Mark Del Franco - Unperfect Souls

The security agents flexed their wings and rose on drafts of essence. When they cleared the roofline, they swung around and disappeared. As they left, a movement caught my eye, someone on a roof watching us. The Hound. He ducked out of sight.

Shay stared at the now-empty sky. “She’s still kind of a bitch, isn’t she?”

Keeva had been less than kind to Shay in the past. When I say less than kind, I mean ignored him like he didn’t exist.

“She has her moments, Shay.”

He picked up the ward stone. “Why did you ask about my virginity?”

I shook my head. “The leanansidhe said only a virgin could move it.”

Shay gave me a sly look. “There’s more than one kind of virgin, you know.”

“One kind of . . .” I laughed. “Gods. You’ve never slept with a woman, have you?”

He rested his chin on upright fingers. “Look at this face, doll. The only girls in high school who wanted to sleep with me were confused lesbians.”

“I guess whoever put the taboo on the stone was a little old-fashioned,” I said.

He pouted coyly. “I try to be modern.”

“Hang on to that for me, okay? And don’t tell anyone you have it. The last thing you need is someone coming to look for it.”

He pulled his hood up. “Are you going to be all right, Connor?”

I shrugged. “I need to get some sleep. You should, too.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to do that for a while.” He clutched the bowl to his chest again and started up the street.

“Hey, Shay?” He turned his head, but his hood didn’t move. Half his face showed along the edge of fur, a few strands of his long dark hair waving in the wind. “Thank you for saving my life.”

He wiggled his nose at me. “Karma, doll.”

He weaved down the sidewalk, following a sinuous path of compacted snow. When he was a block or so away, Uno lumbered out from between two cars and followed him.

I checked the roofline again. The Hound was gone. Exhaustion weighed down on me. Thinking about Keeva and Shay—and even the Hound—were just avoidance tactics. I didn’t want to think about what had happened down in that tunnel. The thing in my head could be used. I could guide it. It reacted to what I was feeling, and I could use it. Only it seemed to work with aspects of myself that made me feel wrong. And ashamed. The worst part was, that wasn’t enough to make me not want to use it.

And that scared me.

Meryl was asleep in the middle of my futon when I arrived at the apartment. After hearing about what happened at Eagan’s the night before, she had surmised I was with Murdock and had let herself in to wait for me. How she got in with all the security warding, I didn’t know, but it didn’t surprise me. Very little stopped her when she put her mind to it. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around me and drew me into bed. Exhausted, I slept the morning away. By the time I woke up, the governor had called in the National Guard, and the Weird was under curfew. Meryl and I spent the rest of the day in various stages of undress, lolling about the apartment and watching TV.

The scent of popcorn filled the air. Meryl watched the bag revolve in the microwave while I sat on the edge of the futon annoyed by the television news.

“They’re doing the ‘Wasn’t-Scott-Murdock-a-Noble-Guy? ’ piece again,” I said.

The news had settled on its angle for the life of Scott Murdock. Television station after station outlined the life of a man who walked the fine line in Boston between fey dominance and human accommodation. Parts of it were even true. Scott Murdock was no fan of the fey, but he also knew he couldn’t ignore or eliminate them. Helping them, of course, was not on his list. That was the Guild’s job, and as long as it dropped the ball, it played right into his political maneuvering. I saw it time and again. Someone could blame the Boston P.D. for its ineffectual approach to fey crime, but its failings always paled in the face of the Guild’s indifference.

In the end, he had crossed the line. Why, only he could answer, and that wasn’t possible anymore. Maybe the catastrophic events of the last months overwhelmed him. Maybe he realized his contrived failures to protect the human populace had mutated into real ones out of his control. And maybe Moira Cashel pushed him over the edge with her revelations of his past and her revenge for his actions. She seduced him once and seduced him again. That had to suck for him.

The microwave dinged. Meryl juggled the hot bag to the counter, pulled the corners of the bag open, and let out the steam. “Eh, I’m indifferent. Police commissioner in this town is a no-win job. Whoever gets it is going to end up sucking at it one way or the other.”

I cocked my head toward her. “Are you defending him?”

She pushed a kernel of popcorn into my mouth as she settled on the futon. “I didn’t say I liked him.”

I slid back to sit next to her against the wall. “Did I mention the part where he shot me in the face?”

She grinned, watching the television. “Who am I to criticize someone who succeeds where others failed?”

I poked her, and she laughed, sending some popcorn flying as she pulled away. “It hurt,” I said.

“Yeah, your poor wallet. The dry cleaning bill’s gonna be a bitch.”

I ate popcorn off the blanket. “Ha-ha.”

She fished in the bag, as if looking for a particular kernel. “Do you think Moira healed you?”

“I was wondering that myself. What I can’t figure is why she would.”

“Maybe she thinks you’ll forgive her and be her boyfriend again,” Meryl said.

I tweaked her nose. “Oh, you’re in fine form tonight.”

She giggled and tilted the bag toward me. “I’m getting bored. We’ve been trapped in here all day. Anything from Murdock?”

I took a handful of popcorn. “Not since the text.” Just one word: Thanks. He probably didn’t intend it, but I had been worrying over that one word all day. Thanks for what? Letting him mourn his father? Telling him what happened? Or was it sarcastic, implying I said things he didn’t need to hear last night? Was it because I called him a cab? He wasn’t one for long, drawn-out explanations, and I was. The difference made us question ourselves. I think.

“You know Murdock. Man of few words,” Meryl said.

Man of few words, indeed. I never thought I’d see Murdock like I did the night before—lost and confused. He always kept control of his emotions—even his anger, which could be formidable. To see him so helpless and riddled with guilt hurt me because none of it would have happened if he had never met me. He would have never had a case that involved Vize. It always came back to Vize.

“Can you ask Zev where Vize is?” I asked.

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Where the hell did that come from?”

I shrugged. “Because Zev knows. The night Murdock disappeared, Zev wouldn’t tell me, and I could tell damned well he knew where to find the Hound. I think when Sekka died, Zev took over hiding Vize, and the only other person present when she died was the Hound. Vize is the Hound. That’s why Zev wouldn’t tell me.”

“But you told me the Hound was one of the Dead,” she said.

I nodded. “I also told you he had something funky going on with his essence. I’m betting he’s wearing a glamour.”

Meryl considered the idea, then I felt the flutter of a sending in the air. A moment later, I felt another. “Zev said he’s busy,” she said.

I snorted and ate some popcorn. “That tells me I’m right. I’ll be talking to Zev again.”

In addition to all the troubles in the Weird, film crews had descended on the neighborhood, using the commissioner’s death as a prism to view the conflicts he was involved in. By midafternoon, a contingent of solitaries rejoicing at the commissioner’s death had managed to alienate the general public. I supposed their position was inevitable. Bad timing, to say nothing of poor taste, but inevitable. Solitaries in the Weird had suffered under the commissioner’s leadership of the police force. But they did themselves no favors by dancing in the streets over his death.