A Red Rose Chain

FOURTEEN

“HOW MUCH LONGER?” I glared at Walther as I paced back and forth across the bedroom. May and Quentin were sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall in front of them. Even waving my hand in front of their faces hadn’t been enough to make them track my motion or acknowledge my presence. Only direct orders did that, and I didn’t like commanding my friends when they couldn’t refuse me.

“Almost done,” said Walther, adding another pinch of brightly colored powder to his mortar. “This would be a lot easier if I had access to my lab back at the University.”

“Well, you don’t. Work faster.” I kept pacing.

Walther didn’t dignify my words with a reply. That was probably for the best. He had checked the room for new listening charms when we first got back, and hadn’t managed to find any; either King Rhys had charm-crafters who were so far outside of Walther’s league that he couldn’t recognize their work, or no one had yet figured out that they weren’t getting anything useful out of this room.

Tybalt was gone. He hadn’t told me where he was going, but he’d kissed me before diving into the shadows behind the bed, and I trusted that whatever he was doing, he’d come back and explain it when he was done. I would normally have been a lot more agitated about him running off without explanation during a crisis, but Walther had still been checking for new listening charms when Tybalt had opened the Shadow Roads. Explanations hadn’t been safe yet.

I was still wearing my latest involuntary ball gown, since I hadn’t been able to figure out how to remove it on my own. The more things changed, the more they inevitably stayed the same. Most court gear seems to have been designed to hobble women, making us easier to catch—and honestly, easier to kill. I’m sure there are people who know how to fight in floor-length gowns with six layers of crinoline, but I do not know their secrets. I just know that I’ll take denim over damask any day, and I was looking forward to May being able to help me with the ties on my current dress.

“Done,” said Walther.

I whirled around to face him. “Done?”

“Done,” he repeated. He stood, leaving most of his kit behind as he started toward the bed. “I’m not sure how they’re going to react. You might want to stand back.”

“No. They’re my responsibility. If this stuff doesn’t require magic to use, let me do it. I can take a lot more damage than you can.”

Walther paused for a moment, said, “Good point,” and handed me his mortar. It was filled with a white, faintly luminescent dust, like embossing glitter. “Just blow a pinch of this in their eyes and they should snap out of it. It’s a broad-spectrum anti-hypnotic, which means it’ll work on a dozen different kinds of base enchantment, but some of them will leave them not remembering anything that’s happened since they were whammied.”

“Which is why there might be hitting, got it,” I said. “Step back.”

Walther stepped back.

I set the mortar down on the table next to the bed and placed a pinch of powder in the palm of my hand, where it created a glittering white smear. It didn’t have a smell, but it chilled my skin slightly: the mark of Walther’s magic. Once I was sure I had enough I bent, just a little, and blew the powder into Quentin’s eyes.

The effect was instantaneous. Quentin’s pupils snapped back to their normal size and shape, his shoulders went from drugged stiffness to his normal, natural good posture, and he punched me in the face without hesitation. There was a resounding “crack” as the cartilage in my nose gave way. It was accompanied by a bolt of pain and a sudden hot gush of blood from both nostrils, which coated my chin and soaked into the front of my dress as Quentin was pulling back to hit me again. I was ready for him this time, and caught his wrist before he could begin his swing.

“You’re safe, you’re with me, stop hitting,” I said. My voice was mushy and distorted by the damage he’d done. I couldn’t help feeling a little bit proud. My squire was all grown up and breaking noses. I just wished he wasn’t breaking mine. “Now stop punching me and help me set this before it heals all crooked and weird.”

“Toby?” His eyes widened as he realized who he was hitting, shock transforming almost immediately into guilt. “Oh, oak and ash, Toby, I’m sorry! I didn’t know who you were! I thought—”

“You thought I was the King, or one of the King’s men, I know. It’s okay.” Quentin didn’t look like he was going to help me set my nose any time soon. That was probably asking a little much. I placed my index fingers to either side of the break, feeling for the places where things were out of alignment, and shoved until everything lined up. This was accompanied by another bolt of pain, even more vivid than the first, and a fresh gout of blood. The pain faded almost immediately. My body was already putting itself back together, healing with the ludicrous speed gifted to me by my heritage.

“I didn’t realize it was you,” said Quentin, sounding miserable. “I would never ever hit you. Please believe me.”

“Kiddo, it’s okay. You don’t need to convince me that we’re friends, and sometimes friends have to hit each other in the process of discharging our duties. Remember all those times I slapped Tybalt?”

“I certainly do,” said Tybalt dryly. I turned to find him behind me, a resigned expression on his face. “I leave for half an hour and return to find you covered, head to toe, with blood. Perhaps you would be better suited to be a Bannick’s wife. At least then you could be cleaned via supernatural means, rather than depending on the vagaries of the laundry.”

“I’m surprisingly good at getting blood out of cotton,” I said. “Velvet may be a little harder. It’s an adventure. Come here. My hands are all bloody, and we still need to snap May out of it.”

“Why are you covered in blood?” pressed Tybalt.

“Quentin broke my nose,” I said. I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice.

“Sorry,” said Quentin.

Tybalt blinked slowly. Then he sighed, and said, “Each time I tell myself you have reached the summit of your strangeness, you find a way to climb still higher.”

“Look at it this way: being married to me will never be boring.” I pointed to the mortar. “Take a pinch of that and blow it into May’s eyes, will you? Just be ready to duck.”

“Yes, dear,” said Tybalt, his flat, toneless delivery making it clear that he was mocking me. He picked up a pinch of Walther’s powder, spread it thinly across his palm, and blew it into May’s eyes. He jumped backward at almost the same time, leaving a glittering cloud hanging in the air for May’s hand to sweep away as she directed an open-palmed slap at the place where he’d been a moment before. When her hand struck nothing but the empty air she stopped, blinking, a look of profound confusion on her face.

“You see, some of us understand the meaning of the word ‘dodge,’” said Tybalt. “Perhaps you should enlighten yourself. You might keep more of your blood within your body, and thus tax my poor heart less.” He turned his attention to May. “Milady Fetch. Welcome back to the land of the self-aware. I trust you have enjoyed your stay in the land of the insensate?”

“I’m going to kill him,” said May, in a slow, wondering voice. “I’m going to commit regicide. I hope none of you have a problem with that, because I’m going to do it.”

“Sorry, but I can’t let you,” I said. “We don’t have all the pieces we’d need to kill a King, like, I don’t know, consent from Oberon himself to violate the Law.”

“The penalty for breaking the Law is death,” said May. “I can’t be killed. It’ll work out fine.”

“The fact that you can’t die doesn’t mean they can’t try to kill you, and I’m pretty sure that you wouldn’t enjoy, say, decapitation,” I said. “While you were getting arrested, we were gathering information. Now settle down, and listen.”

It only took a few minutes to explain what had happened when I went to speak with King Rhys. It took longer to describe what happened next: the meeting in the wood with Ceres, the reunion between Walther and his sister, and most importantly, the possibility that Walther would actually be able to engineer a counterpotion for elf-shot. If the rightful holders of the throne could be awakened, we’d be in a better position to petition the High King to make things better.

When I finished, there was a moment of silence. Then Quentin asked, “Why did they come for me and May? We weren’t doing anything.”

“No, but as my squire, you’re the best hostage against my good behavior. And May looks like my changeling sister. I’ve been careful not to say that she wasn’t, although the false Queen knows, so we can’t discount the possibility that Rhys does as well. Either way, she’s clearly family, which makes her a good hostage, too.”

“And as your family, I command you to give me your dress,” said May, sliding off the bed and holding out her hand.

I blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“You said Rhys wanted to take you apart. Have you noticed that he has an army of alchemists, including Walther’s sister, ready to do his bidding? You can’t just go leaving your blood around like it’s not a big deal. Give me your dress. Give me everything that has blood on it.” May continued to hold out her hand. “I’m going to make sure it can’t be used against you.”

“I can take you to a proper laundry, if you would like, rather than run the risk that Rhys will save and reuse your wash water,” said Tybalt calmly. “We have need to go into Portland regardless.”

I turned to look at him. “Is that where you went? To Portland?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been making many promises. It was time to see whether they could be kept. The local King has agreed to see us. He has already seen me, you understand, but is interested in meeting the woman who could sway me toward marriage. Apparently, our union will settle some sort of bet.” He wrinkled his nose at the end, like this was so unbelievably crass that he didn’t know where to begin.

“Fair enough,” I said. I looked down at my blood-soaked bodice and sighed. “I need help getting out of this, and then we can head for Portland. Quentin, Walther, do you want to come with us? I’m not sure I like the idea of you staying here alone.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Quentin.

“I’m not,” said Walther. The rest of us turned to look at him. He shrugged. “I need to spend more time with Aunt Ceres, and to work on finding that rose. Until I have it, I can’t make any more progress on my counterpotion. I can get to her without having any issues. I know this castle better than the people who currently hold it—I’d be willing to stake my life on it.”

“You will be,” I said grimly. “If you have any trouble, or if Rhys threatens you in any way, run, all right? None of this is worth it if you get yourself killed.”

“Yes, Mom,” he said, and smiled. “Now get yourself cleaned up. You look like a crime scene.”

“That’s how you know I’m feeling like myself,” I said. I walked to the wardrobe, fished out jeans, my leather jacket, and a clean tank top, then started for the bathroom with May close behind me.

It took us five minutes to undo all the stays and ties holding the dress together. There was a bloodstain on the left cup of my bra, but it wasn’t bad enough to make me want a clean one. I had every confidence that it was going to be joined by more before this trip was through. May took custody of the dress as soon as it was peeled from my body.

“Wash the blood off your face,” she said, and left me to get dressed.

The others were waiting when I emerged. May had produced a laundry bag from somewhere, and had it slung over her shoulder. “At least you didn’t get blood in your hair,” she said.

“I’m not a barbarian,” I said.

“Barbarians bleed less, because barbarians know that actions have consequences,” she countered. “Maybe you should try being a barbarian.”

“We’re going to Portland,” I said. “Let’s be hipsters instead.” I turned to Tybalt. “How do you want to do this? Taking three of us through the shadows at once is a lot to ask.”

“You have asked more of me with less cause, and I do not want the local regency to realize that something is happening,” he said. “We are close to the mortal city, all but overlapping its bounds. You will hold fast, and not let go. I will run as fleetly as I may, and together, we will come through the other side, bent and bowed, but nowhere near to broken.”

“You’re nervous, too, huh?” I asked, reaching over to put my hand on his shoulder.

He folded his fingers over it, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss against my knuckles. “I am in a constant state of what you would term as ‘nervousness,’ and it is most often your fault.”

“A girl’s got to be good for something.” I turned to look at Walther, who was standing near the door. “Be careful, okay? You know they’re out to get you, and you know Rhys is a bastard. He’ll do whatever he feels he has to do in order to accomplish his goals.”

Walther smiled slowly. “Lucky for me, I’m as big of a bastard as he is. I just have less reason to show it. Now go. Enjoy Portland. Don’t get yourselves killed.”

“Right.” I turned back to Tybalt, who was still holding onto me. Quentin stepped up and took my free hand in his, while May took Tybalt’s free hand and held it tightly. Then Tybalt stepped backward, into the shadows cast by the hanging curtains, and out of the world where light and air were possibilities.

Running along the Shadow Roads with multiple people was never easy. There was too much chance that someone would trip or lose hold, and consequently be lost—possibly forever—in the darkness. Tybalt set the pace and the rest of us did our best to keep up, our lips sealed tight against the airless void and ice crystals forming on our hair and eyelashes with every step that we took. The cold was bad enough that I closed my eyes reflexively, shielding them from the worst of it. As always, I found myself wondering how everyone else was doing, whether the Shadow Roads were kinder to them than they were to me, or whether the opposite was true. It was better than dwelling on the nothingness surrounding us, infinite and empty.

Then we were falling back into a place where the air was warm, and more importantly, breathable. I lost my grip on Quentin’s hand. I lost my grip on Tybalt’s half a second later. There wasn’t time to worry about it, as my head’s impact with a brick wall followed almost instantly. The ice was knocked from my hair and eyelashes, jarring my eyes open, and I found myself looking at a narrow alleyway. A dumpster stood between us and the street. Tybalt was standing behind May, his hands in her armpits, and her face only a few inches from hitting the wall like mine had. Quentin was on his back on the ground. Fortunately, it either hadn’t been raining recently or the alley had excellent drainage: there was no standing water for him to have landed in. After the day we’d been having, if there had been an available puddle, he would have gone into it.

The sun was up, and it was early morning, based on the shadows. The Summerlands had been distorting time again. That made me worry about how Rhys was calculating the days. If his knowe burned hours faster than the world outside, our three days could be up before we even knew it.

“I’m the fiancée. Why am I the one you let risk concussion?” I asked, peeling myself away from the wall and rubbing the back of my head with one hand. It didn’t feel like I had knocked anything loose inside my skull, and my nose hadn’t started bleeding again. There was probably a layer or two of skin remaining on the brick, but that was a small thing. Any scrapes would be healed before we made it to the sidewalk.

“Because you’re also the one who heals like she’s trying out for the magical Olympics,” said May, pulling away from Tybalt. She retrieved the laundry bag from where it had fallen next to Quentin. “If I’d eaten wall the way you just did, my face would look like roadkill for the next week.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” I said, and offered Quentin my hand. He took it, letting me pull him off the alley floor. “You okay there, kiddo? Didn’t whack your head too hard?”

“I’m fine,” said Quentin. He raised his hand and whistled a few bars of a sea shanty as he brought it down again. The smell of steel and heather filled the alley as the thin veil of a human disguise settled over him, softening the lines of his face and stealing some of the metallic sheen from his hair. His tunic and trousers also blurred, becoming jeans and a T-shirt advertising a band called Great Big Sea. He looked like any human kid, standing on the border between high school and college, and ready to take on the world.

My ears itched. I reached up to feel the side of my right ear, and found that it was gently curved—human. “Good work,” I said.

Quentin smiled. “No problem. Um, I know you’re going to see the local King, so you can dispel it if you need to by clapping your hands twice.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re learning conditional illusions now? Excellent work. That tutoring with Etienne is really working out.”

“It’ll go faster once he has access to his own magic again,” said Quentin, cheeks reddening with pleasure.

“Still. Better than I could do.”

Everyone knew that illusions were harder for me than they were for Quentin or May. They were predominantly rooted in flower magic, which descends from Titania, although you can accomplish the same things through a slightly different route if you had access to water magic, which descends from Maeve. Lucky me, I didn’t get either, since the Dóchas Sidhe descended solely from Oberon. If you want blood magic, I’m your girl. If you want an illusion cast quickly and well, I’m really not.

Tybalt—his own face now hidden by a human mask, and the smell of musk and pennyroyal attending him like my favorite cologne—walked over to us and slid one arm around my waist. “Your clothing needs no alteration, as you are always more inclined to dress for the mall than for the presence of Kings.”

I wrinkled my nose as I turned to give his own altered attire a once-over. He looked good in jeans and a flannel work shirt, but let’s be serious here: this was Tybalt I was talking about. He would have looked good in a burlap sack, a sentiment I have expressed before and will no doubt express again, when the opportunity arises. “See, I find that I spend more time grocery shopping and running for my life than I do making nice with royalty.”

Tybalt raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t count,” I said.

“Yeah, because half the time you’re naked when he’s around,” said May, sashaying over to our little cluster. Her face was hidden by a human disguise, but her clothing was still Court finery, making her look out of place and out of time in the dingy little alley. I blinked. She smirked. “This is Portland, honey. They pride themselves on keeping it weird here. I could probably add a pair of bunny ears and a basket full of teddy bears before anyone looked at me twice, and even then, they’d just want to know if I was the Shakespearean Easter Bunny. Trust me, I’ve heard about this town.”

“If you say so,” I said. “Just please don’t get us in more trouble than we’re already in, okay?”

“I won’t.” May turned to Tybalt. “Meet here in two hours? That gives me time to get the laundry done and dry, and maybe do a little shopping. I want to find those food trucks they’re always talking about on TV.”

“I’m going with May,” said Quentin. “Well, I mean, at least until I can find a bus or taxi that will take me to Powell’s.”

“Powell’s?” I asked blankly.

“It’s a bookstore so big it takes up an entire city block. They have a rare books room bigger than the Safeway near the house. I’m going to ship things home, don’t worry.”

I grimaced. “Please. Okay, meet us back here in two hours. That leaves plenty of time for us to change our clothes and get ready for dinner. And be careful, all right? I wouldn’t put it past Rhys to have people out here in the city looking for a chance to get the upper hand. Avoid, I don’t know, empty streets and archery ranges.”

“Will do,” said May. She slung the laundry bag over her shoulder and started for the mouth of the alley. Quentin followed her. I turned to Tybalt.

“Well?” I asked.

“We must walk a short distance, but I assure you, it will be no hardship, for I will be with you,” he said, offering me his arm.

I laughed as I took it. “Wow. Your ego has grown since we’ve known each other, hasn’t it?”

“Ah, but, you see, I have wooed and won the woman of my dreams. Admittedly, some of those dreams would be more properly termed ‘nightmares,’ but I don’t believe we get to be that picky when talking about such things.” He led me out of the alley and onto the tree-lined street. I didn’t know Portland well enough to know where we were—I didn’t know Portland at all, really—but he walked without hesitation, and I followed him. Whatever strange methods Cait Sidhe used to mark their holdings for each other, I trusted him to know how to interpret things. “If my ego had not grown, it would surely be a sign that I was no true cat, and you would leave me for another.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I love you, but the cat part has never been the most important thing to me.”

The corner of Tybalt’s mouth curved upward. “And, truly, that is excellent to know. I was considering becoming a horse, or a stag, or perhaps a dairyman.”

“You know, if I ever forget that you’re a weirdo, the fact that you class ‘dairyman’ with horse and deer will remind me.”

“Stag, please,” said Tybalt. He tried to sound wounded. The laughter sort of spoiled the effect. “Do not shame my manhood, I beg of you.”

“Stag, then,” I said. We turned a corner, starting down a street packed with odd little shops. Half of them had candles in the window. Sobering, I asked, “Tybalt . . . are we doing the right thing? Getting involved, I mean? We could go home and start rallying our allies.”

“Preventing a war is always the right thing to do,” he said gravely. “War is not a game, for all that some would play it as they would a round of whist. War is a tragedy in motion. Everyone is innocent, and everyone is guilty, and the crows come for their bodies all the same. The only ones who benefit in war are the night-haunts, and even they would rather their feasts came in smaller portion.”

I thought of May, who had willingly left the night-haunts to become my Fetch, and the way the night-haunts sometimes spoke of death: like it was a waste. They lived because other fae died, and even they understood that living was better. “I just feel like we’re starting to interfere on a level that’s sort of . . . extreme.”

“But that’s what heroes do.” He stopped in front of a comic book store. There were no candles in this window: only men in tights and women with improbably good, improbably invisible bras, striking heroic poses that seemed much more sincere than my own weary resignation. I didn’t have time to dwell on that, however. Tybalt pulled his arm out of mine, put both hands against the sides of my face, and kissed me.

No matter how many times I kissed Tybalt, no matter how many situations and places I kissed him in, part of me always marveled at the fact that I was allowed to do it at all. He wasn’t the sort of man who kissed scruffy changelings in tank tops and tennis shoes—and yet somehow, he was exactly that sort of man, because he had kissed me over and over again, with the same delicate amazement that I felt when I kissed him. Like we were getting away with something that should, by all rights, have been forbidden. Like we were winning.

The taste of pennyroyal and musk on his lips was stronger than usual, thanks to the human disguise he had crafted and was still powering. It overpowered any lingering trace of Quentin’s magic, which was good; I would have been a little unnerved to suddenly have my squire involved in our embrace. Tybalt kissed me slowly and thoroughly, until my ears and cheeks were burning red and felt like they must be hot to the touch.

I was panting a little when he pulled away, smiling smugly. I glared at him.

“That was entirely unfair,” I said. “You can kiss me like that, but we’re not going to be able to do anything about it for days.”

“We have a bed,” he said.

“And we are not doing anything in it when we’re in the house of a man who wants to collect my bodily fluids for icky alchemical purposes, okay? Nothing’s going to happen, bed-wise, until we get home.”

Tybalt sighed extravagantly. “You see, even now, you torment me so.” He stepped back, taking my hand in his. There was something purposeful about the gesture, like it was less casual affection and more a statement of ownership. That feeling grew stronger as he turned toward the comic book store and started for the door, pulling me along with him.

“Tybalt?” I asked, in a low voice.

“Yes?”

“Did you just kiss me to show off for whoever’s inside here?”

A small, regretful smile touched his lips. “Perhaps,” he said, and opened the door.

I’ve never been much for comic books. I don’t object to them as a medium, and having two teenage boys effectively living with me has meant getting used to finding them piled on the coffee table, but it’s hard to get too excited about a world where a cheap domino mask is all it takes to hide your secret identity from everyone around you. If it had been that easy for me, my life would have been very different.

The shop was small, made narrow by the huge racks of comics and graphic novels that took up every inch of wall space below seven feet. Above that, the shelves gave way to posters and to tall, expensive statues, for the person who just has to have a bust of Batman watching their every move. A few racks of action figures and other, odder merchandise stood here and there among the periodicals. I blinked at a display of purses made from superhero-themed fabric. I hadn’t realized there were so many different ways to wear a cape, or so many different styles of bustier that people would consider appropriate to wear into combat.

Tybalt kept hold of my hand, guiding me past the glass-topped counter where a bored-looking girl was flipping through something about robots. The deeper we got, the stronger the smell of paper became, until we reached the back of the store. A half-open door afforded a glimpse into a small office packed with filing cabinets and cardboard boxes. A trim, silver-haired man sat at the room’s sole desk, typing rapidly.

Tybalt motioned for me to be quiet before raising his hand and rapping lightly on the doorframe. “I believe we had a lunch appointment, if you would care to put your papers and quills aside, you old rapscallion.”

“Rand!” The man was smiling as he turned, the expression carving deep furrows into the skin around his lips and eyes. If not for the faint glitter of a human disguise hanging in the air around him, I would have assumed that he was somewhere in his mid to late sixties, young enough to still be healthy and spry, but old enough to be slowing down. With that glitter, he could have been any age, from sixteen to six hundred. Immortality makes everything difficult. “So you weren’t kidding when you said you’d bring your new girlfriend to meet me.”

“Indeed, and here she is,” said Tybalt, lifting our joined hands ever so slightly, like he was showing me off and asserting ownership at the same time. I swallowed the urge to pull away. No one owns me, and I don’t like it when people pretend they do. At the same time, what little I understood about the Court of Cats told me he was trying to protect us both. He knew my feelings on the subject, and that I’d be yelling at him later. He’d done it anyway.

Belatedly, I was starting to realize that marrying a King of Cats was going to mean learning a lot more about how the Cait Sidhe worked. I was never going to be part of their world, but I was definitely moving into the subdivision next door. “Hi,” I said, smiling at the man as sincerely as I could manage. “I’m October.”

“And you can call me ‘Joe.’ Give me just a second.” The man—Joe—stood, leaning out of his office, and called, “Susie! You’ve got the store for the next hour or two. My lunch date’s here.”

“Yeah, whatever,” called a female voice from the front of the shop. Presumably, the bored clerk we’d seen before was just as bored now that she was in charge.

Joe stepped back into his office, beaming. “There, that’s sorted. Come with me.”

The office was small, and had no visible exits. “Won’t she notice that we didn’t go out through the front . . . ?” I asked hesitantly.

“The new issue of Atomic Robo just came in. Susie’s a great employee, and I love her dearly, but I’d be lucky if she noticed an armed robbery right now. We’re fine. Now come on.” His smile faded a few degrees, and a warning glint came into his eye.

Tybalt stepped into the office. I followed. Joe reached past me to close the door before turning off the light and casting the entire room into shadow.

“Hold your breath,” he said, and we were plunged into cold.

The transition lasted only a few seconds. Then we were standing in ankle-deep grass, surrounded by trees that had twisted and tangled together until they became an impassable wall. Tybalt released my hand and snapped his fingers, allowing his human disguise to waft away into nothing. I took his lead, clapping my hands as Quentin had instructed. I hadn’t cast the illusion, so I couldn’t feel it give way, but my ears stopped itching, and I assumed that meant the release had worked.

A voice chuckled from the shadows near the base of the trees. “What an odd young lady you’ve found, Rand. She’s lovely, but so unique. Whose bloodline is she? Whose name claims her?”

“Come out, Jolgeir,” said Tybalt. There was an edge of impatience in his tone, so thin that I only heard it because I knew to listen. “We are here at your sufferance, and for that, I am grateful, but we are not here to be your playthings. You have plenty such, and finer than we.”

“I don’t know that I’d trust you to assess the value of my toys,” said Joe—Jolgeir—from his hiding place. But he strolled out into the open all the same, giving me my first look at Tybalt’s local equivalent without his human mask on.

Fae tend to stop aging in their mid-twenties, thanks to whatever quirk of impossible biology makes purebloods immortal. Jolgeir was no different. He was recognizably the frame on which the older human man had been constructed: his facial features were a little finer, and his ears, now sharply pointed and subtly feline, would have looked wrong on the pleasant human proprietor of the little comic book store. His hair was still silver, although now it was the mottled silver of a gray cat, shot through with veins of purest white. His eyes were a shade of blue never seen in a purely human face, and his pupils were vertical slits, like Tybalt’s.

He was still wearing brown slacks and a button-down shirt, which explained why Tybalt hadn’t suggested I change my clothes. Kings get to set their own standards, and the standards of the people around them. Of the three of us, Tybalt was the one who looked slightly overdressed. That wasn’t so unusual. He usually dressed better than I did.

Jolgeir looked me thoughtfully up and down, less like he was looking for something wrong, and more like he was trying to take a fair and accurate measure. Finally, he said, “Forgive me for my earlier rudeness, but I truly must ask, what bloodline bore you? You look most like the Daoine Sidhe, but you are not Daoine Sidhe, and no other race so fine in face and form would suit you half so well.”

“I think that was a compliment,” I said. Jolgeir smiled, revealing one pointed incisor. I relaxed a little. A King of Cats who was relaxed enough to be smiling at me was a King of Cats who wasn’t planning to disembowel me any time soon. “Do you know Amandine?”

“Amandine, the blood-worker? The one who claims to be Daoine Sidhe, and is such a liar that I can’t bear her company? That Amandine?”

“That’s the one,” I said. “She’s my mother. She’s also a Firstborn daughter of Oberon. Surprise, and all that.”

Jolgeir frowned. “It seems odd that she could be Firstborn, and I not have heard.”

“Like you said, she lied about it for a long, long time. She even lied to me, until I figured out what she was doing. These days, it’s not quite common knowledge, but she doesn’t get to make it a secret anymore, either. If she didn’t want people to know she wasn’t Daoine Sidhe, she shouldn’t have left me in the position of needing to figure out my magic on my own. Makes it sort of hard to keep things on the down-low.”

“I see.” Jolgeir’s attention shifted to Tybalt. “I suppose I can see the appeal of a novelty. It’s always nice to have something that no one else has.”

Tybalt’s eyes narrowed, but his tone was pleasant as he said, “I would watch myself, were I you, old man. Some people might say that senselessly baiting me was a sign that you wished to be rid of your Kingdom entire.”

“Only if you could take me, kit, and I doubt you can. You couldn’t do it last time.” Jolgeir moved closer, until he and Tybalt were almost nose to nose. They stared at each other for a long moment, long enough that I was starting to consider shoving my way between them. I might regret it for a moment, but I could recover from whatever damage they did to me. The same couldn’t necessarily be said of the damage they would do to each other.

Then something changed in the air between the two men, and they burst out laughing. Tybalt put his hand on Jolgeir’s shoulder; Jolgeir bent forward until his forehead was resting against Tybalt’s, his entire body shaking with merriment. I stared at them, baffled.

“Oh, Rand, your sense of humor remains your best quality! Never let it go, and don’t let marriage change you. The temptation will be there, but I assure you, you and your lady will both enjoy matrimony more and for longer if you remain exactly as you are.”

“You old cat,” said Tybalt, and pounded Jolgeir on the back. “To speak to me of marriage so! How is your Libby? Still wild and full of mad ideas?”

“Older than she was, but lovelier every day than she was the day before.” Jolgeir pulled away from Tybalt, gathering his dignity—such as it was—back around himself before turning to me. “My lady wife, who will not be joining us this day, is of the mortal persuasion. Thirty years she’s been a bride, and three children she’s borne me, and never have I questioned my good fortune. See to it that you and your husband-to-be feel the same.”

“Do my best,” I said. “So is there a rule that says Kings of Cats have to talk like they’re in a BBC production, or am I just lucky with the ones that I run into?”

Tybalt snorted. Jolgeir looked amused. “Being here makes it easy to fall into the old ways of speech. Remember, the modern world is a moving target. For centuries, men of learning and sophistication spoke the way we do.”

“In certain parts of the world, anyway,” said Tybalt.

Jolgeir rolled his eyes. “Must you always make corrections?”

“It is my one true joy; begrudge me not such a simple thing,” said Tybalt.

“I will begrudge you whatsoever I like on my own lands,” said Jolgeir, and offered me his arm. “Walk with me, if you would, milady October? I will show you what lies beyond the briars, and you may tell me what it is that brought you hence. Rand has given me some of the story, but I always like to hear it from the source when possible.”

“If you turn down the romance novel dialog a little bit, I’d be happy to,” I said, and placed my hand on his arm as he roared laughter. Behind him, Tybalt nodded approvingly. I was doing the right thing, then: good. I hated to think what would happen if I acted wrong.

“As I was saying, the modern world is a moving target,” said Jolgeir, recovering his composure and starting toward the thorn wall, tugging me along with him. “Once, modernity was measured in horses and carriages, then in steam trains, and now in cars. I have a station wagon. I bought it in 1984. It still runs like it was made yesterday, and the man I was in my youth would have seen it as impossible magic, too powerful for mortal hands to steer, much less build. Everything changes. I can talk like the men you see on the streets—I do, in my shop, although most of my younger patrons will tell you that I’m old-fashioned. They think I’m quaint.”

“If only they knew,” I said, smiling.

Jolgeir matched my smile with one of his own. “Precisely so.”

We were still walking, and should have reached the thorns by now. I looked up, and was unsurprised to see that we were now in a tunnel of brambles. When I looked back, I could see the clearing behind us, still ringed on its far side by the original thorn wall. Tybalt walked behind us, seemingly relaxed, and looking pleased with how this whole encounter was going.

“So,” I said, turning my attention back to Jolgeir. “You own a comic book store. That’s an interesting choice.”

“Why?” he asked. “Because I should have opened a rare book store, crumbling and cobwebbed, to frighten off anyone younger than the age I pretend to, which is so much younger than my own? Comic books appeal to children, and children understand the era they are born to. When the time comes for my current mortal face to die—and it will come, much as I might wish this time could last forever—I will understand the man I must manufacture as my next self all the better because of the children, and their comics. And besides, the X-Men offer many powerful life lessons to which even the eldest among us should attend.”

“Uh, okay,” I said. “I’ll take your word for that.”

Jolgeir was still laughing when we stepped out of the tunnel. There was the twist and stretch that I associated with transit inside knowes, and we were suddenly standing in an old, somewhat repurposed Chuck E. Cheese’s. The stage was still there, although the animatronic animals had been cleared away. There was no throne. Instead, where it should have been, there was a burgundy leather armchair, complete with footrest. Dusty old picnic tables cluttered the room, some in their original positions, waiting for birthday parties that would never begin, while others had been pushed off to the side and piled into towers of furniture.

And then there were the cats. They lounged on the piled-up tables; they prowled the floor. A few had stretched out on the steps leading up to the stage, although none had set foot on the stage itself. They understood the limits of their freedom, and if they were anything like the Cait Sidhe Tybalt was responsible for, they appreciated those limits. Total freedom was terrifying. Boundaries made it controllable, and hence enjoyable again.

“If you will excuse me,” said Jolgeir. He took his hand away from my arm and calmly walked up onto the stage, where he draped himself across the chair. His posture changed subtly, becoming regal without becoming formal. Before, we had been in the presence of Tybalt’s old friend—and, I got the feeling, sometime rival. Now we were in the presence of a King of Cats, and we would do well to remember that.

“Your Majesty,” said Tybalt, bowing.

I didn’t bow. Instead, I dropped into the deepest curtsy I was capable of holding, bending my knee until it nearly brushed the floor and lowering my head so that I was bent virtually double. I stayed in that position, breathing as deeply and slowly as I could manage in order to distract myself from the slow burn starting in the muscles of my thighs.

Jolgeir whistled. It was a long, low sound. “You found a girl from the Divided Courts who would curtsy to a King of Cats. Again, Rand, I must salute you for the novelty of it all, even as I continue to question the sense of it. You may both rise. You have shown sufficient respect to amuse me, and that’s really what this is about.”

“That’s what I always say. If you can’t impress them or dazzle them, at least leave them laughing.” I straightened up, feeling my thighs all but sigh in relief. “Your Majesty.”

“Sir Daye,” replied Jolgeir, with a small smirk. “You came to Silences hoping to meet one King, and here you’ve been so fortunate that you’ve met two! Are you overcome?”

“No, Sire. Just relieved. I came to Silences hoping to meet one King, and until this moment, I wasn’t sure I was going to meet any.”

Insulting Rhys to his Cait Sidhe contemporary’s face was a calculated risk. Jolgeir ran a comic book store and had a mortal wife. Those things put him almost exactly opposed to Rhys, with his anti-changeling policies and his disturbingly ornate Court functions. If I was right about relations between the two men, I was making myself an ally. And if I was wrong . . . well, I’ve functioned in situations where everyone hated me before. It wasn’t fun, but I didn’t die, so I’m calling it a victory for my side.

Jolgeir looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he grinned, so wide that I could see both his incisors, along with a great white sweep of supporting teeth. “Oh, Rand, I like her. Are you implying that the great King Rhys is less of a King than I am?”

“Implying, no. Stating outright, yes. He’s on the throne because a woman who had no right to make decisions about this Kingdom put him there. I’m here, in your territory, because my Queen sent me to prevent a war. Do I look like the kind of person who can just stroll in and prevent a war? Cause one by accident, maybe, but prevent? Not my strong suit. The fact that I worry him should be enough to prove that he’s no true King.” I shrugged. “Now here I am. It’s an honor to be in your Court, by the way. I know the Court of Cats is private, and I’m grateful to be allowed to pass here.”

“My wife and daughters pass here frequently,” said Jolgeir. He turned his attention to Tybalt. “What of you? Do you find this King of the Divided Courts to be worthy of the name?”

“He is a mewling child playing at the monarchy, making demands he has no right to make and fussing like a kitten when denied,” said Tybalt. “In all these regards, he is as so many of their Kings have been, across the centuries. It’s difficult to look on him and see anything beyond the destiny they have graven for themselves. But my lady speaks true when she says his throne was granted to him by one who had no right to do the granting. It is possible a sea change is coming, one which will reorder the heavens and the earth, or at least the political structure of Portland.”

“Mm,” said Jolgeir. His eyes flicked back to me. “Forgive me if my question is rude, but you have human blood, do you not? I can see it in your lips, in the angle of your cheekbones and the way you hold your hands. It’s dilute, but it’s there.”

“My father was human,” I said. “I’ve never hidden it.”

Jolgeir sat up straighter, making no effort to hide his bemusement. “You lie, lady, you lie; you aren’t a human’s child. You have far too little mortal in you to be a human’s child.”

“Nope. I don’t lie. My father was as human as any man who’s ever lived.” He died for it, too, alone, thinking himself a widower who had buried his only child. I will never stop regretting that. “I told you my mother was Firstborn. Her children are Dóchas Sidhe. We’re blood-workers. For lack of a better explanation, we’re hope chests that walk. I changed my own blood. It was necessary to save my life.”

He sat up straighter still. “And that is the extent of your powers? To slide yourself back and forth along a scale from human to fae and back again, as you like?”

Just like that, I realized what I was being asked. I glanced to Tybalt, who wouldn’t meet my eyes. He’d known this would happen when he brought me here, and he hadn’t warned me, maybe because he was afraid I wouldn’t agree to come, and maybe just because he, like everyone else in my life, was in the habit of keeping secrets that didn’t need to be kept.

We’d have to talk about that later. For the moment, there was a King of Cats who needed an answer. “No, Sire, that’s not the extent of my powers,” I said politely, focusing my attention back on Jolgeir. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, yes. I can adjust the balance of someone else’s blood, if given their consent. I can pull the mortality out of a changeling—or I can make them fully mortal, and let them be human without needing to be killed.”

“I have three daughters,” he said. His voice dipped at the end, turning more serious than anything he had said since we walked into his store. “The eldest of them is twenty-eight. She’s so beautiful. She looks so much like her mother.”

“Have all three of them made the Choice?” I asked.

His nod was brief. “All three of them chose Faerie. Libby encouraged them, although she didn’t know what the consequences would be if they chose the human world. She loves me. She’s loved me since I was just silly old Joe at the library. How could I tell her I would have been forced to kill our babies if they had chosen to be like she was?”

He sounded so anguished that I almost forgot myself and approached the throne—a diplomatic misstep that would have been hard to recover from. But even my sympathy was mixed with rage. Oberon had created the hope chests to prevent situations like this one, and what had happened to them? They were locked up in treasuries and lost in private collections, and no one could use them for their intended purpose. Amandine could have filled some of that gap, but she’d chosen to hide instead, pretending to be Daoine Sidhe, while countless changelings died of old age or at the hands of their parents when they made the wrong Choice.

Not all Cait Sidhe offered their children the Choice. Those who did apparently offered it in all its aspects . . . even the fatal ones.

“You couldn’t tell her,” I said. “Yes, Sire. I can give them the option. It’s painful. It takes a lot out of me—and because of that, I’m afraid I can’t promise to do anything before this war between the Mists and Silences has been averted. But once that’s done, yes. I can let your girls Choose again, and whatever they decide, I can help them make it real.”

“I’ve always thought my middle daughter could have been a Princess,” said Jolgeir, collapsing backward in his seat and staring at me. “She’s so strong, even with human blood in her veins. Take that away . . .”

“If she chooses to be fully fae, I’ll help her,” I said. “But not until we avert this war. Or win it, I suppose.”

“Well.” He looked to Tybalt. “My Court stands with yours. If this war can’t be avoided, the Cait Sidhe of the Court of Whispering Cats will fight for the Mists, and we will win.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well. Um. Good.”

We still might go to war. But I was beginning to feel like, if we did, we might stand a chance.