Rosemary and Rue

PROLOGUE

THE PHONE WAS RINGING. Again. I turned my attention from the rearview mirror and glared at the cellular phone that lay jangling in my passenger seat next to a bag of Fritos and one of Gilly’s coloring books. It had been less than ten minutes since the last time it rang, and since there were only three people who had the number, I was pretty sure I knew who it was. I’d only had the damn thing for a month, and it was already complicating my life.

“These things will never catch on,” I muttered, hitting the flashing call button. “Toby Daye Investigations, Toby Daye speaking, what is it now, Cliff?”

There was a long, embarrassed pause before my live-in fiancé asked, “How did you know it was me?”

“Because the only other people who use this number are Uncle Sylvester and Ms. Winters, and they know I’m on a stakeout, which means they’re not calling.” I’ve never been good at being mad at Cliff; the words might be irritated, but the tone was purely affectionate. Call me a sucker for a man with a great ass who knows how to bake a macaroni casserole and can tolerate six hours of Sesame Street a day. Shifting the phone to my left hand, I reached up and adjusted the mirror to keep the front of the restaurant in view. “What is it this time?”

“Gilly wanted me to call and tell you she loves you and hopes you’ll be home in time for dinner, and that you should bring back ice cream. Chocolate would be best.”

I suppressed a smile. “She’s watching you make the call, isn’t she?”

“You better believe it. If she wasn’t, I would’ve just called Information. But you know how she gets. She’s got ears like a rabbit.” Cliff chuckled. Our affection for each other didn’t come close to our love for that little girl. “That’s from your side of the family, you know.”

“Most good things are, but yes, she gets her hearing from me,” I said, fiddling with the mirror. Was that a figure or a fingerprint? I couldn’t tell. The man I was following was so far out of my league that he could be strolling naked down an otherwise empty street and still keep me from seeing him.

Abandoning my efforts to make the mirror behave, I pulled a spray bottle full of greenish water out of the glove compartment and liberally misted the glass. Call it experience or call it intuition, but I know a good don’t-look-here spell when I fail to see it. A very good don’t-look-here spell, if I had to break it with a marsh water charm. That’s the sort of trick the purebloods disdain as being practically beneath the humans.

Beggars can’t be choosers, and it didn’t matter if the charm was cheap, because it worked; as soon as the water hit the mirror, the reflection of a tall redheaded man snapped into focus, standing just in front of the restaurant I’d been staking out for the last six hours. A valet pulled up in a sleek-lined sports car painted that particular shade of red peculiar to expensive vehicles and hookers’ lipstick.

The valet could see him, yet I hadn’t been able to: he was only blocking himself against fae eyes. He knew he was being trailed.

“Damn,” I whispered and dropped the bottle. “Cliff, the guy I’m after just came out of the restaurant. I gotta go. Tell Gilly I love her, and that I promise I’ll stop for ice cream on my way home.”

“You don’t love me?” he asked, mock wounded.

“I love you more than fairy tales,” I said—a ritual phrase that had long since replaced “good-bye” for us—and hung up the phone, throwing it into the backseat. It was time to get to work.

The man tipped the valet, got into the car, and pulled away from the curb, merging into passing traffic. His snazzy red sports car stood out among the more workaday vehicles like a cardinal in a flock of pigeons . . . at least until he took the first corner and disappeared, leaving the reek of smoke and rotten oranges in his wake. The smell of magic can cut across almost anything else, and since every caster has their own magical “taste,” it also serves as a signature of sorts. The scent confirmed that I was following Simon Torquill and not some paid double. Which was good to know, except for the part where I’d lost the man.

Swearing, I grabbed the pot of faerie ointment off the seat beside me and smeared it around my eyes until it started running down my cheeks. The car reappeared ahead of me in a hazy outline, like I was seeing it through water. “Won’t be losing you again, you asshole,” I muttered and pressed down on the gas.

Don’t-look-here spells are trickier than true invisibility; Simon’s car was still there, and the drivers around him avoided it automatically, making him safer from traffic accidents than he would have been without the enchantment. People—mortal people—saw him; they just didn’t acknowledge it. At the same time, anyone with a drop of fae blood couldn’t see him without outside assistance. It was a nice piece of work. I might have admired it, if it hadn’t been interfering with my job.

It was almost unfair. My own abilities barely extend to a few charms and parlor tricks, while the man in front of me was causing an entire city of humans to act like he wasn’t even there. That’s Faerie’s genetic lottery for you. If you’re a pureblood, you get it all, but if you’re a changeling, well, I hope you have good luck with that.

Simon turned the wrong way down a one-way street, taking advantage of the semi-invisibility I didn’t share. Swearing again, I hauled my own car into a hard left, beginning a pacing maneuver along the next block. As long as I didn’t hit any traffic lights, I’d be able to catch him at the other end. I wasn’t going to let my liege down. Not today, not ever. I’m not that girl.

Luck was with me, along with a working knowledge of the San Francisco streets. Simon’s car shot back into view a quarter block up ahead. I eased off the gas, dropping back several cars to keep from rousing his suspicions. I needed Simon as relaxed as possible. There might be lives riding on it. Two lives, to be specific: the wife and the daughter of my liege lord, Duke Sylvester Torquill, twin brother of the man I was following. They had vanished without a trace three days ago, from the middle of Sylvester’s lands, where the security was so tight that nothing could have touched them. But something had, and all signs pointed to Simon.

Even if Sylvester hadn’t been my liege, I would’ve taken the case because of the people involved. Duchess Luna was one of the sweetest, most egalitarian women I’d ever known. And then there was their daughter: Rayseline Acantha Torquill, also known as Raysel. As the presumptive heir to one of the largest Duchies in the Kingdom of the Mists, she could easily have grown up more spoiled than any human princess. Instead, she grew into the sort of little girl who’s always up a tree or down a hole, a magnet for mud, queen of worms and frogs and crawling things. She laughed like she’d just invented laughter. She had her father’s signal-fire red hair. And damn it, she had the right to grow up.

Simon sped up. I did the same.

As far as Cliff knew, I was working a standard abduction case, just another deadbeat dad who took off with the kid when he got the wrong end of the stick during divorce proceedings. My work for the Courts had been dwindling since Gilly was born, but it was still there, and I’d had a lot of practice hiding it. Maintaining a business as a private investigator made it easier. I could explain almost anything by saying that I had to work, and a lot of the time, it was the truth. It’s just that sometimes my cases were more Brothers Grimm than Magnum PI.

You don’t get knighted for nothing; it’s a title you earn, either through long service or by having a set of skills that someone really wants to have at their disposal. I’ve always had a talent for finding what I need to know, and when that came to Sylvester’s attention, he grabbed me, saying there were worse things than having a detective on the payroll. I go out, I find out what’s going on, and I let the knights who earned their titles in battle take over. I’m not stupid; I don’t engage. What I am is good at what I do.

One trace turned into two turned into two dozen, all pointing straight to Simon Torquill. He was renting a room in downtown San Francisco, paying cash on a daily basis. It was located on the Queen’s land, even, with no local regent or fiefdom to confuse the issue. Maybe that should have been a sign that something was wrong; after all, Simon was supposed to be a big mover and shaker in the local fae underworld. He should have known how to cover his tracks. I didn’t even think about it. I was too fixated on bringing Luna and Rayseline home.

Simon’s car switched lanes, moving toward Golden Gate Park. I followed. I’d been tailing Simon for three days, and if I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought I was chasing a dead end. But a woman and a little girl were missing, and we didn’t have any other leads.

Finding a parking place in Golden Gate Park is never easy, but luck still seemed to be with me, because Simon pulled into a handicapped spot—the first actual crime I’d seen him commit—and I managed to snake in behind a departing minivan, cutting off three families that had probably been circling for an hour. I kept my eyes on Simon, ignoring the rude gestures being directed toward me.

The don’t-look-here dissolved when Simon emerged from his car, brushing imagined dirt off his pristine suit. Giving the area a disinterested glance, he started toward the Botanical Gardens. I stayed in my car long enough to give him a reasonable head start, then followed.

Simon strolled through the gardens like a man with nothing to hide, even going so far as to pause and admire the ornamental lake, watching the swans that floated on the water like merchant ships on a quiet sea. Just when I was ready to back off to better cover, he started to move again, heading out of the garden and across the plaza. I followed to the end of the path, waiting to see what his destination would be.

He was heading for the Japanese Tea Gardens. I hesitated.

Golden Gate Park is carved into dozens of tiny fiefdoms—some no bigger than a single tree—and their boundaries are rigidly enforced. The Tea Gardens are held by an old friend of the family, an Undine named Lily. I could count on her for backup if I needed it, and there’s never been any love lost between her and the nobility. Maybe more important, there’s only one exit. Simon could get in, but he couldn’t get out.

That was the problem. Simon Torquill had always struck me as an arrogant jerk, and a lot of people were willing to say that he was evil, but he’d never seemed particularly stupid. He had to know Sylvester suspected him of kidnapping Luna and Rayseline and what would happen to him if his brother’s suspicions proved to be true. So why was he walking into a dead end?

If this were any normal case, this was the point where I’d have backed off. I’m not an idiot, and I don’t have a death wish. But this wasn’t a normal case. My friend and liege was crying alone in his hollow hill over a woman I’d known and respected my entire life, and a little girl who braided dandelions in her hair was missing. There was no way I could walk away, not when this might be my only shot at finding them.

I backed into the shadows of the bushes, kneeling to run my fingers through the damp grass. My own magic rose around me, the taste of copper and cut grass hanging in the air until the spell caught hold with an almost audible click. A bolt of pain shot through my temples. Changeling magic has limits, and those limits make themselves clear when you try to go too far. I’d mixed a marsh water charm, spun a human disguise, and now I was casting a don’t-look-here on myself. Put it all together, and it spelled “too far.”

The pain was worth it for the safety of going unseen. I reminded myself of that as I straightened, wincing, wiped my fingers on the leg of my jeans, and followed Simon into the Tea Gardens.

The spell worked well enough that the girl at the fare booth looked right through me as I passed. The tourists aiming cameras at the bonsai and traditional Japanese sculpture did the same. I suppressed a shiver. I had stepped out of the human world entirely, and unless I took the spell down, they’d never know I’d been there.

The paths inside the Tea Gardens were narrow enough that keeping Simon in sight meant following more closely. I shortened the gap between us, trusting my elementary illusions to hide me. The more powerful someone is, the less time they spend looking for small magic. Changeling games are the most primitive of all. I was betting Simon would overlook me completely, because my illusions were too small to be a threat.

Simon walked on for a good twenty minutes before stopping at the base of the arched moon bridge that was the gateway to the fae side of Lily’s domain. I fell back, stepping behind a stunted Japanese maple. I couldn’t risk moving any closer; that would be pushing it, illusions or no. I’d just have to wait. He seemed to be waiting, too, hands in his pockets as he gazed across the water, the perfect picture of a tourist admiring our city. I forced myself to stay alert, waiting for him to act.

“Simon!” called a laughing female voice. He turned, suddenly smiling. I mirrored the gesture, looking toward the source of the voice, and froze.

She looked like just another teenage girl, dressed in skintight clothes, black hair unbound and hanging past her hips. I knew better. I knew her name. Oleander de Merelands: nine hundred years of nasty wrapped up in a pretty little package that could pass for sixteen in any mortal setting. She’s half Tuatha de Dannan, half Peri, and entirely hazardous to your health. The Peri have always been a race that enjoys causing pain, but they aren’t social—avoid them and they’ll avoid you. The Tuatha, on the other hand, enjoy the company of others. Oleander got her fondness for hurting people from the Peri side of the family, and her willingness to seek them out from the Tuatha. Rumor puts her at the sites of half the assassinations in the last hundred years and there are rewards on her head in half the kingdoms I can name. The other half just haven’t gotten around to it yet.

“It’s wonderful to see you, my dear.” Simon folded her into his arms and delivered a kiss that made several passing tourists blush and look away, embarrassed by what they perceived as a pervert with his jailbait girlfriend. If only they knew. The Torquill brothers are barely five hundred years old; if anyone was cradle robbing, it wasn’t Simon. I put a hand over my mouth, appalled for reasons that had nothing to do with anyone’s age. There had always been rumors, but no one had ever been able to prove a direct connection between Simon and the fae underworld. Seeing him with Oleander changed everything.

I had to get to Sylvester. I had to tell him. I started backing up, getting ready to run.

“This is getting dull, darling,” Oleander informed Simon, pouting in a way that would have been pretty if it hadn’t been for the malice behind it. “Finish it?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” He raised his head, looking past the tree I was crouching behind and right into my eyes. “You can come out now. We’re ready.”

“Oh, oak and ash,” I hissed, and scrambled backward—or tried to. That was the order I gave to my legs, which were suddenly not obeying my commands. I staggered into the open, dropping to my knees. I tried to stand. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but wait.

Lily, where are you? I thought desperately. She was the Lady of the Tea Gardens; this was her fiefdom and her domain. She should have been there by now, rallying her handmaids and running to my rescue, but she was nowhere to be seen. There weren’t even any pixies in the trees. The mortal tourists looked at us the way they would have looked at air. I had never in my life been so afraid, or so alone.

Simon’s smile was almost warm as he knelt, placing one hand beneath my chin and raising it until our eyes were level. I tried to struggle, to find some way to look away from him, but couldn’t force myself to move.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Did you enjoy our little walk?”

“Go . . . to . . . hell,” I managed through gritted teeth.

Oleander laughed. “Oh, she’s a sassy one.” Her expression darkened, mood shifting in a heartbeat. “Make her pay for that.”

“Of course.” Leaning forward, Simon pressed a kiss against my forehead and whispered, “I’ll make sure someone finds your car in a week or two, once they’re ready to give up hope. Wouldn’t do to make your family wait for you too long, now, would it?”

If I could have, I would have screamed. All I could do was snarl behind clenched teeth, breath coming hard and fast as panic gripped me. I had to get out of there. Cliff and Gilly were waiting for me, and I had to get away. I just couldn’t see how. I couldn’t even drop the don’t-look-here that was guaranteeing no one would see what was happening. I was bound too tightly.

Simon stood, putting his hand on top of my head and shoving downward, whispering and moving his free hand in a gesture I couldn’t quite see. I made one last wrenching attempt to pull away. Oleander laughed again, the sound cold and somehow distant, like it was being filtered through a wall of ice. Without any warning or fanfare, I forgot how to breathe.

All magic hurts. Transformation hurts more than anything else in the world. I gasped for breath, trying to break out of Simon’s enchantment. My own meager powers were giving way, and I felt myself warping and changing, melting like a candle left too long in the sun. His binding relaxed as the change entered its final stages, and I flopped against the path, gills straining for another breath, for anything to keep me alive for just a few more seconds. My eyes were burning so that I could barely focus, but I could still see Simon, right at the edge of my vision. He was smiling, and Oleander was laughing. They were proud of what they were doing to me. Oberon help me, they were proud.

“Hey!” shouted a voice. “What are you people doing?” Then there were strong hands underneath me, boosting me off the wood, down into the water. I dove, driving myself deep into the water, away from the air, from the fear, from my own existence. The instincts of my new body took me into the cool darkness under the reeds while I was still trying to make my head stop spinning. All of the other koi watched with disinterest, and promptly forgot that I hadn’t always been there. Fish are like that.

All fish are like that, and thanks to Simon, I was one of them. I managed to force myself back to the surface once, frantically looking for help, and not finding it. Simon and Oleander were gone. I was disposed of, as good as dead, and they didn’t need to worry about me anymore. The fish I had become was taking me over, like ink spreading through paper, and as it pulled me down, nothing really mattered. Not Sylvester and Luna, not Cliff, waiting forever for me to come home. Not my name, or my face, or who I really was. Not even my little girl. There was only the water, and the blessed darkness that was my home now, the only one I’d know for fourteen years.