Unperfect Souls by Mark Del Franco Read Free Book Online Page A

anyone interfere.”
    “The Dead are doing the beheadings,” Zev said, returning to what we’d been discussing before the Dead elf showed up. “They’ve been hanging at the old Helmet. They call it Hel now.”
    “The corpse we saw was a Dead guy. Why would they kill their own?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “Death is a game to them. I don’t care what they do to each other. But now they’re going after solitaries, and the police and the Guild aren’t doing anything about it. No one misses solitaries.”
    “How many, Zev?” I asked.
    He leveled his white gaze at me. “How many do you need?”
    I frowned. “It makes a difference in how to approach an investigation, Zev. Get the chip off your shoulder.”
    “Four that I know of.”
    Meryl downed her beer. “The Dead are playing the same games they played in TirNaNog. Dying is an inconvenience if you just wake up again the next day. I think we’re seeing a power struggle.”
    “Why do you think that?” I asked.
    She twirled her glass. “The missing head. Someone’s playing for keeps. Without the head, the Dead can’t regenerate.”
    With a smug look, Zev hunched over his bottle. “We don’t have to hide from someone who can’t regenerate.”
    I had a feeling that what decapitation meant to the Dead wasn’t news to Zev. “Sounds to me like some solitaries have figured out a way to level the playing field for themselves,” I said.
    It didn’t bode well for anyone.

5
     
     
     
     
    Meryl didn’t come home with me, which wasn’t always a given. Probably a good thing, considering that Eorla Kruge, the Teutonic representative on the Guildhouse board of directors, projected herself into my dreams that night. I knew it wasn’t an ordinary dream because the vision was wrapped in Eorla’s body signature. Damned surprising to have a beautiful elven woman appear asking me to come see her, especially when she’d neglected to wear clothing. I can’t say it wasn’t arousing.
    I stared at the meager collection of clothes in my closet. It seemed only courteous to dress up a little more than normal. Eorla’s status as elven royalty played only a small role in the decision. She knew I wasn’t thrilled about monarchies and wouldn’t expect full court regalia from me anyway. Where some people—like my former Guild partner Keeva macNeve—reveled in the antiquated system, Eorla was more indifferent to it all. Still, she was a business-woman, so worn-out jeans with holes in them weren’t appropriate. A clean pair of black dress slacks and a black turtleneck would work.
    I left myself plenty of time to get to the Consortium consulate in Back Bay, so I could take the T instead of a cab. The Boston subway system wasn’t the fastest in the world, but it worked, and I didn’t have to tip anyone. Money was still not my best friend. At least, it neglected to show up when invited.
    Copley Square was bustling with shoppers. December brought a gift-giving holiday to the fey as well as humans. Which meant it was the time of year when people argued over whose holiday first included decorated evergreen trees or whose deity laid claim to an actual birthday and on and on and on. Me, I liked exchanging sweaters. Boston is too damned cold in the winter.
    Not far outside the square, a tall, slender statue of Donor Elfenkonig, the Elven King, guarded the Teutonic Consortium consulate on Commonwealth Avenue. The Teutonic fey may have respected their warrior-king, but they also feared him. Donor’s rule was driven by dominance over his competitors and opposition to High Queen Maeve at Tara. For years while I worked for the Guild, I spent time in counterintelligence against his operatives.
    A vapor of pale essence drifted off the statue and floated in the direction of the Guildhouse across town. I never noticed it before. It was so subtle I doubted many other fey could see it. It wouldn’t surprise anyone, though. Once upon a time, the statue had included a niding pole with a