home?"

"I didn't know you worked here."

"I volunteer. And you could have asked the goon who's been following me all week." He gestured toward the side street visible between two buildings. Bar Murdock's pasty Honda sat at the curb across the street.

I glanced over at Corcan. He rustled through the bushes like some mysterious beast in a jungle film. I could see the ball on the other side, but he had not figured out where it was yet. "Let's talk."

We crossed to a nearby bench and sat down. In the midst of his search, Corcan became distracted by a butterfly and chased after it. "What are you doing here, Shay?"

"I just told you, I volunteer." I could tell by the anger that swept across Shay's face that I was having trouble hiding my skepticism. "What? You think because men pay me to take off my clothes I don't care about things like this?"

"You have to admit, Shay, the hooker with a heart of gold is kind of cliché."

He stared intently at me. "Let me ask you something, Connor. If you met me here first and found out what I do at night later, would you think of me as a charity volunteer who occasionally gets paid to satisfy someone's sexual needs or would you think of me simply as a prostitute?"

I shrugged. "Fine. You're more than a prostitute. I get the point."

"No, you don't. If a civic leader is exposed as a John, would you think of him as simply a John or does he remain a civic leader?"

I sighed and looked over at Corcan. He found the ball and was making his way back to us. "A civic leader."

"Then you can shove your surprise, and your clichés."

He did have a point. People who operate on the fringes of society do get perceived as nothing more than what they do. It's easier to forget that a drug dealer has a family or that a prostitute has a life. It doesn't always make them better people, but it reminds you that they are people.

"I really am sorry about Robin, Shay." And I was. We had hardly met under the most congenial circumstances, but he was just a kid.

Shay's anger subsided a bit. "Thanks. He didn't have many friends. I had him cremated on Saturday."

"Shay, I have to ask you, the day Murdock and I came by to ask Robin to help, you two were arguing. Why?"

Shay shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "We had a complicated relationship. Robin thought I was leaving him."

"Were you?"

"No!" he said forcefully. "He only thought that because… because there's something wrong with me. I have blackouts. He thinks — thought — I was lying to cover up an affair."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

He gave me an exasperated look. "I don't exactly have insurance, Connor. The episodes started the end of last year and have been worse recendy. I'm hoping they'll just go away. I don't have much other choice."

I can imagine how he felt. At least the Guild still picked up the tab on my health care. I couldn't afford it otherwise. "I'm sorry. You have a lot going on."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, life does that to you."

Corcan came running back. From a few feet away, he tossed the ball, and it dribbled to our feet. Shay picked it up and tossed it again. Corcan didn't turn, but looked at me curiously. "Is this a new friend, Shay-shay?"

Shay took a long moment before deciding to answer him. "Say hello to Connor, Corky."

The big man trotted forward and extended a big meaty hand. I fought the desire to pull away, not wanting to touch him. I did shake his hand though, inhaling so sharply my nostrils must have closed. I still couldn't smell a damned thing. "Hello, Connor. Are you taking us to the Castle?" He spoke as though his tongue were too thick for his mouth.

"No, Corky," said Shay. "I told you that's the day after tomorrow. Two more days. Go get the ball, honey." He ambled off like a big bald retriever.

"We're going to watch the Midsummer fireworks from Castle Island," Shay said.

"How long have you known him?"

"Since last summer. He's afraid of most people, but he likes me. The staff thinks it's because I'm male but look female. On a certain level, he relates his own condition to me."

"He looks a lot like the police sketch you helped develop."

Shay's chin shrank back in surprise. He watched Corky running around for a moment before answering. "No. He doesn't. Connor, look at that group of kids over there." He pointed over my shoulder to a small group holding hands and dancing. They all had vaguely similar features that marked them with Down's syndrome.

I looked back at Shay. "Your point?"

"Now, without looking back, tell me their ages and how they look different from each other."

I didn't speak. The urge to look again was compelling.

"Let me help you," said Shay. "At a glance, only three of those kids have Down's, though I'm betting you think they all do. Two of them have a different genetic physical retardation. Their ages range over fifteen years. One of the two with thick sideburns is actually female. Now, before I knock you over the head, what the hell do you think you're implying about Corky?"

I'll give this to Shay. I had a foot and half in height and more than fifty pounds in weight on him, and the kid still had the balls to threaten me physically. It didn't mean I was amused. "Look, Shay, the only thing keeping you out of jail at this point is the fact that I haven't put in a call to Murdock, so knock off the attitude. Now, tell me about the pentagrams." He crossed his arms again and threw himself back against the bench.

He looked at me suspiciously. "Corky's pentagrams? They're for meditation." He considered for a moment and nodded. "I added them one at a time. The first one was about a month ago." A chalky pallor swept over his face. "Oh my God, Connor! It's not what you think."

"What do I think?"

"Corky wouldn't hurt anyone. I just showed him how to calm himself when he was upset. I don't have any fey ability — I couldn't even get aromatherapy to work on Robin. Corky doesn't even go out at night! He's afraid of the dark!"

"You might have activated something, Shay. Cross-species children have all kinds of mutations. You might not have been calming him."

Shay's hands flew to his mouth as tears sprang to his eyes. "No. It can't be. Tell me Robin isn't dead because of me!"

I couldn't help myself. I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder to reassure him. "I'm not going to lie to you, Shay. I don't know."

"What's the matter, Shay-shay?" Corky said, popping up in front of us. His face looked stricken.

Shay brushed the tears off his own face. "It's nothing, Corky. Something got in my eyes."

The big man grabbed his hand. "Let's go to the Castle. That will make your eyes better."

Shay forced himself to smile. "Thursday. We'll go then. Okay, Cork?"

Corky pouted. "Okay."

He let Corky pull him off the bench, and as Corky led him away, Shay looked back at me, hurt and confusion flickering in his eyes. Back on Ninth Street, I slipped into a cab and asked the driver to take me to Avalon Memorial. Fresh cash in my pocket tended to make me lazy. I had to see Gillen Yor. If anyone knew the effects a mixed essence had on spells, he would. I had to agree with Shay, though. Something as simple as meditation could not possibly go that haywire.

I stared unseeingly out me window. If he hadn't already, I'm sure Murdock's brother Bar would tell him I was at the Institute. He was going to want to know why. With another link to Shay, Murdock would lock him up in a second. He would have every reason to do it. I would have in his shoes.

Shay's continuing involvement had to be more than coincidence. He'd attempted things he did not have the ability to perform. Given his blackouts, he might not even have known what the hell he was doing. I had to wonder if the whole mess was a result of an accident on his part, an accident he didn't even know he had caused. But I couldn't find any convincing evidence. The sad little room he shared with Robin held no trace of powers being worked. As Shay admitted, even the pathetic parlor tricks he had tried with wards were useless.

I felt a light touch on my forehead, like someone had placed a cool fingertip just above the bridge of my nose. If anyone had been there to see, they would not have noticed any reaction on my part, so subtle was the sensation. I was about to receive a sending, a true sending that no glow bee could hope to imitate. From experience, only one person contacted me so gently. As the cab made its way over the Broadway Bridge, Briallen's voice filled my head with sound.

I need to see you immediately.

I waited to see if there was more, but the cool feeling slipped away. Sendings were wonderfully convenient and precise, but they worked best if kept simple. I tapped on the scarred plastic partition and changed my destination. As I got out on Louisburg Square, I tipped the driver generously to make up for the loss of the longer fare to Avalon Memorial. I didn't knock. The house felt empty. I paused by the newel post at the foot of the stairs, my skin alive with tension. Just as I set foot on the first step, I heard Briallen call from the back of the house.

With a sigh of relief, I relaxed and made my way through the kitchen to the back door. Briallen sat on the edge of her fountain, wearing a black swaddle of fabric that was too shapeless to call a dress. The fountain's spray was off, giving the backyard an uncommon stillness. Briallen lifted her head and smiled when she saw me, reaching out a beckoning hand.

"That was fast," she said.

"I was halfway here."

I took her hand and sat next to her. She looked much better than the last time I saw her. Placing her hands on my head, she looked directly into my face. I felt the usual pressure. As she released me, her brow creased for just a moment, and she touched me once more briefly.

"What is it?"

She shook her head. "I thought I sensed something, but it's gone now. The darkness felt, I don't know, smoother."

"I did the sun invocation with Joe yesterday. It made the headache go away for a while."

"Yes, he told me."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what else did he tell you?"

"That you're investigating blood rituals and won't listen to reason."

I took a deep breath and released it slowly. "I didn't come here for a lecture."

"You're not getting one."

"Oh. Good. Then maybe you can help me. What do you know about The Brown Book of Cenchos?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Not that old thing."

"Why would macDuin be interested in it?"

"I don't know. Why do people collect clown figurines?"

"Briallen, I'm serious."

She shrugged. "Connor, it's apocryphal. It makes no sense. There are spells in it that claim to do things they would never do."

"Like maybe something that looks like a meditation ritual can actually send someone on a murderous rampage?"

"Well… not that clear-cut. It's more like explaining gravity by denying its existence."

I thought about it. "I don't get it."

She nodded. "Exactly."

"Okay, let me take it from a different angle. How could a simple meditation ritual have the opposite effect?"

"I don't know. Maybe you need to see something." She twisted slightly on the edge of the fountain and waved her hand gently above the water as though she were caressing it.

"Briallen, scrying splits my head open."

"Yes, yes, I know. I'll take care of it."

She held her other hand up toward me and began to chant. My body shields activated, not from an instinctual response to danger but merely from her command. I shivered. No one had ever done that to me before. With an ache of remembrance, I felt my fragmentary shields pulse with life again as their edges flowed out to meet each other. Seamlessly, they joined over the entire surface of my body as they once had, an invisible layer of armor to defend against unwarranted intrusions. It caused me no pain since it was not of my doing. Except for the small part of my own essence in the fragments, the protections were all of Briallen's power.

All the while, Briallen continued setting up the scry. Even when you were fey and could do things humans couldn't, watching Briallen work was both awe-inspiring and humbling. She needed no accoutrements, only the raw power of her concentration and her knowledge of invocations. Even as she worked my shields, her hand smoothed the water of the fountain to an unnatural stillness. Once I was fully warded, the cadence of her chant shifted into an older Gaelic, its rough sounds oddly soothing from her lips.

She spread both hands over the water. The surface reflected the dull haze of the sky. The image shimmered jarringly as though someone had tapped the edge of the fountain. A curling wisp of gray smoke rippled on the edge, eating at the reflection of the sky until the entire visual surface pulsed with shadows of mists just beneath the still water's surface. With hands spread wide, Briallen did not move at all, her taut form leaning forward. Her eyes shone whitely as she increased the urgency of the chant. Something seemed to roll sensuously beneath the surface, pale green, men silver and white.

I let my gaze flicker to Briallen. Beads of sweat clung to her face. She was pushing hard at the invocation. Even someone with rudimentary ability would have lifted the veil of smoke by then and caught a glimpse of the future. The real skill came in the clarity of the vision. Some could only get the most obscure hints and symbols, while someone like Briallen could see events almost like watching a movie. But after over twenty minutes of intense chanting, still nothing happened. Something was seriously wrong.

A thick unsettling blot of darkness formed in the middle of the fountain. It deepened and spread outward like a giant pupil. Nothing appeared in the inky depths. The blackness enveloped the whole of the fountain, a darkness so deep and complete that not even our reflections marred its surface.

With a gasp of frustration, Briallen pulled herself up and away. She stood with her head bowed, one hand to her face, the other hovering over me like a benediction.

"Briallen…"

She lifted her head. "Go inside. I need to close it."

There was no discussion in her voice. I hurried into the kitchen, uneasiness creeping into my gut. As I stepped inside, I could feel her release the protections on me. I flinched at the sudden stab of pain in my forehead and moved away from the door. The pain lessened, but not much. Scrying had the worst effect of anything on me. I kept moving back into the house until I was in the foyer. I could still feel a hot needle-like pinging, but I refused to go out into the street. I sat on the bottom step of the stairs and held my head, trying to will away the pain. After an eternity, it subsided, and I looked up to see Briallen standing over me. She had a solemn, yet wild, look on her face. Her skin was very pale and damp, and her short hair hung in wet strands.

"You're soaked."

"It was necessary. Let's go up." She passed me smoothly onto the stairs, and I followed her into the sitting room on the second floor. She stood before the small blue flames on the hearth, her back straight and arms at her sides. "It's been like that for days," she said without turning.

"What is it?"

She moved to an armchair and sat. "That's the million-dollar question. The Queen asked me to answer it."

"Maeve?" I couldn't help the surprise in my voice.

"Of course, Maeve. She called me this morning."

"She called you? On the phone?"

She frowned. "Yes, on the phone. What's wrong with you?"

I laughed. "I just find it incredibly funny that the High Queen of Tara called you on the phone."

"What did you want her to do, send smoke signals? We've known each other for years. She's calling everyone she can."

I lowered myself into the armchair opposite her. "What's wrong?"

She shifted the damp folds of her dress away from her knees. "The future is closed. No one's been able to pierce the veil. A turning point in time. What we do not know, what we cannot see, we cannot try to change. It must play itself out the way it will."

I'd never heard of the future being "closed" before. "It's a bad thing?"

Briallen looked down into the flames. "That's not the question. It's a question of understanding. We have to prepare, if we can, for what may come. The last time something like this occurred, Convergence happened."

I fell back in the chair, too stunned to say anything. "Are you kidding me? How long has this been going on?"

"I've been hearing rumor of strange happenings for weeks. It's why I haven't been as helpful to you as I could have been."

I leaned forward in the chair. "Don't be ridiculous, Briallen. I'm not that self-involved. I may be bitching about the lack of attention the Guild is giving these murders, but I think you might be a little better recognizing priorities than they are. What do you need me to do?"

She moved her hand from beneath her robe and held out a dagger in an old leather sheath bound with thongs of leather. "I need you to stay alive."

I took the dagger from her. Finely wrought silver wound about the pommel, and the handguards were plated in gold. The whole of it was encrusted with fine rubies and crystals and a large emerald at the base of the hilt. I slid the blade slightly from the sheath. It was double-edged, inscribed with tiny runes, and shone with new silver brightness. The sheath itself was stamped with more runes and symbols and blotched with stains that I just knew were blood. It weighed more than I would have guessed, but still had a nice balance in the hand. And the damned little thing hummed with power.

"I can't accept this, Briallen."

"You must. What's coming is cataclysmic, Connor. I won't have you unprotected."

"But this must be worth a fortune!"

She shrugged. "What's a fortune weighed against a life? It's old, I'll grant you. Several people have possessed it. Now you will."

"I'll take it on one condition."

I meant it conversationally, just as a preface, really, but Briallen sat very still, like she was considering whether she would accept a condition. "What?"

"That you'll take it back when I don't need it anymore."

A mysterious look passed over her face, at once surprised and resigned. "I'll accept that. Put it on."

I gave her an odd look as I removed my right boot. Briallen can be downright pushy sometimes, but it never paid to disobey. I lashed the sheath around my ankle and put the boot back on. After a few wiggling adjustments, I felt I could live with it. I had to take my regular knife out of its boot sheath, though, and slip it bare into my left boot. Not the safest position, but I would figure it out later.

"Use it with care," she said. "It has some powerful wards, and I've put a few of my own niceties on it, too."

"I will. So what exactly does Maeve want you to do?"

"Learn what lean. Scrying obviously isn't working. I'm going to try some dream prophecy."

Not surprised, I nodded. Imbas forosnai. The ancient ritual of dream and prophecy was the only logical course when scrying didn't work. Now I knew why Briallen had summoned me. She would be in a deep trance for days. And she would be vulnerable. "You want me to stand guard while you sleep."

"Yes and no. I don't know what may happen, but I doubt you're strong enough to stop it. There are very few people who could protect me better than myself, and they're all busy working on this right now. I need you to awaken me."

"So I'm useful because I'm powerless."

She rolled her eyes. "You're useful because no one would expect I would use you. Unexpectedness has its own power. No one must know about you. I haven't even told Maeve."

Maeve, the Bitch of Tara, Ice Queen and Iron Ruler. Just as many people fear her as love her. Enclosed in a girdle of mist on the hill of Tara in Ireland, no one passes into her keep-or her presence-without consent. And she just phones up friends of mine when she needs help. "What's she like?"

Briallen steepled her hands at her lips. "Strong. Of all the queens, I think she's probably the most beautiful, but I'm sure others would have their own opinion. Her hair is like ebony, and her skin is alabaster. She can be as cold as drawn steel and never lets her guard down. People curse her, but the fey are lucky she was the ascendant queen when Convergence happened. This world would have descended into chaos without her leadership. She may be harsh, but she's kept things from falling apart."

"If only she cared about all the fey as much as the monarchy," I said.

Briallen shrugged. "That's a matter of opinion. If she can finally defuse the German situation and end the Teutonic-Seelie stalemate, the entire world will be better off. Humans may fear nuclear weapons, but I'm more worried about an all-out fey war. Suffice it to say she's got a lot on her plate."

In her usual manner, she stood and walked out of the room. In the outer hall, I found her going upstairs. I followed her firm tread to the third floor, where the guest bedrooms were located. Surprisingly, she led me up to the fourth floor. I knew she slept up there, but had never seen it. When I was a kid and came to the house for lessons, I would sneak away to explore when she was distracted by conversation with someone. The staircase beyond the third floor was blocked by wards, and I couldn't pass. It didn't stop me from trying, but I never got through. Here I was just sailing right along. The fourth floor landing had four closed doors. To my astonishment, Briallen kept going up to the fifth floor. She waited for me on the landing.

The top floor of the house had wooden doors at either end, both closed. Incongruously, a great stone door set in a stone arch stood in the center of the landing. Briallen laid her hand on the door. "You're about to see something I rarely show anyone."

She pushed, and the door opened soundlessly. A dim white glow came from wiuiin. Inside was an oval room, its walls paved with slate and curving inward toward the center of the ceiling. Where the tiles met, stones of all kinds glittered in the crevices. Onyx jammed in next to crystals of pink and yellow and blue. Bloodstones lined the baseboards, along with quartz of all kinds mixed in with opals and fire-stones. Even the floor had a fortune in precious stones, including what could only be true rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. I couldn't possibly catalog them all. The dominant stones were selenite, other moonstones, and sapphire for invoking the powers of the night, only fitting for a druid daughter of the Moon. In the center of the room stood the lone piece of furniture, a white granite slab of a table just the right length for Briallen to stretch out on if she chose. A preternatural light glowed from various places, reflecting back and forth in a myriad of color.

Druids are notoriously guarded about their private sanctums. The one I had before I lost my abilities was much simpler, but I had still shown it to only a handful of people. "I'm honored," I said.

"I've already keyed the door to your essence. Once I close it, only you can open it from the outside. If I'm not out in three days, come get me. With any luck, I'll have figured this all out."

She reached out and hugged me. As I held her, she gripped hard before releasing me. The seriousness of the situation was sinking in. Briallen was always physically and emotionally demonstrative. But that one hard squeeze told me she was scared. She stepped back into the room with a grim smile on her face. The door closed, meeting the jamb with a soft thump that sounded like the sealing of a tomb.