Unshapely Things

CHAPTER 2

A pounding on the door woke me at the crack of noon. I sat up in bed, rubbing my fist into my eye and wondering what had died in my mouth to make it taste the way it did. The knocking started up again, and I put on a robe and opened the door. Murdock sauntered in like a cop.

"Do you know what time it is?" I asked. I hate waking up. I opened the refrigerator. Seltzer water, condiments, and glow bees. I had to go shopping. Every night the last thing I do is set up the coffeemaker to save a minute and a half. I hit the ON button. Murdock knows the routine. He didn't say a word while I disappeared into the bathroom. The only thing that kills that morning shag rug feeling from a six-pack of Guinness is an extra dose of Crest, and the only thing that kills the Crest is black coffee. I didn't come out until I knew it was ready. Murdock was in the study flipping through an herb dictionary. I slipped on a pair of jeans and yesterday's T-shirt and joined him. The squeak of my computer chair sliced through my head.

I took a gulp of hot coffee, met Murdock's eyes, and smiled thinly. He smiled, shaking his head. "How can you sleep half the day away?"

"Same way most people sleep the night away," I said. I hardly came from a line of farmers and never saw much value in dawn except as a sign that maybe I had stayed up late again. Murdock had probably been up too many hours already for me to think about.

He tossed a folder on the desk next to me, the edge of some paper and a compact disc sliding out. "This week's victim. We're still waiting for serology, but it will probably confirm alcohol and trace user drugs like the others. I took the liberty of putting the photos on disc for you."

I flipped open the folder without speaking. Nothing like autopsy photos to start the day. Murdock leaned back in his chair, looking as fresh in his white shirt, classic red tie, and barely creased tan gabardine pants as if he had just dressed. "Victim's been ID'd as a street worker named Gamelyn Danann Sidhe. Only been around a couple of months. One arrest for hustling."

Gamelyn's face stared out from a head shot with that disconcerting glassy stare of the dead, narrow fine features, hair so pale that his eyebrows barely showed. He looked young for a Danann, a hundred or younger, probably a runaway, or one of those fools who think humans are a fascination to experience.

"So what are you thinking?" he asked.

It wasn't a general question. Murdock's own admitted fascination with fey folk drew him to the Weird and kept him there. The more you got to know, the more there was to know. Years ago, when I thought of such things, human curiosity annoyed me no end. I used to think being a druid was no different than anything else. Just a different set of skills. Not every druid excelled at his craft, just like not every human or fairy or elf. But that was before I lost most of my ability, before I learned what it was like not to be able to do things. Before I understood that only if you could make a spell work could you bring true intuition to understanding how someone else's spell worked. Now I only have the intuition and limited ability. I have to confess to a certain amount of anger about it. But at least I had that. Humans had neither, no matter how many books they studied. It's a mystery to them in the truest sense, in the ancient theological sense. And like all mysteries, they hold out hope that the answers are easy if you know the secret. So Murdock, with all the sincerity in the world, asks me every time what do I, who has been granted access to the mysteries by dint of birth, know.

"Nothing," I said.

"Come on, Connor," he said, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'm not asking you for a name. What's this starting to shape into? If it were your basic psycho, I'd say we have a disassociative personality acting out anger against victims who represent some kind of psychological trauma from the murderer's past. The trauma most likely occurred at a young age. The act of the murder is his way of taking control. Even without the evidence of aggressive removal of the hearts, he's likely to be male. Given all the victims are male prostitutes who service male customers, I'd consider that the killer was likely molested by a male, possibly a relative."

I couldn't resist smirking. "And what makes you think you're wrong?"

He laughed. "I'm not saying I am. But given his choice of fairy prostitutes, his use of wards, and the ritualized placement of the stone, I'd say there's a layer to him that you might enlighten me on." It was his turn to smirk and mine to laugh.

"All right, fine," I said. "Given that the wards have to be charged, it's not likely he's human. He might have bought a charged ward, but there's no room for error if the fairy is strong enough to resist. He might get lucky once, but three times leads me to think some kind of enchantment is used even before the alley is reached. So that leads me to believe the killer is fey. I've already told you that I sensed human, elf, and fairy essence on the victims, which narrows the possibilities to elf or fairy. It's clearly a performed ritual, one I've never heard of. Most rituals are very proscribed. The methodical enactment of the murders supports that. The heart is considered the power center, so power is either being gained or taken away. Blood rites, particularly involving people, are very old, and were supplanted by symbolism long ago, much as Christians use wine for blood. If it is a real ritual, the killer would either have to be very old or have access to old knowledge."

Murdock cocked his head to one side and squinted at me. "What do you mean 'if' it's a real ritual?"

I smiled back at him. "He may have no other motive other than a disassociative personality taking control from the perpetrator of his childhood trauma. Other than the wards, I haven't sensed any expenditure of power that a ritual might entail. Just because he's fey doesn't mean the ritual does anything. It could just mean he has his own ritual for killing fairies."

Murdock blew air through his lips. "Great."

"And… he just might be finished," I said. "It's an outside chance. There've been three murders. Even if the ritual's not real, the killer could still be operating within fey parameters. Three is a very powerful number. The first token stone was dark, almost black, the second, gray, and the last white. A nice balance. He might be done."

Murdock scratched his head, then smoothed his hair again. "Is this your way of saying that magic isn't always magic?"

I sipped my coffee. "No. Just that there are no magic answers. And stop calling it magic. It's manipulated essence. That's all."

He stood up. "So we work it like a regular case, solve it with forensics and witnesses and evidence."

I couldn't resist. "On the other hand, the ritual could be real. If I find the ritual, we find the motive, and if we find the motive, we might have the killer."

Murdock shook his head, laughing. "I don't know if you're trying to drive me crazy or just get more consulting fees."

I poked my cheek out with my tongue. "Both have their appeal."

He jerked his head at the door. "Let's go. We have to meet someone."

I rummaged on the floor for a pair of socks. I hadn't even taken a shower, so I wasn't going to worry about dirty socks. I threw on a baseball cap, grabbed a long leather jacket, and we left the building. I slid into the passenger seat of Murdocks's car right on a poorly disguised romance novel. We all have our embarrassing secrets. For all his immaculate-ness, Murdock's car was a pigsty. Newspaper, take-out bags, and napkins mounted in the well on the passenger side to the point that the mats underneath were actually clean because they rarely had feet on them. Club invitations and gum wrappers littered the dashboard. It was why he couldn't keep a partner for more than a few months at a time. I think he does it on purpose.

"So, where am I going?" I asked.

"Talk to a couple of guys," he said, snaking the car in and out of the dumpsters behind my building to avoid me one-way street in front. "Street kids. The photos of the barricades show them at the first and third scenes."

He leaned across, opened the glove compartment, and handed me two photos. Two heads were circled in each, one a tall blond boy wearing a green tunic and a bow and quiver, the other shoulder height to the first and wearing some kind of dress and a black wig tied with a red sash. The blond looked familiar, but if Murdock hadn't told me they were both male, I'd never have guessed. At least not from the photos. "Do you know them?" I asked.

"A little. They're runaways, been living the life to get by. No trouble as far as I know," he said. He made the turn onto Pittsburgh and cut into the next alley. He pulled up behind one of a series of boarded-up buildings. We got out of the car. Murdock scanned up and down the alley as he slipped on his sports coat. "Maybe they haven't been caught yet," he said.

He walked up to a door covered with several pine planks and pulled. It popped open easily on its hinges, boards and all. Murdock gave me a crooked smile and walked into the darkened hallway.

I stood behind him, apprehension creeping up my back. I never carried a gun, even when I was in the Guild. Didn't need one then. Even with extra senses and body-warding abilities, though, you can't stop that adrenaline rush that comes from stepping into blind situations. A faint prickling sensation ran over my face as I called up a weak body shield. At one time, the shield was amazingly tough. It wasn't much now, mostly my head and just patches on the chest and arms, and it would never stop a bullet. If someone threw something at me, like a fist or a brick, the force of the blow would be slightly blunted. It worked more for comfort than usefulness these days.

Sunlight penetrated just past the threshold, showing a debris-strewn hallway trailing off into black. The odor of mildew hung in the air. A door slammed not far off and a blazing high-voltage light snapped on in our faces. Instinctively, I dove for the floor.

Murdock looked down at me and burst out laughing. "What the hell are you doing?" he said.

"Who is it?" a voice demanded.

Murdock turned away from me and held his hand up to protect his eyes. "Turn off the damned light, Robin!" The light went out to be replaced by a dimmer bare bulb in the ceiling. Murdock shook his head. I stood up, brushing dirt off my coat. "You could have warned me," I said.

He just kept chuckling as he led the way down the hall to a door at the end. When we reached it, it opened slightly, then all the way. A tall thin boy clothed in jeans and a white T-shirt faced us, long, blond hair framing a strikingly handsome face. His eyes were wary as he backed away, and we stepped into the room. Another boy stood in the corner, his face incredibly feminine, with just the hint of applied color on his eyes. He wore a long shift in light blue with a matching piece of fabric tied around his dark hair. Most of the room was taken up by two narrow beds, the walls decorated with old posters, hanging fabric, and some standard household good luck charms. The far wall was partially covered by a thick maroon velvet curtain, behind which neatly arranged clothes could be seen on shelves and hooks.

Murdock lifted his chin at the blond. "This is Robin, and that's Shay," he said. I just nodded as Murdock sat down in the only chair. He leaned back and smiled at the kid in the corner. "How's it going, Shay? Still doing the Snow White gig?"

Shay crossed his arms and frowned. "No. The damned dwarves quit. They said their cut wasn't enough." He rolled his eyes. "Like standing around watching takes effort."

Murdock shrugged. "Too bad. I heard you were making quite a name for yourself."

Shay draped himself on the nearest bed. "Who is this, Detective Murdock?"

"A friend. You can call him Connor."

Robin arched an eyebrow, a small cocky smile twitching at one corner of his mouth. I was tempted to slap him. "The Connor, as in Connor Grey? I thought no one ever met you."

"Consider yourself met," I said. I stared right back at him, but he held my gaze. I was impressed.

Shay walked toward me with an exaggerated languidness. "I've seen your picture in the paper. You're much more handsome in person. I don't usually go for tall, dark-haired types, but you have very pretty eyes. Aqua."

"They're just blue, thanks," I said. The kid was a hoot.

He smiled and strolled back to the other side of the room. "You were at the murder," he said. Robin shot him an annoyed look.

"So were you," said Murdock.

Robin moved closer to Shay's bed. "A lot of people were there," he said.

"Yeah, but a lot of people were not at two murder scenes," Murdock said. The two of them looked studiously at their hands. "You want to explain that?" Murdock prompted.

Shay busied his hands with the chenille on the bedspread.

"You know they happened right near here. We were on our way home," said Robin. He nervously ran his fingers through those long blond strands. His expression stayed suspicious though.

"Bad luck," Shay whispered. He darted his eyes at me, then away to examine a poster on the wall, an old Deco print of a ship coming into port. Stylish optimism. "Turning and turning in the widening gyre. Isn't that the way of it?" he murmured.

My heart caught a moment. I couldn't help it. Something about the kid, his pretty little woman face on a man's little body and the sadness in his voice. I didn't think it was an act. For a moment, I heard what must have driven him here and maybe what kept him here.

Murdock leaned forward. "Do you want to tell me something, Shay?" he asked softly. I could tell Murdock had felt it, too. Is that what kept him in the Weird?

Shay just stared at us solemnly. He reached up and removed his head scarf, shaking out long, brown hair. "It's the way Robin said. We were on our way home." Robin seemed to relax a little. "The first time," Shay continued.

"Shay! No!" Robin said, spinning away from us.

Shay tapped his arm. "It's all right." Robin reached out and held his hand. Shay fixed us with a defiant eye. "We were looking for Gamelyn the second time."

"You knew him?" Murdock asked.

Shay nodded. "I met him at the Flitterbug. He was sweet. Too sweet for that place. And drunk, like they all are when they first come here. A man kept buying him drinks. He made me nervous. I tried to talk Gamelyn into going home, but he said he was fine. They left together. I started to follow, but Robin came back, and we talked for a bit. Then I got nervous again, and we went looking for Gamelyn. We were about to give up when I thought I saw Gamelyn's friend go down an alley."

"What friend?" Murdock asked.

"A flit. She usually came around to talk to Gamelyn."

"Was the murderer still there?"

Shay shook his head, and his voice went soft. "When we got to the alley we… we found him and called the police. They'd only been gone about twenty minutes, but I guess that was all the time he needed."

"Could you identify him?"

Shay considered for a moment. "Probably. The Hitter-bug is kind of dark. Not everyone goes someplace else, if you know what I mean. He looked old. Mean. I think he was fey."

"What kind of fey?"

"I don't know," he said. "One of the fairies or maybe a druid. He made my skin crawl. I never felt like that around the fey before. I didn't like him. And his voice. His voice sounded like someone took a saw to a violin. I would remember that voice."

"Tell me about the flit," I said.

Shay shrugged again. "I don't know her name if that's what you mean. She seemed shy. She only talked to Gamelyn. Half the time, I didn't even know she was around. She liked to curl up on his shoulder under his hair. She was tiny, maybe four or five inches tall."

"What color were her wings?"

"A pale yellow. That's why I didn't always notice her. Gamelyn had such lovely blond hair, like morning sunlight," said Shay.

"And you have no idea where she's from?"

Shay shook his head. "No. Like I said, she only spoke to Gamelyn."

Murdock cleared his throat. "Where were you, Robin?"

The kid became very still as he glared at us. "I was busy," he said. I didn't need to ask, and Murdock let it drop.

Murdock stood up. "I'll need you to come down to the station. I want you to work with a police artist."

Robin turned away. "Shay's lying. He didn't see anything. He's just looking for attention."

Shay rose from the bed and came around to the other side. He took Robin's hand and tugged it. "It's okay, Robin. Detective Murdock won't let anything happen to me. We'll do this favor for him. And for Gamelyn." He threw Murdock a flirty little look. "We may need his help someday."

I could see just the hint of a smile playing on Murdock's lips. He was too indulgent sometimes. Shay did have a certain amount of charm though. We walked back to the alley while Robin and Shay locked their door. On the floor in the corner, Shay placed a small protection ward that looked like some of Belgor's merchandise. I didn't have the heart to tell them it was only decorative.

I stood aside as they got in the car. Murdock leaned across the seat to look at me through the passenger window. "You coming?"

"No. I'll catch up with you later."

He straightened up in the seat and started the car. I stared down the alley after he drove off. Even in the stark light of day, the buildings could not muster more color man brick, and gray, and faded yellow. Rain-soaked paper and rotting leaves lined the gutters where the occasional weed fought to take root. Under a crisp blue June sky, it was just a melancholy, depressing place. But when day turned to night, melancholy turned to menace. Shadows lengthened and the gray deepened, hiding danger and calling fear. And two young men called it home.

I shivered, whether from my thoughts or the light breeze wasn't clear.

As I made my way up to the Avenue, a group of teenage boys came swaggering up the sidewalk, dressed in baggy jeans and red T-shirts. They didn't speak to each other, more interested in looking menacing as they scanned the street. They didn't part around me, but made a point of jostling me as they passed. Their essences were human, one of the xenophobic gangs that liked to show the human presence on the Avenue. They had their own colorful names, but most people just called them the xenos. I suppressed my annoyance because I wasn't in the mood to provoke them. Their organizing principles centered on conspiracy theories about secret fey alliances controlling the government. They were prejudiced thugs who preyed on the drunk and the drugged. They made damn sure they didn't try anything with any fey who had real power.

I hit the groceria on the corner of my street and picked up some nice sodium-rich deli meats, bread, some sundries, and a bag of Oreos in case Joe stopped in.

Back in my loft, I poured myself a cup of stale coffee and sat at the computer staring out the window. I didn't really believe the Tuesday Killer was finished. Murdock was right. The killer was trying to accomplish something even if he had a disassociated personality. Anyone who carved a heart out of a body had to be damned disassociated. Whatever it was, someone, somewhere was bound to know about it.

I pulled down a concordance of ancient druidic ceremonial writings. It was a nice little reference but only partially helpful. The druids themselves rarely wrote anything down, and most of the existing material was secondhand. Of that, even less was available to the general public. I counted myself lucky to have my own copies of high holiday ceremonies as well as the divination series put out by Modern Library back in the sixties before the Ward Guild shut them down. Most everything else I knew came from the classical oral training I had learned in camp. And that was stuff I kept meaning to put on the computer. The only heart removal references were the usual anecdotal junk that no one's ever proved, and even that didn't include the rituals themselves. I tossed the book aside.

Even if the ceremony were druidic, I kept coming back to who could know such a thing. Modern druids considered the old sacrifice stories a lie to discredit them, so they would hardly be candidates for passing down the information. A controversy flared up a few years back when it was discovered that an orthodox sect in northern Maine occasionally chewed raw meat for divination. The Ward Guild even investigated, but no evidence of anything illegal turned up. If anyone did know an ancient blood ritual, it would be them. But only a few were left, pretty ancient themselves, and not likely to be hitting on prostitutes without raising an eyebrow, even in the Weird. I didn't relish driving up to the Canadian border to find out.

I stretched back in the chair. The Guild had an excellent database. Even though I was no longer on staff, I could get in. Practically everyone in the place builds a back door into the computer systems on the remote chance they'll get the old access denied. Sure, they made a monthly security sweep, but if you had enough computer knowledge and enough ability to ward against detection, they weren't likely to find you. I had both at one time. My wards were still in place, at least the last time I checked.

I glanced at the computer. It was coming on two o'clock. After lunch, people kicked back and played a bit, a little solitaire, a little esoteric research, maybe a cyber quickie. I could hide in the crowd of odd file requests for at least an hour before everyone got back to real work. On the other hand, if I just punched in for blood rites, I might get a security flag. With people on duty during the day, I might be picked up faster. As I debated risking access and possible detection, a more obvious approach occurred to me, and I picked up the phone.

"I've been expecting your call for days, darling," Briallen said when she answered.

I smiled into the receiver. "You could have called, you know," I said.

She laughed, her rich, throaty voice giving me the thrill it always did, especially if I were the one to make her laugh. Briallen verch Gwyll ab Gwyll was bawdy but nice, strong but sensitive, dynamic yet subtle, and one of the most powerful beings I have ever met. A pretty damn good cook on top of it, though I always make certain to ask before I sample from her stove. She's one of those people you're proud to know and flattered that they give you the time of day.

"I know I could have called, but at my age one likes to have her abilities confirmed. You haven't been by in ages."

"I've been, um, busy," I said, chagrined.

"You've been brooding again," she said. It was a statement of fact.

"Yeah, well…" My voice trailed off.

"Life's an ass, sweetie, you just have to bite it."

"I know, I know," I said, laughing. "I need a favor."

"You're working on the murders," she said. Again, just a statement. Between the people Briallen knows and the things she just knew, little escaped her. I filled her in on what I had so far, everything. If I couldn't take Briallen into my confidence, there was no one in the world I could.

"Danann hearts," she murmured. "I have a couple of thoughts, but I will only open those dusty old books on one condition: You must come for dinner."

"I owe you more than that," I said.

"Only if you bore me, darling, and you haven't yet. Call me in a day or so." She disconnected abruptly like she always did. I sat smiling at me phone for a moment. Briallen was many things: druidess, teacher, researcher, and, most importantly, friend. She was the other person at the hospital when I woke up. She also had one of the best private libraries on this side of the Atlantic.

I called up my database files and ran down the patterns. All three murders were localized off the Avenue. Ragnell Danann Sidhe, the first victim, was found in an alley two blocks away from where Pach Danann Sidhe, the second victim, was discovered. The latest victim, Gamelyn, had landed one block over. On the one hand, it was not surprising. Most illegal activity in the Weird happened in the alleys. On the other hand, I couldn't discount the possibility that something other than prostitution was a connection. A fey committing the murders might very well live in the area.

Stillings and Pittsburgh Streets connected the Avenue to Congress Street, forming an elongated rectangle. Most nights, cars circled the block with people jumping in and out like an endless merry-go-round. Ragnell worked the street, notably Stillings near Congress, but Pach worked out of a dive called the Flitterbug on the Avenue. After the conversation with Shay and Robin, I added Gamelyn's connection to the bar. Murdock had been running down the victims' associates. So far no one remembered anything unusual the night of the murders. Tuesdays tended to be quiet. Not many customers, not many witnesses.

Nothing unique was coming up on the clothing found at the scene. So many hairs and fibers were showing up, the Boston P.D. was still cataloging the tunic Ragnell wore on the night of his death. The forensics lab was not exactly rushing, and a little race resentment slowed the process. Very few fey folk were on the force, and the human contingent tended to want to focus on human problems. More politics at play. Pach was covered with makeup and lotion smears from trying to hide bruises, obviously too poor to afford even a modest glamour stone. If he had not met his death at the hands of a murderer, he would have found it at the end of a needle soon.

And now Gamelyn, a young Danann, recently arrived from parts unknown. It was too soon to have much of anything on him except he was in good health when he died. And drunk.

Annoyed, I snapped off the computer. Staring at their gutted torsos made my own chest hurt. I prowled the apartment, trying to figure the twists that lead people down me paths they take. How does anyone end up a dead whore? What loss starts the slide? Physical looks? Love? Money? Power?

I pulled off my clothes and jumped in the shower, blasting myself with hot water. The heat penetrating under my skin felt cruelly satisfying. I wanted to burn away the frustration. I turned up the water temperature to match the heat of the anger spreading over me. I could not comprehend the stupidity that drives the fey. All the power they could ever want, and they wallowed in the muck of the Weird. I've heard the reasons, if they can be called that, the mere dalliance that most of them consider the depravity they cause and find. The inconsequentiality of sex in races that rarely gave birth. The resilience of bodies that lived for centuries. I'd heard all that and more. But it all rings hollow when toted up against the waste and pain and death.

As I stood naked, my skin nearly blistering, I knew I did not want to miss a minute accorded me. Not when I had no idea if I had anything stretching beyond an average human life span. Sometimes I imagined I could feel the thing in my head, like a cancer perhaps, dividing and replicating over and over, pushing every last ounce of ability out of my body. I'd barely lived forty years, nearly a childhood for my race, but I still wanted more, while fools risk their lives for the novelty of a high or a bed. I gave myself a blast of cold water and shouted at the shock of it. The towel felt deliriously rough against my skin as I dried off. As I wrapped myself in a robe, I realized that pummeling my body with extreme temperatures was no different than the way others punished their bodies to soothe their inner emotions. It was all a matter of degree and rationality. I was just trying to feel alive. Just like them. I hated moments when I recognized my own kinship with the people who frustrated me. They only reminded me of why I loved the Weird. I made some fresh coffee and turned the computer back on.