An Artificial Night

THIRTY-TWO

IT WAS A MORTAL TAXI DRIVER THIS TIME, and he didn’t speak English. That was okay; Quentin held my hand for the entire drive, his fingers clenched in mine, white-knuckled and shaking. He was terrified, and there were things that needed to be said, but I couldn’t say any of them. Saying something makes it real. There was also our human driver to be considered; he claimed not to speak English, but he still might understand enough to pose a problem if we opened our mouths around him.

So I kept my mouth shut, slid my arm around Quentin’s shoulders, and just held him. It was all I could do. It could never have been enough. It had stopped being enough when I handed Spike to Luna and got into the cab to take Quentin off to face his fate.

The driver dropped us off at the mouth of the Luidaeg’s street and left; Sylvester had already paid the fare. I just hoped he’d used real money. The purebloods can have a sort of creative interpretation of “polite” behavior when it comes to mortals, and cabbies tend to get cranky when they make a big run and wind up with pockets full of dead leaves and ashes.

We stopped on the Luidaeg’s doorstep. I looked at Quentin, gauging the strain in his eyes. “Are you going to be all right with this?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’m not. But I have to.”

I nodded. More and more, I was coming to appreciate the concept of “have to.” “You know she may not be quite right. Not yet.” You understand that she may be broken beyond even the Luidaeg’s capacity to fix? That we may bring her back, but never bring her home? Do you understand?

There were a lot of things I wanted to say, and I couldn’t bring myself to say a single one, because saying them would make them real, and no amount of preparing him would change what was waiting for us.

“I know. I do. I’m not giving up hope. But I know.”

“All right, Quentin. Just remember that I’m here, okay? I’m not going away again.”

He managed a smile, squeezing my hand. “I know. You’d never be that stupid twice.”

“Brat,” I said fondly and turned to knock on the door.

Inside, the Luidaeg shouted, “It’s open!” When you’re a legendary sea witch, you don’t need to worry much about robbers.

I pushed the door open and led Quentin into the dark, cluttered hall. Quentin stepped easily into the spaces between the debris, moving with the quiet, self-assured grace that comes naturally to the pureblooded Daoine Sidhe. I was easier to track; I was the one who kept tripping and slamming my toes against things in the gloom. The Luidaeg’s hall seems to change length to fit her mood, and we walked for quite a while before we saw the other end come into view. Quentin picked up the pace, his hand still locked in mine, and I let him drag me along.

The living room was as cluttered as ever, reeking of marsh and fen and decaying couch stuffing. Quentin paused for a moment, obviously not used to the smell. Then he saw Katie and froze.

She was sitting on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, gazing into the distance. Her hair had been washed and brushed over her shoulders, and her clothes were clean and new. She looked unhurt and human. The Luidaeg was next to her, one half-clawed hand resting on Katie’s knee.

“Katie?” said Quentin. Then he smiled, brightly enough that it seemed to clear the shadows out of the room. I relaxed, letting my own smile slip forward. Then I saw the look on the Luidaeg’s face, and smiling ceased to be an option. She looked troubled; almost bleak. I stopped, smile fading, and tilted my head to the side in silent question. She nodded, very slightly, and turned to watch Quentin’s approach.

Katie didn’t acknowledge Quentin’s presence, or even seem to know that he was there until he dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her hand. When he touched her she flinched, cowering against the Luidaeg and whimpering. The Luidaeg lifted one hand to stroke Katie’s hair, whispering soothing words in a language that probably died with Atlantis. Katie shivered, returning to silence.

Quentin leaped to his feet and backed away, eyes as wide and shocked as those of a child who’s just learned that fire burns. Oh, baby. The fire always burns.

“Can you fix her?” he whispered, blinking back tears. His world was falling down around him; I knew how that felt. I’d have tried to offer him something solid to hang onto, but I knew better. I was too frayed already. I might snap.

The Luidaeg’s gaze was mild, but when she spoke, her tone was icy. “Fix her? I suppose. She has the potential to talk, laugh, cry, lie, and betray again, just like every other human. She can live; she’s not too broken for that. At least, not yet.”

“How?” asked Quentin, with raw longing in his voice. I winced.

The Luidaeg curled a hand over Katie’s shoulder, smiling bitterly. “Will you pay for her restoration? There are costs and choices to be made—one choice, actually, but it’s yours alone, and making it pays my fee. Can you bargain with the sea witch a second time, little boy?” Katie’s breathing calmed as she leaned against the Luidaeg; Quentin might be breaking, but she was broken, and it was our fault, every one of us. Not all the sparks that fly when the mortal lands and Faerie meet are bright ones.

Quentin stared at the Luidaeg, and I fought the urge to yank him away and take him out of the dark place where the sea witch held her Court and made her quiet bargains. She was my friend, but she was also something old and dark, and she could be the death of him. I wanted to take him away from there. I couldn’t. As the Luidaeg said, some choices are for one person and one person only; the blood I could still feel on my hands was a testimony to that. I couldn’t interfere. I could only watch and bleed with him, if it came to that.

“It’s a simple choice.” The Luidaeg smoothed Katie’s hair with a clawed hand, expression gentle. There was a time when I wouldn’t have realized that. “She’s not a changeling; she wasn’t made to sit on this line. She has to choose one side or the other. Take her to the Summerlands: tend her, keep her, and let her be the last casualty of my baby brother’s madness. Keep her, or let her go and never go near her again, because she’d love you if she saw you, and that love would make her remember our world. Keep her or let her go. But choose.”

“That’s not a choice!” Quentin balled his hands into fists. What was he going to hit? Reality? The laws of nature? Hitting the Luidaeg could be fatal. “That’s not even fair!”

“It is what it is,” the Luidaeg said with a shrug. “Who told you choices were fair, kid? I gave you the choice that must be given; I’m giving you the chance to decide. What do you want, Quentin? Her life and heart are in your hands, and she’s only a Daughter of Eve. The choice isn’t hers. The consequences are hers to bear.

“Whatever you want her to be, she’ll be. She’ll live or die as you command.”There was no pity in her tone;none at all. “Just choose, kid. This isn’t a game. Choose.”

Quentin turned to me, eyes wide and filled with silent hurt. He was still so very young. Faeries—true faeries, not their changeling throwaways—live forever, and when you have an eternity of adulthood ahead of you, you linger over childhood. You tend it and keep it close to your heart, because once it ends, it’s over. Quentin was barely fifteen. He’d never seen the Great Hunt that came down every twenty-one years, or been present for the crowning of a King or Queen of Cats, or announced his maturity before the throne of High King Aethlin. He was a child, and he should have had decades left to play; a century of games and joy and edging cautiously toward adulthood.

But he didn’t. I could see his childhood dying in his eyes as he looked at me, silently begging me to answer for him. I finally understood why the Luidaeg said making the choice would pay her fee. Whether he gave Katie up or not, he was paying with his innocence. There are choices you have to make for yourself, unless you want to spend the rest of your life lying awake wondering when the shadows got so dark. If he kept her with him, he’d be forcing her to belong to him until she died. There’s no going back on that kind of choice: she’d be his forever, no matter what she might have wanted. But love ends, and people change, and ordering someone to love you for as long as they live isn’t a good idea.

Katie was young and innocent enough for Blind Michael’s lands. Would she survive another kidnapping?

Love is a powerful thing; it makes us all equals by making us briefly, beautifully human. First love cuts the deepest and hurts the worst, and when you’re caught in its claws, you can’t imagine that it’s ever going to end. I was just a kid the first time I fell in love. I got over it, but it took time, and that was something Quentin and Katie didn’t have.

“I …” Quentin’s voice fell gracelessly into the darkness. He was shaking. There was a time when I wouldn’t have credited him with the humanity that required.

“Quentin—” I started. The Luidaeg silenced me with a look. This wasn’t my fight—it never had been.

He had to say the words alone.

He stood frozen for a moment longer, shivering. Then his shoulders slumped in defeat as he said, “I understand,” and began walking toward them.

None of us spoke as he knelt by Katie’s feet, and for a moment I saw him in all the terrible glory of his adulthood. Beautiful and terrible they are, the lords of our lands; beautiful and terrible beyond measure. But watching Quentin, I realized they also had the potential to be kind. When did that begin? More important, how do we make sure it never, ever ends?

“Katie,” he said, and reached for her hands. Maybe it was the slowness of his approach, or the resignation in his tone, but whatever it was, she didn’t pull away. “I never meant for you to get hurt. I really didn’t.” The words belonged entirely to his childhood, begging for forgiveness and unable to see past the punishment. “I thought it could be okay. I thought I could love you without hurting you. I thought we could be different. I’m sorry.”

Katie just kept staring away into the distance; wherever she was, it was a place past easy words. Quentin quieted and watched her for a moment, hungrily, like he was trying to memorize every detail. Maybe he was. Forever is a long time. You have to burn the edges of memory onto your heart, or they can fade, and sometimes the second loss is worse than the first one.

“I would’ve stayed with you,” he whispered. “When you got old, when you were sick, I would’ve stayed. I …”

He stopped, shaking his head. “No. I wouldn’t, and won’t. I loved you. That’s enough.” He looked to the Luidaeg like he was asking for permission, and she nodded. Crying bitterly all the while, Quentin leaned in and kissed Katie for the last time.

“We are done, we are done, with the coming of the sun,” the Luidaeg said, running her hands through Katie’s hair. Quentin pulled away, watching her. “Now the morning light appears, and the Faerie Courts draw near for the dancing of our Queens on the still and dew-soaked green. Human child, run fast away; fae-folk come with close of day.”

Something old and wild and cold brushed through the darkness of the apartment. I shivered as it brushed past me, remembering my own Changeling’s Choice, so long ago, when I rejected Eden for the wilds beyond.

Katie blinked, eyes going wide as the spell wrapped itself around her. “Quentin?” I wondered what she saw when she looked at him; what fiction her mind was using to cover what she knew damn well was really there. Did it matter? He’d given her up. She was no longer Faerie’s concern.

Quentin looked to the Luidaeg, and she nodded marginally, giving her consent. Turning back to Katie, he offered her his hands. “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“Home—yes, please. I’d like to go home.” She stood, letting him lead her to the hall. It was shorter now, and they reached the front door in a matter of moments.

Quentin looked back once, his face like a mask, before they stepped out into the light of day. Mortal day. The sun has no love for our kind. I knew what came next: it was a simple story. He’d walk her to the corner, hail a taxi, take her home, and leave her on her doorstep, as the fae have done with their mortal lovers since time began. For good or ill, she’d never touch the world of Faerie again. She was free. All it cost was Quentin’s heart.

I crossed and sat next to the Luidaeg, watching her. She looked back for a long time before turning away and saying, “I tried, Toby. I really did. Believing in both worlds at once was too much for her. It was either our world or hers, and I couldn’t be the one to make that choice for her.”

“I know,” I said. Oddly enough, I did. I couldn’t make the choice for Cliff, or for Gillian, and the human world had taken them both. Understanding didn’t make it less painful.

“You came back.”

“I’m like a bad penny.”

“I put you on the Blood Road.”

“Yeah, I actually noticed that part.”

“My brother …”

“Is dead.”

“I see.” She raised her head, regarding me with solemn, ancient eyes. “There was a time when I’d have ripped your heart out of your chest and eaten it in front of your dying eyes for saying something like that to me.”

“I know.”

“Only you wouldn’t have died. I’d have left you broken and heartless on the moors, bleeding forever as a warning to anyone who touched my family. I’d have destroyed you.”

“I know that, too.” I wasn’t afraid of her. When did I stop being afraid?

“Once.”

“But that was a long time ago.”

“I know.” She paused, looking down at her hands. The dainty claws that tipped her fingers retracted, reshaping themselves into human nails. “How did he die?”

“I killed him with silver and iron and the light of a candle.” I shivered as the memories slipped over me, trying to ignore the feeling of blood on my hands. Blood has power; part of me was his forever. The knives had been iron and silver, but that was only the end of the kill, not the means. He died by blood and fire and faith, by roses and the cold flicker of candlelight. My blades were only an afterthought, a sharp reminder that the long, wild chase was over, and it was time to lie down and be still. It was time to close the nursery windows. It was time to grow up.

The Luidaeg’s hand on my shoulder brought me back. I froze, blinking up at her, and she smiled. “As it should have been. Silver was his right, and iron will force the bastard to stay dead. Remember that; you can only kill the Firstborn if you use both metals. They’re too fae for silver alone, and too strong for iron. Anybody that tells you different is lying. You did good, Toby. If it had to be anyone, I’m glad it was you.”

“Oh,” I said, and stopped. There was nothing else to say. I’ve always been proud of my words, and they’d all left me. They’d been doing that a lot lately.

The Luidaeg sighed and put her arms around me, pulling me close. “Come here,” she said. “I need to hold someone, and you need to be held. It’s a fair trade. Just for a little while, and then we can go on being what we are.”

I thought about objecting, but dismissed the idea and nestled against her, enjoying the feeling of security given by knowing someone bigger and stronger than I was would stop anything from hurting me. That’s all childhood is, after all: strong arms to hold back the dark, a story to keep the shadows dancing, and a candle to mark the long journey into day. A song to keep the flights of angels at bay. How many miles to Babylon? Sorry. I don’t care.