I took my time showering and getting dressed. I didn't want to show up at Dealle's house so early she would be angry, but not so late that she would be gone again. I didn't have to check Murdock's file to know he had tried her house at different times of day. He had even done the before-work check like I was about to. If she wasn't home, I had nothing else to do but sit on her porch until she returned. Dealle Sidhe lived in South Boston, but near enough the Weird to keep it cheap. I made my way down A Stree until I came to Second. The street had a multiple personal ity disorder. Buildings of every conceivable type had beei put up as though the neighborhood couldn't decide what I wanted to be. Blank-faced wooden houses sat next to smal warehouses with the odd chunk of row house here anc there. Most of them looked abandoned, but the closed-uj feel had more to do with protection than emptiness. People did live there, people desperate for a sense of security but without enough money to buy it. It was safer than the Weird, but a far cry from the safer sections of South Boston Windblown newspapers cluttered doorways instead of white petunias.
Dealle Sidhe's address turned out to be a wooden triple-decker townhouse. A bay window marked the living room, and a small porch fronted on the street. The upper windows were boarded. At one time, the house had been white, but it had long since gone gray, the paint peeling in sheets. A wire fence of windowpane mesh enclosed the five-foot patch of front yard.
As I opened the gate, it scraped against the chipped concrete sidewalk. At the base of the steps sat a business card. I picked it up. Murdock's. I was about to mount the steps when I noticed a second card in the grass just off the walk. A third had blown against the side fence. I looked down at the card again. No surprise she hadn't called. Looking up at the house, I wondered if she even lived here anymore. I decided to try the door, or at least leave the card more securely.
I mounted the steps. No sound came from the house. No one was home. No one at all. Murdock's file had not mentioned if Dealle had a job. It seemed incredible that four visits by two investigators had come up empty. I reached A Street again and turned the corner. In my peripheral vision, I noticed something white flutter into the gutter. I took another step and paused, looking up and down the street. A mild disorientation skittered over me, but A Street looked as it always did. I resumed walking. I went another block before abruptly turning and retracing my steps to where I had first stopped. Stooping, I picked up Murdock's card where I had dropped it. I looked down Second Street and smiled.
I returned to Dealle's house and stood at the gate. I tried to take a deep breath through my nose, but I still had too much congestion, to sense anything. I looked at Murdock's card and walked up to the steps again. No sound came from the house. No one was home. No one at all. This time I had gone only a few houses away before I realized I had left the porch. Murdock's card was still in my hand. I went back.
I stared intently at the front of the house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Some fey put small signs for those who could see, a few ogham runes scratched into the doorjamb that could be easily overlooked or perhaps herbs hanging over the door a certain way. I had even seen joke signs planted on lawns that read BEWARE OF THE TROLL. But Dealle's house looked nondescript by any of those measures. It wasn't until my eyes had passed by the woven rush doormat several times that I noticed it didn't sit quite level on the ground. A thin dark line ran along the whole front edge of the that. I was willing to bet it was a smoothly cut stone, perfect to charge as a ward. Dealle didn't want visitors. Whether it was paranoia or privacy, I was determined to find out.
The spell was elegant and subtle. Rather than bluntly repelling any intrusions, it answered a question anyone approaching would be wondering-was anyone home? Unless someone had been specifically invited, the answer was no, and to avoid any persistent knocking, the ward deflected visitors calmly on their way. Since it responded to the intent of someone approaching, I changed my intent. My question was no longer was anyone home? I assumed that. Now I had to resist the compulsion to leave. I took a deep breath and strode to the door. I made it al the way to the mat before I felt the urge to run. I pressec forward, reached out my hand, and grasped the handle ol the storm door. Over and over, the thought that no one was home beat against my mind. I held on to the door and the knowledge that Dealle was inside. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I lifted my hand to knock. I could feel nausea beginning to well up from the strain of resisting. I desperately wanted to run, but I brought my fist down firmly and banged against the door. It sounded unconscionably loud. No one answered. I shoved the thought that no one was home out of my head. I banged again and again, keeping my eyes focused on my fist around the handle. I stopped wondering if she were home, stopped caring even. The only thing that mattered was that I kept bringing my fist down.
The door opened. I almost stumbled from the release of pressure as the ward deactivated. Inside the dim hall, I could see a small figure through the cloudy glass of the storm door. I let go of the door handle and flexed my fingers to relieve the cramping. The knuckles on my other hand were bright red. At least they weren't bleeding.
"Dealle Sidhe?" I managed to say. I was practically hyperventilating.
"Yes," she said. Her voice had a soft, musical quality.
"My name is Connor Grey. I used to work for the Guild. I'm helping out the police with a case. Can I speak with you for a few minutes?"
I still couldn't see her face clearly. Without speaking, she opened the door and held it for me to enter. I stepped into the front hall. Dealle closed the door and gestured toward the parlor to the left. She was a small woman, dressed in a simple white gown, her long brunette hair tied back loosely. She seemed aged, unusual for a fairy, her face lined with worry. In the dimly lit room, her wings gave off a soft pearlescent glow as they undulated in the small draft of my passing.
"I will bring some refreshments," she said.
"That's not necessary."
She paused. "Please allow me. It will be my apology for the door," she said softly.
Four large armchairs sat in a loose circle before the fireplace. The room had a Victorian air to it, overstuffed and cluttered, but impeccably clean. Little animal figurines crowded onto several tables interspersed with clocks and candlesticks and finely wrought boxes in metal and wood. An old air conditioner labored in the side window, cooling the air enough that if you didn't move too quickly, it was comfortable. I sat in one of the chairs. I could feel a vague buzz across the back of my head. Dealle evidently had lots of spells simmering about the house.
She returned with six small crystal glasses on a tray that she placed on the buder's table in the center of the chair grouping. Primly, she sat opposite me.
"Welcome to my home." She leaned forward and picked up the glass with the water in it.
I couldn't resist smiling as I picked up the matching glass of water. She was treating me like a formal guest in the old tradition. In Boston, it was saved for special occasions. Since Convergence, it denoted a sign of class in better homes.
I downed the water. "Thank you, that was very refreshing."
She returned her own empty glass to me tray and picked up the next one with mead in it. I leaned forward and did the same.
"I hope you didn't have too much trouble finding the house." She sipped the mead more slowly than the water.
"No, it was quite easy." We both took a moment to look around. A little thrill of discovery ran over me when I noticed a picture on the mantel. It was of a man with an oddly angular face, almond-shaped eyes and completely bald. Even though it was just a head shot, he looked big. He also looked a lot like Shay's description. I wished my sinuses were clear so I could sense his essence in the house. "This room is lovely, by the way. You must spend a lot of time here."