An Artificial Night

ONE

ONE THING I’VE LEARNED IN MY TIME working as a private investigator-slash-knight errant for the fae community of the San Francisco Bay Area: if something looks like it’s going to be simple, it probably won’t be. Some people might consider that an easy lesson. I must be a slow learner because it’s been anything but easy. I’ve been turned into a fish, cursed, nearly drowned, impersonated, slashed, shot at, and had my car blown up—thankfully not while I was inside it, although it was a close call—and now I was chasing Barghests around Dame Eloise Altair’s feast hall, trying not to get myself hurt. Also not easy.

“Toby! Duck!” Danny didn’t sound particularly worried. Danny’s also a pureblood Bridge Troll, which means he has skin that’s as hard as granite and twice as difficult to damage. As a half-breed Daoine Sidhe, I’m a lot easier to hurt.

I ducked.

A Barghest sailed overhead, impacting the wall with a pained thump. Barghests are nasty semi-canine monsters with horns, retractable claws, and venomous stingers in their scorpion tails, but there’s one thing they don’t have: wings. I glanced over my shoulder long enough to confirm that the thing hadn’t been killed by impact—it was still twitching, which made death seem unlikely—before turning to wrinkle my nose at Danny.

“Changeling, remember? Can you at least try not to hurl spiky critters at my head?”

“Sure thing,” said Danny blithely. Too blithely. In my experience, people who sound that calm about requests that they not throw things have no intention of changing their behavior.

My name is October Daye; my friends call me Toby, largely because it’s difficult to call a cranky brunette changeling with a knife October and get away with it. And this is not the way I usually prefer to spend my Saturday nights.

Every private investigator gets her share of weird calls, and the fact that I’m the only fae PI in the Kingdom means I wind up with more than most. Even worse, most of the weird calls come from the local nobility, which means I can’t turn them down. Lucky me. I shouldn’t complain. Work is work, and playing whack-a-mole with Barghests in Dame Altair’s feast hall was better than going back to checking bags at the grocery store. Not that the grocery store was likely to rehire me, considering that I’d abandoned my job without warning when a friend of mine went and got herself murdered over ownership of a legendary fae artifact. Not the sort of thing I could explain to human resources. Stress on the “human.”

Changelings rarely do well in jobs with fixed, dependable hours. We get that from the fae side of the family, while the human side makes us too stubborn not to try.

Dame Altair called on Monday to report that “something” was trashing her pantry, frightening her staff, and generally making life more complicated than she wanted it to be. By Wednesday, I knew that we were dealing with a Barghest infestation. I could try to claim the discovery was solely due to my awesome investigative skills, but that wouldn’t be entirely accurate. The truth was, I stepped on one while I was searching the place.

The fact that it was “just” Barghests was a relief—for me, anyway. It could have been a lot worse. Dame Altair didn’t seem particularly relieved, but they were nesting on her property, and that probably made them a lot more annoying. I explained the situation, requested the necessary supplies, and called Danny.

Danny McReady possesses a lot of positive qualities if you ignore his tendency to chuck Barghests at my head, but when it comes to monster hunting, “practically indestructible” is the one that counts. He’s also a San Francisco taxi driver, which leaves him with a lot of pent-up aggression. The chance to spend the night playing whack-a-mole with Barghests was too much to pass up.

Dame Altair had evacuated the knowe by the time Danny showed up. We grabbed the enchanted rowan-wood crates she’d provided for us to stuff them into, paused while I pulled on my gloves, and marched back inside to deal with things.

There were a lot of things to deal with. Barghests breed about once a century, and like many of Faerie’s more monstrous denizens, they balance a high mortality rate with a necessarily high birthrate. I’d counted at least eight before I gave up and asked the Dame for a bunch of boxes. She thought I was insane for not wanting to kill them on the spot, but even Barghests have a right to live. Just not in Dame Altair’s feast hall.

Where we were actually going to put them was a problem for later; the problem for now was catching them without being seriously injured in the process. They were only pups, about the size of corgis. They were still equipped with multiple ways of killing a person, and they were absolutely not interested in coming quietly.

“This is the sort of thing I mean.” One of the Barghests was chewing on Danny’s leg, probably hurting itself in the process. “I ask what you’re doing on a Saturday night, and you say ‘hunting Barghests.’ Forgive me for nagging, but you should maybe try getting a social life.”

“I’m getting paid to be here, remember?” Another Barghest charged me with its tail raised in strike position. I parried with my butterfly net, almost managing to catch it before it popped its claws and ripped through half the mesh. Swearing, I tried to net the thing again before I added, “Besides, I have a birthday party to go to after this.”

“The Brown kid, right?”

“Yeah.” Mitch and Stacy’s youngest son, Andrew, was turning four. “I promised to make it in time for cake.”

“You’ll make it.”

“Starting to have my doubts,” I muttered. One of the Barghests was slinking on its belly to my right. I leaned over, whapped it on the head with my net, and swept it into the first box. “Get that closed!”

“Got it.” Danny plucked the Barghest off his leg, bowling it into the box after its sibling before slamming the lid. “That’s two. I’m just saying you could benefit by going out sometimes. Live a little. In ways that don’t involve maybe making yourself dead.”

“But I’m so good at maybe making myself dead.” I whacked another Barghest. “I wouldn’t have taken this job if I’d known it was going to mean playing with poisonous things. Dame Altair thought the pantries were emptying due to theft.”

“Well, they kinda were.” Two more Barghests were industriously worrying Danny’s ankles. A wide smile split his craggy face. “Aw, look at the cute little guys.”

“They’re poisonous monstrosities, Danny. That’s not ‘cute.’”I swung at another Barghest. It scuttled backward, barking at me.

“You get to keep that spiky thing, I get to think Barghests are cute,” he replied philosophically and scooped up both Barghests, cradling them. “You think Her Ladyship would mind if I took one or two of ’em home?”

“Spike’s a rose goblin,” I said sharply. “That’s different.”

“Maybe from where you’re sitting.”

I groaned, swatting another Barghest and sweeping it into a box before it could sting me. “There isn’t a Barghest rescue society. I don’t think Dame Altair is going to care what we do with them as long as they’re gone when we’re done here.”

“Good,” said Danny, dropping his two into a box and sealing it. “I’m taking them.”

“What?” I turned to stare at him, sidestepping a Barghest intent on mauling my shins. “How many?”

“All of them.” He grabbed another one. It twisted in his hands, ramming its stinger against his shoulder. He smiled indulgently. “I think he likes me.”

“Danny …”

“I’ll only keep a couple. If there’s no rescue group, somebody’s gotta look out for the little guys.” He dropped the Barghest he was holding into a box, ignoring its ongoing attempts to sting him. “How about this: instead of splittin’ the fee, you pay for my help by letting me take the Barghests.”

“And here I thought my money wasn’t any good with you.”

“Poisonous monstrosities aren’t money.”

I had to laugh at that. “You win.” We’d somehow managed to stun and capture the entire litter without serious injury. Putting my net down on the floor, I turned to peer at the boxes. “Looks like fourteen of them. They’re not happy.”

“You wouldn’t be either,” he said. “What do you think happened to their mama?” Barghests are notoriously protective of their young. A litter without a mother almost certainly meant something had gone wrong.

“Poison and claws don’t protect you from becoming roadkill,” I said. Barghests had an unfortunate tendency to play in traffic. Thankfully the night-haunts were always there to clean up the mess before the humans saw. “She’s lucky she stowed them here, even if they did manage to cause a lot of damage before Dame Altair called me.”

“It’s a whole new world,” he said sadly. There was no way I could argue with that.

A few millennia ago, when Faerie was still in its ascendancy, creatures like the Barghests would have roamed the moors, not afraid of anything but hunting parties and bigger predators. Things have changed since then. With Faerie in hiding and more of her creatures becoming extinct every year, the Barghests were probably lucky to have been captured. At least with Danny looking out for them, they might stand a chance.

Not all Faerie’s denizens have fared as poorly as her monsters. Sure, the Barghests would have been free and happy to do as they pleased,but people like me and most of my friends would have been treated like lepers. Assuming we were allowed to live. As human civilization has taken over much of what used to belong to the fae, changelings have become more integrated into Faerie culture. Call it evolution in action. We’re half-human, but our loyalties are to Faerie; that makes us useful tools in a world that includes things like iron and the Internet. Not that I’ve been able to figure out the e-mail account Countess April O’Leary set up for me, despite several telephone “tech support” sessions punctuated by April’s muffled laughter. Missing fourteen years of technological advancement has left me a little behind the times.

Fortunately, most of Faerie moves slowly enough to make something as small as being turned into a fish for a decade and a half look positively inconsequential. Certain skills never become outdated, and that includes disposing of infestations of small, inconvenient monsters.

Danny started carrying boxed Barghests to his taxi while I tracked down Dame Altair to sound the all-clear and collect my fee. He was shoving the last box into the passenger seat when I emerged from the knowe, money safely tucked into my pocket.

I eyed the cab. It was completely filled with boxes, making it look like he’d decided to start moonlighting as a professional mover. “I hope you weren’t planning on picking up any fares tonight.”

“Nope.” He grinned, dusting his hands together. “I’m gonna take the babies home and see about setting ’em up a kennel. She say anything about wanting the boxes back?”

“They’re all yours.” Dame Altair’s knowe was tucked into an elegant Victorian house in a neighborhood nice enough that our cars stuck out like sore thumbs. “I’m gonna get going before I miss the party entirely. Call me if you need any help with the Barghests, okay?”

“Got it. And you think about what I said. Getting out more couldn’t hurt.”

“With who? Mitch and Stacy have kids, Kerry’s always busy, Julie hates me, and you have a cab to drive.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. How about you call that King of Cats guy I used to see you with? Take him out, get him drunk, and see if you can make him sing karaoke.”

“No.” My tone didn’t leave any room for argument.

Danny blinked, looking startled. “Just think about it, all right? Open roads, Toby.”

“Good night, Danny.”

He was just trying to help, and I shouldn’t be cranky about it. I told myself that half a dozen times as I got into my car and pulled out of Dame Altair’s neighborhood, going more than a bit above the speed limit as I tried to make it to Andy’s party on time. I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes to midnight. I could just make it, if I managed to avoid getting pulled over.

Human kids live their lives in sunlight. Staying up late is usually a treat reserved for special occasions. Fae kids live by a different clock. Almost all fae are nocturnal creatures, from Daoine Sidhe like my mother all the way down to the hearth-spirits and pixies. We don’t like the sun; the sun returns the favor. Of Mitch and Stacy’s five kids, only the oldest, Cassandra, was keeping anything like a human schedule. She was a freshman at UC Berkeley, and unfortunately, most of the required courses for a physics degree were held during the day.

The fae disdain for daylight made shopping for Andy’s birthday present an adventure in and of itself. I’d finally managed to make it to a toy store downtown just before closing, where the clerk assured me that no four-year-old boy could ever have enough plastic dinosaurs. Since I’d been out of bed for less than half an hour, I was groggy enough that I would have agreed to buy the kid a box of plastic forks if it meant I could get out of there and go for coffee. The dinosaurs were in the back, in a bag covered with gamboling cartoon clowns. I hate clowns.

I was lucky: it was late enough that the roads between San Francisco and Colma were basically clear, and I pulled up in front of Mitch and Stacy’s house with almost five minutes to spare. From the sidewalk, the house looked dark, silent, and totally deserted. Living in Faerie has taught me a lot about how deceptive appearances can be.

The edges of the lawn glittered as I walked toward the house, betraying the presence of an illusion spell. I stepped across the boundaries, and the house was suddenly blazing with lights, the air sharp with the smells of sugar and finger paint. Braziers were mounted on stakes all around the lot, with pixies fanning the tiny flames that kept the spell alive. Shouts and peals of happy laughter filled the air. The party, it seemed, was still in full force. I grinned and walked on, Barghests and Danny’s attempt to meddle in my social life forgotten.

The side gate was open, invitingly decorated with a bouquet of bright balloons. I veered that way, ducking under a crepe paper streamer and into the backyard where chaos reigned.

At least ten kids of varying ages and species were racing around like they were jet-propelled. Most of their attention was on the jungle gym, where there was some sort of pirate game going on. It seemed to involve chasing each other up and down the slide while shouting, “Shiver me timbers!” A dun-colored Centaur cantered around the structure, crying, “Avast ye!” and trying to grab the others whenever they came into range. Jessica was directing the action, too absorbed by her six year old’s autocracy to do more than wave distractedly at my arrival.

Cassandra was on the porch, struggling to read while children shrieked and zoomed around her. It seemed like a battle she was doomed to lose.

I walked over to sit down next to her, one eye on the wild rumpus. “Hey, puss.”

She brightened. “Aunt Birdie!” Being nineteen and highly aware of her own dignity, she took great care in putting her book down before she hugged me. “You came! Andy’s going to be thrilled.”

“Couldn’t miss the fun,” I said, returning the hug.

Cassandra was the only one of Mitch and Stacy’s kids born before my disappearance. She’s the one who originally decided my name should be “Aunt Birdie,” since she couldn’t pronounce “October.” She’s short, plump, and pretty, and has her mother’s gently pointed ears, tipped with tufts of black fur. She gets her coloring from her dad’s side of the family, though, with Mitch’s blue-gray eyes and unremarkable brown-blond hair.

It’s hard to look at her and not see my own little girl, the one I lost when Simon cast his spell on me. I’ve been working on it. Cassandra deserves better than to be judged by who Gillian might have grown up to be.

Not that Gillian’s been willing to let me see who she actually is. My daughter isn’t dead. She just refuses to let me be a part of her life.

“Well, it’s really good to see you,” said Cassandra as she let me go.

I settled back in my seat. “Good to see you, t—”

My statement was cut short as Andrew slammed into me from the side and flung his arms around my neck. “Auntie Birdie!”

Cassandra laughed. “Aren’t you glad I outgrew that?”

“You have no idea,” I said, and ruffled Andrew’s hair. “How’s our birthday boy?”

“I’m four!” he said, showing me the appropriate number of grimy fingers. Towheaded, freckled, and filthy: all the ingredients needed for “ridiculously cute.” Children shouldn’t be allowed to be that adorable. There ought to be a law. “We’re having a party!”

“I noticed.”

Cassandra groaned, muttering, “People in Oregon noticed.”

“We’re gonna have cake, and ice cream, and presents, and—”

A rising shriek was coming from the direction of the swings. I shifted Andrew to my lap as I looked up. Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Incoming.”

“Aunt Birdeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Karen raced toward us. I braced for impact. At eleven, Karen never seemed to be able to make up her mind about whether or not she was too grown-up to tackle me. I got off lucky this time; she skidded to a halt and declared, “You came!”

“I did,” I agreed. “You look like you’ve been wallowing in the mud.”

She looked down at herself. She was coated with filth from the waist down, and muck caked her hair. “Wow. You’re right.”

“So what have you been doing?”

Gleefully, she crowed, “Wallowing in the mud!”

I sighed. “Right.” Andrew was snuggling into my lap, getting dirt all over my jeans. I thought about moving him and decided not to bother. It was his birthday. He could get me dirty if he wanted to. “What’s up?”

“We’re playing pirates,” she said. “I’m the first mate! Jessica gives orders and then I make bad people walk the plank.”

“Good for you. So what’s Andy?”

“He was my parrot, and then he was a shark. Now he’s … what are you now, Andy?”

“M’a rowboat,” he said sleepily.

“Do rowboats nap?” I asked.

“I wish,” muttered Cassandra. “They’ve been trying to drive me crazy all night.”

“Really? How are they doing?”

She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. “Amazingly well.”

“I see.” I tickled Andrew until he stopped yawning and started giggling, then set him back on his feet. “Go be a rowboat.” He laughed and ran for the swings, Karen close behind.

“How do they get all that energy?” I asked as I stood.

“They never stop moving.”

Cassandra grinned. “I have no idea. If I knew, I could skip freshman physics.”

“I’m gonna go let your folks know I’m here. You need anything?”

“Can I have a tranquilizer gun?”

“No.”

“Okay. Just tell Mom we need to cut the cake soon, or I may kill them all.”

“Got it. Give the kids sugar before you kill them. Because that’s gonna calm them down.” I winked and turned to head inside.

If the party seemed hectic in the yard, it was even worse when packed into the confines of Mitch and Stacy’s cluttered living room. School pictures and crayon art covered the walls, while toys, domestic mammals, and small children got underfoot when least expected. The furniture was covered with clear plastic sheeting, but that would just delay the damage, not prevent it.

Stacy was positioning chairs around a series of folding tables when I walked in. Anthony, their nine year old, was helping her, looking harried. The party was clearly getting to him, and just as clearly wasn’t getting to his cheerful-looking mother. “Toby! Good, you’re here,” she said, unsurprised by my appearance. “Get the cake.”

“Got it,” I said, shaking my head as I moved toward the kitchen. If I’d been juggling that many kids, I would have demanded whiskey and duct tape instead of offering them things bound to make them even more hyperactive. But that’s Stacy.

As a quarter-blooded changeling, Stacy was aging faster than any of us, but she wore it well enough that it didn’t seem to matter. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a ponytail and a paint-stained apron was tied around her waist. All the kids take after her to some degree—Jessica looks like a miniature version of her mother—and they could have done a lot worse.

Mitch was in the kitchen unpacking the cake, a three-tiered monstrosity covered in sugar dinosaurs: clearly our friend Kerry’s work. It would take hearth-magic to make realistic sugar reptiles that small. “Hey,” he said. “Help me with this.”

“Sure.” I stepped into position, taking one side of the cake. “How many kids are here, anyway?”

“Nineteen.” He laughed. “You should see the look on your face! It’s a party, Toby.”

“Most parties don’t involve the entire kindergarten.”

Mitch just laughed, muttering a quick charm to light the candles. We could hear Stacy’s voice drifting from the living room, calling the kids to come in and sit down as we carried the cake through the kitchen door. A dozen different off-key renditions of “Happy Birthday” promptly burst forth. The Centaur was singing in German, while a tiny Snow Fairy with ice in her hair joined in with what sounded like a Japanese pop song. Welcome to birthdays in Faerie.

Flanked by a Goblin and a Hamadryad and beaming from ear to ear, Andy leaned out of his chair to blow out the candles with one surprisingly strong breath. Everyone started to cheer. I clapped my hands, laughing.

Happy birthday, kiddo. Happy birthday.