A Local Habitation

ELEVEN

I ONLY CAUGHT A GLIMPSE of what was in the room before I yanked Jan back into the hall, slamming the door behind her. “Peter,” she said, staring at the door. “That was Peter.”

“I thought you didn’t have any night vision. How can you be sure?”

“No one else in this company has wings.”

“Damn.” I looked back toward the door. “I need to go in there.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Jan asked, frowning.

“Without backup?” asked Quentin.

“I need to see the body, and that means I need to get the generators back up. How do I do that?” Death doesn’t bother me, but murder makes me edgy, and my lack of weaponry suddenly felt like a potentially fatal mistake. If we got back to the hotel alive, I wasn’t coming here again without my knife and the baseball bat. And maybe a tank, if I could find one fast enough.

“Right.” Jan sighed. “There’s an orange switch on the second box inside the door. If there’s any gas left in the generators, you should be able to force them back online by flipping the switch, waiting thirty seconds, and flipping it again.”

“Okay.” Looking to Quentin, I said, “Stay here. If you see anything out of the ordinary or anyone acting strangely, grab Jan and run; I’ll catch up. Understand?”

“Yes,” he said. If he disapproved of my orders, he wasn’t showing it.

Jan looked like she was going to argue, but quieted when I glared at her. She was starting to display signs of sense.

“Good,” I said, before opening the generator room door and stepping inside.

The room was dark, lit only by a small, thick-glassed window, and looked deserted. That didn’t mean there was nothing in the room with me—just that anything that might be hiding in those shadows knew how to be quiet. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t such a positive thinker.

I paused, scanning the shadows while my eyes adjusted. I caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of one eye and whirled. There was nothing there. The “motion” was just the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the window and glinting along the edge of a steel girder. I stopped, taking a shuddery breath.

Finding the second generator from the door wasn’t hard: I inched along the wall until my thigh hit something sharp, stepped back, and then inched forward again until I hit something else. I wasn’t willing to move away from the wall; Peter was a dark blur at the center of the floor, and I didn’t want to step on him by mistake.

I was jumpier than I thought. I groped around until I found the panel with the switches; figuring out which one to flip was harder. The longer I stood there, the shakier I was getting, and Jan and Quentin were in the hall alone and unarmed. Time mattered. I settled for flipping the largest switch I could find, waiting thirty seconds and flipping it again. My heart thudded in my ears like a steel drum until the sound of the generator revving drowned it out. The engine coughed twice, turned over—and the lights came back on. I almost immediately wished that they hadn’t.

Peter was on his back, barely recognizable as the man we met when we arrived. Death had finally removed his human disguise. He was four feet tall, with delicate antennae and feathered gray hair, lying on a blanket made by his own gray-and-green wings. He’d been a Cornish Pixie, almost the only pixie breed large enough to interact with the bulk of Faerie as an equal.

Well, he wasn’t going to be doing anything as an equal anymore: he wasn’t going to be arguing about whether Klingon was a language, or confusing visiting changelings by wearing a human disguise when everyone else had shed theirs. It was starting to look like the ALH retirement plan was “get found dead in the back room.” Punctures broke his skin at the wrists and throat, dispelling the illusion that he was only sleeping. He was never going to wake up.

I knelt, touching his throat, and winced as I felt the lingering warmth of his skin. Blood and a thin film of dust covered my fingers: pixie-sweat. That gave me a time of death. Pixies stop “dusting” when they die, and the glittery traces they leave behind dissolve quickly. He couldn’t have been dead when the lights went out, or the pixie-sweat would have already faded.

The lights came back up too easily to have been sabotaged, but it made no sense for whoever had killed Peter to have also killed the power. The body would have gone undiscovered for hours, maybe even days, if we hadn’t needed to restart the generator. The killer could have had time to make a clean run of it . . . unless they knew that turning off the generators would lead us to the body, and were hoping to lead me—or maybe Jan—straight to Peter. This could have been a trap or a sick display. And, either way, someone wanted us to find the body.

Things were not looking up.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, sampling the blood. Pixie-sweat masked the normal copper taste in a veil of ashes and burnt sugar, cloying, but no more unpleasant than usual. I wasn’t hoping for much, and I wasn’t disappointed. There was nothing in the blood—no life, no memory, nothing. It was empty.

The room only had the one door, plus the small, heavy-glassed window: logically, no one could have left once I was inside. Unfortunately, we were in a faerie knowe, where logic didn’t always apply. I stood, backing out of the room and closing the door behind me. Peter could wait a while—the dead are patient. “Quentin?”

“Here,” he said.

Good. I hadn’t left them to be slaughtered. Pulling the door shut, I turned. “He’s dead.”

Quentin nodded. “Now what?”

“Now we start to work.” I turned toward Jan. “Is there any other way into this room?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Just the one door.”

“Could April have gone inside without using it?”

“Not while the power was out,” said Jan firmly.

“Right. Quentin, set the wards.” He turned to blink at me, surprised. I smiled thinly. “Call it practice.” Practice, and avoiding a headache. As a pureblooded Daoine Sidhe, Quentin’s wards would be stronger than mine, and they’d cost him a lot less.

Nodding with sudden enthusiasm, Quentin stepped over to the closed door and raised his hands. The smell of steel and fresh-blooming heather rose around him, and the outline of the door flashed red, then white. Lowering his hands, he turned to look to me, as if for approval. I flashed him a thumbs-up, and he beamed, looking briefly, deeply, pleased. That was apparently exactly what he’d wanted. At least one of us was happy.

I turned my attention back to Jan. “We’re going to need to move the body, but we can’t do it alone. Let’s go find Elliot.”

“All right,” she said, nodding.

We’d only gone about ten yards when we heard someone running down the intersecting hall ahead of us. I pulled Jan to a stop, signaling for Quentin to get her against the wall, and started forward alone. It could be just another of the locals—but it could also be something worse, and none of us were armed. The best I could do was try to find out without getting us killed.

I had almost reached the corner when Gordan ran into the open, skidding to a stop as she spotted us. She’d obviously left whatever she was doing in a hurry; grease stains smeared her shirt and arms. “What are you doing here? And what are you doing to Jan?”

“Keeping her out of the basement,” I snapped.

“Gordan, it’s all right,” said Jan. “I don’t want to be wandering around alone.”

Gordan’s hands were clean, unlike the rest of her. “What happened?” she demanded. She was glaring, but the bulk of her fury seemed reserved for Quentin. Poor kid.

“Peter’s gone,” Jan said. Gordan’s scowl collapsed, eyes going wide in a suddenly young face. I couldn’t ignore the question there, no matter how much I wanted to.

“He’s dead,” I confirmed, moving to join Jan and Quentin against the wall. “We found him in the generator room just after the power went out. The killer wanted him found.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Her voice had gone shrill and brassy. “That’s two of us since you got here! There’s almost no one left! Why haven’t you stopped this?”

I put my arm out to stop Quentin even as he started moving forward. “Down, boy.”

“But, Toby—”

“I know. Calm down. I’ll handle it.” He glowered. I turned to Gordan. “We can’t do anything until we know what’s going on. If you’re not going to help, I suggest you leave.”

Gordan stared at us, shivering. I stared back, outwardly calm and inwardly seething.

Finally, Gordan shook her head. “You’re right. But these are our friends . . .”

“And we’ll do our best. But I need to know that we’ll have whatever help we need.”

“You will,” said Jan. Stepping forward, she took Gordan’s hand with surprising tenderness and led her down the hall.

“Come on, Quentin,” I said, and followed, Quentin half a step behind. That was how we progressed through the knowe: Jan at the lead with Gordan leaning on her arm, me just behind, and Quentin following. Three of us jumped at every shadow, while Gordan just walked blindly on. Two deaths in a day seemed to have been a bit too much for her.

Terrie was in the cafeteria when we arrived, standing by the vending machines. Her hair was tousled, and she was yawning, still marked by sleep. Quentin perked up, smiling and waving as if we hadn’t just found a body on the floor of the generator room. I repressed a bolt of bitter irritation, aimed more at her than him. How dare she rest while people were dying?

Jan let go of Gordan’s arm, calling to Terrie, “Peter’s dead. Stay here while I reboot April and get Elliot.” She turned and left, moving too quickly for me to tell her to stop.

I considered the value of running after her and shouting. It didn’t seem likely to do any good. “You people and the walking blithely into certain danger. It’s got to be something in the damn water.”

Terrie stared after her. “What?” She turned toward us, repeating, “What?”

“Peter’s dead,” I said, walking over to get a cup of coffee. Gordan moved to a table and sat, burying her face in her hands.

“But—what—when? How?”

“During the blackout,” said Quentin.

“They cut the power, killed the generators, and then killed him. Probably to get our attention.” I sipped my coffee. “They got it.”

“Oh,” whispered Terrie, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I know what dead looks like.”

“Oh, Maeve, Peter . . .” she said. “He was such a wonderful engineer . . .”

I opened my mouth to snap, and stopped as I saw the look on Quentin’s face. He was watching Terrie with utter adoration, caught up in her pain. That made even less sense than my anger. He’d been temperamental but sane through this whole ordeal, facing everything with calm equanimity. So why was he getting involved now? They’d flirted, but they hadn’t had time to fall in love, and something in his expression reminded me uncomfortably of my own when I was looking at Alex.

I was saved from following that thought to its logical conclusion when the door swung open and Jan and Elliot stepped into the room. Elliot was shaking and glassy-eyed. At least his voice was steady: he answered when I asked if they’d seen anything in the hall. They hadn’t. Not a damn thing.

Explaining what we knew didn’t take long; there wasn’t much to tell. Elliot crossed the room and put his hands on Gordan’s shoulders, but didn’t interrupt. Jan nodded, confirming my story, then offered some useful information—I hadn’t thought to check the generators for loose wires, or realized that their internal systems would record and time stamp the power outage.

Elliot, Quentin, Jan, and I went back to the generator room, leaving Terrie and Gordan behind. Even with the power on, the knowe didn’t seem any friendlier. Some kinds of darkness have nothing to do with whether there’s light.

The wards on the generator room were undisturbed. Quentin released them, and I stepped inside, taking a moment to study the scene before I let the others in. Peter was still intact; the night-haunts weren’t coming. The forensic tests I could perform—checking for footprints, tracks, and blood trails, noting the wounds and their locations on Peter’s body—took only a few minutes. Jan ran the tests on the equipment; there were no loose wires, and the generators time stamped the power outage at 7:49 PM—not exactly the witching hour. No leads there.

I looked to Jan, frowning. “Could he have turned the generators off as he fell? Could this have been a coincidence?”

“No way,” Jan replied. “You have to trip three breakers and press a button on the back of the main generator if you want to shut the system down. Failsafes.”

“Why do you know that?” She’d rattled off that chain of actions a little too glibly for my tastes.

Tiredly, Elliot said, “Jan does a lot of our hardware maintenance, especially now that we’re on a skeleton crew. She has to be able to kill the power in case of an emergency.”

“Plus, I designed a lot of these systems,” Jan said.

Elliot smiled wearily. “That, too.”

“Right,” I said, raking my hair back with both hands and sighing. “So it was intentional.”

“Looks like it,” Jan said. “Unless a dying man knows what fuses to pull.”

“Okay. Let’s get moving.”

The four of us wrapped as much of Peter’s body as we could in a sheet, careful not to break his wings, and we carried him down to the basement, clearing off a counter before laying him down. Elliot shuddered the whole time. He was starting to look rumpled; I was worried that our Bannick was going to pieces.

“What do we do now?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Now we hunt,” I said. I looked to Jan, expecting an argument, but she nodded. “Elliot, you’re with me; Quentin, with Jan. If you see anything, don’t investigate. Just run.”

“All right,” said Quentin. And we were off.

The halls of ALH were snarled like Möbius strips, bending back on themselves in strange and implausible ways. Some rooms were brightly lit, while others were illuminated only by the dim light lancing in from outside. We searched room by room, hunting through closets and cubbyholes and finding more secret routes than I wanted to believe. Tracking anyone would have been a nightmare, but tracking a native—and that was what we had to be looking for—was going to be all but impossible. Thanks to the recent personnel losses, I couldn’t even be sure that the person we were looking for was one of our known suspects.

We found nothing. And I kept thinking of Terrie’s exaggerated mourning and Gordan’s too-clean hands.

Elliot and I had just stepped into the reception room when Quentin and Jan came around the corner. They stopped when they saw us.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Quentin.

“Right.” Whoever killed Peter was cocky, and the cocky are frequently good; that’s how they live long enough to get that way. Unless our killer could walk through walls, we were finished. “Come on, Quentin. We’re going back to the hotel.”

Elliot stared at me, eyes shell-shocked and pleading. “Can’t you stay?”

“Stay in groups. No one’s been attacked when they weren’t alone. Quentin and I need to go back to the hotel and get our things.” Mainly, we needed to get my weapons. “We’ll be back before dawn.”

“Be careful,” said Jan.

“We will,” I said. Somehow, I couldn’t be angry with them anymore. Their world was falling apart, and they knew it. “Quentin, come on.”

We walked into the cool night air together, letting the door slide closed behind us. We were halfway to the car when Quentin said, “Toby?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we coming back?”

“Yes, we are. We have a job to do. Are you holding up okay?”

“I’m scared.” He said it like he expected me to yell at him.

I shook my head. “So am I, Quentin. Believe me, so am I.”