A Local Habitation

THREE

MINDFUL OF SYLVESTER’S REQUEST for an immediate departure, I shoved clothes into a duffel bag, tossed my bag of toiletries on top, and called it good. The cats had migrated into the bedroom, curling up atop Tybalt’s jacket. I dislodged them and shrugged the jacket on, ignoring their protests. I didn’t want to leave it in the apartment for him to casually come back for.

Stacy didn’t answer when I called the house. I left a quick message asking her to come by and feed Spike and the cats until I got back. I glossed over how long my absence was likely to be. The last thing I needed was for her to start calling Sylvester, demanding to know whether he was trying to get me killed. I couldn’t blame her for reacting that way. After all, the last time I went on a job for him, I got turned into a fish and spent fourteen years swimming around a pond in Golden Gate Park. Still. That sort of thing doesn’t happen twice, and I didn’t want her to worry.

My liege knew where I was going, and my cats were taken care of. That just left one more call that needed to be made before I could leave. It wasn’t to a local area code, even though the apartment I was calling was only a few miles away. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t sure I was even calling a phone.

Balancing the receiver on my shoulder, I pressed the keys in rapid reverse order. There was a click, followed by the hum of an expectant silence as I chanted, “Mares eat oats and does eat oats, but little lambs eat ivy. A kid’ll eat ivy, too. Wouldn’t you?” It wasn’t much of a spell. It didn’t need to be. All it had to do was remind an existing connection of where it was supposed to lead me.

There was a pause as lines that had no reason to cross crossed themselves and wires were rerouted to lead to an apartment that had never signed any agreements with the phone company. The receiver clicked twice and began making a deep, murky buzzing noise. I waited. The Luidaeg likes special effects: if you can’t handle them, don’t call her. You could always just drop by—assuming you aren’t particularly fond of having legs. “Just dropping by” on a water- hag older than modern civilization isn’t the sort of hobby meant to ensure a long life span.

The buzzing stopped with a final click, and a husky, aggravated voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Luidaeg.”

“Toby, is that you?” Her irritation was fading.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I’m going to Tamed Lightning.”

She paused. “Tamed Lightning? Why would you go there? It’s nothing but dirt and morons as far as the eye can see.”

“Sylvester’s sending me.”

“Right. The head moron.” She paused again. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I may not make it over this week, depending on how long things take. I thought I’d warn you.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was briefly audible before she covered it with briskness, saying, “Well, good. I can get some things done without needing to worry about your happy ass showing up.”

“Glad you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why should I mind?”

“No reason.”

“Good. Be careful out there. Don’t go into the dark alone; don’t let their eyes fool you. Remember what you’re looking for. Don’t trust what the blood tells you. Always look back.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Toby—it’s nothing,” she said, sounding slightly disgusted. “Get the hell off my phone.”

“See you when I get back.”

“Oh—Toby?” Her tone was almost hesitant. That was a first.

“Yeah.”

“I owe you an answer. Come back alive.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“I get to be the one that kills you.” The connection cut off with a snap. I grinned, replacing the receiver in its cradle.

The Luidaeg and I met six months ago, when she provided me with an essential clue to the identity of Evening’s killer. That meeting left her in my debt, owing me an answer to any question I wanted to ask. She couldn’t kill me while she owed me, and I have to admit that it was kind of nice to know that she couldn’t follow through on her threats. Unpaid debts weigh on the purebloods; I have no doubt they weigh on the Firstborn even more. She started calling after our first meeting—unlisted numbers don’t mean much to someone who thinks the telephone is a cute idea that won’t last—demanding to know when I’d clear her debts so she could kill me. They weren’t the best conversations I’ve ever had, but they were reliable, and before long they were even welcome. It was good to have somebody I could talk to.

It took a long time for me to realize how lonely she was. It’s hard to think of the Luidaeg as lonely—she’s older than nations, and she’s watched empires die—but she was. People are afraid of her; they avoid her haunts, warn their children about her, and whisper her name when the lights are low. How could she not be lonely? Personally, I’m amazed she’s still so close to being sane.

I started visiting when I realized why she kept calling. We’d play chess, or wander the docks feeding the seagulls and talking. She had a lot to talk about; it’d been a long time since anybody stopped to listen. So I listened, and every visit ended with the same exchange: “Will you ask me now?” “No.” “I’ll kill you when you do.” “I know.” Then I’d go home and so would she, and for a little while, neither of us would be lonely. I take my friends where I can find them.

With my calls taken care of, I just needed to gather my weapons. I pulled my new aluminum baseball bat from under the bed, peeling the price tag off the handle before I dropped it next to the duffle bag. Then I turned to my dresser, opening the top drawer and digging through the rolled socks and crumpled nightshirts to pull out a black velvet box tied with a golden ribbon. I tucked it into the duffel bag. It was the last thing I needed. It was everything I had.

Once upon a time there was a girl who thought I was a hero—or maybe she just thought I was her hero. There wasn’t much difference, in the long run; I couldn’t protect her, and she died. Maybe the knife she left me could do something to protect me. Dare was a good kid. I didn’t mean to let her down. And maybe, if I carried her with me, I could still be somebody’s hero.

I slung the duffel over my shoulder and grabbed the baseball bat as I headed for the door. Maybe I let Dare down. Maybe I didn’t. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t going to let Quentin down, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to fail Sylvester. Not this time, and not ever again. I paused at the door, winding my fingers through the air and humming as I pulled together a quick but passable human disguise. The cut grass and copper smell of my magic rose around me, eclipsing the smell of pennyroyal that clung to Tybalt’s jacket like herbal perfume. Spike sneezed, leaping up onto the back of the couch and rattling its thorns.

“Are we allergic today?” I asked. It rattled its thorns again, and I laughed. “Right. You guys be good. No wild parties. Stacy will be over to feed you, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I closed the door quickly, shutting out the reproachful looks from my pets, and started down the path toward the parking garage.

My apartment is what’s considered “a lucky find” in the San Francisco housing market: not only is it rent-controlled and relatively spacious, but it comes with parking—an unheard-of luxury in a city where fistfights have been known to break out for a decent spot. According to my lease, covered parking is a deterrent to theft and vandalism, and justifies my increased rent. Given the kind of cars I tend to drive, I view it as a deterrent to public mockery.

My last car was the victim of a one-person car chase through downtown San Francisco that left the shocks destroyed and the brakes beyond repair. After I managed to find it—which wasn’t easy, since I’d abandoned it on the street with the keys still inside—it was clear that the only decent thing to do was put it out of its misery. I sold the parts that still worked, scrapped the rest, and bought myself a lemon yellow 1974 VW Bug. I like Bugs.

As I let myself into the garage, it became apparent that my car had acquired a new hood ornament, since last time I checked it hadn’t come with a blond teenage boy. He was sitting cross- legged on the hood with a pair of headphones on, leaning back on his hands and studying the cracks in the ceiling.

“Quentin, get off there! You’re going to scratch the paint.”

“With what?” he asked, pulling off the headphones as he turned toward me. “I didn’t bring any sandpaper.”

“Jerk,” I said, and grinned.

Quentin and I didn’t exactly get off to a good start: Sylvester sent him to bring me back to Shadowed Hills, and I slammed a door in his face. We’ve managed to smooth things out since then, and he’s one of my favorite people these days. He’s pureblooded Daoine Sidhe and too arrogant by half, but he’s got a lot of potential. He just needs to figure out what to do with it.

I’ve never met his parents, although I’d bet good money that they’re a long way from California. The nobles have an elaborate system of blind fostering, shuttling their kids from place to place to keep anyone from noticing that things around them tend to be a little odd, or that some of them don’t age at the normal rate. Quentin was fostered at Shadowed Hills about a year before I officially came back to Sylvester’s service. He spends his days at one of the local high schools, learning how the humans live, and spends his nights serving as a page, learning how to be a Faerie noble. One day he’ll be a squire, then a knight, and finally, his parents’ heir. A pretty tall order for a kid his age, but I think he can handle it.

He slid off the hood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and giving me an expectant look. “So where are we going?”

“Tamed Lightning,” I said, peering into the backseat before opening the car doors. “You all packed?”

“His Grace had me pack before we left home.”

“Of course he did. Get in.”

One thing I had to give him; he was definitely eager to get started. He was in his seat and buckled in before I had my door closed. I gave him a sidelong look, raising a brow.

“Little anxious, aren’t you?”

Quentin squirmed. “It’s summer break. I had plans.”

“Right.” I started the engine. “And what’s her name?”

“Katie.” A slight lilt on the word betrayed the depth of his infatuation.

“Katie?” I frowned, reviewing my internal list of the fosters at Shadowed Hills. “What Court is she with?”

“She’s not. I go to high school with her.”

“So she’s . . . ?”

“Uh-huh.” He paused before adding, with a besotted grin, “And she’s beautiful.”

I didn’t bother hiding my answering smile. “Well, that’s cool. Are you being careful?” The question would have had a sexual meaning for a human teenager. For a fae kid, it meant exactly what it sounded like. We always have to be careful when we let the humans get close to us. The burning times are in the past, and mankind has almost forgotten, but we never will. Not forgetting is what’s going to keep us alive through the years ahead.

Quentin nodded, utterly self-assured. I remember being that confident—when did I stop? Oh, yeah. When I grew up. “She has no idea what I am.”

“Good. Keep it that way. I don’t want to have to rescue you from the conspiracy nuts.”

“Oh, yeah, because they really stress about the existence of elves.”

“Do the words ‘alien autopsy’ mean anything to you?”

“Ew.”

“Exactly.” I pulled out of the parking garage and onto the street, heading for the freeway. It was a beautiful day, I had an easy—if unwanted—job to do, and I had decent company to do it with. Maybe things were going to work out after all.