Mark Del Franco - Unquiet Dreams

In the middle of the west wall a massive fireplace stood. Above the mantel hung a larger-than-life portrait of High Queen Maeve of Tara, her deep black eyes staring out of a pale face, a cold majestic beauty. Maeve had posed for John Singer Sargent on her one and only visit to Boston almost a century ago. He had captured her perfectly. She looked like someone had just told her she couldn’t have Europe for dessert.

At the back end of the hall, French doors gave onto a rolling lawn of brown grass. At the bottom of the lawn, topiary boxwoods had been torn ragged by the wind. The skeletal frame of a greenhouse sat in the white afternoon light.

“He’s out back. He says the moisture makes him feel better,” Tibbet said. She led me to the French doors and held one open for me.

“You’re not coming?”

She shook her head. “I’ll give you a ride back.”

I walked down a brick path to the greenhouse. Its entrance worked like an air lock. Stepping through the inside door, humid air swept over me. Dense foliage smelled of decay, and I could hear low voices. Thick leaves dripped with water. I removed my jacket. I followed a sodden path through overgrown plants wilting with the heat. Long, spindly fronds left wet streaks on my arms. At the base of my skull, I felt a buzz like sleeping bees; the greenhouse had protection wards on it.

In the center of the greenhouse was a clearing. A maroon Persian rug had been rolled out. Ancient wing chairs sat with their backs to me and faced a graying wicker chair. The Guildmaster leaned out from one of the chairs and looked in my direction, then struggled up on his feet. “Here he is,” he said.

“You should sit,” said whoever was sitting in the opposite wing chair. I couldn’t sense who or what he was with all the wards in the place.

The Guildmaster answered him with a dismissive wave of his hand. He stood tall, with the stiff posture of someone in pain. His hawk nose stood out sharply between dark eyes nestled in sockets hollow from too much weight loss too fast. Gray-streaked dark hair hung lankly to his shoulders. The disturbing part, though, was the limp flutter of his wings, dim and lifeless against the backdrop all the fecund plant life. “Hello, Connor, I’m glad you could make it.”

As if I would have refused the invitation. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

He waved an open palm toward the wicker chair. “Sit, please.”

As I made my way around the armchairs, I found myself face-to-face with High Druid Gerin Cuthbern. I did an excellent job of not rocking back on my heels. As a former Guild agent, I routinely worked with the upper echelons of society. Cuthbern, on the other hand, was upper echelon to the upper echelons. As High Druid of the Bosnemeton, he led all the druids and druidesses of the Grove for New England. His word was law. We did nothing without his say-so.

As soon as I realized it was him, I stopped, crossed my hands across my chest, and bowed slightly at the waist. “High Druid, it is an honor.”

The old man nodded his shaggy mane of white hair. He had that solemn look important people get when they deign to notice the peasants. Gnarled hands loosely held an oak staff against his chest. Truth to tell, while I respect Gerin, I thought he was a bit of a prig. He was an Old One, to be sure, but one that sometimes didn’t get that the old ways were gone.

“I remember you from your training, Connor. Such a shame what’s become of you,” he said.

It was hard not taking offense. I had heard Gerin make such blunt statements to others in open meetings of the Grove. Tact wasn’t his strong point. Power was. I draped my jacket over the chair and sat. The wicker had the soft give of too much dampness. Eagan settled himself back into his armchair.

“One more Guild director and we’d have a quorum,” Eagan said.

Gerin frowned “Not funny, Manus.”

Eagan rolled his eyes and leaned toward me. “He’s been like this all afternoon. He can’t understand how a sick old fairy can tire of talking politics.”

“And yet, he’s well enough to meet with underlings. No offense, Connor,” said Gerin.

“None taken, sir” I said. My ass.

Manus wagged a finger at me exaggeratedly. “Gerin’s here as a Guild director, Connor. No ‘sir-ring’ to the High Druid allowed.” The smile of a man used to having his way. I decided the best response was to smile myself.

A sudden cough racked Eagan. He took several moments to get under control. Gerin instinctively placed his hand on his back, but didn’t do anything else as far as I could tell. Eagan wiped his hand across his forehead.

“A drink,” he said, gasping.

Gerin sighed and pointed to a sago palm. “He hides whiskey in there from his brownie.”

I got up and stepped to the large frond plant. Rummaging in the stalks, I found a flask, which I handed to Eagan. Gerin had the stern lecturing look I hated as a kid. Dananns had a wicked propensity for alcoholism. I didn’t know whether Eagan had a problem or not, but Gerin’s reference to Tibs as “his brownie” made me want to break out the booze just to annoy him.

Eagan chuckled through a swig. “It’s medicinal.”

Gerin just shook his head.

Eagan directed his gaze at me. “I need to ask you a favor. Ryan macGoren had some dealing with Alvud Kruge. I want to know what it was.”

Ryan macGoren, the golden boy of the Danann fairy social set. Handsome, powerful, rich, and a Guild director on top of it all. The whole package for the right woman. A couple of years ago, I probably would have been hanging out with him. Now, his type annoyed me. Did not see this coming. “Why don’t you just ask him?” I asked.

Eagan leaned toward me for emphasis. “Because I need him as an ally right now, and the question coming from me might be considered insulting under the circumstances.”

I could see his point. Asking a supporter about his relationship with a savagely murdered colleague might put a damper on a friendship. At the same time, the Danann clan of fairies has its share of internecine politics. MacGoren was powerful in his own right, and given that he was made a director at the Guild in a relatively short time, he had powerful friends that Eagan might not like. “Why me?” I said.

Eagan glanced at Gerin. “You have a certain reputation that could be used to advantage.”

“I think this is ill-advised, Manus,” said Gerin.

“I know you do. But you can’t ask either without risking insulting him.”

“It could appear I’m interfering in the Kruge investigation,” I said.

Eagan smiled slyly. “You’ve dealt with Keeva macNeve before.”

Gerin shifted in his seat. He had managed to spend the entire conversation not acknowledging me. “Manus, Connor is powerless. As strong a fey as Alvud Kruge was, he died horribly. If this inquiry gets tangled in the murder case, Connor will have no chance if he stumbles across the murderer.”

I didn’t know whether to be touched that Gerin cared or insulted that he didn’t think I could handle the situation. That he likely was right was beside the point. Either way, his attitude annoyed me.

Eagan took a swig from the flask and grimaced. “He did a fair job of surviving Castle Island last spring.”

Gerin snorted. “I’ve read those reports, Manus. He’s lucky he’s not dead. He’s lucky we’re not all dead.”

Eagan gave Gerin a wolfish grin. “I like luck.”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Gerin frowned and sat back in the chair. He rubbed his staff as if he were agitated. “You know his coming here was observed. Everything you do is observed. People will ask questions.”

Eagan raised an eyebrow at me. “Ah, yes, well, how’s Tibbet, Connor?”

I chuckled. He may be ill, but he was sharp. An old flame taking me to the big house while the master was ill was not the worst cover I’d ever heard. “I hope she’s at least driving me home afterward.”