A Local Habitation

  “Yes,” I said. “It looks like she was.”

  The file Jan had opened was a financial overview of the company, the County, and their performance over the last few years. It was annotated, showing where Barbara had interfered with the County to the advantage of Dreamer’s Glass. I glanced to Jan.

  “We couldn’t figure out where the money was going,” she said. “Another two years and she’d have closed us down.”

  “Would someone have killed her over this?”

  “Possibly,” she admitted. “I might have strangled her myself. But . . .”

  “But you wouldn’t have killed the others. Can you print Barbara’s records for me?”

  “Of course.” She shook her head, frowning. “This is so . . . wow. Babs was our friend.”

  “She was a cat. The Cait Sidhe have never followed the rules.” I shoved my hair back again. “Would Dreamer’s Glass have anything to gain by killing you all?”

  “Just the land.”

  “There’s nothing special about the knowe?”

  “Not a thing. We dug the Shallowing ourselves.”

  “Great.” Another dead end. “Make those printouts, and we’ll keep working. Just be careful. Getting yourself killed won’t bring anyone back.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t storm over to Dreamer’s Glass and confront the Duchess.” Her smile was mirthless. “Although when this is over, I’m kicking her ass.”

  “Totally fair.” I paused. “Is there any chance Gordan was working with Barbara?”

  “No, not really,” Jan said. “She got Barbara hired on, and she was always worried about her doing something stupid. They were working on a project together, and they’d been fighting for months.”

  “What about?”

  “I was never quite sure. They seemed to be sorting it out between themselves.”

  “Good to know,” I said, and hefted the drawer. “I’m going to go back to Quentin and start shuffling through this stuff. See if there’s something else in here that we can use.”

  She blinked. “You left him alone? After telling us to stay together?”

  “I left him with a locked door between him and the rest of the knowe,” I said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable about that decision. “He’s got the keys, and I needed to do some hunting.”

  “Well, at least it paid off.” She looked up at the ceiling. “April, could you come here?”

  The air in front of her flickered, and April was there, delight transforming her face into something bright and real. I looked at her, remembering what Gordan told me. April loved her mother. No one could see them together and deny it.

  Jan looked down, and smiled. “Hey, sweetie. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  “Nothing of importance, Mother. May I assist you in some way?”

  “Please. Do you remember Quentin?”

  April’s nod was immediate. “Yes. He is located on the first floor, in office A-3.”

  I stared at her. Either she’d just been visiting him, or she knew where he was without thinking about it. If it was the latter, the killings couldn’t have been an outside job—she’d have spotted an intruder before they could do anything. “You watched us get here, didn’t you? That was you in the woods,” I said, before I fully realized I was going to.

  “Yes,” April replied. “I watch all entrances.”

  Right. Unless our killer was somehow invisible to April, we were dealing with a person, not a thing. “Have you seen anyone strange coming or going right around the murders?”

  “Only you.”

  “I see. Will you be available later? I’m going to want to talk to you.” I just needed to figure out what I was going to ask her.

  She slanted an anxious glance toward Jan. “Mother?”

  “Do as Toby says, sweetie; it’s all right.” April made an unhappy face. Jan smiled. “I know you don’t want to. Tell you what: I’ll come to your room and watch a movie with you tonight, real-time, okay? We can snuggle.”

  “Will there be popcorn?”

  “Popcorn and cartoons.”

  “Acceptable,” April said, and vanished.

  Jan looked toward me, a tired smile on her lips. “Normally, she watches movies straight from the file server, but she’ll watch them slow if it means I do it with her.” She removed her glasses, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “Motherhood is exhausting. What was I thinking, saying I could handle a County and then adopting a kid? I must’ve been crazy.”

  “Jan . . .”

  “This whole thing is crazy.” Sighing, she put her glasses back on. “I’m sorry we were so weird when you got here. We’ve been running scared for a while now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and was surprised to realize that I meant it. “We’re doing our best.”

  “I know you are.” A flicker of something like anger crossed her face. “It’s almost ironic. What we’re trying to do here . . . people shouldn’t be dying. That’s the last thing that should be happening.”

  “What are you trying to do here?”

  “Nothing big. Design better computers. Get the Summerlands onto a decent phone plan. Save Faerie.” She waved a hand vaguely, like she was brushing off a fly. “The usual nonsense. What are you going to do now?”

  “Go back to Quentin, and go through the rest of this paperwork.” I picked up the drawer, tucking it under my arm. “I need you to be more careful. All of you. Gordan’s in the cube maze, alone. Elliot is Oberon- knows-where, alone. Cut it out.”

  “I’ll talk to them,” she said.

  “We’ve reviewed the information you gave us and searched the offices we could find. Did Yui have an office?”

  “Yeah—she just hid it really well.” She pursed her lips, looking momentarily unhappy. “When Elliot gets back, I’ll ask if he can lead you there. He can usually find it.”

  “Elliot? All right. We can’t find anything the victims had in common, other than working here. I’m going to have a second look at the places where the bodies were found, but I don’t expect to find anything.”

  “They were hired from a lot of different places, for a lot of different reasons,” Jan said, almost apologetically. “Colin . . . well, we needed a Selkie for some of our integration testing. It’s difficult to explain, but race really mattered. Peter was a history teacher with a specialization in folklore—that wasn’t just human folklore.”

  “Faerie historian?”

  “Genealogist.”

  “Why did you need a genealogist?”

  “Market research.” Jan shrugged. “You can’t use the same sales pitch with a Daoine Sidhe and a Centaur. It’s not going to work. Yui was our team alchemist. She could make just about anything compatible with anything else, if you gave her time.”

  “What about Barbara?”

  “Friend of Gordan’s, hired in a nonsecure position. She was from San Jose. That probably explains why . . .” Jan stopped.

  “Why she betrayed you? Yes, it probably does.”

  “Don’t the bodies tell you anything?”

  “Nothing. They died of some internal trauma; I have no idea what it was, but the external wounds can’t have killed them. Maybe I’d know if I were more of a forensics expert, but I don’t, and I’m not.” The fae have never needed forensics training; that’s what the Daoine Sidhe are for. Unfortunately, that means we don’t have many options when the blood fails us.

  “Maybe you’re too weak to ride their blood,” Jan said, slowly. “Changelings are weaker a lot of the time, aren’t they?”

  “Quentin tried, too. Nothing.”

  “We can’t get you a forensics expert. We can’t get the police involved.”

  “I know,” I said. “Unfortunately, the dead aren’t talking.”

  “But why are they like that?” she asked. “Why didn’t the night-haunts come?”

  “I have no idea.” I raked my hair back with both hands, trying to hide my exasperation. “You’d have to ask the night-haunts.”

&nbs
p; “Well, can you do that?”

  I paused. “Can I . . . ?”

  Could I ask the night- haunts? Were they something you could ask? I’d never seen them, and neither had anyone I knew; they came in the darkness, took the bodies of our dead and were gone. They weren’t something you saw . . . but could I see them? Was there a way to summon them—and more importantly, could they tell me what I needed to know? The Daoine Sidhe know death, but the night-haunts are death. They might have the answer. I owed it to Jan to try.

  Jan was watching me. I nodded, saying, “It may be possible; I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it being done. Maybe they can be summoned without a body.” I paused. If there was anyone who would know how to call the night-haunts . . . “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  “Please.”

  “I’m going to head back to the office, go through these files, and try to figure out whether it’s possible. And get coffee. I really need coffee. Will you be okay until Elliot gets back?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She pushed her glasses up with one finger. “I’ll lock the door and check in with April every few minutes.”

  “Okay.” I inclined my head in the bare outline of a bow, tucked the drawer up under my arm, and walked back out into the hall. I had a lot to think about.

  SEVENTEEN

  VOICES RAISED IN faint argument were drifting through the door of Colin’s office. I sped up. Quentin’s safety was the one thing I wasn’t willing to risk. That’s why I wanted him to stay in the office in the first place: better paranoid with a locked door between him and the rest of the knowe than following me when I wasn’t sure I could protect him.

  “—and I’m telling you that if they focused more on telling a good story, the graphics wouldn’t matter! How many explosions do you need in the first ten minutes of a movie?” That was Quentin. He sounded annoyed, but not like he was being threatened.

  “Your argument is specious,” countered the second voice. April, who sounded like, well, herself. Not quite bland enough to be a machine, but close. “You are a teenage male. Teenage males like explosions.”

  “Generalize much?”

  I relaxed before leaning forward and knocking, noting impassively that my brief terror seemed to have helped my exhaustion. The voices went quiet. Then Quentin called, “What’s the password?”

  “Do your homework. Now let me in.”

  He unlocked and opened the door, revealing April in my abandoned seat. The Hippocampi were clustered at the end of the tank, apparently as unhappy with the Dryad’s presence as they’d been with mine. I looked between them and raised an eyebrow.

  “I tested that ‘pager’ thing,” Quentin said. “I just said her name and she showed up. And then we started talking about movies.”

  April disappeared from the chair, reappearing next to Quentin. “His taste in plot and construction is contrary to that of most teenage males and does not make sense.”

  “Chalk it up to his archaic upbringing,” I said, not bothering to smother my grin. “You two about finished? I need to update Quentin.”

  “I have duties which I can attend to,” April replied. Looking toward Quentin, she said, “We will resume at a later point,” and vanished.

  “Looks like someone has an admirer,” I said, and closed the door. “She open up at all?”

  “Not really,” he said, sitting down again. “I learned that she likes AC current but DC tickles, she likes rabbits, and she thinks computer games are good exercise programs. Oh, and she doesn’t approve of people dying, because it disrupts the production schedule.”

  I put the drawer from Barbara’s desk down next to the tank of Hippocampi. “So she doesn’t know anything?”

  “If she does, it’s not anything I can get out of her.”

  “Great.” I shook my head. “Not exactly useful, but you tried. Good for you.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Well, Barbara was spying for the Duchess of Dreamer’s Glass; I found her files. Everyone in this County has a death wish and insists on hanging out alone. And I need coffee. Get your things, we’re heading for the cafeteria.”

  Quentin stood, nodding. “Do we know when my ride’s going to get here?”

  “Ready to leave?”

  He grimaced. “Ready to not be sitting in this office anymore.”

  “I need to make a call anyway; we’ll call Shadowed Hills afterward, see if we can get a status.” I was assuming Tybalt had actually given Sylvester my message, and that someone would be waiting by the pay phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Jan’s asked me to try summoning the night-haunts.”

  Quentin froze, staring at me. “Can you do that?”

  “We’ll never know until we try.” I was glad he hadn’t asked who I was calling. We’d both be happier if he didn’t know that part of things until he had to.

  “Will they be able to help?”

  “I have no idea.” The night-haunts live on the flesh of Faerie. They might decide I was an ideal midnight snack and rip me into pieces . . . but they might also decide to answer my questions. They had to have a way of knowing when anyone with fae blood died; they arrived too quickly not to. If they were capable of thought, they’d have a reason for their actions. They could share it with me. There was a chance that I’d get myself killed in the process, but that’s always a risk; if it worked, it would be worth it.

  He watched my face as we left the office, starting down the hall toward the cafeteria. “Toby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is this a good idea?”

  “Absolutely not. But it’s the only one I’ve got just now, so we’re going to run with it.”

  “Right,” he said, with a sigh.

  We walked the rest of the way to the cafeteria in silence. I opened the door to reveal Elliot sitting at one of the tables, staring into his cup. He looked up and smiled when we entered, trying to look like he wasn’t worried. It wasn’t working. “Hey.”

  “Do we need to have a talk about what ‘keep someone with you’ means?” I asked, heading for the coffee machine. My exhaustion was fading, replaced by a sense of general irritation with the world. “Why are you here by yourself? Jan’s alone in her office.”

  He sighed, putting down his cup. “You’re mad at me.”

  “I’m mad at everyone.” I poured myself a cup of coffee as Quentin walked past me to the soda machines. “You’re the third person I’ve found alone. Are you trying to make this harder than it has to be?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m sorry.”

  “Forget about it,” I said, and took a long gulp of coffee, relaxing as I felt the caffeine starting to hit my system. “Quentin, get something nutritious to go with your soda. A Snickers bar or something.” Peanuts have protein, right? Topping off my coffee, I walked over to the pay phone.

  “Dial nine for an outside line,” said Elliot.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue.” I put down my coffee, picked up the receiver and pressed my palm against the keypad, hitting all the numbers at once. The smell of grass and copper rose around me, almost cloyingly strong as I chanted, “Reach out, reach out and touch someone.” Quentin and Elliot were looking at me like I was nuts. That was all right; maybe I was.

  The silence gave way to clicks, which faded and were replaced by watery ringing. Then a familiar, irritated voice was on the line, saying, “Hello?”

  There are times for pleasantries; this wasn’t one of them. “Luidaeg, it’s Toby. I need to summon the night-haunts.” Elliot stiffened. Quentin dropped his soda. Well, they recognized the name.

  The Luidaeg was silent so long that I was afraid she’d put the phone down and walked away. Then she snarled something in a language I didn’t recognize before demanding, in English, “What?!”

  “I need to summon the night- haunts.” Repetition is sometimes the best way to deal with the Luidaeg: just keep saying the same thing over and over until she gets fed up and gives you wha
t you want. All preschoolers have an instinctive grasp of this concept, but most don’t practice it on immortal water demons. That’s probably why there are so few disembowelments in your average preschool.

  “Why?”

  I outlined the situation as quickly as I could without leaving anything out. Dealing with the Luidaeg is a bit like juggling chainsaws, except for the part where you can’t master the trick. A chain saw won’t flip randomly in midair and dive for your throat: the Luidaeg might. Worse, if she thought I was holding back on her, she could refuse to help.

  Elliot paled as I described what I’d found in Barbara’s desk, but kept listening, horrified and fascinated. Quentin gave me a wounded look and turned away. It wasn’t that I was calling for help: it was that I was calling the Luidaeg, who had every reason to hurt me after she helped. Almost everyone’s heard of the Luidaeg; she saw most of Faerie born, and she may see it die. Even for people who are supposedly immortal, that kind of age is scary. Some people say she’s a monster. I just say that she’s got issues.

  When I finished she said, “And that’s why you want to summon the night- haunts?” She didn’t sound angry; just tired, and a little bit exasperated.

  “Yes. I’m hoping they can tell me why they haven’t come for the bodies.”

  “What if they won’t tell you? What if they don’t know?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, opting for honesty before cleverness. “I’ll think of something.”

  The Luidaeg snorted. “I’m sure you will. How many of the people you’re ‘guarding’ will die while you think?”

  That stung. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Is it good enough?”

  “Are you going to help or not?” Across the room, Quentin winced. The Luidaeg’s had millennia to learn how to piss people off. It was probably always a natural talent, but at this point, she can pack a world of insult into a single word.