Mark Del Franco - Connor Grey 02 - Unquiet Dreams.pdf - BOOKS - SiriusBlack4

Praise for

unshapely things

“It will pull you along a corkscrew of twists and turns to a final, cataclysmic battle that could literally

remake the world.”

—Rob Thurman, national bestselling author ofMadhouse

“Masterfully blends detective thriller with fantasy…a fast-paced thrill ride…Del Franco never pauses the

action…and Connor Grey is a very likable protagonist. The twisting action and engaging lead make

Unshapely Things hard to put down.”

—BookLoons

“The intriguing cast of characters keeps the readers involved with the mystery wrapped up in the

fantasy…I look forward to spending more time with Connor in the future and learning more about him

and his world.”

—Gumshoe

“A wonderfully written, richly detailed, and complex fantasy novel with twists and turns that make it

unputdownable…Mr. Del Franco’s take on magic and paranormal elements is fresh and intriguing.

Connor Grey’s an appealing hero bound to delight fantasy and paranormal romance fans alike.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“Compelling and fast paced…The world-building is superb…Fans of urban fantasy should get a kick

out of book one in this new series.”

—Romantic Times

“A very impressive start. The characters were engaging and believable, and the plot was intriguing. I

found myself unable to put it down until I had devoured it completely, and I’m eagerly looking forward to

the sequel.”

—Book Fetish

“A wonderful, smart, and action-packed mystery involving dead faeries, political intrigue, and maybe a

plot to destroy humanity…Unshapely Thingshas everything it takes to launch a long-running series, and

I’m very excited to see what Del Franco has in store next for Connor Grey and his friends.”

—Bookslut

unquiet dreams

mark del franco

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a

division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of

Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel

Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,

New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24

Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over

and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

UNQUIET DREAMS

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation

of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375

Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-4295-5801-6

ACE

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

To my sister Michele, who is brave and strong.

And to my partner, Jack Custy, who isn’t fazed anymore

when I ask where my guillotine is.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

acknowledgments

Many culprits contributed their time, energy, and ideas to make this book the best it can be. Front and

center are Anne Sowards, my editor, whose enthusiasm and insight know no bounds; my kickin’ agent,

Rachel Vater, who knows her stuff and gives excellent feedback and support; Cameron Dufty, Ace

editorial assistant, who keeps the wheels turning; Sara and Bob Schwager, copyeditors extraordinaire,

who have to deal with strange new words and the hyphens that love them (or not); and, of course, all the

folks at Ace Books.

Publishing my first novel has given me the pleasure of meeting many new people, notably Melissa Marr

and Jeaniene Frost, sage advisors and wicked friends, and the friends and colleagues from the

LiveJournal online community of Fangs_Fur_Fey. It’s been inspiring seeing their works and getting to

know them as well as all the readers who took the time to come to a signing, drop a note, write a review,

and pass the word. Many, many thanks to all of you.

Big thanks to my sisters and parents, who are secretly publicity machines in their spare time.

Special thanks to Kelley Horton for her emergency photography and friendship with that guy who used

to work down the hall.

And lastly but not leastly, thanks to Francine Woodbury, who had the pleasure of telling me when the

manuscript went Horribly, Horribly Wrong, prompting me to revise it in record time. This book literally

would not exist if not for her astute, yet evil, eye.

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams

—W. B. Yeats

No good phone calls come at seven o’clock in the morning. Strike that. No good phone calls from

Detective Leonard Murdock come at seven o’clock in the morning. Actually, strike that, too. No good

phone calls from Detective Leonard Murdock come at seven o’clock in the morning unless you count the

fact that it means I might have a paying job. Of course, it also means someone is dead, too, but that’s

where the “no good” part comes in.

That’s how I make my living now. Waiting for the phone to ring. Hoping a crime has been committed.

Ideally, one that Murdock needs a little fey expertise on. Some people make the mistake of thinking I

used to be a high-powered druid working the crime unit for the Fey Guild. The only “used-to-be” part of

that is working for the Guild. I’m still Connor Grey, druid. Just because I’ve lost most of my abilities

doesn’t mean I am not what I am. To be fey, to be a member of a species that can manipulate what is

superstitiously called magic, is not just a job description. It’s a state of being.

And my current state of being was in the backseat of a cab wishing I had a cup of coffee. Murdock had

given me an address in the deep end of the Weird. The Weird is not the nicest neighborhood in Boston.

It’s certainly not the safest. But it’s where the fey live when they have nowhere else to go. There’s a

comfort in that, a community of sorts, that outsiders don’t understand. Especially when so many people

end up dead here.

The cab pulled off Old Northern Avenue onto a narrow lane that ran between two burnt-out

warehouses. A block away, the lane ended at a desolate field with a small group of people wandering

about, which, given the early hour, could only be my destination. I paid the driver, got out, and shivered.

It was cold—too cold for early October and much colder than when I got in the cab just a few blocks

away. I looked up at the sky and sensed more than saw a faint white haze in the air that was by no means

natural.

The early morning sun cast a surreal light, bleaching colors like a faded photograph. At the curb, a police

car with its blue lights flashing enhanced the effect with a silvery sheen. Across the field from where I

stood, the officers’ uniforms looked almost black and the medical examiner’s coat a stark white. I

recognized Murdock immediately by his long trench coat even though it appeared pale beige instead of

its normal camel color. The field looked ashen.

I stepped across the remains of a sidewalk and walked toward them. It had rained like hell the night

before, and while the field should have been muddy, it was now an uneven surface of frozen ruts. I made

my way to the center of activity, a body in dark clothing lying on the ground.

Murdock didn’t see me until I was standing next to him. “Bit nippy,” I said.

He didn’t startle, but smiled slightly as he cupped his hands over his mouth and blew into them. “That’s

part of why I called you.”

I nodded. As a human, Murdock has no fey abilities, but he’s worked the Weird long enough to know

when something is, well, weird. He’s good at what he does, and part of what makes him good is that he

knows when to ask for help. It’s a lesson I’m still learning.

I bunched my own cold hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. It didn’t occur to me when I left the

apartment that I’d need gloves in early October. “What do you have?”

He gestured at the obvious body. “Tell me why I called you.”

I stepped away from him, then between another officer and the medical examiner. On first glance at the

body, my chest tightened. “Dammit, Murdock, you could have warned me it was a kid.”

“Late teens, we’re guessing. Haven’t checked for ID yet,” he said.

The cop standing next to me nodded without saying anything. When you’re with law enforcement, you

see a lot of things you’d rather not. Dead kids are the worst. The younger they are, the worse it is. Even

if this guy—this boy—turned out to be eighteen or nineteen, he still had a helluva lot of life to miss out on.

And his parents, if he had them, were still going to be heartbroken. Telling the parents is the

second-worst thing about it.

I put that aside for now and took in the scene. Lying faceup was a white male with dark brown hair,

obviously young, with a pained grimace locked on his face. His head angled up too sharply to one side,

which probably meant a broken neck. His arms and legs splayed out haphazardly. One foot had an

orange Nike sneaker, the other just a plain white sock. He wore two hooded black sweatshirts,

generic-looking jeans, and a bright yellow bandana on his head. The bandana was wrapped so that

knotted ends stuck out from his temples. At a guess, I’d go with gangbanger. So far, unremarkable.

I swept my eyes up and down the body again. His clothes were frozen. That meant he was out in the

rain long enough to get soaked before the air got cold enough to freeze him. And the mud around him.

He was embedded in it, sunk a good two or three inches into the ground.

I scanned the periphery of the body and gazed outward in concentric circles as I turned. “He ended up

here before the mud froze, but there’re no footprints and no indication he was dragged. No sign of a

struggle.”

“Bingo,” said Murdock. “Tossed or dropped?”

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