Unshapely Things Read online

  I rang the bell. After several moments, I rang again. When no answer came, I tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it open. I let myself in. The empty entry hall greeted me. I had rarely been in Briallen's house alone. The scent of history hung over the silence, not musty, but the rich odor of timelessness. Mahogany gleamed on the floor and stairs, and brass doorknobs shone with polish. A great clock to the left measured time with its steady tick. Briallen invariably liked to entertain in the rear second-floor parlor, so I went up the stairs in the entry hall.

  In the middle of the staircase, where it turned around the back of the house, a landing window looked out over the back garden. A movement there caught my eye. A tree blocked the view, but I could distinctly see someone moving beneath it I quickly descended and made my way through the back of the house, passing through the long kitchen, with its rich cooking aromas. As I opened the rear door, I saw lights flickering in many colors and the sound of hushed voices. I stopped on the steps, amazed. Briallen sat on the ground amid a whirl of flits, most of them talking at once, vying for her attention. There had to be a couple dozen of the little guys. I'd never seen more than four or five of them together before. As I shifted for a clear view, my boot heel scraped loudly against the stone step. Amid a series of soft gasps, the flits disappeared. I moved around the tree just in time to see Briallen rise from the ground, turning angrily to face me.

  "Who... ?" she demanded, only to check her anger when she recognized me. At that moment, a flit materialized in front of her. The blue-winged fey gave me a long, hard look, glanced at Briallen and spoke softly, then disappeared.

  "Connor! I thought you might turn up tonight, but not for another hour," Briallen said, striding toward me across the short lawn with her arms outstretched. She wore a long robe of white silk embroidered in gaudy flashes of orange and red that flowed sensually around her when she moved. She had cut her hair since I'd last seen her. It was short now, almost above the ears and falling in loose chestnut waves. She looked stunning as always. Briallen Gwyll had been my first crush and longest-lasting love. I had met her at the age of twelve, brought before her to judge my ability. The first thing she did that night was step naked out of her robe and perform a moon invocation rite. The image so excited me, I had to cross my legs every time I saw her after that for a year.

  "I didn't mean to interrupt. Do you know you left the door unlocked?" I said, as we hugged.

  She slipped her arm through mine and pulled me out into the garden. "I was distracted. It's always unlocked. It's just not warded against you. Come sit down."

  She pressed me onto a stone garden bench that was uncomfortably hard and cold. Silently, she cradled my head in her hands and closed her eyes. For a moment I felt a vague pressure, as though I were wearing a hat too tightly, then it was gone. It had become a ritual whenever we met and no one was around to watch. Briallen dropped her hands and sat beside me on the bench.

  "No change," she said.

  In a way I didn't understand, Briallen could feel the thing in my head. She seemed more vexed by it than I, if that were possible. She hates not understanding something. Every time we meet, she tests it, to feel it, to see if it's changed, and, with no real sense of hope, to see if it is gone.

  "What are you doing out here?" I asked.

  Her hazel eyes caught a gleam of moonlight. "I've persuaded almost an entire family of Welsh flits to let me study them! Thirty-two! Have you ever seen thirty-two flits at once? Wasn't it marvelous?"

  "Yes, it was. What are you studying?"

  "I guess you'd have to say their sociology. And anthropology. And biology if they'll let me." She stood abruptly. "Come, let me show you something."

  She walked away without checking if I was following, as though the idea of me not doing so never occurred to her. She was right, of course. We went back through the kitchen, passing through the wonderful smells, and up the stairs to a small study on the third floor. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, filled with just as much an assortment of odds and ends as books. Dusty crystal orbs held art portfolios in place; little boxes with colorful Chinese silk covers were wedged in between old leather bindings. An old computer monitor stared moonily out from a bottom shelf, not used, I was sure, since Pong was a best seller. And everywhere papers splayed out in a spectrum of color from nearly brown parchments to brilliant white photocopy. A large table dominated the cluttered room, piled high with more books and papers, a broken celestial sphere, a teacup, various pens including a handmade quill, a box of pebbles, the fourteenth edition of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, and a kitchen sponge. And in the cleared center space, a glass cube with what looked like a dried-out milkweed pod.

  Briallen lifted the cube gently and handed it to me, her eyes shining.

  As I held it, I could feel a strong warding surrounding it. I peered at the object, trying to understand what it was. A chill went through me. What I had taken to be the dried husk of the milkweed were actually the gray, lifeless wings of a flit. They bent unnaturally forward, cradling the still, crouched corpse, whose impassive face was barely visible through the small opening where the wings met. Wordlessly, Briallen retrieved the cube and replaced it on the table.

  I followed her out of the study down to the kitchen, where she proceeded to prepare a salad.

  "I've never seen a dead flit," I said.

  She began chopping greens. "Very few people have. I was talking with one of my subjects about flit funeral processions—which I've seen a number of times—and mentioned that I'd never seen the final disposition of the body. He showed up with that body early this evening. He told me they just leave the body on a suitable hill and the first light of day takes it away."

  "But why did he give it to you?"

  Briallen began rummaging under a counter, eventually withdrawing a huge earthenware bowl that was too big for the salad. She used it anyway. "He didn't give it to me. He just thought I'd like to see it. I promised I'd put it outside before dawn."

  "But you put a preserving ward on it," I said.

  She shrugged. "It's only temporary. I noticed it had faded considerably in the short time I had it inside. I suspect any light will do the job; the sun just does it quickly. I think it has something do with essence leaving the body. It's almost unbelievable that something as small as a flit exists on any sentient level. I've been wondering if they're made up of more essence than physical matter."

  I leaned over the salad as casually as I could. "Speaking of essence ..."

  Briallen held up her hand before I could continue, a knowing smile dancing on her face. "First, we socialize like the old friends that we are. We can talk business later. Grab a plate."

  I ducked my head with a chagrined smile. Briallen is rarely taken unaware. She pulled a huge roast out of the oven, much more than the two of us could eat, and set out more bowls with vegetables and potatoes. We perched on kitchen stools at the counter island and proceeded to catch up. I, of course, had little to say that didn't lead to business. Briallen, on the other hand, had enough things going for both of us.

  She had recently taken a yearlong sabbatical from Harvard, where she taught the history of what she liked to refer to as the "Not-So-Dark Ages." She was continuing research into more recent history. In the meantime, she was also beginning her work with the flit clan, trying to cultivate certain plants in the harsh New England climate, and learning how to cook Thai food. I had a feeling the latter was preparation for another trip later on.

  She had participated in the early talks of the Fey Summit and was thinking about visiting Germany to assess the political situation there. Briallen had been instrumental in the founding of the Ward Guild, and though she didn't answer to the High Queen, her sympathies lay with the Seelie Court. She had diplomatic status in most European countries as a leader of the Druidic College and was often an advisor to world leaders. It was years before I realized how important she is. I thought she was just a nice lady who taught me spells.

  She began
clearing away the dishes. "You've been so quiet, Connor. Tell me something you've been doing other than work." I knew what she was asking. Briallen felt I needed to devote myself full-time to regaining my abilities. I made some efforts, but never enough to please her, or so it seemed. Sometimes I wondered if she was frustrated more by me or by her own inability to find an answer for what's wrong with me.

  "Well, for one thing, I'm in the best physical condition I've ever been in."

  "That's a good start." She poured two small glasses of port. She handed me a glass, lifted the bottle, and sailed out of the kitchen. I followed her to the upstairs parlor. A fire always burned in the room, even in summer, yet the temperature was never uncomfortable. With the entire house at her disposal, I knew she liked this room the best. It held several welcoming overstuffed chairs, more books, and a view of the garden. I imagined she spent many an evening reading in it until dawn sent her to bed.

  "And ... ?" she prompted.

  I settled into a deep-tufted armchair by the fire. "My protective wards seem to activate instinctually. My sensing abilities feel like they're in overdrive sometimes. I still can't do a sending that goes true. Scrying is out of the question. And I seem to forget incantations as soon as I start them."

  She pursed her lips. "I know all that. What have you done lately?"

  "I tried to light a candle the other day and set my desk on fire," I said, trying not to smirk.

  She sharply let a breath out. "Have you tried to listen to your own heartbeat?"

  I felt a flush of annoyance. "Briallen, I know my ABCs."

  It was her turn to be irritated. "I'm sincerely beginning to doubt that. You want to ignite a precision fire. You want to scry. You want to speak spells. Yet, you don't even bother to build toward them. If you broke both your legs, you'd probably sit and mope until you could get up and run a marathon. And you'd have just as much success as you're having now."

  "That's not fair," I said. Her words stung a little too deeply.

  "So what? I'm not your mother. I'm not here to make it all go away. You have an extraordinary talent and refuse to use it."

  "I don't have those talents anymore." I surprised myself. I never raised my voice to Briallen.

  She compounded my horror by laughing at me. "Is that all you are, Connor? A body without talent? I'm talking about your mind. You need to reason your way through this. You need to learn your way through this. But above all, you need to act your way through this. You received a bunch of answers that didn't solve your problem, and now you want me to sympathize with you. I think you know me well enough by now, Connor, to know I have no sympathy for surrender."

  I could feel heat suffuse my face. "I came here tonight for help," I said tightly.

  A concerned and sincere look came over her face. "And you're getting it. Connor, you have to want to help yourself, too. It's not my job to drop everything and figure out what's wrong with you. I'll help you. I've said that. But I won't do it for you."

  As I stared into the fire, I could feel my anger slipping away. She was right. Harsh, but right. I wasn't angry at Briallen. I was angry that she was right. For a long time, I had coasted along. The direction of my life had taken a turn I hadn't wanted, and I was letting it control me, pretending that I would simply wake up one day, and things would be back the way they had been.

  I focused on the fire, letting the emotions drain out of me. I had to know I could do it, but more importantly, show Briallen I could. No sound came from her, though I could feel her attention. I slowed my breathing, shutting out the sounds around me. Reluctantly, the flames became soundless flickers of light. I continued focusing on the hearth, my eyes half-closed, as I exhaled into silence. I didn't move, dropping my breathing even more, until I could barely feel the rise and fall of my chest. I pulled myself inward. I could hear nothing, nothing at all for a moment, then finally, the soothing shushing noise that I recognized. I could hear my heart beating. I hung on to the moment, remembering when I first learned how to do this, remembering the promise of my childhood. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes. It felt like coming to the surface of a very deep pool.

  Briallen took a small sip from her glass. "Harder than you thought, wasn't it?"

  I nodded. I could feel a thin sheen of perspiration on my lip. "I'm sorry."

  "I take no offense. Now, bring me up to date on the murders."

  I brought her through my most recent interviews, including my suspicions about Shay. She took unconscionable delight in Stinkwort's comments about Tansy, and I gave her an embarrassing imitation of the little flit's speech pattern.

  "Your accent needs work," she said with a chuckle. Tapping the edge of her glass, she lost herself in thought a moment. " 'Ska.' An interesting word."

  "I've never heard it. Joe translated it as 'bad,'" I said.

  Briallen tipped her head from side to side. "That's simple at best. Its meaning has broadened in more rustic areas to mean something that's annoying or unsettling, but its true sense is more a physical description. One of the many oddities about flits is that they breed like bunnies, but you rarely see them in groups. They can be indifferent to their selection of mates and, coupled with their clan pride, tend to enter unions too close in the bloodline. The result is invariably a stillbirth and is called ska, meaning 'that-which-is-not-to-be' in the sense that the world has rejected the birth. There's a connotation of 'unbelonging' to the word, meaning the child not only doesn't belong to the clan but doesn't belong anywhere."

  I looked back at the flames. The Tuesday Killer made everyone who encountered him uncomfortable. Assuming even Belgor's stone customer was the same guy, he had a troubling essence that upset people because they couldn't place it. Maybe they couldn't place it because it had no place. Maybe prostitutes were perfect victims because they accepted people out of the ordinary. And maybe such a person had found a ritual to make himself feel less out of place.

  "I'm wondering if the killer is a ska birth that lived," I said.

  "That would be a bit of a contradiction, etymologically," Briallen said. "Given that he lived, maybe he was meant to live. 'Ska' inherently means he shouldn't have lived, never mind grown up to kill three people."

  "Then maybe 'ska' is only the closest word to describe him. Maybe he's unique."

  "And for that we can be thankful," Briallen said, raising her glass.

  "I've been thinking about the point of the murders," I said. I detailed my idea about the heart essence. Briallen became very quiet. Too quiet. "So, tell me, is this a teaching level I've stumbled across?"

  She stared into her glass before answering, then looked at me directly. "To a point, yes. Such knowledge exists for the adept. It's forbidden to use."

  I took a deep breath to calm my excitement. "Stinkwort said essentially the same thing. Could you teach me?"

  She swirled the port in her glass for a long moment, the ruby color catching small flashes of light. Carefully, she placed it on the small table beside her chair. Standing slowly, she walked to the window and gazed out into her garden. "No."

  A cold wave of disbelief swept over me. I hadn't expected her to be so direct. She turned to look at me, her eyes a cool measure of deliberation. "To be blunt, Connor, you're not worthy of the knowledge. You stepped off the druidic path years ago, striking out on your own to further your own personal needs. That's just not how it works."

  I could feel heat flushing my cheeks again. "Are you saying you don't trust me?"

  She shook her head. "It's not about my personal feelings. These are matters greater than anything so minor as a personal relationship. These are dangerous things, knowledge that should have died as soon as it was thought."

  "Ska," I said with a slightly derisive tinge.

  Briallen nodded. "In effect, yes. If I can, I will tell you what you need to know to stop this maniac. If I can't, I will step in myself to stop him. Either way, I won't teach you. I can't. Not now. Not in your current condition."

  I rubbed my hands over m
y face. I tried to sigh against the great weight sitting on my chest. "This has to be the most uncomfortable night I've spent with you," I said.

  "It's been no easier for me. The big issues rarely are," she said.

  "I should go," I said.

  Briallen walked from the window and left the room. I followed her down to the front hall, where she stood with the door open.

  "You'll look into my idea?" I asked.

  "Yes. I think it's a very good idea," she said. She took my head in both her hands and pulled me down to kiss me on the forehead. "We'll get through this, Connor. All of it."

  I gave her a hug. "It's so hard to be angry with you."

  She squeezed my shoulder. "Maybe you're not trying hard enough. Oh, wait a moment, I have something for you." She hurried off into the kitchen and returned in a moment with a small plastic bottle. "Here, it's for your sunburn. Use it liberally." I held the bottle up to the light. I could just make out a gel-like substance through the opaque plastic. "You made an unguent for sunburn?" I asked, surprised that she would even take the time to think of such a thing.

  She laughed. "No, love. It's aloe vera. Some things work just fine the way they are."

  Chapter 6

  In the dim light of predawn I woke with a start, my heart racing, my forehead damp. The entire night after leaving Briallen had been broken by troubled dreams. I ran from an unseen terror. I fell off buildings. I struggled up from deep chasms of water. Futilely, I would raise my arms to ward something off, or raise my voice in a broken chant, only to feel the breath leave my body. And then I would wake, my pulse pounding.

  I rolled over toward the window, kicking the sweat-damp sheets down around my feet. Outside on the harbor, a lone sailboat edged across a muddy pink horizon. The boat moved lazily, its single sail full out as it tried to catch the light wind. A dull shimmer across the water marked the path of the rising sun, the waves swelling sluggishly. I loved the water but not boats. I had learned to sail on the Charles River, but I had never particularly liked it. Sailing relied too much on chance. Even as I watched, the wind died and the sail fluttered slack. Some poor sucker out there had a long wait coming.