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"Frost?"
"I am sure Rhys has seen worse than I. I was not alive during the very first battles when our people fought the Firbolgs."
I knew the Firbolgs were the first semidivine inhabitants of the British Isles and Ireland. I knew that my ancestors had defeated them and won the right to be the new rulers of the lands. It was several thousand years of history away; that I knew. What I hadn't known was that Rhys was older than Frost, older than most of the sidhe. That Rhys was one of the first of us to come to the isles now thought to be the original home of all sidhe. "Rhys is older than you are?"
"Yes."
I looked at Rhys.
He suddenly seemed very interested in driving.
"Rhys?"
"Yes," he said, looking straight ahead. He maneuvered a curve a little too fast, so he'd have to play with the wheel.
"How much older are you than Frost?"
"I don't remember." His voice held a plaintive note.
"Yes, you do."
He glanced at me. "No, I don't. It's been too long, Merry. I don't remember what year Frost was born." He sounded grumpy now.
"Do you remember what year you were born?" I asked Frost.
He seemed to think about it, then shook his head. "Not really. Rhys is right on one thing. After a time it simply is too long to think about."
"Are you saying you all begin to lose parts of your memories?"
"No," Frost said, "but it no longer becomes important what year you were born. You know that we do not celebrate our birthdays."
"Well, yes, but I never really thought about why."
I turned back to Rhys. His face looked almost grim. "So you've seen worse than back there at the club, restaurant, whatever?"
"Yes." The word was very short, clipped.
"If I asked you to tell me about it, would you?"
"No," he said.
There is no that can be worn down to yes, then there is NO. Rhys's no was one of those.
I left it alone. Besides, I wasn't sure I wanted stories today about awful deaths, especially if that death was worse than what we'd just walked through. It was the most dead I'd ever seen, and more than I'd ever wanted to see.
"I'll respect your wishes."
He glanced at me almost as if he didn't trust me. "That's big of you."
"No need to be snide, Rhys."
He shrugged. "Sorry, Merry, I'm just not feeling particularly good right now."
"I thought I was the only one having trouble handling this."
"It's not the bodies that bothered me," Rhys said. "It's the fact that the lieutenant is wrong. It wasn't gas or poison, or anything like that."
"What do you mean, Rhys? What did you see that I didn't?"
Frost leaned back away from my seat.
"Okay, what did you both see that I didn't see?"
Rhys kept staring at the road. There was silence from the backseat.
"Someone talk to me," I said.
"You seem to be feeling better," Frost said.
"I am. There's nothing like getting a little angry to get you through things. Now what did you two see there that I missed?"
"You were shielding too hard to see anything mystical," Rhys said.
"You bet I was. Do you know how much metaphysical crap there is in a place where you've had a recent murder, let alone a mass execution? There are a lot of spirits that are attracted to sites like that. They flock like vultures to feed on the remaining living, feeding off their horror, their sorrow. You can go clean into a place like that and come out covered in riders."
"We know what the spirits that fly the air can do," Frost said.
"Probably better than I do," I said, "but you're sidhe and you don't get riders."
"We don't get small ones," Frost said, "but I have seen others of our kind nearly possessed by incorporeal beings. It does happen, especially if someone works with dark magic."
"Well, I'm human enough that I'll pick up things casually. I don't have to do a thing to attract them except not shield well enough."
"You tried to sense as little as possible while you were there," Rhys said.
"I am a private detective, not a professional psychic. I'm not even a professional magician or witch. I had no business being there today. I couldn't help."
"You could have helped if you'd let your shields down just a little," Rhys said.
"Fine, I'll try to be braver next time. Now what did you see?"
Frost sighed loudly enough for me to hear him. "I could feel the remnants of a powerful spell, very powerful. It clung in stinging echoes to the place."
"Could you sense it as soon as we got inside?"
"No, I did not wish to touch the dead, so I searched with other senses besides touch and vision. I, as you say, dropped my shields. It was then that I sensed the spell."
"Do you know what spell it was?" I asked. I'd turned in my seat enough to see him shake his head.
"I do." Rhys's voice turned me back around to him.
"What did you say?"
"Anyone who concentrated could have sensed the remains of magic. Merry could have seen it, if she'd wanted to."
"It would have told her nothing, as it told me nothing," Frost said, "but it would have made it harder for her to endure what she saw."
"I'm not arguing that," Rhys said. "What I mean is that I got down and looked at the bodies. Nine of them dropped where they stood, but the rest had time to fight, to be afraid, to try to run. But they didn't run like they'd run if, say, wild animals had attacked them. They didn't go for the doors, or break a window, not as soon as they saw what was happening. It's as if they couldn't see anything."
"You speak in riddles," Frost said.
"Yeah, plain English, Rhys, please."
"What if they didn't run because they didn't realize that anything was in the room?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Most humans can't see spirits of any kind."
"Yeah, but if you're implying that spirits, noncorporeal beings killed everybody at the club, then I can't agree. Noncorporeal beings, riders, whatever, they don't have the... physical oomph to take out that many people like that. They might be able to do one person who was very susceptible to their influence, but even that's debatable."
"Not noncorporeal beings, Merry, but a different kind of spirit."
I blinked at him. "You mean, what, ghosts?"
He nodded.
"Ghosts don't do things like this, Rhys. They might be able to scare someone into a heart attack, if the person had a weak heart, but that's it. Real ghosts don't harm people. If you get true physical damage, then you're dealing with something other than ghosts."
"It depends on what kind of ghosts you're talking about, Merry."
"What do you mean by that? There is only one kind of ghost."
He glanced at me then, having to turn his head almost completely around because of the eye patch. He often glanced at me when he drove, but it was a movement without meaning because his right eye was gone; he couldn't see me. Now, he made the effort to look at me with his left eye. "You know so much."
I'd always assumed Rhys was one of the younger sidhe, because he never made me feel like I was in the wrong century. He was one of the few who had a house outside the faerie mound, electricity, a license. Now he looked at me as if I were a child and would never understand.
"Stop that," I said.
He turned back to the road. "Stop what?"
"I hate it when any of you give me that look, the look that says I'm so young and I couldn't possibly understand what you've experienced. Well, fine, I'll never be a thousand years old, but I'm over thirty, and by human standards I'm not a child. Please don't treat me like one."
"Then stop acting like one," he said, and his voice was full of reproach, again like a disappointed teacher. I got enough of that from Doyle. I didn't need it from Rhys.
"How did I act like a child? Because I wouldn't drop shields and see all that horror?"