And now Gamelyn, a young Danann, recently arrived from parts unknown. It was too soon to have much of anything on him except he was in good health when he died. And drunk.

Annoyed, I snapped off the computer. Staring at their gutted torsos made my own chest hurt. I prowled the apartment, trying to figure the twists that lead people down me paths they take. How does anyone end up a dead whore? What loss starts the slide? Physical looks? Love? Money? Power?

I pulled off my clothes and jumped in the shower, blasting myself with hot water. The heat penetrating under my skin felt cruelly satisfying. I wanted to burn away the frustration. I turned up the water temperature to match the heat of the anger spreading over me. I could not comprehend the stupidity that drives the fey. All the power they could ever want, and they wallowed in the muck of the Weird. I've heard the reasons, if they can be called that, the mere dalliance that most of them consider the depravity they cause and find. The inconsequentiality of sex in races that rarely gave birth. The resilience of bodies that lived for centuries. I'd heard all that and more. But it all rings hollow when toted up against the waste and pain and death.

As I stood naked, my skin nearly blistering, I knew I did not want to miss a minute accorded me. Not when I had no idea if I had anything stretching beyond an average human life span. Sometimes I imagined I could feel the thing in my head, like a cancer perhaps, dividing and replicating over and over, pushing every last ounce of ability out of my body. I'd barely lived forty years, nearly a childhood for my race, but I still wanted more, while fools risk their lives for the novelty of a high or a bed. I gave myself a blast of cold water and shouted at the shock of it. The towel felt deliriously rough against my skin as I dried off. As I wrapped myself in a robe, I realized that pummeling my body with extreme temperatures was no different than the way others punished their bodies to soothe their inner emotions. It was all a matter of degree and rationality. I was just trying to feel alive. Just like them. I hated moments when I recognized my own kinship with the people who frustrated me. They only reminded me of why I loved the Weird. I made some fresh coffee and turned the computer back on.

While my ancestors had the luxury of tramping through forests and waging war to keep in shape, I had to resort to the tedium of bench-pressing three times a week. Jim's Gym was a nice little hole-in-the-wall just over the Congress Street bridge from the Weird. I liked it because I generally didn't know anyone there, it smelled like a gym, and it didn't have a juice bar. The clientele tended to be eclectic, from financiers to truck drivers, and mostly human. The common denominator was a good solid workout ethic with no prima donnas. The only mirrors at Jim's are in the locker room.

I had started working out to restore muscle tone after my hospital stay. I kept to myself, using the small weights I could manage then. It is amazing how weak lying in bed can make you. That was how I met Murdock. We'd exchanged the usual nonconversational gym etiquette before, the nods hello and shaking of heads when someone emitted gratuitous grunting. A year or so ago, in one of those fits of overreaching conceit I'm prone to way too often, I used too much weight and found myself pinned to the weight bench. In a further bit of pride, I didn't call out for help but lay there hoping I would get enough energy back to heave the bar off my chest without tipping the weights in a clatter to the floor.

Murdock's upside-down face appeared above me with just the flicker of the smirk I've since come to know too well. "Need help?"

"Yeah," I gasped, and a partnership was born. We started working out together after that, him giving me workout tips and me telling him about the fey folk. Things just progressed from there.

Friday afternoon was one of our usual workout times. I was getting off the treadmill when Murdock walked in, late as usual. He was dressed in his standard gear, regulation white T-shirt and nylon running pants. Even wearing clothes designed to sweat in, he looked freshly ironed.

We got down to it. Our routine ran smoothly, long practiced, with little conversation. Once we started working together on cases, work talk at the gym became taboo. I liked being able to get my aggressions out, not continue them. On the other hand, Murdock felt no need for such separations. He's got to be the most balanced human I've ever met. Either that, or I haven't figured out what's wrong with him yet.

Once we had showered and changed, Murdock suggested we go for an early dinner. It was unusually warm when we stepped out of the gym, so we decided to walk to the North End for Italian. The late rush-hour traffic zipped through the heart of the financial district. Some of the British fairies and German elves discovered a knack for the stock market in the early eighties and sparked a downtown renaissance of sorts. While many of the fey folk frowned upon the newfound fascination with wealth, few humans complained about the new businesses and the taxes they generated. Besides, the old parking garage in the middle of Post Office Square was now buried under a nice fairy garden and that was definitely an improvement.

We found a small restaurant off the tourist route with comfortable booths and middle-aged waitresses. Murdock liked to carbo-load after a good workout. While we were waiting for our orders, he slid an envelope over to me. Opening it, I found a police artist sketch.

"Shay's sketch?" I asked. Murdock nodded. The sketch showed a bald man, dark eyes slightly tilted, almost Asian, and a straight nose, both attributes I would have expected of several of the elven races. But his ears were smooth, not pointed, and he had full lips, which could be just about any race but elven. As usual with these sketches, the face had a crudeness about. If you squinted the right way, it would look like anyone from your next-door neighbor to the emperor of Japan.

"Not very helpful," Murdock said, as the waitress served our orders.

I dug into my pasta. "I don't know. It pretty much eliminates elves, dwarves, and trolls. And flits, of course. How old does Shay think he is?"

"If he were human, he thinks about fifty," Murdock said.

I frowned. "Fifty? For one of the fey folk to look like a human fifty, he'd have to be pretty old. Most of that generation tend to stay in Ireland or Britain. They don't like the US."

Murdock shrugged. "That fits. You said the ritual was probably old."

"When I said that, I was talking a couple of thousand years, Murdock. Fey folk that old are few and far between."

"But this eliminates elves, right? We know it's a fairy now."

It was my turn to shrug. "Like I said before, it's not likely he's human, but that doesn't mean he's not. I'm comfortable assuming he's a fairy for now, though. Keeping the stone tokens under wraps seems to be working," I said.

Murdock's lips compressed into a thin line, and he distractedly rubbed the edge of the table. "I have some bad news about the stones. We sent them to the Guild for examination. They were receipted into inventory and when I called to follow up, they said they couldn't find them. They're missing."

I looked at my watch. It was coming up on eight-thirty. No way I could get any staff on the phone this late on a Friday. "Dammit, Murdock, why didn't you tell me earlier? I could have called before everyone went home."

Murdock was silent as the waitress dropped off the check. "I was just calling to confirm they got the new one. Connor, you know how it is. They haven't told us a thing about the other stones. I don't think they even looked at them yet. I didn't tell you earlier because you'd just get pissed off, and you're annoying to work out with when I bring up work."