Mark Del Franco - Uncertain Allies

When we reached Shay’s building, I spent a few moments of weight shifting to convey to Meryl the idea of mounting the front steps. Shay buzzed us in without checking who we were, a practice frowned on by most neighbors. I led Meryl through the tall narrow hallway of the converted warehouse. The soaring walls held artwork in various levels of seriousness. In the public, unsecured spaces, no one wanted to hang anything valuable but did want to convey their talents. A riot of color covered the walls in paintings and drawings in styles ranging from the Renaissance to spray-paint graffiti. Mobile sculptures created with found materials dangled from the ceiling far enough out of reach to discourage easy theft.

Artists rented the space for work studios, and many, like Shay, used them as illegal apartments. It wasn’t a bad setup if you didn’t mind sharing a public bathroom and begging friends for the use of a shower. Shay opened his door as we reached it. He looked at Meryl with curiosity. “Hi, Connor. Who’s your friend?”

I nudged Meryl. “Her name is Meryl Dian.”

Shay had one of the smaller studios, about thirty feet long and ten feet wide. He had divided the space with bookcases to form a makeshift kitchen at the door, a sleeping alcove in the middle, and a combination work space–living room at the far end, where the windows were.

As soon as we stepped inside, potent essence registered in my senses. I wasn’t surprised. The stone bowl collected essence and amplified it. I was surprised at how intense it had become. With no one or nothing to deplete it for months, it had gathered an enormous reserve.

Shay helped me remove Meryl’s coat. “What’s her situation?”

It was a diplomatic way of saying it. Shay worked for an institution that provided care to people with mental disabilities. “It’s a long story. Why don’t we set her up on the couch?”

At the back of the studio, two large armchairs flanked a couch, all of them covered in bold primary-colored slipcovers that weren’t the same as the last time I had visited. The coffee table was pushed aside to make room for a large easel and a rolling cart filled with paint and art supplies. The canvas on the easel was an untouched white expanse that glistened with moisture. “I was prepping a canvas. Don’t touch it. The base is still wet,” Shay said.

I settled Meryl in an armchair next to a box draped with a needlepoint rug. A pale waft of essence welled in the air, and Uno, the large black dog I had told Murdock about, materialized on the couch. He had a true name, as all things do, but neither Shay nor I knew it. The name Uno started as a joke—Shay thought he looked like a hound from hell out of Greek mythology, minus the extra two heads.

The joked backfired on him. Uno was a real hound from hell, the Cu Sith of Celtic legends. When the Cu Sith appeared to someone, it meant that person was going to die. Through an unexpected turn of fate, Uno acted as a protector for Shay instead of a predator. Uno chose to protect me, too. Why, I didn’t know, but he had come in handy a few times.

“I hate when he does that,” I said.

Shay wrestled with the dog’s shaggy head, and Uno woofed in pleasure. “He makes me feel safe. I’m starting to think he’s my good-luck charm. Nothing bad has happened to me since I found him. Or he found me.”

Shay’s boyfriend, Robyn—his Dead boyfriend, Robyn—had sent Uno to protect him. I promised Robyn I wouldn’t tell Shay that was what happened. Robyn didn’t want Shay to know he was back from the Land of the Dead. He didn’t want him hurt again if the veil between worlds opened, and he was forced back to TirNaNog. “I end up in trouble when he shows up,” I said.

Shay smirked and went up to the kitchen area. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you. Do you want some tea?”

“Sure.” I trailed after him.

He filled the kettle and set it on a hot plate. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“I’ve been busy trying not to get arrested,” I said.

Shay adjusted his long dark hair over his shoulder and played with it. “I’ve been waiting for that knock on my door, too.”

My memory flashed to the night Shay hit the leanansidhe over the head to save me. He had been dazed. The shock of what he had done to another living being overwhelmed him. He hadn’t intended to kill her—Shay would never intend to hurt anyone—but it had happened. He seemed to have recovered, but you never really recover from killing someone. Worrying about the body being found must have been rough for him, and I hadn’t given the idea a second thought. “That’s why I’m here. I went back, Shay. The body is gone. I don’t think you killed her.”

He bowed his head, folding his arms across his waist. “Uno’s been appearing a lot lately. When you buzzed the door, I had a bad feeling.”

When Uno first appeared, Shay had been convinced he was going to die. The idea wasn’t far-fetched among the fey, but until Uno showed up, no one had seen the Cu Sith since Convergence. He protected Shay—and me—and had been around us long enough to hint that something had changed about its purpose in the World. “I don’t think Druse will come after you per se. She’s looking for the stone. You should be safe once we move it.”

Dubious, he arched an eyebrow. “She’ll forget that I bashed her head in? That thing’s the forgive-and-forget type?”

I compressed my lips to keep from saying it would be fine. Despite being young, Shay was wise beyond his years and had a bullshit detector most adults never acquired. He had his rough edges, but at heart was a good person. He was exactly the type of person I wanted to protect in the Weird. He deserved a better life. “I don’t know, Shay, but leaving the stone here will definitely bring her right to your door.”

The whistling of the kettle startled him. He poured out two mugs and handed one to me. “You look tired.”

“Things have been a little crazy,” I said.

The essence level in the studio changed, a brief dip in intensity before stabilizing again. I sipped the tea, thinking the stone had reacted to the presence of two druids—to say nothing of a Dead dog.

“Are you going to take it now?” Shay asked.

“I can’t, remember? You’re the only person I know who can lift it.” Shay qualified as a virgin on a technicality as far as the stone went. He had never slept with a woman.

He used a fingernail to worry at a chip in his mug. “But you need to move it, right? You want me to take it somewhere.”

“I was thinking that old squat you had with Robyn down off Pittsburgh Street, unless you think it’s not safe anymore,” I said.

“It’s safe. No one knew we lived there except Murdock. We never had a problem. When do you want me to move it?”

“I don’t want people to see us together, but as soon as you can after I leave,” I said.

A spike of pain lanced through my head. I jammed the heel of my palm against my eye trying to push back against the pressure. The black mass jumped. I’ve learned the meaning of its different reactions and movements, recognized patterns in the kinds of pain it produced. A dull steady ache was normal, daggerlike spikes meant a strong essence was nearby, and a squeezing sensation for when someone tried to read the future around me. Body-numbing pain happened when I was losing control of it because it wanted out. “Does someone in the building scry, Shay?”

He set his mug on the counter and placed a concerned hand on my arm. “Probably. There are a few fey here. What’s wrong?” he asked.

The pain ratcheted up, a great multifaceted spike that pounded against my skull as a dark haze drifted across my vision. “I have to leave. The dark stuff in my head is reacting to something.”