"Yes, I do. The streets are not safe." She replaced the empty mead glass and picked up the whiskey. She raised the glass. "Slainte."

"To your health as well," I said and sipped the whiskey. Jameson's. Gods love the Irish.

"How may I help you?" Dealle asked.

"I'd like to ask you about your son."

Her eyes went down to her glass. "Has he caused some trouble?"

Well, that answered whether he was alive. "Is he at home?"

She shook her head. "No, he's at school. Well, we call it school. It's more of an institution."

"Is he ill?"

Her eyes met mine. The old fey make unnerving eye contact. They have a stillness and patience about them that comes with unimaginable age. Dealle's eyes had a flicker of defensiveness behind them as well. "I believe the phrase current these days is 'mentally challenged. I suppose that's an improvement. A couple of decades ago, they officially called him a moron."

"Is his father here?"

She did look away then. "His father is… German. I have not seen or heard from him in years."

"Dealle, I don't mean to embarrass you, but by German, do you mean elfin?"

She nodded. "When I discovered I was with child, I was ecstatic. I had never had a child. I knew there were risks involved for a child of an elf and a fairy, but I was willing to take them. When Corcan was born, the way he is, his father left."

"How long has he been hospitalized?"

"He's not. It's a day program, five days a week at the Children's Institute near Day Boulevard. He's functional, but needs supervision. They teach him basic skills, and he gets to play with other children."

"Children? He's an adult about fifty years old, isn't he?"

She smiled coldly. "What's fifty years to me but a flicker of time? He's a child and has the mind of a child."

"Does he ever go out alone?"

"Just to and from school."

"Never any other time? Not at night, maybe, after you've gone to sleep?"

She hesitated an awfully long time. "No." She gestured toward the front door. "There is more than one ward in this house." Since she was being so forthcoming, I decided not to point out that I had overcome one of her wards. Someone with ability would have an even easier time.

"Has his behavior changed recently?"

"Why are you here, Connor Grey?"

She caught me being sloppy. I hadn't planned the interview out. I was hoping I would show up, recognize the killer's essence, and call Murdock. As it was, I couldn't very well say to this woman I thought her son was a psycho killer with absolutely no evidence. "I'm doing background research into cross-species progeny. It may be connected to a case I'm working. If I could have a better understanding of the behavior of such individuals, it might be predictive of future behavior."

She leaned farther back in her chair. "What kind of behavior?"

"Given my profession, it shouldn't surprise you I'm interested in aggression. Specifically, aggression as it relates to fey abilities."

"My son has hurt no one." I didn't like the harder tone her voice was taking. I was clearly treading on mother-bear territory.

"I didn't say that, Dealle. But since you've brought it up, what can you tell me about Corcan's abilities?"

She shrugged. "I've been told he has a strong essence, but he doesn't understand that. When he's angry or upset, rooms tend to get a little overturned. The Institute is working on that. He's never hurt anyone."

"May I see his room?"

The question startled her, and she didn't immediately respond. "I suppose. Why?"

I shrugged. "It's nothing. I'd just like to see the environment he spends time in."

She rose from her chair and led me back into the hall. Corcan's room was the first bedroom on the left. A large bed took up most of the floor space. It had a bright red comforter with racing cars on it. A straight-backed wooden chair stood against the wall by the door and beneath the window on the opposite side was a small chest of drawers. The walls were vibrant yellow and white painted in Celtic spirals. Centered on each wall, up near the ceiling, pentagrams had been stenciled in blue. They were later additions. The spirals flowed behind them.

I pointed. "Whose pentagrams are those?"

"They help him focus when he's upset. He doesn't understand it has to do with ability. We're teaching him how to channel his aggression into calmness. It didn't seem to work at first, but his caregiver kept adding pentagrams. Now there is one wherever he turns. It seems to help."

I nodded and walked to the chest of drawers. Resting my hand lightly on a handle, I looked at Dealle. "May I?" Annoyance crossed her face, but she nodded. I went through each drawer. The top held some nonsense toys hidden beneath several pairs of underwear. The next drawer held shirts and the bottom, pants. All of it was neatly folded. I made sure not to disturb anything.

I closed the last drawer and opened the closet without asking this time. More clothing hung neatly, and a few pairs of shoes lined up perfectly against the back wall. The shelf across the top held sweaters. Dealle obviously kept close tabs on her son. No hearts in bottles. I didn't think there would be.

"Are there any other places your son might keep things?" I asked.

She shook her head. "He's not allowed in the living room. Mostly he plays in here, watches TV in the kitchen, or plays in the yard."

"May I see the yard?"

She led me farther down the hall to the kitchen and pointed at the back door. I looked out the multi-paned window to see a tiny, blacktopped space with a basketball hoop. A couple of balls sat on the ground, and a bicycle was chained to the back fence. Nothing out of the ordinary. No shed to hide things. No turf to bury things. I could feel another nasty buzz at the base of my skull. Another ward must be hidden under the back doormat.

I looked around the kitchen. Again nothing unusual. The place hadn't seen a remodeling in fifty years. White chunky wooden cabinets with metal drawer pulls. Glass-fronted upper cabinets with plates, cups, and bowls all neatly stacked on the shelves. Next to the hallway entrance was a closed door.

"Do you have a basement?"

"He doesn't go down there. He's afraid of the dark."

We stood uncomfortably in the cool white of the overhead fluorescent light. Nothing fit. Corcan didn't sound like serial killer material, but there had to be a reason Dealle Sidhe's name was in macDuin's files. "Dealle, why did the Guild contact you last fall?"

She looked at me curiously. "They didn't. I contacted them." She pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. "I thought they could help."

That took me by surprise. "With what?"

She hugged herself as an old anxiety creased her face. "Corky didn't come home from school on time one day. When he didn't show up by nightfall, I went looking for him but couldn't find him. I called the police and the Guild. Neither was particularly helpful. It didn't matter anyway. Corky showed up the next day in front of the house. He was scared and confused. He had taken a wrong turn and got lost."

"Was there any change in his behavior after that?"

She shrugged. "Nothing surprising. He was afraid to go out by himself for a while."

"And when was this exactly?"

"Last September. I don't remember the date. It was the last week of the month."

I nodded. The selenite stones had gone missing shortly before that. Not to mention that Belgor's strange customer had shown up around then, too. The stones aspect of the case was starting to tie together. "You seem quite adept with wards, Dealle. Do you ever work with selenite?"

Her eyes narrowed at me. "It's an old stone to work with. I don't care much for the power of the Moon. It's the work of secrets and sunderings."

Personally, I couldn't argue with her. Moon-work was mostly women's. I never had much success with it myself. Give me the Sun and a sharp edge any day.