Mark Del Franco - Uncertain Allies

The concrete basin of the Frog Pond sat empty, a forlorn puddle of water in the depression where the drains were. I didn’t know why it was called that. The only frog I had ever seen was a bronze statue on the edge of the basin. The city filled it with water on occasion. In the summer, people waded in the water, little kids splashing in the one foot or so depth as if swimming. In the winter, ice-skaters took over the space, even this year, despite the cyclone fencing erected on the hill side of the pond.

Tall, majestic trees once ringed a Civil War victory column at the top of the hill. The spot had been an oasis in the center of the park, a quiet area above the main paths where people sat and read or enjoyed the view. Last fall, it had become ground zero for a catastrophe that unfolded. The veil between worlds opened between here and TirNaNog, the Land of the Dead. For the first time since Convergence, the Dead roamed the earth again, causing all sorts of havoc. When dawn arrived, the veil refused to close. One thing led to another, as they say, and the top of the hill imploded. The victory column vanished, and a huge granite standing stone pillar from TirNaNog appeared in its place. The stone vibrated with essence, attracting gargoyles from all over the city, turning the top of the hill into a garden of tormented stone.

“I guess that’s my fault, too,” I said.

Meryl didn’t respond. If she had, she would have told me to get over myself. It was what she did, and it was what I needed. I wrapped my arm around her, slipping her head into the crook of my shoulder. It felt good to have her there, and it felt wrong to have her nonresponsive. Pulling away from me I could take; pulling tighter I could enjoy. This nonresponsiveness was wrong in so many ways. Wrong because it violated Meryl’s inherent nature. Wrong because somehow her condition was a result of my failure. Her choice, but my failure. I kissed the top of her head. She hated when I did that, drawing attention to my height over hers, kissing down at her. I loved that it irritated her, and I suspected she enjoyed it, but denying it was also part of who Meryl Dian was.

I led her away from the gargoyle-cluttered hill and empty pond basin, helping her up the stairs to Beacon Street. We cut up Joy Street to where Briallen lived around the corner on Louisburg Square, an exclusive address behind the State House, prim formal town houses staring at each other over a locked oval park. It was a pretty, cultured block with who knew what went on behind closed doors, especially at Briallen’s house. She had lived there for years, the political and financial fortunes of her neighbors ebbing and flowing around her house, which never changed.

The pleasant odors of dinner filled the entry hall as I removed Meryl’s jacket for her. Briallen came out of the kitchen, a dish towel in her hands. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. We walked around the Common and back,” I said.

Briallen brushed stray hairs back from Meryl’s face, a motherly gesture that surprised and reassured me. Briallen and Meryl had a thorny relationship filled with challenge and verbal sparring. It wasn’t that I thought Briallen didn’t care about Meryl. It was more a pleasant surprise that at the end of the day, all their disagreements were put aside.

“Well, physically, it probably was a good thing. She has more color in her cheeks. I already brought food upstairs for her in the guest room. Why don’t you make yourself useful in the kitchen while I feed her?”

She took Meryl by the arm and led her up the stairs. Smiling, I watched them go. The two of them were the most important women in my life, both prone to giving me orders. I wasn’t sure what that said about me, but it did amuse me. I did as I was told, went to the kitchen and washed the dishes in the sink. I had spent my teenage years in Briallen’s house learning what it meant to be a druid. I also learned that not doing my chores brought swift punishment. To this day, I made a mental inventory when I walked in Briallen’s house, checking if the stairs needed sweeping or the woodwork needed polishing. Not that any of that carried over into my apartment. The slob I was at home was an obvious reaction to my youth.

As the steam rose from the sink, I longed for those days, wanting to shout back through the years to warn my younger self of what was to come. I liked to think I would have done things differently. I doubted it, though. The thought was nostalgic at best. Like everybody else, I made decisions based on what I thought made sense at the time. Listening to some crazed older version of myself was probably not something I would have thought made sense.

I finished the last of the pots as Murdock arrived. “Tell me he didn’t cook,” he said as he followed Briallen into the kitchen.

“You’re safe,” she said.

“Hey, I make a mean mac and cheese,” I said.

Murdock placed a bottle of French wine on the kitchen island. He knew it was Briallen’s favorite. “Emphasis on the mean.”

“From scratch. No box,” I said.

“Can’t prove it by me,” he said.

Briallen patted my shoulder. “You do make a good one. He’s not always wrong, Leonard. Hard to believe, I know.”

I made a show of sighing. “It’s going to be one of those dinners, isn’t it?”

Briallen handed me a knife and loaf of bread. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll find something else to talk about besides you.”

Good-natured ribbing aside, meals at Briallen’s house rarely lacked for interesting conversation. We managed to avoid talk of destroyed neighborhoods, decaying political structures, and the deaths of too many people. It felt normal, listening to Briallen talk about her students at Harvard or Murdock recommend books he had read. He favored romance novels and, of course, police procedurals. If the two genres ever overlapped, he would be in heaven.

The respite lasted until dinner was over. We went upstairs to the second floor, where Briallen had a small workroom. She and Murdock settled on stools facing each other, and she took his hands in hers. “I’m not going to do anything that will hurt.”

He smirked. “Not the first time someone’s said that to me.”

She smiled. “Not the first time I’ve said it either. Close your eyes.”

“Is this the part where we tickle him?” I asked. Briallen glowered at me. I held my hands up. “What? I can’t make silly banter, too?”

“Emphasis on the word ‘silly,’ ” Murdock said with his eyes closed.

“Fine,” I said.

When Briallen closed her eyes, my essence-sensing ability registered the room coming alive with essence. Fey homes have more essence by virtue of their owners. Add someone like Briallen into the mix, and the essence levels escalated. Since we were in her workroom, color glowed and flared from every surface. Briallen performed research and experiments in the room. The bookcases vibrated in dark blues and golds, parchments and paperbacks hinting at spells and chants. Boxes made from wood or cloth or glass gave off unique signatures, some made to restrain particular types of essence, some having their own inherent patterns.

Briallen burned bright gold and white as she tapped her body essence. Murdock glowed, too, his crimson body signature flickering with red and yellow points of light. When I had met Murdock, he’d read completely human to my senses. Since the day he was hit with the spell backlash at Castle Island, his essence read more druid than human. When the changes started a year ago, I had worried about the ramifications for him. He, on the other hand, took them in stride. He exhibited some fey abilities, and his essence strengthened but remained human. In the past few months—since the death of his mother—his body signature had intensified.