“They felt pretty real when they tried to kill us in TirNaNog,” I said.
He shook his head. “You know I don’t understand all this essence stuff, but I’ve read enough about psychology to know it’s possible to see—and feel—stuff that’s not real. I’ve seen crowds panic for no reason except that one person did. Maybe between essence and the Taint and mass hysteria, these Dead folks aren’t really there.”
“Murdock, I saw you pulled into the air. You experienced it independently of me. How can we both hallucinate the same phenomenon that neither of us ever experienced before?”
He scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know.”
“I’m no psychologist, but maybe you’re having some kind of denial reaction to what happened. Maybe you should talk to someone.”
He frowned. “I know what happened, Connor. I don’t need a shrink.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve seen you do when it comes to the fey, Leo, it’s keep an open mind. This isn’t like you.”
He rubbed his hands against his thighs. “Maybe one Murdock mind is closing and another one is opening.”
“I have no idea what that means,” I said.
“My father is sleeping with Moira Cashel,” he said.
I blinked several times. “Um . . . did hell just freeze over?” He shook his head. “Murdock, I do not believe your father is sleeping with a powerful druidess. He hates the fey.”
Murdock snorted. “Sex and hypocrisy go hand in hand, don’t they?”
I gnawed at my lower lip, thinking. “Still, your father? I can’t wrap my head around it.”
“He was evasive the other night. I got curious and followed him when he went out. I thought he was having dinner with her again. He went to a hotel in Burlington. She met him in the lobby, and they went upstairs. It didn’t look like he stayed for dinner when he came out.”
Burlington was a small town north of the city. Not the place anyone would look for the Boston police commissioner or the High Queen’s Herbalist. “What do you think it means?”
He shook his head. “I can’t even begin to guess.”
“Why are you bringing this up? You still haven’t said what happened to you last night, Leo.”
He looked out the window again. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but I want your word you won’t tell anyone else.”
“You don’t even have to ask,” I said.
He inhaled deeply and sighed. “A green light fell on me like a wave. Something grabbed me and dragged me into the air. I felt weightless, tumbling and falling, then rising again. All kinds of people and strange animals surrounded me, tossing me back and forth, laughing and screaming. I thought I was losing my mind. I started to pray. There was this loud shout, and someone threw me higher. Someone else caught me. She wrapped her arms around me and held me up. They say as you die, you see the people who went before you, welcoming you to heaven.”
Murdock paused, looking down at his hands. He frowned and gazed out the window. “She looked like my mother, Connor. The woman holding me looked like my mother.”
My mind went blank. “Wow. I don’t know what to say, Murdock. You never talk about your mother.”
He remained silent for so long, I thought he was going to change the subject again. “She was killed in a traffic accident after Kevin was born. My mother was Catholic, Connor. We had a funeral mass. We buried her. What happened last night leaves me with two choices: Either everything that’s been happening is fey essence manipulating our minds, or everything I believe about God and heaven and hell is a lie. I’m not going to lose my faith over this. The one thing I do know? The moment I started praying, the craziness stopped. I think God sent me a message to help me keep my faith.”
What do you say to someone who has a religious epiphany? It didn’t happen? A few months earlier, I met a drys, which druids consider the manifestation of the power of the oak. A demigoddess. I couldn’t say it didn’t affect me profoundly, that my secular agnosticism wasn’t rocked. But I still had my doubts. Reason told me the drys might be just another fey, an extremely rare and powerful one, but fey. Despite my rational mind, the faith I was raised in clouded the issue. I wanted to believe, dammit, but I still preferred to know.
I took a deep breath. “Murdock, I’m not going to disagree with you. That’s the whole point of religion, isn’t it? That we don’t know? I’ve been asking myself those kinds of things all my life. If you found your answer, that’s cool. I don’t think my worldview and your faith are an either/or proposition, but maybe you’re further along that path than me.”
A subtle change settled over Murdock, a release of tension in his body, like maybe he had been thinking I was going to argue with him or didn’t believe him. I didn’t blame him. For one thing, I’m not shy about my opinions. For another, he probably couldn’t help but feel defensive after telling me he thought God saved him from the crazy fey people.
His father was another matter. Leo and the commissioner might try to work out their differences on a lot of things, but the fey were something they would never agree on. Scott Murdock’s odd interest in Moira Cashel had to do with more than sex. The question was, which of them was playing the other.
Murdock pulled some folder across his desk. “Let’s review the file.”
23
Murdock and I spent the remainder of the day alternately discussing why the Dead attacked the solitaries in such a strange manner and why Murdock wouldn’t go to Avalon Memorial. Of the two topics, Murdock preferred the former and I the latter. Despite my acute sensing ability, I never had much ability in the healing arts. To my senses, Murdock seemed fine, but I worried. Our work partnership was getting to the point where Murdock’s human nature put him at risk when working with the fey, and our friendship was making that harder for me to watch. I felt responsible for his strange acquisition of a body shield. I was afraid of what more might happen to him if I couldn’t protect him better.
But Murdock was Murdock. I’d call him stubborn, but that would be disrespectable to what was really his resolve. He assessed situations and made decisions with firm resolution. As far as he was concerned, he was fine, he would be fine, and until something indicated otherwise, he would continue as he was. That didn’t stop my anxiety about him. So, when I went home while Murdock went to check in at the station house, I called Briallen ab Gwyll, my childhood mentor and one of the finest healers in the fey world. Without argument, she agreed to an impromptu dinner with friends to see if my fears about Murdock had any foundation.
A light snow fell as I walked up Park Street to Beacon Hill. Against the early-evening sky, white lights glowed along the architectural trim of the old brick statehouse, its gold dome shining under spotlights. Along the edges of Boston Common, multicolored lights filled the branches of old elm trees. The scene had a classic New England charm, except for the darkness on top of the small hill where the war monument used to be, replaced now by a smooth granite pillar, a muted bone white finger against the night sky.
The pillar had once stood in the center of a giant circle of stones in TirNaNog. On Samhain, the pillar ripped through from the Land of Dead, and it remained after the veil between worlds closed. In the chaos of that night, trees were destroyed, leaving the top of the hill bare. Since then, gargoyles had gathered around the pillar.
The city granted the Guild jurisdiction over the site to figure out if it was dangerous. No one was allowed near it, especially fey who were not authorized. Another restriction. The citizen group that maintained the landscaping was pretty ticked off, too.
Briallen lived on Louisburg Square behind the statehouse. The exclusive address had its share of business executives and politicians who called it home. These days, I imagined that they were less than pleased to have a powerful druidess living in their midst. Screw ’em. Briallen had lived there since before most of them had been born and, if anything, kept the place safe from both human and fey shenanigans.