An Artificial Night

THIRTY-THREE

I RANG THE DOORBELL with one hand, juggling my armload of packages in an effort to keep myself from scattering them across the porch. It wasn’t working very well, and having Spike on my left shoulder wasn’t helping.

From inside, a shrill voice caroled, “I got it I got it I got iiiiiiiit!” The front door slammed open to reveal a panting six year old, exhausted by the effort of beating her siblings to the prize. “Auntie Birdie!”

“Hey, Jessie,” I said, kneeling to hug her with my free arm. Spike chirped in annoyance, jumping down to the floor. “How’re you doing?” She seemed to have recovered from her time in Blind Michael’s lands, at least on the outside; the inside was another matter. Her mother said she woke up screaming almost every night. If I could’ve killed the bastard again, I would have.

“I guess okay.” She squirmed free, rocking back on her heels. “You here for the party?”

“No, I’m selling Amway products.” I ruffled her hair. “Goose. Take me to your leader.”

“Okay!” She grabbed my hand and hauled me toward the kitchen, shouting, “Kareeeeen! Auntie Birdie’s here!”

The family was gathered around the table in the kitchen. The birthday girl smiled from her seat, raising one hand in a wave. “I know,” said Karen. “Hi, Aunt Birdie.” Then she broke off, giggling, as Spike jumped up into her lap.

“Hey, baby. Hey, Stace.” I put the packages down and hugged my best friend, hard. She shivered and hugged me back.

“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered.

“You couldn’t keep me away.”

All the kids came home, at least for Mitch and Stacy, but that wasn’t enough, and it never would be. Losing those children at all—I still can’t imagine what I’d have done if someone had taken Gillian away from me like that. As it was, time had taken her from me, and that’s at least a little easier to understand.

The first time I came to check on the kids after everything settled, I told Stacy everything. I thought she was going to haul off and hit me when I told her about May, but she surprised me: instead of reacting with anger, she drove me back to Shadowed Hills, walked up to my Fetch, and said hello, just as polite as you please. May saved my life more than once. That made her part of the family, no matter where she’d come from.

“Hey, guys? Ever heard of holding the door?” May came in behind me, her own presents more sensibly tucked into a plastic shopping bag. She was wearing a forest green skirt that fell almost to her ankles and a pink T-shirt that read “Ladies’ Sewing Circle and Terrorist Society.” “Not that I mind waiting in the cold or anything, but it’s manners.”

Stacy let go of me and smiled. “Sorry, May.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal. It gave me a chance to say hello to your neighbors. Who are very friendly, but have the ugliest dog in the world.” She put her bag down on the table, circling around to kiss Karen on the forehead. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

“Hi, Aunt May.”

The kids adapted fast to the idea of having two aunts—for one thing, it meant more presents, and even though she looked like me, it wasn’t hard to tell us apart. My Fetch had a style all her own: a style she’d strewn across my entire no-longer-spare bedroom. She showed up on my doorstep three days after Quentin said good-bye to Katie, looking sheepish and carrying the few belongings she’d managed to collect in a cardboard box. What was I supposed to do? She wouldn’t have existed if it weren’t for me, and so I let her move in. It was nice to have someone to pay half of the rent, even if I wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing for work. Sylvester helped her get a legal identity; as far as the state of California was concerned, I’d always had an identical twin sister.

Bet Amandine would be surprised to hear that one.

I sat down and was promptly rewarded by having Andrew crawl into my lap. “Hey.”

He pulled his thumb out of his mouth. “Hey.”

“You good?”

“M’good.” He replaced the thumb.

Andrew was doing better than Jessica; he was sleeping through the nights and had stopped drawing disturbing pictures. His parents said I’d taken care of the monsters, and that was good enough for him. He was still young enough to believe that heroes could make all the problems go away. I miss that feeling.

Tybalt’s kids seemed to be doing well. Raj had come to visit several times, much to Quentin’s annoyance; he even brought Helen with him once, treating her like she was made of glass. I wondered what his parents thought of that—interracial dating can be sort of a sore spot with some of the purebloods, and Raj was supposed to be King someday. Oh, well. Not my Court, not my problem.

The King of Cats himself hadn’t spoken to me since Blind Michael died; it had been almost a month, and there was still no word. That was fine. Things had been too confusing for me toward the end, and there are some complications I just don’t need.

Connor hadn’t called me either, and that was fine, too.

“So, Karen, you’re twelve today?” May flashed a grin. “Congrats.”

Karen nodded almost shyly. “Yeah, I am.”

“Toby!” Mitch hugged me from behind. “Glad you could make it.”

I leaned back, grinning up at him. “I wouldn’t miss it. Isn’t this a small party?”

“Just family,” Karen said. I looked at her, and she smiled. “It seemed right.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It does.”

The Luidaeg hadn’t been able to tell me where Karen’s oneiromancy came from; it shouldn’t have been in her bloodline, but it was. Karen seemed to be recovering well, at least. She was quieter than before, but not by much, and she was happy. That was what I cared about. Everything else was just extra.

Luna had been to Blind Michael’s lands to visit her mother at least twice that I knew of. Only they weren’t Blind Michael’s lands anymore; they were Acacia’s, and according to Luna, they were blooming. Something good had come out of everything that happened. Try telling that to the parents whose children never came home. The fae parents were few enough, and they could almost understand; there are always risks to living outside the Summerlands. But the human parents would never know, and for that, I was sorry beyond all measure. I succeeded in doing what I set out to do: I brought my children home. Why did it feel like a failure?

Quentin could’ve answered that for me, if I’d dared to ask. He’d dropped his entire mortal identity, leaving it all behind for her, and he hadn’t even tried to create a new one—I guess it would’ve been cheating. He gave Katie up once—thanks to the Luidaeg’s spell, she didn’t even remember that he existed, and he wasn’t going to push it by trying to be close to her as someone else. That showed a lot of guts and a level of maturity he shouldn’t have had to live with yet. He was growing up. Poor kid. Without a mortal existence to occupy him, I was seeing a lot more of him, and hanging out with a teenage boy was certainly proving to be an education. He could almost make baseball seem interesting, for one thing, and I was getting used to finding him asleep on my couch every Saturday morning. The landscape of my world was changing and somehow I didn’t mind at all.

Lily cried when I came back to the Tea Gardens. She hadn’t expected to see me again, and I couldn’t blame her. The Luidaeg was right when she said I was trying to die; I just hadn’t been able to see it until it was right on top of me. I still wasn’t sure I could fix it, but at least now I knew it was there. That was something. So Lily and I drank our tea and spoke of inconsequential things, and she smiled until I thought her face would crack. I started visiting her once a week after that, and bringing Quentin and May with me, when they’d come. It wasn’t fair to play games with the hearts of people who loved me. And they did love me—I had to admit that, or nothing would ever make sense again.

And me? Somewhere along the line, I’d faced the facts I’d been running from for a long time—maybe since before the Tea Gardens. Before everything. I’d finally run out of places to hide from the truth. I’m a hero. That means certain things. I probably won’t live to a ripe old age, Sylvester being sort of the exception as heroes go, but I always knew that. I never expected to live forever. Maybe admitting it to myself was all I needed to do. The rest came from there.

It’s a long, hard road to Babylon, but you can get there and back by the light of a candle. You just have to light it for yourself.

“Here comes the cake!” shrieked Jessica. Stacy dimmed the lights, and I turned to see Anthony and Cassandra walking into the room, holding opposite sides of a large white sheet cake. Everyone started joyously shouting the words to “Happy Birthday.” Even Spike chirped along with the melody. I didn’t sing. I looked from face to face instead, watching my kids—watching the people who had become my family—celebrate being alive, being together, and making it through another year.

“Blow out the candles, baby!” urged Stacy. Karen leaned forward and blew. The candles guttered and died, winking out like stars.

They weren’t needed anymore.

We were already home.