Mark Del Franco - Unquiet Dreams

“A troll named C-Note is behind these attacks. He wants to take down the Guild. Good enough?”

Keeva arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been busy. What proof do you have?”

“A witness in protective custody and a ward stone recording. Murdock heard the threat to the Guild. C-Note controls the gangs with a compulsion drug called Float. It’s spreading beyond the Weird. I know it’s infected the druid Grove. It’s made from the essence of a drys.”

Her jaw dropped, and she laughed. “A drys? You expect me to believe that?”

“Murdock saw her.”

She pulled her lower lip in. “Connor, no one’s seen a drys in decades. Murdock is not credible on fey and, frankly, with your conspiracy theory habits, neither are you. The Guild is convinced the Consortium is behind this.”

“The Guild or Nigel?”

“Both.” She looked down at her desk, shifted her eyes to the computer monitor and back to me. I could practically feel her running scenarios in her head, trying to figure what she needed to do to get the job done while figuring out how to present herself in the best light. I’ve seen it before. It’s how she works. “We have security at the funeral. Gerin’s shielding Forest Hills Cemetery for the ceremony. Nigel’s coordinating with Manus and the diplomatic envoys. I’m not worried about the funeral. I’m worried about the Weird. I’m trying to seal it down so no one can move in or out without my knowing about it.”

“I did.”

She glared at me. “Connor, bring me your proof, and maybe then I will contradict Gerin Cuthbern and Nigel Martin. Until then, I run things my way.”

I decided it was time to shake Keeva’s cage a little. “You haven’t made any progress in your Kruge investigation.”

She looked honestly startled. Looks aren’t everything. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been looking for Croda. You know trolls are difficult to trace.”

“Dennis had distinctive new running shoes on. Easy to trace. Your credit card bought a pair.”

She leaned over her desk toward me. “What are you talking about?”

I stared her down. “Ryan macGoren has known where Croda is from the night of the murder. You bought Dennis’s running shoes. I don’t think it’s me and Murdock with the credibility problem.”

She jumped to her feet and pointed at the door. “Out.”

I’d definitely struck a nerve, but it was time to go. I stood, but before I left, I gave her a last warning. “If the Guild is using Kruge’s murder to provoke a confrontation with the Consortium, I’ll expose you.”

She was angry enough now that a little fey light glowed in her eyes. She pointed at the door. “I said ‘out.’”

I moved to the hallway. “Keeva, if you don’t increase security, you won’t have to worry about finding a troll. One’s going to find you.”

The Guild had replaced my apartment door. The security agent remained posted outside at the end of the hall, though. While they had done a great job on the door, even fixing an old squeak, unfortunately they hadn’t brought a housekeeper with them. My place looked like a gang of elves and fairies had run amok. Which, of course, was exactly what had happened.

I pulled two bottles of Guinness out of the fridge, popped one, and left the other on the counter to warm. The bottled stuff is nowhere near as good as tap, but it’s better than the can. Or nothing.

I slunk into my desk chair and called Meryl. She picked up on the first ring, and I smiled. Someone was worried. “I saw you buried by a pile a rubble.” The genuine concern in her voice felt oddly pleasurable.

“Believe it or not, Moke saved me. Are you okay?”

“Tired, but fine. What happened?”

I took a swig of beer and booted up the laptop. “Long story. I have to be at the funeral. Want to be my date?”

“Ooooo, a funeral. Sounds fun,” she said.

“The service starts at sunset. Can you drive?”

She sighed. “Fine.”

“Oh, and wear green. It’s the elven color for mourning.”

“Gee, thanks, I didn’t know that,” she said sarcastically. “Oh, and Grey?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not a date.” And she hung up.

Joe busied himself with cookies while I changed. I had very little to work with but stumbled on a dark green shirt I’d forgotten I owned. Even given the formality of an elven funeral, I wasn’t about to wear green pants. As I pulled on my boots, I could hear Joe laughing in my study.

“Now I get it,” he said, his voice oddly hollow.

“Get what?” I called back.

The Guild security helmet I had retrieved from Croda’s murder scene came floating into the room. Two bare feet dangled out of it. “How the Guild is keeping flits out lately. They’re letting in only essence they expect, not blocking what they don’t want.”

I stopped myself from commenting. That’s an old druid trick, a modification of the shield on a grove. Gerin and Nigel must have adapted it for the Guildhouse. As much as I’d trusted Joe, he had a tendency to talk before he thought, and who knows who would hear him. “Tricky,” I said.

He circled around the living room, landed on the coffee table, and rolled the helmet off. “Not really. I can think of ten ways to get through now.”

Downstairs , Meryl sent, and I startled. When most people do a sending, a subtle warning happens in your head that one’s coming. The person you’re sending may be anywhere, so the sending itself tends to travel in a thin envelope of essence. The envelope is part of the searching and touches your mind moments before the actual message. Not Meryl’s. Her sendings are incredibly focused to the point where they find you and arrive instantaneously. It’s like someone jumping out of a closet and saying “boo!”

“Are you coming?” I asked Joe.

He swung his legs back and forth from the edge of the coffee table. “Maybe later. I’ve got some business.”

I smiled. “Be careful.” I’m sure Joe’s business entailed testing his new ideas at the Guildhouse. If there’s one thing a flit despises, it is being told to keep out.

I passed three security agents on my way out. I jumped in the immaculate passenger seat of Meryl’s Mini Cooper, reveling in the refreshing change of pace from Murdock’s car.

“We look like catalog models for the goth professional,” she said.

She wore a body-hugging leather jumpsuit and knee-high leather combat boots with lots of heel and buckles. Not a bit of it was green. In fact, the only green about her was her hair. She slipped on a pair of fingerless calfskin gloves and put the car in gear.

“My hair’s not dyed,” I said.

She flipped her hand through her hair. “Do you like it? I have it on good authority it was Alvud Kruge’s favorite shade.”

“It’s perfect. For you.” I smiled to keep it amusing.

She zipped around the block and coasted over the Old Northern Avenue bridge. “We’ve got a tail. Want me to lose them?”

I peered up through the structural beams of the bridge. Two security agents followed. “Nah. They’d be stupid not to know where we’re going. Can we make a pit stop?”

“Sure, I’ll keep the meter running,” she said.

“I need to go to Avalon Memorial.”

She looked askance at me. “Anything wrong?”

“No. Just need to visit a sick friend,” I said.

Rather than deal with the street restrictions in place downtown, Meryl scooted up on the highway to loop around to Storrow Drive along the river. “You know you have troll essence all over you?”

I nodded. “It’s a residual effect from Moke pulling me through stone. He said it has to clear through my system. Look at this.” I held up my left hand, letting the light pick up a tracery of faint patterns across the back. “That’s stone. I keep picking up ambient dust, and it bonds with my skin.”