“You know about other beheadings?” I asked.

He took a deep swig of his beer. “Rumors, mostly. People have disappeared. So many people are in hiding, it’s hard to know who’s missing and who’s just scared. My friend Sekka is missing.”

“The giantess chick from Bavaria?” Meryl asked. Zev nodded.

“Could she have taken off?” Murdock asked.

Zev shook his head. “Not Sekka. People looked to her for protection. She stood up to the Dead, and now she’s gone without a word.”

He was about to say more but paused and cocked his head to the side. The sound in the room tapered off, the loud chatter of people at the bar fading away. A bubble of silence spread from the far side of the room. People watching the pool game looked up as others wandered away from the bar. In the gap left behind, a Dead elf dressed in an old-fashioned cloak and cap came into view. He watched the reaction around him with a faint smile that looked more nervous than amused.

Meryl pursed her lips. “My guess is the elf farted.”

Behind the pool table, a door swung inward. All eyes swept to the back of the room. If there was one thing unusual to see in Yggy’s, it was the door to the office open. Heydan’s tall, wide body filled the doorframe. He’s run Yggy’s for as long as anyone can remember. No one crossed Heydan. It was hard to say what kind of fey he was—tall enough for a Teutonic giant, but his essence resonated differently, something more organic or primal, like a forest or a lake.

He waited until everyone focused their attention on him. When they did, he moved with a grace that belied his size. The halogen lights gleamed across his bald head, shadows throwing into relief the high-ridged bones that bulged under his skin from his temples and back around his ears. People said Heydan didn’t come out of his office because he could hear everything he needed to from inside. With a head like that, I believed it.

He stopped opposite the Dead elf and rested his hands on the surface of the old wooden bar. His deep-set brown eyes examined the elf as if he were a piece of produce. No expression showed on his pale, stern face as he lifted a hand in a gesture that took in the room. “This is Yggy’s. All are welcome. No steel or stone, no staff or stench of essence. Words may start things here, but fists end them elsewhere. All are welcome who abide. Do you abide?”

For all his status as Dead, the elf paled with fear. He laid a hand across his heart and bowed. “It would be my pleasure, good innkeeper.”

“I am not an innkeeper. I watch and listen. Tell your brethren all are welcome who abide,” Heydan said. Without waiting for a response, he retraced his steps. He hesitated when he drew even with our booth and looked at me. An eyebrow twitched as he broke his gaze. He glanced down at Meryl, a brief smile breaking his firm face, and he caressed the top of her head as he passed. The office door closed behind him with an audible click. The room broke into a babble of sound.

We all stared at Meryl. She pursed her lips. “I suggest no one else try that,” she said.

Zev made a sharp noise in his strange lump of a nose. “Even the one who watches allows the Dead to roam.”

“That’s what he does, Zev. He watches,” said Meryl.

Curious, Murdock craned his head toward the office door. “What is he watching?”

Meryl shrugged. “I have no idea, but he doesn’t let 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.

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 cursing spell. The horse skull at the top of the staff was long gone, but everyone assumed the curse still existed. Throwing bad vibes at each other was standard procedure for the Guild and the Consortium.

Uniformed elves guarded the doors and sidewalk in front of the building. A month earlier, they had stood guard inside the lobby, but after the rioting on Boston Common on Samhain, everyone had beefed up their security. The Guild and the Consortium worried about the growingly antagonistic human population as much as they did each other.