Unperfect Souls Read online

  We trailed down a long, high-ceilinged hall with thick, wide-planked floors showing the wear of a century of work. New walls had been constructed to divide a once-open manufacturing space into a warren of small rooms. The odor of thinner, oil paint, and solvents permeated everything. Shay let us through a plain white door that had a yew wreath hung on it.

  To the left, a wall ran thirty feet without interruption from the door to a set of windows. Paintings, prints, and other artwork covered every available inch. Nine feet to the right, a large freestanding sink stood next to a homemade wood counter with a two-burner hot plate on it and a small refrigerator of the type that students used in dorm rooms. Two tall bookcases formed a bed alcove in the middle of the narrow studio.

  “I never knew you were an artist,” I said.

  Shay removed his coat in a whirling motion and hung it among others on a rack by the door. He wore snug blue jeans and a thigh- length charcoal gray sweater. Twisting his lips, he made an exaggerated and amused pout. “You never knew me, period, Connor.”

  I smiled. “Does anyone?”

  Resting a delicate hand on his hip, he tilted his head. Eyes roved up and down, examining me as if I were merchandise. Maybe I was. I really did not know Shay. “You cut your hair. I like it short. Makes those lovely blues stand out more.”

  Shay’s flirting irritated the hell out of Murdock, but I found his brashness utterly amusing. This slender boy, with his stunningly feminine face, had more balls than men twice his size. Shay spoke his mind when he chose to. “You’ve moved up in the world. Still working?”

  He filled a small teakettle and put it on the hot plate. “Not how you mean. I work full-time at the Children’s Institute now. The pay’s not great, but I can afford to live here.”

  When I first met Shay, he was working the streets. He never was arrested for prostitution, but anyone in the profession knew it was a matter of time. It was good to hear he had gotten out of the life before it was too late for him. Back then, he volunteered at the Institute, where he cared for Corcan macDuin, a mentally disabled elf who became inadvertently involved in a murder case. “How is Corky?” I asked.

  Shay smiled. “Amazing. After what happened, his mental capacity improved. He’s reached the mentality of a teenager since midsummer. You should come by and see him. He talks about you.”

  “He does?”

  The kettle whistled. Shay poured two mugs. “You saved his life. He likes to tell the story of the hero with the shining sword.”

  I was about to thank him when something ticked up in my sensing ability. At the far end of the studio, hidden from view by the bed alcove, an essence moved. It hadn’t been there when we’d come in. Before I said anything Shay looked toward that end of the studio. He was human but claimed to have some kind of fey sensitivity. He might. Or he might have timed the arrival of whoever was in the studio to make it look that way. For all his naïveté, manipulation was another of Shay’s skills.

  “Who’s back there?” I asked.

  He handed me a mug. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You saved my life, too, but I think it delayed the inevitable.”

  He led me around the bed alcove to a cramped living room with a small couch and two overstuffed chairs. A large black dog—large in that way that made people stop and gape—sat on the couch and stared at us. Shaggy, glossy coat, massive head and jowls. The kind of dog that, even though an owner claims it is very sweet, you suspect might enjoy kittens for breakfast.

  I sipped my tea. The dog wasn’t alive. Its essence resonated like the Dead from TirNaNog, but something was off about it. “That’s a Dead dog, Shay. Do you know what I mean?”

  Shay held his mug with both hands. Resigned, he nodded. “I thought so. He started following me right after Samhain. He seemed to like me, so I brought him home. He wasn’t eating when I left food out, so I thought someone else must be feeding him. Then I found out the Dead were in the Weird, and I thought, what the hell, maybe there are Dead animals, too.”

  “I saw some pretty strange ones on Samhain,” I said.

  Shay frowned. “I have a feeling this isn’t a normal Dead dog, Connor.”

  He put his mug down and pulled the drapes across the windows. Darkness blanketed the room except for a red glow. Every hair on my body stood on end, and I sloshed tea on the floor as I stepped back. The dog’s eyes burned like embers. “Holy shit, Shay!”

  Shay swept the drapes open, and the red glow vanished. He crossed his arms and stared at the dog. “It’s a hellhound, isn’t it?”

  Hellhound. Cu Sith. Cwn Annwn. The dog went by various names in various places. Sometimes it was white furred with red ears. Sometimes it was a big, freaking black dog with glowing eyes. Its purpose remained the same everywhere. If it came for you, it came from the land of the Dead, and it meant you were going to die. “I think so,” I said.

  “I’m going to die,” he said.

  The dog opened its mouth and panted. “I don’t know,” I said.

  Shay didn’t take his eyes off the dog. “Liar.”

  I don’t know which was creepier, the dog’s presence or Shay’s calmness. “Shay, nothing is what it was. The Dead are trapped here, so maybe the dog is, too. Maybe it reacted to the fact that you brought it home. Dogs respond to kindness, right? It’s still a dog.”

  “His name is Uno,” he said.

  “What?”

  Shay gave me a wry smile. “I thought it was a joke at the time. He had only one head, so I named him Uno.”

  “The three heads are from Greek myth, not Faerie,” I said.

  Shay sat in an armchair. “That’s the joke, isn’t it? I came up with the name based on something that didn’t exist. Only, the joke’s on me. It’s a hellhound, and I’m going to die.”

  “Stop saying that,” I said.

  Shay shrugged. “That’s the only way it goes away that I’ve ever heard.” He pursed his lips. “Actually, it sort of gets rid of you.”

  “This isn’t my area of expertise. Let me look into it,” I said.

  Shay stared into his tea mug. “Funny thing—I dreamed of Robyn the night the dog appeared. Robyn would have tried to do something about it showing up, but there was nothing he could have done. He couldn’t stop his own death.”

  I poked him against his leg with my boot. “Will you stop? Robyn died trying to do a good thing. He loved you. I thought he was kind of a jerk, but he loved you.”

  Shay leaned his head back and laughed. “The two of you had something in common. He thought you were a jerk, too.”

  He looked back at the dog. “I just thought of something, Connor. If Uno came for me, maybe I’ll get to see Robyn again. I never had much faith in Christianity. Maybe TirNaNog is where I’ll end up.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the reason the Dead were roaming the Weird was because TirNaNog might not exist anymore. “Yeah, maybe, but as far as I’m concerned, I didn’t save your ass last midsummer for you to end up dog food.”

  Shay chuckled. “Now you have something else in common with Robyn: promising to protect me when you know you can’t.”

  “I’m not listening to any more of this. I’m going to find out how to get rid of this guy,” I said.

  Shay shifted closer to me. “I don’t think I can ask for more than that, but don’t feel bad if you can’t. It’s not your fault.”

  “I’ll find something, Shay,” I said.

  He took the cold tea from my hand and walked me to the door. “Thanks, Connor. Maybe some revelation is at hand for me, no? Maybe it means something important. I bet not every human gets to have a hellhound in their living room, even in the Weird.”

  “Be careful, Shay. I’ll get back to you.”

  Shay amazed me. I didn’t think I could do anything for him. I had never encountered a hound from TirNaNog, but all the old tales ended the way Shay said they did. Whoever the hound came for, died. If he was doomed, the least I could do was try to help. I wasn’t really big on abandoning
people to fate. My life would be a lot easier if I were.

  7

  The early-morning cold remained, the sky a stark white with the threat of snow. When I’d arrived home the previous night, I spent the evening outlining research ideas for Shay’s dog problem. Which, of course, led all too easily to late-night Internet surfing on topics that had nothing to do with hellhounds. Which, more of course, I should have known would lead to an early-morning phone call from Murdock asking me to meet him since I had barely gotten any sleep. He told me to wear clothes and boots I didn’t care about, so I wore the oldest pair of jeans I owned and an extra layer of sweatshirt.

  I walked the three blocks to the location Murdock gave me. Trucks barreled down Fargo Street, whipping sand into the air. Near the corner of Cypher Street, large blue utility vans emblazoned with MASSACHUSETTS WATER RESOURCES AUTHORITY on the side blocked part of the intersection. MWRA workers placed cones and portable metal barricades around an open manhole. Wearing jeans and an old Red Sox jacket, Murdock stared into the hole in the street. I assumed he had borrowed the jacket from one of his brothers because I could not imagine Murdock keeping a stained piece of clothing. His new casual attire was amusing me.

  A sewer worker banged on something in the hole below us. “Please tell me you asked me to dress like this because we’re going hiking,” I said.

  He chuckled silently. “No such luck. The MWRA gave us an idea of where the body at the headworks might have gone into the system based on the time on the broken watch. Turns out the tunnel he came out of has only two feeder pipes. This is where they meet.”

  I slouched. “We’re going in the sewer.”

  “Yep. It’s a possible crime scene.”

  The worker banged some more. “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Scaring away the rats.”

  “Great.”

  Joe burst into the air in front of the detail officer directing traffic. The guy ducked like a giant insect was attacking him. “Am I too late? Did I miss anything?” Joe asked.

  Murdock watched him flutter around the manhole. “Just in time, Joe.”

  Joe showing up at two different crime scenes was a little too coincidental. “How the hell did you reach him? I can’t get him to show up anywhere on time.”

  Murdock withdrew a small clear bottle from his pocket. Motes of yellow light danced inside. “He gave me a bunch of these.”

  Glow bees. They were concentrations of essence that absorb voice sounds. Messages became imprinted on the essence, which homed in on the recipient when released. They worked best with strong body signatures—like the fey had—and since Murdock’s signature was hyped enough to create a body shield, a glow bee would be easy for him to use. Humans loved to play with them although cell phones worked a lot faster. The sewer worker climbed out. Murdock gestured. “After you.”

  I shook my head. “I believe it’s your case, Detective. I’m a consultant here.”

  Murdock placed one foot on the ladder. Joe zipped in ahead of him. The worker handed me a flashlight, and I followed them down. A cast-iron pipe ran through a low, square tunnel. The pipe took up most of the space, and we crouched against a brick wall. A dull odor filled the air, not overwhelming, the tang of chemicals and dankness. “It doesn’t smell as bad as I thought,” I said.

  Murdock swung his own flashlight toward the end of the tunnel. “That’s because this part’s sealed. The catch basin is up that way.”

  “Excuse me while I get ahead!” Joe said. His squeal of laughter trailed down the tunnel as the pink glow of his wings dwindled into the distance.

  Murdock shimmied sideways along the pipe. I flicked the beam of my light at his feet, then behind me. I’m not a fan of rats sneaking up on me. “Don’t you guys have crime-scene people to do this?”

  Murdock cleared his throat. “Short-staffed. They said they don’t look for crime scenes, they investigate them. Besides, they can’t do what you do.”

  True. When I climbed down the ladder, my sensing ability got immediate hits, mostly dwarves, several anomalous ones that meant solitaries, and the distinctive signature of the Dead. The Dead felt different than the living. Their signatures had a dulled aspect to them that distinguished them from living ones. “Too many to sort in this area.”

  Murdock pushed forward. “I don’t even want to think about so many people down here.”

  The body signatures faded the farther we moved from the manhole. Homeless squats appeared under the pipes, faint shimmers of essence indicating they had been used a while ago. The distant sound of water reached my ears at the same time as the stench that I expected to find in a sewer. Joe’s pink essence appeared and reappeared, closer now. He was either popping in and out of sight or passing in front of an opening.

  “I’m down to five body signatures, Murdock. Two dwarves, a Dead fairy, a solitary I don’t recognize and, I’m not sure, but I think it might be a Dead human.”

  “Human? I thought there were no humans in Faerie,” he said.

  I ducked my head under a ceiling beam. “No humans came here from Faerie during Convergence. That’s different. There were humans in Faerie who lived and died. Whoever I’m sensing died as a human in Faerie.”

  Murdock stopped. “We’re here.”

  The pipe continued a few more feet, the end suspended over a wide catch basin filled with water. A dozen feet across it, another pipe entered from the opposite direction. Fetid water trickled out of both pipes. Joe circled in the air, examining the debris floating in the water. Murdock would have killed me if I knocked him into it, no matter how accidentally. I was very tempted, I was.

  “See anything, Joe?” Murdock asked.

  His eyes glowed with excitement. “It’s essence soup.”

  Essences smeared into each other, reds and yellows dominating with streaks of blue and green. Here and there, the pale essence of the Dead twisted on cast-off garments and, yes, indications of body fluids. My head buzzed with the mess, the dark mass pulsing against my skull.

  A wet, hollow sound filled the air with a rumble and a rush. I grabbed Murdock’s sleeve. “Better step back.”

  We retreated a few feet into the tunnel as a gout of black-slimed water gushed out of the pipe. As if triggered by its companion, more water spewed from the opposite pipe. The pipe continued dropping a steady stream after the nearer one slackened. The catch basin sloshed as water fell and kicked up debris from the bottom. The water level rose and spilled into a culvert on one wall between the two pipes. The rancid smell of sewage and rotten garbage thickened. The stench had a texture to it that clung to the back of the throat and made it impossible not to gag.

  In the midst of the swirls of essence, something pale floated, a void of essence. It rolled up and sank, then rose again. Wet hair spread across the surface, spreading the weight of the thing it was attached to. It bobbed, and dead white eyes stared up at us.

  “Jesus,” Murdock muttered as he played the flashlight on the face.

  “That is one big head,” Joe said.

  The body found at the headworks was one of the Dead. This head, however, didn’t have the signature of one of the Dead. It rolled, its face rising out of the water.

  “That’s not the head we were looking for,” Murdock said.

  “I think we just found Zev’s friend Sekka,” I said.

  8

  As the cramped space around the catch basin became crowded with the arrival of the medical examiner and more MWRA workers, Murdock and I shuffled along a ledge to the opposite outlet pipe. The sewer workers fitted a temporary flexible pipe to the end of the outflows to bypass the basin, and pumps had been brought in to drain it. The medical examiner had the unpleasant task of fishing the giantess’s head out of the water.

  Joe wandered around the edges of the space, swooping down whenever he saw something interesting. Interesting, in this case, was everything from a sodden stuffed bear to things that did not bear scrutiny.

  “A headless body and bodiless head that don’t
match,” Murdock said.

  “I hate to say it, but if Zev’s attitude was any indication, there’s going to be more of this,” I said.

  Murdock shook his head. “With multiple perpetrators.”

  Joe wandered between us and flew up to face level. “Um . . . guys? If I, say, noticed a crack in a wall in a tunnel and a cold, creepy draft came out of it and it smelled like three-day-old lasagna, would you, um, want to know about that?”

  Murdock and I exchanged glances. “You invited him,” I said.

  “Show us the crack, Joe,” Murdock said.

  Joe turned around and lowered his loincloth.

  I tilted my head back with a grin. “You so walked into that.”

  Murdock shook his head with a half smile. “I did, I did. Okay, what I meant was, where’s the crack in the tunnel, Joe?”

  Joe’s eyes went wide. He turned around again, lowered his loincloth, and bent over. My laugh drew confused and annoyed stares from the MWRA workers. “Murdock, please don’t ask him what three-day-old lasagna smells like. I’ve had enough bad odors today,” I said.

  Laughing wildly, Joe shot into the tunnel behind us.

  Murdock reddened from laughing. “I can’t believe I fell for that. Twice.”

  “Never accept glow bees from strange flits, my friend,” I said.

  “So, you guys want to see what I found or not?” Joe called out.

  He hovered next to the pipe, his wings lighting the space with a pink glow. Murdock cocked an eyebrow with me. “I’ve learned my lesson. You go first.”

  I sidestepped along the pipe a few feet and looked where Joe pointed. Behind the pipe, bricks were knocked out from floor to ceiling, leaving a dark gap. I shined my light in but saw little beyond the opening. “He’s not joking, Murdock.”

  Murdock slid next to me. We leaned on the cold cast-iron pipe and aimed our flashlights. The gap led to another tunnel, more rough-hewn, but clearly not natural. The Weird was built on landfill, so if a tunnel existed, someone had dug it. Faint hints of essence trails ran into it, the ambient remainders of body signatures. More than one person used the gap.