Unshapely Things

CHAPTER 5

Sunday mornings are for coffee, the newspaper, and, apparently, waiting on the corner of Newbury and Dartmouth for half-a-damned-hour because Murdock was late. Some people know who's calling when their phone rings at midnight. I know it's Murdock when my phone rings at seven o'clock on Sunday morning. He knows he's the only person I won't kill for doing it because I'd have his father and brothers after me, not to mention the entire Boston P.D.

Even on a warm morning, Newbury Street was quiet.

The exclusive boutiques didn't open until ten o'clock or so. The couture fashion parade would start around noon, the cool and the neo-hip strutting their disposable-income purchases while jabbering into the latest in cell phone technology. Most of the people walking about were Back Bay residents retrieving their Boston Sunday Globes and cups of ready-made coffee. They wouldn't be caught dead here in their designer sweat suits in a few hours.

Across the way from me stood the old Prince School. It had gone derelict when me area population started focusing more on having BMWs than having kids and had been a favorite haunt for squatters until a developer decided to turn it into condominiums. Before the owners understood with whom they were dealing, the entire basement had been leased by fey folk, who dubbed it The Artifactory. It's said that the vendors inside provide almost everything fey legally available and, if you had the right connections, a few things that weren't. Human kids liked to hang out watching all manner of folk enter and leave, but they rarely bothered anyone. You only need an itching rash once to convince you staring is rude.

Murdock appeared from around the corner, strolling nonchalantly like he was on time. He gave me a pleasant smile. "Sorry I'm late. Mass went long."

Murdock at Catholic mass, the earliest one on Sunday. Not something I could easily visualize, but also not something he gave me reason to criticize. The Roman Catholic Church had remained in turmoil ever since its encyclical on the fey. The Pope found nothing inherently wrong with being fey, just as long as they didn't act fey. Oh, and became Catholic. Other than that, he had no problem. I figured as long as Murdock didn't act Catholic around me, I had no problem with him either. He obliged me most of the time.

The thing I liked about Murdock's interest in the fey was that he sincerely wanted to understand. He wasn't content just to be handed answers to questions on specific cases. He wanted to accumulate enough knowledge to bring his own thoughts to bear on a given situation. So, every Sunday morning unless one or both of us had a hangover, we would get together for a little tutorial. The Artifactory was one of our usual classrooms.

We crossed the street and entered the grand side door of the building. As we descended into the basement, the intense odor of smoldering lavender slammed into our noses. The staircase bottomed at one end of the building, which stretched out before us for what seemed an entire city block. People milled about the brightly lit main aisle, wandering in and out of the stalls that lined the way. To either side were two secondary aisles, not as well lit, where much of the hard-core business tended to take place away from prying eyes. An herbalist's booth sat right near the entrance, hence the smell.

We slowly made our way among the booths, browsing casually. The vendors along the main aisle tended to have a mix of quality and kitsch. It seemed that for every apothecary, there were two T-shirt hawkers for the occasional tourist that wandered in. Potions had been experiencing renewed interest, and a number of people were offering ways to attract a lover or repel an unwanted suitor. My favorite find was an elixir marketed as a way to cause your boss to forget why he had come into your office. Cloak-makers busied themselves with last-minute orders for the Midsummer festival events. Costumes for the upcoming parade hung from the rafters. Rank upon rank of gem and stone dealers competed loudly with each other to sell the same merchandise.

"So how'd the date go?" I asked.

Murdock shrugged. "It was drinks."

"And?"

He smirked. "And that's it. Maybe it'll go somewhere, maybe it won't."

And that was that. Murdock is, as the old phrase goes, a ladies' man. As in plural. He's got a look that most women find attractive, and he definitely uses it. He doesn't talk much about that aspect of his social life, but I know enough that most of his dates are barely that, and it suits him fine.

Near the center of the room, we found a wand dealer. I picked up a wand of milled pine from a box of several dozen duplicates. It was about a foot and half long, tapering from about a quarter-inch in diameter to a blunt end. Under the watchful eye of the vendor, I leaned over and withdrew another shorter wand from a tangled bundle at the next seller's table, an old piece of warped yew worn smooth along one end, small knots making irregular bumps along its length. I handed them both to Murdock.

"Okay, which one has any practical use?" I asked.

He weighed them in his hands. "Obviously, I'm supposed to say the nicer-looking one is better, but I think the real question is why isn't it better?"

I smiled. "Very good. The answer is because it's tooled, in this case by a machine. Even if it were done with a knife, it would still not be as effective. Either way, it's unnatural. The act of cutting destroys the natural pathways of the growdi of the wood, interrupting the flow of energy. In and of themselves, wands are powerless. They have their own essence, of course, but they don't have any will to use what little they have. Most people use them as focal points for the concentration of energy, and they can even be used as conduits for that energy."

I took the older one from him. It felt quite nice to the hand, its sides worn to a buttery smoothness. I gave it a quick little flick, feeling how it responded to the motion of my hand. "Now this old boy has seen some use. The shape of it has been worn into it with handling. It has had time to adapt its flow to the change in configuration, which an abrupt shaving would never allow."

Murdock took it back and examined it more closely. He even accurately imitated the hand motion I had used. "But what about the nubs? Why doesn't breaking off side branches interrupt the flow?"

I crossed my arms and nodded appreciatively. "You're getting pretty good at this. The little side branches are natural interruptions to the flow of the main piece. It's important to strip them off by hand because, unless you're unbelievably strong, they'll come off in the path of least resistance. In effect, you interrupt the interruption, and the natural essence of the main piece resumes its course."

He performed the same motion with the pine wand. "So is this useless?"

I shrugged. "It's not great. Someone who needs it might make do in a pinch. Personally, I just use my hands unless I'm doing something very delicate." I took the wand from him and tossed it back in the box with the rest. "I suppose if you bought two, they'd make pretty good chopsticks." The vendor heard me and favored me with an annoyed glare.

Murdock put the other wand back. I led him to a table of stones, a range of semiprecious, minerals, and just plain old rocks. "Now, stones are another matter entirely. Using tools is practically required, and you can shape stones any way you want. Most stones have very little essence, and it's spread uniformly throughout. That makes them excellent conductors, resonators, inductors, and condensers."

"Like electricity?" he said.

"Exactly. The only difference is that electricity behaves predictably. When stones have essence applied to them, there's a will behind it. The stones treat the essence predictably, but the effect depends on the intent of the user."

Murdock shuffled his fingers through a box of flat stone rings about the diameter of a walnut. I picked one up, glancing at the vendor, a small harried-looking dwarf busy with a group of elves. Not wanting to insult him, I discreetly turned away and peered through the stone at the crowd. "These are supposed to be self-bored stones. Their centers are worn away by tumbling in streams and rivers. They're rare enough that you won't find a box of them lying on a table. If they're real, you can use them to see through a glamour."

I tossed mine back. Murdock picked one up and looked through it. He scanned the crowd, smiling. "This is pretty neat," he said.

Startled, I plucked the stone out of his hand and looked. Sure enough, the hidden wings of several nearby fairies came into view. A tall, thin, cloaked figure at a table of swords resolved itself into a very ugly ogre of some kind. All along the aisle, I could see several more people who were using various levels of glamour. Laughing, I turned and waved at the vendor. "This one's real," I said, tossing him the stone.

He caught it with one hand, a dubious frown on his face. When he put it up to his eye, his jaw dropped. Giving me a wink, he slipped the stone into his pocket. "Take your pick of the first row of boxes," he said, waving at the useless small wards they contained.

"Not necessary," I said. I paused and turned to Murdock. "Follow me. I have an idea."

I led him between two booths to one of the side aisles. The crowd was thinner here, the prices higher, and the wares more refined. Searching among the stalls, I spotted what appeared to be a jeweler. Several gemstones of different quality set in chains and cords hung from a string across the front. The counter beneath had an assortment of rings, bracelets, anklets, and belts. I felt a buzz in the base of my skull just standing there. I flipped through the hanging chains and slipped one over my head.

Murdock's eyebrows shot up. "You look bigger. Like you've been working out as much as you claim."

"Very funny. These are glamour stones. I'm thinking we should try to bait the killer with an undercover officer wearing one of these to look like the victim profile."

Murdock tilted his head in consideration. "That stuff's always risky."

"We only have two days until Tuesday, Murdock. If the artist sketch doesn't turn up anything, we're in trouble."

Considering, he stared at the line of necklaces. "I'll have to pass it by Ruiz." Ruiz was Murdock's immediate supervisor. I'd met him a couple of times; nice enough guy for someone who was in charge of one of the worst police districts in the city.

I got the attention of the vendor, another dwarf, and asked him in Gaelic for a fairy glamour. Sometimes speaking the language helped ease the negotiations. He produced an array of stones from beneath the counter. After much searching, he found a couple that had the ability to produce the image of a tall blond fairy and named his price. I shuddered, knowing it was beyond Murdock's budget. The dwarf was in no mood to discuss credit. He didn't want to risk the stones losing their charge, then not being able to collect the debt. I stalked up and down the aisle looking for something more modest, but predictably, the stones were uniformly out of our range.

Frustrated, I stood in the aisle trying not to think of grabbing a stone and running. "Do you know any tall blonds on the force that might pass as a fairy? I'm thinking we just get an enhancer stone, something like the first one I tried on. It'll produce a fairy aura on a human and give him wings, but it won't be strong enough to change his physical looks completely."

He shrugged. "I'll ask around."

As a courtesy, I went back to the first vendor. He'd been extremely civil throughout our earlier failed bargaining and showed no sign of annoyance that we were now looking for cheap. I figured I should encourage that kind of behavior whenever possible. In a matter of moments we had a stone that would do the trick. He even put it in a protective case to keep the glamour from activating prematurely or its essence from dissipating. We left the building and walked toward Copley Square.

"Do you want to come for dinner?" Murdock asked as he unlocked his car door.

Sunday dinner at the Murdocks happened every week at two o'clock in the afternoon. The offer was tempting, but if I went, I'd be committed to several hours. "Can I take a rain check? I'm hoping to see Briallen tonight and need to get some reading done."

"Sure. Maybe it's just as well. It's Bar's turn to cook," he said, referring to his younger brother Barnard. He couldn't help the mischievous smile from creeping onto his face. Bar had a reputation for going heavy on every seasoning he could get his hands on. While all the Murdocks complained about it, no one disliked it enough to take an extra cooking duty for the army that tended to show up.

Shoving a pile of magazines to the floor, I dropped into the passenger seat. Murdock started the car and just pulled into traffic without looking. It must be nice to have a badge.

"So anyone can use this glamour stone? Even non-fey?" he asked.

"Sure. Someone fey needs to make it, but once it's charged, it's charged. It should work for anyone, even a human."

"I thought you needed essence to make it work." He cut across two lanes of moving traffic to make a right-hand turn.

"The essence is in the glamour, which then interacts with the essence of the user."

"So what happens if this enhancer one we just bought is worn by someone who already is a fairy?"

"It'll work like the first one I tried on. It'll just make him look more powerful."

"Is that why I was able to use the self-bored stone?"

"Right. They're just tools. They only don't work if applying essence is necessary to make them work. Like the wand. It won't do anything for a human no matter how much he waves it around because it retains no active essence in and of itself. There's no danger in wearing one."

"Good. Ruiz isn't too fond of the fey. He'll want to know there's no danger."

I suppressed a sigh. A cop who didn't like the fey was becoming a cliche. Sure the fey caused trouble, but so did everyone on the wrong side of the law. I didn't think it helped race relations if law enforcement was part of the problem.

Murdock dropped me at my place and pulled away without a word, like he usually did. I phoned Briallen, and her answering machine said, "I know what you're going to say, but leave a message anyway." I left a message. As I waited for her call, I went on the roof above my apartment to read in the sun. In no time, I dozed off.

A cool breeze across my skin woke me with a shiver, and the shiver immediately turned into a wince of pain. I had been out for a couple of hours. A bright tinge of red covered the entire front of my body.

Briallen had not called back. I decided I would just show up at her place. At best, she'd be pleased to see me. At worst, she wouldn't be home.

I hopped a cab for the short ride over to Beacon Hill. I paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk in front of Briallen's house on Louisburg Square in the heart of the old Brahmin neighborhood. She's lived in the townhouse for decades. A double-wide, five-story structure in the classic brick bay window style with mullioned windows of purple glass panes. Large green double doors flanked by old gas lamps that still worked marked the entrance. A new growth of ivy was slowly making its way up the first two floors.

I rang the bell. After several moments, I rang again. When no answer came, I tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it open. I let myself in. The empty entry hall greeted me. I had rarely been in Briallen's house alone. The scent of history hung over the silence, not musty, but the rich odor of timelessness. Mahogany gleamed on the floor and stairs, and brass doorknobs shone with polish. A great clock to the left measured time with its steady tick. Briallen invariably liked to entertain in the rear second-floor parlor, so I went up the stairs in the entry hall.

In the middle of the staircase, where it turned around the back of the house, a landing window looked out over the back garden. A movement there caught my eye. A tree blocked the view, but I could distinctly see someone moving beneath it I quickly descended and made my way through the back of the house, passing through the long kitchen, with its rich cooking aromas. As I opened the rear door, I saw lights flickering in many colors and the sound of hushed voices. I stopped on the steps, amazed. Briallen sat on the ground amid a whirl of flits, most of them talking at once, vying for her attention. There had to be a couple dozen of the little guys. I'd never seen more than four or five of them together before. As I shifted for a clear view, my boot heel scraped loudly against the stone step. Amid a series of soft gasps, the flits disappeared. I moved around the tree just in time to see Briallen rise from the ground, turning angrily to face me.

"Who…? " she demanded, only to check her anger when she recognized me. At that moment, a flit materialized in front of her. The blue-winged fey gave me a long, hard look, glanced at Briallen and spoke softly, then disappeared.

"Connor! I thought you might turn up tonight, but not for another hour," Briallen said, striding toward me across the short lawn with her arms outstretched. She wore a long robe of white silk embroidered in gaudy flashes of orange and red that flowed sensually around her when she moved. She had cut her hair since I'd last seen her. It was short now, almost above the ears and falling in loose chestnut waves. She looked stunning as always. Briallen Gwyll had been my first crush and longest-lasting love. I had met her at the age of twelve, brought before her to judge my ability. The first thing she did that night was step naked out of her robe and perform a moon invocation rite. The image so excited me, I had to cross my legs every time I saw her after that for a year.

"I didn't mean to interrupt. Do you know you left the door unlocked?" I said, as we hugged.

She slipped her arm through mine and pulled me out into the garden. "I was distracted. It's always unlocked. It's just not warded against you. Come sit down."

She pressed me onto a stone garden bench that was uncomfortably hard and cold. Silently, she cradled my head in her hands and closed her eyes. For a moment I felt a vague pressure, as though I were wearing a hat too tightly, then it was gone. It had become a ritual whenever we met and no one was around to watch. Briallen dropped her hands and sat beside me on the bench.

"No change," she said.

In a way I didn't understand, Briallen could feel the thing in my head. She seemed more vexed by it than I, if that were possible. She hates not understanding something. Every time we meet, she tests it, to feel it, to see if it's changed, and, with no real sense of hope, to see if it is gone.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked.

Her hazel eyes caught a gleam of moonlight. "I've persuaded almost an entire family of Welsh flits to let me study them! Thirty-two! Have you ever seen thirty-two flits at once? Wasn't it marvelous?"

"Yes, it was. What are you studying?"

"I guess you'd have to say their sociology. And anthropology. And biology if they'll let me." She stood abruptly. "Come, let me show you something."

She walked away without checking if I was following, as though the idea of me not doing so never occurred to her. She was right, of course. We went back through the kitchen, passing through the wonderful smells, and up the stairs to a small study on the third floor. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, filled with just as much an assortment of odds and ends as books. Dusty crystal orbs held art portfolios in place; little boxes with colorful Chinese silk covers were wedged in between old leather bindings. An old computer monitor stared moonily out from a bottom shelf, not used, I was sure, since Pong was a best seller. And everywhere papers splayed out in a spectrum of color from nearly brown parchments to brilliant white photocopy. A large table dominated the cluttered room, piled high with more books and papers, a broken celestial sphere, a teacup, various pens including a handmade quill, a box of pebbles, the fourteenth edition of Bartlett 's Familiar Quotations, and a kitchen sponge. And in the cleared center space, a glass cube with what looked like a dried-out milkweed pod.

Briallen lifted the cube gently and handed it to me, her eyes shining.

As I held it, I could feel a strong warding surrounding it. I peered at the object, trying to understand what it was. A chill went through me. What I had taken to be the dried husk of the milkweed were actually the gray, lifeless wings of a flit. They bent unnaturally forward, cradling the still, crouched corpse, whose impassive face was barely visible through the small opening where the wings met. Wordlessly, Briallen retrieved the cube and replaced it on the table.

I followed her out of the study down to the kitchen, where she proceeded to prepare a salad.

"I've never seen a dead flit," I said.

She began chopping greens. "Very few people have. I was talking with one of my subjects about flit funeral processions — which I've seen a number of times — and mentioned that I'd never seen the final disposition of the body. He showed up with that body early this evening. He told me they just leave the body on a suitable hill and the first light of day takes it away."

"But why did he give it to you?"

Briallen began rummaging under a counter, eventually withdrawing a huge earthenware bowl that was too big for the salad. She used it anyway. "He didn't give it to me. He just thought I'd like to see it. I promised I'd put it outside before dawn."

"But you put a preserving ward on it," I said.

She shrugged. "It's only temporary. I noticed it had faded considerably in the short time I had it inside. I suspect any light will do the job; the sun just does it quickly. I think it has something do with essence leaving the body. It's almost unbelievable that something as small as a flit exists on any sentient level. I've been wondering if they're made up of more essence than physical matter."

I leaned over the salad as casually as I could. "Speaking of essence…"

Briallen held up her hand before I could continue, a knowing smile dancing on her face. "First, we socialize like the old friends that we are. We can talk business later. Grab a plate."

I ducked my head with a chagrined smile. Briallen is rarely taken unaware. She pulled a huge roast out of the oven, much more than the two of us could eat, and set out more bowls with vegetables and potatoes. We perched on kitchen stools at the counter island and proceeded to catch up. I, of course, had little to say that didn't lead to business. Briallen, on the other hand, had enough things going for both of us.

She had recently taken a yearlong sabbatical from Harvard, where she taught the history of what she liked to refer to as the "Not-So-Dark Ages." She was continuing research into more recent history. In the meantime, she was also beginning her work with the flit clan, trying to cultivate certain plants in the harsh New England climate, and learning how to cook Thai food. I had a feeling the latter was preparation for another trip later on.

She had participated in the early talks of the Fey Summit and was thinking about visiting Germany to assess the political situation there. Briallen had been instrumental in the founding of the Ward Guild, and though she didn't answer to the High Queen, her sympathies lay with the Seelie Court. She had diplomatic status in most European countries as a leader of the Druidic College and was often an advisor to world leaders. It was years before I realized how important she is. I thought she was just a nice lady who taught me spells.

She began clearing away the dishes. "You've been so quiet, Connor. Tell me something you've been doing other than work." I knew what she was asking. Briallen felt I needed to devote myself full-time to regaining my abilities. I made some efforts, but never enough to please her, or so it seemed. Sometimes I wondered if she was frustrated more by me or by her own inability to find an answer for what's wrong with me.

"Well, for one thing, I'm in the best physical condition I've ever been in."

"That's a good start." She poured two small glasses of port. She handed me a glass, lifted the bottle, and sailed out of the kitchen. I followed her to the upstairs parlor. A fire always burned in the room, even in summer, yet the temperature was never uncomfortable. With the entire house at her disposal, I knew she liked this room the best. It held several welcoming overstuffed chairs, more books, and a view of the garden. I imagined she spent many an evening reading in it until dawn sent her to bed.

"And…" she prompted.

I settled into a deep-tufted armchair by the fire. "My protective wards seem to activate instinctually. My sensing abilities feel like they're in overdrive sometimes. I still can't do a sending that goes true. Scrying is out of the question. And I seem to forget incantations as soon as I start them."

She pursed her lips. "I know all that. What have you done lately?"

"I tried to light a candle the other day and set my desk on fire," I said, trying not to smirk.

She sharply let a breath out. "Have you tried to listen to your own heartbeat?"

I felt a flush of annoyance. "Briallen, I know my ABCs."

It was her turn to be irritated. "I'm sincerely beginning to doubt that. You want to ignite a precision fire. You want to scry. You want to speak spells. Yet, you don't even bother to build toward them. If you broke both your legs, you'd probably sit and mope until you could get up and run a marathon. And you'd have just as much success as you're having now."

"That's not fair," I said. Her words stung a little too deeply.

"So what? I'm not your mother. I'm not here to make it all go away. You have an extraordinary talent and refuse to use it."

"I don't have those talents anymore." I surprised myself. I never raised my voice to Briallen.

She compounded my horror by laughing at me. "Is that all you are, Connor? A body without talent? I'm talking about your mind. You need to reason your way through this. You need to learn your way through this. But above all, you need to act your way through this. You received a bunch of answers that didn't solve your problem, and now you want me to sympathize with you. I think you know me well enough by now, Connor, to know I have no sympathy for surrender."

I could feel heat suffuse my face. "I came here tonight for help," I said tightly.

A concerned and sincere look came over her face. "And you're getting it. Connor, you have to want to help yourself, too. It's not my job to drop everything and figure out what's wrong with you. I'll help you. I've said that. But I won't do it for you."

As I stared into the fire, I could feel my anger slipping away. She was right. Harsh, but right. I wasn't angry at Briallen. I was angry that she was right. For a long time, I had coasted along. The direction of my life had taken a turn I hadn't wanted, and I was letting it control me, pretending that I would simply wake up one day, and things would be back the way they had been.

I focused on the fire, letting the emotions drain out of me. I had to know I could do it, but more importantly, show Briallen I could. No sound came from her, though I could feel her attention. I slowed my breathing, shutting out the sounds around me. Reluctantly, the flames became soundless flickers of light. I continued focusing on the hearth, my eyes half-closed, as I exhaled into silence. I didn't move, dropping my breathing even more, until I could barely feel the rise and fall of my chest. I pulled myself inward. I could hear nothing, nothing at all for a moment, then finally, the soothing shushing noise that I recognized. I could hear my heart beating. I hung on to the moment, remembering when I first learned how to do this, remembering the promise of my childhood. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes. It felt like coming to the surface of a very deep pool.

Briallen took a small sip from her glass. "Harder than you thought, wasn't it?"

I nodded. I could feel a thin sheen of perspiration on my lip. "I'm sorry."

"I take no offense. Now, bring me up to date on the murders."

I brought her through my most recent interviews, including my suspicions about Shay. She took unconscionable delight in Stinkwort's comments about Tansy, and I gave her an embarrassing imitation of the little flit's speech pattern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I should go," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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