Mark Del Franco - Unperfect Souls

She pressed her lips together and nodded. Kruge’s office was through a large archway. Unlike the front, the room had changed from my last visit. Kruge’s body, of course, was gone. When we found him, blood bathed the office in horrific red. Now, somber brown stains marked the walls and floors in the muted remainders of the murder. To the right, a few feet above my head, darker stains smeared the cavity in the wall where Kruge’s head had been. His attacker had killed a young man, too, a teenager who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I looked over my shoulder at Eorla. “There are dried bloodstains, but otherwise nothing.”

She wet her lips. “I have seen the carnage wrought on battlefields, Connor, but thank you.”

Despite her boast, I heard a faint intake of breath beside me. It was one thing to see blood and gore. It was another to know it belonged to someone you knew—loved—no matter how old it was. Her eyes went to the cavity in the wall. “That’s where his . . . where he was?”

“Yes,” I said.

She muttered an incantation. In a smooth glide, she rose from the floor until she was eye level with the hole. Levitating your own body was difficult, but Eorla didn’t appear to need much effort to raise herself. She stared at the opening and chanted.

From the darkness of the wall cavity, warm green essence eased into my sensing ability. It peaked and gathered, slowly revolving. Eorla removed a glove and reached in. The essence flowed over her hand and vanished. She stayed with her hand outstretched, as if waiting for more, a subtle look of surprise on her face. She closed the hand into a loose fist as tears sprang to her eyes. Closing her eyes, she brought her hand to her lips and held it with her other hand. A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek as she descended.

I gently turned her from the wall. She leaned her head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and swayed in place to comfort her. She let me, lost in her husband’s last memories, which had bonded to the blood in the wall.

“His final thoughts were for the human child, then he said my name,” she murmured into my chest.

“He was a good man, and he loved you. You didn’t need to do this to know that,” I said.

She placed her hand on my coat over my heart. Warmth touched me. The dark mass in my head flexed at the sensation but didn’t do anything else.

Eorla took an audible breath. “Thank you.”

She adjusted her hat and took my arm. I escorted her back to the car.

Bastian Frye wasted no time arranging lunch the next day. I walked into the Ritz-Carlton Hotel late, half on purpose, half that’s-the-way-it-is. Taking a cue from Eorla and the Teutonic penchant for order and timeliness, irritating Bastian Frye wasn’t a bad way to start.

The restaurant at the Ritz had a storied history. The Boston Brahmins made it the home of the power lunch for decades, a stuffy, pretentious room of white tablecloths and blue glassware. As the city’s power structure expanded into the upstart Irish and Italian immigrant populations, the luster of the place diminished until the dining room was a nostalgia trip for granddames and their granddaughters. No restaurant survived on tea and crumpets. Eventually, the hotel owner gave up and leased the space to an elven group, which rebranded the place Feudal, and the power lunch returned, only this time for the Teutonic fey set.

Frye wasn’t alone. Brokke sat with him at a corner table. The two made an odd couple—the tall, regal elven court officer and the short, floridly dressed dwarven advisor. They weren’t speaking as I approached, but they didn’t need to speak to communicate. Neither expressed surprise when I arrived. They stood and extended their hands, an amusingly quaint gesture since we were all armed. At least, I was. I never left home without the daggers, and I had no doubt that a weapon or two lay hidden among the folds of their outfits.

“You remember Ambassador Brokke, Mr. Grey,” Frye said.

“Of course. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“I thought Bastian might enjoy my company,” he said.

Frye’s long sip of white wine covered an expression that looked nothing like enjoyment. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” he asked.

A waiter appeared and filled my water glass. I picked up the menu. “Sure. I’ll have the burger, medium rare, and a Guinness.” No one was amused.

“We do not serve Guinness,” the waiter said.

Figured. I didn’t care for German stouts. Too heavy and long on the finish. I didn’t think it was a prejudice. “Any draft ale, then.”

Frye slid a long finger along his temple as he leaned on an elbow. “Mr. Grey, as I told you, the Guild believes that the Elven King may have been involved in the recent terrorist attack in this city.”

“I’m not the best person to explain what the Guild thinks,” I said.

Frye nodded slowly. “Indeed. I am aware of your history. My concern is that you may be fostering this idea.”

“I have a number of opinions about the motives of the Consortium.”

“The Elven King had nothing to do with the event,” he said.

The waiter placed my beer on the table. I took a slip. “Really? Bergin Vize gained access to TirNaNog through the Irminsul gate in Germany. I’m sure the Elven King’s people don’t let just anyone near it, never mind use it.”

“I assure you, Mr. Grey, we are investigating the loyalty of the guards,” said Frye.

“Let’s talk about magical artifacts,” Brokke said. Frye’s long, pointed ears flexed down in irritation. The two of them obviously disagreed on their meeting game.

I had a feeling I knew where he was going. “Okay.”

“A spear was in the Elven King’s possession for many years. I wonder how it ended up at the Seelie Court,” he said.

I shrugged. “I have no idea. If it’s the spear I think you’re talking about, the last time I saw it was after Vize killed someone with it,” I said.

“Yes, but he received the spear from you,” said Brokke.

“Stole it from me is more accurate,” I said.

“But if it was bonded to you, how was he able to take it?” he asked.

The waiter returned with our plates. I assembled my burger. “I didn’t understand the mechanism of it. If it was bonded to me, it left me when I needed it most.”

Brokke pulled at his substantial ear. “Interesting. Where is the spear now?”

“I already answered that question. Your guess is as good as mine. It vanished when I sealed the veil between worlds.”

He rubbed his hands against the tablecloth, staring into his lunch. “Lost again,” he muttered.

“My turn. Why are you protecting Bergin Vize?” I asked.

Brokke cut his fish, took a bite, and looked at Frye as if he, too, were interested in the answer.

“We are not protecting him. He is in hiding,” he said.

“Where?”

Frye’s hooded eyes seemed to be assessing me. “My guess would be your own neighborhood.”

With everything else happening in the Weird, an on-the-lam terrorist elf would fit right in. “I’ll take that as confirmation coming from you. Things are not going well in the Weird, and lately when things are not going well in a big way, your friend Vize is lurking in the background.”

“If the events occurring on the waterfront are getting out of hand, perhaps the Guild might be of service,” said Frye.

“As you can imagine, that’s not reassuring. If he’s so unwelcome, why aren’t you looking for him?” I said.

Frye curled his lip in condescension. “As long as he does not make a threat to the Elven King, he is not my concern.”

“But threats against the Seelie Court and—What are we up to? A few hundred deaths so far?—those don’t concern you either?”