A Local Habitation

TWENTY-THREE

THIS TIME, THE PHONE RANG five times before it was answered: Sylvester again, out of breath and anxious, sounding almost terrified. “Hello? Who’s there?”

I paused. “Sylvester?”

“Toby! Oak and ash, October, why didn’t you call before? We’ve been waiting. Your hotel says you haven’t been checking messages there, either. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“What . . . what are you talking about? You know where I am! You told us to stay here.”

Now he sounded wounded; more than that, he sounded scared. “I did no such thing! Tybalt came to tell us you were worried about tampering with the phone systems, and I’ve been waiting here ever since. When it wasn’t me, it’s been Etienne, or Garm. Even Luna’s taken her turn. You haven’t called.”

Oh, Oberon’s blessed balls. Gritting my teeth, I said, “The problems with the phones may go a little bit past tampering.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I called you right after Connor got here, and you said we should all stay put.”

He paused. “Do you mean . . . ?”

“Uh-huh. Connor and Quentin are still with me.”

“Oh. Oh, October. That’s not good.”

I glanced over my shoulder toward the boys. Quentin was leaning against one of the soda machines, while Connor was making himself a cup of tea. I’ve always been wary of men who don’t drink coffee. Tea’s just such an inefficient way of getting your caffeine on. “No,” I agreed. “No, it’s almost certainly not.”

Something in my tone must have telegraphed how serious things had become, because there was a pause before he asked, “Are you hurt?”

“A little bit. Nothing I can’t handle.” My head was pounding, my hand felt like hamburger, and the cuts on my face had barely started to scab. Oh, yeah. I was in top condition.

“What about Quentin?”

“He’s scraped up, but he’s fine. We had a minor accident with the car.” It was technically true. We were already out of the car when it exploded. “Connor got here after that; he’s fine, too.”

There was another pause before he said, more quietly now, “Not everyone’s fine, though, are they? I can hear it in your voice.”

“January,” closing my eyes and letting my forehead rest against the cool metal of the pay phone. “She’s dead.”

“Ah.” There was a world of pain in that single tiny syllable; a world of mourning that he didn’t have time to give in to. “How?”

“We’re still not sure. She didn’t die like the others, though. Her death was more . . .” I hesitated. Somehow, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say “violent.” Not when I could already hear Sylvester crying. Lamely, I finished, “. . . disorganized. Either she wasn’t the intended victim, or it was more personal than the others were. I don’t know yet.”

“I see.” He was silent for a long time. I held the line, waiting until he said, “If she’s dead, I suppose Riordan’s wishes don’t matter as much anymore. Can you stay alive until I can get there?”

Before Luna, before peace and Shadowed Hills and developing a reputation as a sweet, slightly bewildered man who just happened to run the largest Duchy in the Bay Area, Sylvester was a hero. A real one. He was one of the lucky ones—he survived long enough to quit—but that didn’t change where he’d started out.

Almost crying from relief, I nodded. “We can. How long will it take you?”

“Not long. Tybalt’s already on the way.”

I jerked upright, eyes snapping open. “What?”

“You didn’t really think he’d sit out this fight, did you?” A flicker of dark amusement crept into his tone. “Not once you told him a Queen of Cats had died.”

“Oh, Maeve’s tits.” I glanced back at Quentin and Connor again. This was going to make things even harder to deal with. Just what I needed. “Any clue when he’ll get here?”

“Not a one. I’ll see you soon. Stay safe.”

“Always do,” I said, voice bright with artificial cheer.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I know. Just get here.”

“As quickly as I can. Open roads, all of you. And Toby . . . thank you for trying.” He hung up before I could say anything about his thanks—and more, before I could say good-bye. I understood that all too well. He didn’t want to hear it when it might just be forever.

“You, too,” I whispered, and set the phone back in its cradle.

“What did he say?” asked Quentin.

“He’s on his way, and he’s bringing in the cavalry. We just need to keep ourselves alive until he gets here.” I looked at him, seeing how much of the calm, arrogant facade he tried to project had collapsed since our arrival. He was pale and drawn, and the only reason I couldn’t say he’d gone white was that the bandages on his forehead were still whiter. My company wasn’t doing him any favors. “If it looks like I can’t do that, we’ll hot-wire a goddamn car and go meet him at the Interstate.”

Connor walked over, his tea in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He handed me the mug, smiling at my grateful expression, and asked, “So now what?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed, sipping my coffee. “If the killer had a political agenda, I think they’ve accomplished it. Jan doesn’t have any kids but April, and I don’t think April knows what an heir is, much less how to be one. Dreamer’s Glass will swallow Tamed Lightning. In a decade or two, nobody’s even going to remember that this was a County. That’s how it works.”

“That doesn’t work,” said Connor, now frowning deeply.

I turned toward him. “All right: tell me why.”

“Because from a political standpoint, there was no need for the other deaths. They just made Jan paranoid and harder to kill. Once she’s dead, the game is over. So why draw it out so long? Why risk that many violations of Oberon’s law?”

“Huh.” I sipped my coffee again, considering what he’d said. Maybe he was right. Maybe we’d been looking at things the wrong way. “Okay. Assume it wasn’t political. The politics are a red herring, they don’t matter. Where does that leave us?”

“And what about Barbara?” asked Quentin.

I paused. Barbara was spying for Duchess Riordan . . . and she was the first one to die. “Barbara’s what proves that it wasn’t political,” I said finally. “Her cover was never compromised. So why kill her?”

“Someone who was loyal to the County found out, and . . .” Quentin dragged a finger across his throat, making a disturbingly suggestive sucking noise.

“You have been watching way too much television, dude,” said Connor.

“Besides, it still doesn’t work,” I said. “You kill Barbara out of County loyalty—why kill the others? You’ve stopped your spy. No, I think the politics were a factor in the paranoia, but not in the deaths. What does that leave?”

“Power?” suggested Connor. “Maybe somebody here wanted to be in charge.”

“That feeds back into politics. Without Jan, they lose the County. It doesn’t work.”

“All right, revenge, then.”

“On who, the company? Maybe.” I paused. “And there’s the way Jan died.”

Quentin blanched. “You mean the mess?”

“The other killings were quick, but Jan had time to fight back. Why?”

“Well, didn’t you tell Sylvester that Jan might not have been the target?” asked Connor.

“Maybe . . .” I stopped, frowning. The reflections on the soda machine next to Quentin were moving. Whatever was casting those shadows was behind me—and there were no windows on that side of the room. We weren’t alone. “Guys?”

“What?” asked Quentin. Connor sipped his tea, giving me a puzzled look.

“Hang on.” Whatever was moving had to be mostly hidden or he’d have seen it; judging by the reflection, Quentin had a clean line of sight. It very well might have been invisible, using an illusion spell that wasn’t properly set up to include mirrors. Never trust anything that skulks around invisible in a building where people keep dying. “Actually, Quentin, come over here a second.” It had too clear of a line on him. I didn’t like it.

“Why? I’m already right here.” He stepped forward, saying, “I don’t—”

The reflection started moving again. “Get down!” I shoved him as hard as I could, grabbing a handful of Connor’s shirt and diving for the floor as the gun went off.

Two shots echoed through the room, almost drowning out the sound of Quentin shouting.

The first hit the wall where I’d been standing a moment before, flinging bits of tile in all directions. I didn’t see where the second hit. I was too busy flattening myself against Connor and trying to see behind me, searching for our invisible assailant or assailants.

There was no one there.

The kitchen door we’d discovered during the search for Jan’s body was standing slightly open. It swung shut as I watched. There would be no more shots, but I’d missed the shooter. As the rush of adrenaline faded, I realized that a chip of flying tile had opened a cut along my left cheek. I’d landed on my wounded hand, and blood was soaking the gauze. Just what I needed: more pain. I don’t like being shot at—it makes me cranky—but I liked what the shots implied even less. None of the victims were shot. This was either someone new trying to get revenge for our failure, or the original killer was trying to scare us away. Neither option was good.

“Connor?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He laughed unsteadily as I pushed myself off of him. The color was high in his cheeks. “I forgot how exciting hanging out with you can get.”

“Yeah, well. Quentin? You okay over there?”

He didn’t answer.

I turned to face him, and froze. “Oh, oak and ash.”

He was sitting with his back against the soda machine, left hand clamped high on his right arm. Blood ran between his fingers, coming way too fast. His face had gone whey-white, bleached by shock. “Not really,” he mumbled.

“Oh, crap,” whispered Connor.

I scrambled over to Quentin, reaching for his arm. “Let me see.”

“See what?” he asked, eyes wide and glossy.

“Your arm. Move your hand and let me see.” Gunshot wounds require medical attention, no matter how minor they seem. The shock waves a bullet sends through the body are nothing to screw around with.

“Oh.” Still dazed, Quentin let go. I grabbed his arm just above where he’d been holding, squeezing hard. Blood loss was my first concern. If he lost too much, we’d lose him, no matter how bad the wound was.

“Toby—”

“I know, Connor. Quentin? This may hurt a bit, okay?”

He frowned and closed his eyes, saying, “It already does. Never been shot before. Don’t like it.”

“You’re being very brave. Now hang on.” Keeping the pressure on his arm firm, I pulled the gauze from his forehead and used it to start wiping away the blood. The bullet had passed straight through, which was good. It appeared to have broken his arm in the process, which wasn’t.

“Hurts . . .” he mumbled. His head was starting to loll forward, and the blood wasn’t slowing down.

“Hey. Stay awake, you. Stay awake, and stay with me.”

“Don’t want to,” he said, in a reflective tone. “Tired now.”

“I know you don’t want to. I don’t care. I’m ordering you to stay awake!”

“Are you pulling rank on me?” he asked, sounding oddly amused.

“If that’s what it takes, yes.” I leaned harder, putting more pressure on his arm. “Connor, get over here. I can’t hold this tight enough.”

Connor was almost as pale as Quentin by that point, but he nodded, scooting over to slide his hands under mine. The blood slowed when he clamped down, and I helped him slide Quentin over until he was flat on the floor.

“Connor, get his arm up above his heart.”

“Got it,” he said, keeping his hands tight on Quentin’s arm as he lifted.

“Okay, good. Quentin? Come on, kiddo,” I touched his cheek. “Don’t you leave me.”

“’M not going anywhere,” Quentin whispered.

“Liar.” I didn’t want to leave the boys alone; not with Quentin injured and Connor preoccupied with keeping the blood inside his body. Looking up, I shouted, “April! Come to the cafeteria right now!”

I wasn’t sure she’d come; she could have been too sick with grief to listen. Then the air crackled and she was there, confusion fading into wide-eyed shock as she saw us. It was the first time I’d seen her speechless.

There wasn’t time to enjoy it. “April, get us something we can tie around Quentin’s arm. Then get Gordan. Tell her it’s an emergency. You got that?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts! Go!”

She disappeared.

“Toby . . .” Connor sounded worried. I turned back to Quentin, and winced.

He’d grown paler, and the blood between Connor’s fingers was getting darker. Both of us were soaked to the elbows. How much more did Quentin have to lose?

“Hey.” I put my hand on Quentin’s shoulder, squeezing. “No sleeping, you. Open your eyes. Come on, Quentin. Open your eyes. Please. Please? Please . . .”

April reappeared, holding a strip of white cotton. “Will this work?” she asked, sounding honestly worried.

Things were starting to get through to her.

“Yes.” I grabbed the fabric, edging Connor’s hands aside as I tied it around Quentin’s upper arm. The cotton was red by the time I had it in place, but the bleeding had stopped.

“Quentin, wake up.” I shook his shoulder. He made a small, grumpy noise, and I did it again. “Wake up.”

“No,” he said, opening his eyes.

“Tough,” I said, managing not to start crying in relief. He was alive. He might not stay that way, but he was alive.

The cafeteria door slammed open, and Gordan came running into the room, first aid kit in her hand. “Holy crap!” she exclaimed, skidding to a stop. “What the hell happened in here?”

Now I did start to cry, slumping against Connor. Quentin stared at me, and then he started crying, too. It was just too much. We’d lost Jan, and I had no idea how badly Quentin was hurt, and . . .

Everyone has a breaking point. I was starting to wonder how close I was to mine.