Mark Del Franco - Unquiet Dreams

“Thanks, dude,” she said softly.

I tapped the door. “Call me,” I said to Murdock.

“Will do, ‘dude.’” He gave me a quick nod and pulled away.

I looked down at the Guild helmet still in my hand. Something dangerous was going on that I didn’t have a handle on. Odd people were crossing paths. It seemed too bizarre to be just about drug runners out of the Tangle anymore. Whatever was happening wasn’t going to like seeing the light of day. And the one thing I knew was key to putting it into place, was figuring out why Ryan macGoren’s essence was inside a Guild security helmet at a murder scene.

After doing the digging on macGoren’s business, I decided to see if I could get the other side of his story. Kruge obviously wasn’t going to talk, but I thought someone else might. I hoofed it up to the subway and rode it into Copley Square.

The Teutonic Consortium consulate looks completely out of place in the Back Bay neighborhood near the square. I don’t doubt it’s just the way the Consortium likes it. It’s a Bauhaus concrete structure in the middle of Victorian town-houses on Commonwealth Avenue. Out front stands a two-story statue of a grim-looking Donor Elfenkonig, the Elven King, dressed in light battle armor, one hand holding a sword, the other a staff. The staff used to be a niding pole, which is essentially a cursing staff. A horse’s skull sat on the top, not so subtly pointed at the Ward Guildhouse several blocks away. Because of the Guildhouse’s own protections, it never had much effect, but it annoyed the hell out of a woman who lived directly across the street from the consulate. She sued and would have never have won in court, but she did in the media. The Consortium might be guilty of many things, but even it didn’t want to appear to be cursing a retired old lady. They removed the horse head to stop protesters from hitting it with paintballs.

I walked into the lobby for the first time in years. Unlike the Guildhouse, the consulate had been decorated to impress. In contrast to the austere exterior, wooden panels carved with intricate forest scenes lined the lobby walls. Depending on your politics, you either thought they looked like dramatic pastorals or jackboot Disney illustrations. The bunnies were pretty tough looking. Overstuffed seating arrangements filled the rest of the room, soft velvets and earth-toned brocades. Near the inner door to the main offices, photographs of Consortium notables hung with grandiose descriptions of their contributions to the world.

I stepped up to a reception desk behind which sat two male elves and a dwarf, all dressed in the same style plain gray tunics.

“Guten Tag. I would like to speak with someone to arrange a meeting with the Marchgrafin Kruge, please.” I knew better than to ask directly for the widow Kruge. That would have shown a distinct lack of ignorance of her status.

All three looked at me sharply, and one of the elves chanted under his breath. I could feel a protective shield build between us. No surprise. The Consortium had pulled Eorla Kruge from her estate for protection before I even left her husband’s murder scene.

“Name, please?” said the other elf.

“Guild Director Connor Grey.” I pulled out the Guild ID, which I still had from yesterday. I was definitely moving in the wrong circles again.

The elf took the ID and muttered over it, checking for the Guildhouse essence seal. He told the other two in German it was authentic. “Please wait, sir,” he said as he picked up the phone.

And I did, a long hour before another elf arrived from within the building. He was tall, dressed as security in red and black, and had a billy club on his waist. “I am the Marchgrafin’s assistant. How may I help you?”

I stood to face him. He didn’t look like a keeper of business calendars. “I’d like to see the Marchgrafin.”

“She is in mourning, sir, and not to be disturbed.”

“I understand. I need a few minutes of her time on an urgent matter related to her husband.”

“She has had many such requests,” he said.

“From Guild directors?”

He didn’t respond.

“You have my credentials. Perhaps you would prefer to call Guildmaster Eagan to confirm my mission further?”

His face made it clear that he didn’t like the subtle threat to go over his head. He walked to the reception desk and consulted with the other two elves. They cast looks at me several times. A few moments later, they stopped talking as the security agent considered. I hoped he didn’t call Eagan. The Guildmaster would back me up, but I hated having to get an adult’s okay. The agent picked up the phone and dialed. He spoke for a bit, then hung up and ignored me. I overheard enough to understand he called a superior rather than Eagan. Another twenty minutes went by, and two more security guards arrived. The first came back over to me.

“Are you armed, sir?” He didn’t call in two more agents because he thought I was defenseless.

“Of course,” I said.

“We will extend your rank the courtesy of retaining your weapon, but you may not draw it or appear to do so. You will not be allowed within twenty feet of the Marchgrafin. If you hesitate to follow any directives issued by any of the Marchgrafin’s assistants, the consequences shall be swift and severe. Is that amenable to you?”

I smirked. “Amenable’s not the word I would have chosen, but sure, that works for me.” I couldn’t help myself. The Consortium is so damned officious. He led me through the inner doors, and the other two agents fell in behind us. My head began to ache as they chanted, little nosey cantrips testing my defenses. For once, my missing abilities worked in my favor. The lack of even minor defenses conveniently sent the message that they weren’t worth my trouble and probably was giving them a minor anxiety attack.

We rode an elevator in silence to the third floor. When the door opened, another set of security guards guarded the floor lobby. They were not taking any chances with Eorla. We walked down a long, stately hallway of pilasters and landscape oils and several closed doors. They led me into a large receiving room, easily thirty feet long and half as wide, a library lined with books I’m sure no one ever read. A healthy fire kept the room a little too warm. A single chair faced me across the wide floor, but I was not offered one of my own. Two of the guards entered with me, and we all waited while the third disappeared without saying anything.

A door at the far end of the room opened, and I was surprised I did not have to wait long for the Marchgrafin. She swept into the room with the first security guard at her heels. There was no mistaking who was in charge. Here we were in her element. I could feel the resonance of Power before she even reached me, some of it from her rings, but her personal essence was considerable.

Apparently, she had not been given the dictate of twenty feet because she continued walking past the chair. The security guards behind me immediately stepped in front of me to block me from her.

I smiled at her. She did not change her expression, but stared at me for several moments.

“Leave us,” she said without moving her gaze.

Behind her, the first security guard stepped forward to stand by her side. “We have orders, m’lady.”

She merely shifted her eyes at him. It didn’t take a genius to understand a sending argument was going on between them. The guard lowered his gaze and flushed. “As you wish, m’lady,” he said with a curt bow. He spoke to the other two guards in Old Elvish, telling them to take up positions outside the door. I found it amusing that they assumed I spoke neither German nor their own language. Once they had vacated the room, Eorla nodded and turned away from me.