Mark Del Franco - Unquiet Dreams

“Nope. Just eating bones,” she said. The doors opened onto the level where the Guildhouse had several research labs. It smells of chemicals and herbs and burnt things. The people that work there often smell the same. Meryl wasn’t prone to escorting me around the Guildhouse. So, the fact that she had brought me to the research labs probably meant one thing.

“Ah, Janey Likesmith called you,” I said.

I stepped out, but Meryl didn’t. She just pointed. “Third door on the left.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Nope.” She had a cold, neutral face.

I paused in the hallway. “Are you angry about something,” I said.

She held the elevator and seemed to be trying to choose her words. “For future reference, do not give out my phone number without asking, do not put me on the spot by volunteering my services, and do not assume I am your secretary on call to arrange lab time. Got it?”

I cringed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Quelle surprise,” she said and released the door.

Ouch. It had seemed like such a logical thing at the time. Now I knew why she hadn’t called. I’d have to think of something to make it up to her that didn’t involve getting myself arrested.

I hit the third lab down the hall to find Janey hunched over a ward box. “How’s it going?” I asked.

She looked up sternly, and I steeled myself for another lecture for something I hadn’t thought about, but she relaxed as soon as she saw me. “Oh, hi, Connor! Thanks so much for this.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Meryl,” I said.

Janey nodded. “I got the feeling she wasn’t too happy about my being here.”

I leaned against the door. “Not you. Me. I should have asked before I gave you her number.”

Janey arched an eyebrow. “Ah. Yes. I can see how that might annoy someone.”

The lab Janey occupied was deeper underground than her space at the OCME, but looked brighter and more professional. Her wooden worktable held several standard microscopes as well as odd stone-and-glass contraptions designed to work with essence. The funny part is the common equipment was contained in warding fields. In a fey lab, metals screw up the work because it causes warping of essence. The more sophisticated tools require essence to make them work and a delicate touch to keep that essence from interfering with whatever is being studied. “So, has this helped?” I asked.

Janey smiled broadly. “Definitely. I haven’t had tools like this since college. I felt rusty coming in here, but I’ve found some interesting things for you.”

Leaning across the table, she pulled a stone object closer. It looked much like an old-fashioned celestrial globe, only with several lenses attached and a small tray in the middle. On the tray, I recognized one of the drug stamps Dennis Farnsworth had been carrying. Janey maneuvered some levers, then stepped back for me. As I leaned in to look, the damned little thing on the tray gave me a sharp pain just like the other one had at the OCME. I looked through a series of stacked lenses and was greeted by what I expected, a lot of cells jammed together. “I don’t really know what I’m looking at.”

“Live cells,” Janey said.

“Okay, I can see some movement if that’s what you mean,” I said.

“For one thing, I would think the cells should be dead by now. There’s an essence on the stamps keeping them alive.”

I pulled myself away from the lens. “Why would someone go to that much trouble?”

She pursed her lips. “Potency, I would guess. I managed to pull the essence protection off and examine the cell essence directly. I have to say, it makes me uncomfortable. The cells have no cell wall, like animal cells, but contain chloroplasts and a large vacuole—sort of a water sac that plant cells have. I don’t think these cells should exist. I think this is from some kind of animal/plant hybrid.”

Other than the creep factor, the ramifications were not going anywhere fast for me. “Well, from the strong essence, the plant part is oak. Can you tell what kind of animal?”

She shook her head. “I’m baffled. There’s an essence catalog next door that I tried cross-referencing with, but nothing comes up. I think you’re looking at a rare solitary fairy or elf species. It’s related to the oak family, but I don’t know how. For want of a better word, Connor, I’d almost say we’re looking at blood cells of some kind.”

“Well, that’s gross and different,” I said.

“It’s also where the compulsion is coming from. There seems to be yet a third essence mixed in it via spell transfer. Whenever I try to separate it out, the cell structure collapses and fades. As an educated guess, I’d say the spell enhances the compulsion ability inherent in the cells. I’m trying to conserve a sample. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I sighed and leaned against the table. “Well, I guess this confirms that the kid was involved in drug running, which is what Murdock suspected all along. If you can afford the time, I’d appreciate it if you could keep working on it.”

She retrieved the sample and put it in a glass warding box. “Oh, sure. I’m a little slow on my end of things at the lab, so I can slip a few hours in here and there.” She lifted the ward box and peered at the stamp. “What do you think the ‘F’ stands for?”

“It’s a ‘D.’ It’s ogham for oak,” I said.

She wrinkled her nose. “No, it’s not. It’s the futhark.”

Without getting any closer than necessary, I could see my mistake. The ogham for oak is a line with two short strokes coming off it. Given the essence, I just assumed it was a “D” for “dair,” the Celtic word for oak. Looking again, though, Janey was right. The two short strokes were slanted, not straight. It was an “F” rune, not ogham, the first letter of the futhark, the Germanic lettering system.

Realization struck me. “You’re right. It stands for ‘Float.’ It’s new. You’ll probably be seeing more of it.”

She considered it for a moment. “It’s always something new. Does this help your case?”

“Yes and no, to be honest. It connects a few dots but makes the picture more tangled,” I said.

She nodded. “I’m intrigued by the binding spell on it. There’s something elven about it, but I can’t place it.”

I pushed myself away from the table. “You’ll let me know if you come up with anything?”

“Of course. And thanks again,” she said.

“Please, please, please, thank Meryl. And don’t tell her I asked you to,” I said.

She gave me a knowing smile. “Ah, that’s the way of it.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I’ll tell her.”

Despite the bright sun, a cool breeze caught at me when I left the building. October in Boston can be balmy or freezing. I bunched my hands in my jacket as I walked back to the Weird.

Dennis Farnsworth had been running drugs. I rolled the words around in my head, letting myself get comfortable with them. It’s not the way I hoped he went, but there it was. Fair enough. I could live with that. Lots of kids think it’s a way to make a little cash and get out of a rough neighborhood. They don’t get that it just sucks them in deeper. It’s not the best idea, but I’ve been living down in the Weird long enough to understand that the bad ideas are sometimes the only ones.

I could walk away from the case, let Murdock close the file, and move on. No one would question us. Just another dumb kid in a string of dead kids. People don’t expect gang hits to get solved. The only people who care are the families and the gangs. The only time it gets bigger than that, when some politician or preacher or chanter starts up on gangs, is when someone squeaky-clean dies by accident. The scholar on his way home from Boston Latin High who gets caught in the cross fire of a drive-by or some office worker on a subway platform who accidentally gets bumped in front of a train during a brawl. Then it’s news, and justice gets talked about. But Dennis Farnsworth died near the worst part of the worst neighborhood in Boston. And now the weather.