Mark Del Franco - Unquiet Dreams

“Duck next time,” he said and pulled away.

I let myself in and walked up the stairs. Sleep would not be a problem after the whiskey shots and adrenaline rush of the fight. I tossed my jacket on the armchair in my living room, kicked off the boots, shucked the jeans, and dropped myself on the unmade futon. I stared at the ceiling, thinking about gangs and bar fights. And Cal. Between the drinking and the life he leads, he never seems to get anywhere. The old guilt creeps in whenever I see him because I can’t help but wonder if I hadn’t been as good as I was, would he have ever lost his self-confidence? I sighed. Everyone makes their own road, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

We all have our doubts, but we, or at least I, try not to cause them for other people. Unless it was Keeva, in which case, I still needed more to convince her I was right. I rolled restlessly onto my stomach, thinking about how some dumb kid found death on his own road. And given where my own road seemed to be going, what my destination would end up being.

The Internet is an addictive beast, a trail of crumbs leading not home but deeper into the forest. It’s much like the druidic path in that respect. You start off with a purpose, and if you stay focused, you achieve your reward. But if you are distracted or dazzled along the way, you find yourself on untrodden routes to nowhere of interest except to yourself.

I managed to research a fair amount on macGoren before venturing off into the wilds of the Web. He hadn’t been in the States very long by fey standards, but he certainly had been active. In less than ten years, he had acquired sizable tracts of real estate around the city. His appointment to the Guild board seemed to be the culmination of some very well placed connections, both human and fey, as well as a driving ambition to lead. Not all that unusual for a Danann fairy. Being born and raised in a monarchial society tends to have some obvious nurture ramifications.

Despite his lack of disclosure, I didn’t have to think too hard about Manus ap Eagan’s desire for knowledge about macGoren. While it might be easy to say the Guild runs power plays, it’s more true that power plays run the Guild. Information always, under all circumstances, is key to how you play, and macGoren was a new player with little local history to discern motives and abilities. Eagan wanted an ally on the board. That he be a willing one or a blackmailed one was a footnote.

As far as I could tell, macGoren was not worth the worry. Yet, anyway. He seemed to be playing a straightforward Danann game: show up with shiny wings, woo the right fey, and toss the right amount of money at human normals. If I had to guess, he could be a contender for Eagan someday, but that day was still far off. Eagan’s own machinations had a half-century head start.

The latest potential rung in macGoren’s climb was a development company known as Seacorp. MacGoren had collected a group of local wheeler-dealers to spearhead economic projects for the city, and some had gotten it into their heads that some nice big buildings on the harbor would be just the ticket. That the site happened to be the Tangle was a minor impediment if the attendance at investor presentations was any indication. When people talked about cleaning up the city, the Weird was the first place to be mentioned, and most had the Tangle in mind. MacGoren was just playing local politics.

MacGoren’s latest kick seemed to be to run dinner galas as charity fundraisers. In reality, they’re promo and networking events designed to attract investors for Seacorp. Normally, you need an invitation to one of these things, but I’d gone to enough of them in the past to know how to bluff my way in. MacGoren had one of his parties scheduled for this evening, and I intended to be an unexpected guest.

But first, I checked my watch to be sure I would be at the Guildhouse in time for the directors’ meeting. No sense irritating the movers and shakers when I was just getting in on a technicality. Besides, I do not have a reputation for being punctual, so showing up ready and on time would throw anyone who expected less.

I admit I fussed about dressing, finally deciding that going upscale might benefit me in the long run with the board. Deep purple and black vertically striped dress shirt in silk, black medium-weight wool pants, no pleats. Black dress boots. Two-button jacket. The October sun was warm enough that I didn’t have to hide it all under a coat. It might have been two seasons old from when I had the money to burn, but it was all classic enough that not everyone would know.

I actually arrived early, did the same security dance from the previous day, and slipped into an elevator with almost a half hour to spare. The executive offices of the Guildhouse sit one flight up from my old office. Like any top management office suite, the rarefied and static atmosphere allows corporate leadership to function in unnatural silence. At this level, the floors were circular, and I padded around the thickly carpeted curve of the hallway to the boardroom in the center. The Guildhouse décor amplifies the dull sensation with its vaulted stone ceilings and its sound-deadening ancient tapestries hung along the corridors. All contrived, of course. The building went up in the sixties, so the choice of stone was intended to evoke history and grandeur. So it was easy to hear the angry voices before I even reached the door. Despite being early, I had managed to arrive late for an argument.

On one side of the boardroom table, Gerin Cuthbern gripped his staff with a gnarled hand. As High Druid of the Bosnemeton, he automatically had a seat on the Guildhouse board. Pinpoints of white light flickered in his eyes, something I had seen occasionally and was always glad that they weren’t directed at me. Which, apparently, did not seem to prevent a tall elven woman from getting right up in his face.

“I will not stand for it, Gerin,” the woman said.

Nigel Martin stood at the far end of the room, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He seemed to be paying more attention to his caller than the argument, which I knew was unlikely. Nigel never missed a thing.

“The Guild does have rules. I’m sure the Consortium can appreciate that,” Gerin said. His voice dripped with reasonableness, which I’m sure was not the main topic of conversation.

Opposite them, Ryan macGoren lounged idly against the wall, with his arms crossed and a bemused expression on his face. I recognized him immediately from my research, the wavy blond hair, aquiline features, and rippling wings in full display. Danann fairies in general are not prone to modesty, and he was no exception. You could feel the air of privilege about him.

“Do not even think it. You know Alvud never anticipated this,” the elven woman said.

Not wanting to step into the argument, I sidled along the table and stood next to macGoren. He caught my eye and smirked. Without moving his body, the fairy slipped a languid hand out from the crook of his arm and offered it to me. “Ryan macGoren. Pleased to meet you finally.” He spoke in full voice, as if the argument wasn’t happening five feet away.

I shook his hand, wondering about the “finally” part of his hello. “Connor Grey.”

He shifted his attention back to the woman and smiled. “The grieving widow,” he stage-whispered.

Eorla Kruge—the Marchgrafin, if I remembered her Teutonic monarchial title correctly—certainly was a fine-looking woman. She wore her ebony hair in a silvered mesh, and her large, almond-shaped eyes held an intelligence that only the Old Ones have, eyes that have seen much in years human normals cannot even conceive. She wore a body-hugging dark green velvet business suit embroidered with silver and black leaves. Rings glittered on her hands, some plain bands of silver or gold, and others of emeralds and black sapphires. She resonated Power like a fuel cell. And she was pissed as hell.