Mark Del Franco - Unquiet Dreams

“Sign here,” the brownie said, pointing. I chuckled and signed. The brownie handed me an envelope and snatched the clipboard back. “Thanks.”

“Please shut the front door for me.”

“Sure!” He gave me a ridiculous smile. I could not fathom being that happy doing errands. They prefer their brownie aspect over the boggart. By their very nature, they can swing between the two in moments, so having the opportunity to be helpful to me probably took the edge off his initial annoyance with me.

Briallen was an old friend and mentor. She had been on the Boston Guildhouse board of directors since its founding. I knew she was traveling in the Far East over the summer on some obscure educational junket that I could never quite clarify no matter how often I asked. I remember a discussion with her years ago about listing me as a temporary alternate director. I couldn’t believe she had never changed it, especially after the events of the last two years. It wasn’t like her to overlook something like that. On the other hand, what would be like her, though, is to remember exactly that and purposely not change it. For all her professions of being a scholar, which she is, she’s not above a little politicking here and there.

Since the accident that left me ability-impaired, I had effectively been banned from the Guildhouse. The envelope contained a copy of the meeting notice and a Guildhouse building pass. Normally, I couldn’t get in the front door of the Guildhouse without an escort, and here I was being invited to a governing board meeting. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Keeva’s face.

I could guess what the meeting was about. Alvud Kruge had been a board member. While the Guildhouse board had become more and more ineffectual over the years, fractured as it was by partisanship, with any luck it should be able to muster a coherent statement of condolences.

Now that I had the keys to the palace, I thought I’d drop in and surprise a couple of people. It would give me a chance to fill Keeva in on what had happened with the running shoe evidence and see what leads she was following for Kruge. If she would tell me. I never knew with her.

I spent the rest of the morning doing what I could to research gangs off the Internet. Not much help, really. Mostly newspaper articles talking about gangs on the Web. I did find a couple of local sites on the Weird, but they just referenced the usual suspects in the neighborhood in an odd travel guide style.

By early afternoon, I stood in the wide foyer of Boston’s Ward Guildhouse. To the left, applicants snaked through a queue, a litany of the fey world’s woes etched on their faces. This is how the fey deals with the world: A bad thing happens; you can’t solve it yourself; you go to the Guildhouse and fill out an application for assistance; then you go home and never hear from them again unless you’re really wealthy, really powerful, or really, really in trouble. In other words, most people don’t get their fey problems resolved.

I didn’t have to go through the rigmarole since I had a bona fide building pass. Which meant I could go through the much shorter queue to the right. It didn’t mean all that much. I still didn’t get to use the private employee entrance without a live employee with me. I used to. And I used to feel so cool doing it. That’s the problem with being arrogant. Lame-ass things make you feel cool. But since I don’t have much of anything to be arrogant about anymore, it’s all about my lack of patience.

The elf at the desk checked my driver’s license against the pass. Not a flicker of recognition passed over her face. So much for past glories. She returned the license and pass with a little clip I’d seen people use to hang their passes on their jackets. I slipped it into my pocket and strolled through security to the elevator lobby, checking myself out in the mirrored hallway.

As much as I despise the Guild these days, the Guildhouse itself is still a fascinating place. As the local Boston headquarters for the fey world, all manner of folk work in the building. You get a heady mix of politics and scholarship and even some danger. No one leaves their animosities at the door. Old grievances play themselves out through misplaced memos or nuanced wordplay or meeting roulette. Despite its egalitarian philosophy, it’s still a Seelie Court animal, though. The Celts hold sway. Sure they let in the elves and dwarves, but most of them get relegated to minor diplomatic meetings or, if they are actually employed by the Guild, rarely progress beyond midlevel positions. It’s the same story on the other side of town at the Teutonic Consulate, only in reverse. One day the fairies and the elves will settle their disputes and immediately start arguing over whose building to use for a unified fey world.

The elevator descended so slowly it felt like it wasn’t moving at all. The numbers lit up, flashed past the lobby and down. The third subbasement light flashed on, and the doors opened to the sound of blaring heavy-metal guitar. I walked down the long, vaulted corridor, idly running my finger along the bricks. Halfway to an opened door, thick oak on iron hinges, the music cut off, and I could here the unmistakable laugh of Meryl Dian.

“Stop making that face. I’m telling you that’s Grieg’s 54-3,” she said.

“Then why not listen to the Grieg?” A deep, male voice replied. As Meryl laughed again, I froze in midstep. I hadn’t heard that voice in a long time.

“This is listening to Grieg, only fresher,” she said.

I started walking again and stopped at the open door.

“I like the stale version,” said the man in her guest chair. He cocked his head back to look at me, then stood with a fluid, casual movement that belied his age.

Nigel Martin stood a little shorter than me, thin, his mostly silvered, wavy brown hair thrust back from his hair-line to graze the top of his collar. He had that solid presence of someone sure of himself, gained from years of experience, which in his case was at least a century. His eyes were at once youthful and deep, and green like a sea storm. He wore regular street clothes—simple brown chinos, a white button-down with a hound’s-tooth jacket. He could usually be mistaken for a stuffy professor at an Ivy League school.

Meryl gave me a broad smile. “Hey! Who let you in?”

“Hello, Nigel,” I said, looking at him. I could feel how uncertain the smile was on my face as I extended my hand and almost breathed in relief when he clasped it.

“Connor. Meryl tells me you’ve been doing well.”

I looked at her quickly. She remained seated, leaning back in her chair behind her desk piled high with the usual assortment of papers. Her eyes shifted back and forth between Nigel and me, a curious, observant look on her face.

“Yes, thanks. I didn’t know you were back,” I said.

He smiled a careful, warm smile. “I’ve been busy.” He tilted his head toward Meryl. “Ms. Dian, it was a pleasure as always, but I must go.” He turned back to me. “Don’t be late tomorrow, Connor.” He stepped forward, and I backed awkwardly into the hallway to let him pass.

“I won’t,” I said.

“’Bye, Nigel,” Meryl called out, the enthusiasm trailing out of her voice.

I watched him walk the length of the corridor in his signature steady stride that showed of many foot journeys. He reached the elevator and hit the button. The doors opened, and he stepped inside. Not once did he glance back at me, even when he pressed the inside panel. The doors closed on his back.

I looked at Meryl. She wore one of her customary black outfits, a lace top with a formless V-neck sweater. She had decided to let her hair grow longer this year, almost shoulder-length. Today it was blond with magenta bangs. I thought it was cute, though I wouldn’t admit it and deny myself the chance to rib her about it.