Ashes of Honor

  Besides, there was no way she could use the phone number to track me. April O’Leary set up my account, and I wasn’t sure it strictly existed from the mortal perspective. If Bridget decided not to trust me, all she’d get from tracing my number was a headache.

  Speaking of headaches…I waited until Quentin and I were safely in the car, away from human ears, before I asked, “You realize what our next step is, right?”

  Quentin frowned. “Is this one of those questions where I’m supposed to work out the answer for myself, as a training thing, or is it one of the questions where you give me the answer, so I shouldn’t even bother trying?”

  “The latter,” I said. “We need to talk to the Luidaeg.”

  Quentin’s frown vanished, replaced by a wide grin. “I was hoping you’d say that. Do we need to go see Walther first, while we’re already in Berkeley?”

  “I’ll call him and let him know the situation, but we don’t need to go by. I still want to drive past Chelsea’s school and see whether we can find the spot she disappeared from—the human authorities may have missed something—but we can head for the Luidaeg’s after that. Maybe we can even get there before dawn.”

  “Can we stop for donuts?”

  The question wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. Yes, we were in the beginning stages of a kidnapping investigation, and yes, time was not on our side…but if we were going to the Luidaeg, a little bribery wouldn’t hurt.

  The Luidaeg is the daughter of Oberon and Maeve, which technically makes her my aunt. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t killed me yet, although it’s just as likely to be the fact that I amuse her. May says we’re reenacting The Princess Bride, one “I’ll most likely kill you in the morning” at a time. Whatever her motives, the Luidaeg is one of my strongest, and strangest, allies. If anyone would know how to handle the issue of a changeling with more power than she was supposed to have, it was the Luidaeg.

  She was also the single person most likely to let me explain things without freaking out. The Luidaeg is older than any of the laws of Faerie, and remembers a time when humans and the fae consorted openly, with no lies or illusions between us. She might not approve of Chelsea, but she wouldn’t be horrified by her the way some others would be.

  And the Luidaeg likes donuts. “Sure, we can stop,” I said. “What time is it?”

  “Almost four-thirty.”

  “Let’s get back to the right side of the Bay, park long enough for dawn to pass, and then swing by Dynamo for the early morning batch. The Luidaeg likes their salted caramel.” Quentin wrinkled his nose. I sighed. “I wouldn’t take us onto the bridge if I thought there was any chance we’d be caught out by the dawn. We have nearly an hour until sunrise. Trust me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Don’t call me ma’am,” I said, and started the car.

  Quentin smirked.

  His concern wasn’t unfounded. Dawn is anathema to faerie enchantments. Something about the way the sun hits the land during the first moments of the day tears down small spells and weakens great ones, smashing the magic out of the world. It never lasts more than ten minutes, but that was more than long enough to have a fatal car accident if I was behind the wheel when it hit. Dawn isn’t as painful for me as it was before Amandine shifted the balance of my blood, but it’s still impossible to breathe in those few minutes when the air pushes down like a blanket made of lead and everything tastes of death and ashes.

  We drove down Colusa with the windows open. Patches of the smoke-and-lily scent that meant “Chelsea” appeared along the length of the street, some fresh, some faded. None of them stood out as the place she’d disappeared from, and Quentin didn’t seem to notice them at all. I stopped the car next to one of the stronger patches, frowning at him.

  “Do you smell anything?”

  “Not really,” he admitted. “Her room smelled like old magic, a little. Out here, there’s nothing.”

  “Great. One more attraction for the freak show that is my life—apparently, Dóchas Sidhe are magic detectors, not just blood detectors. Chelsea was here. She was here a lot. I think she opened some of her doors from this spot.”

  Quentin opened her notebook, riffling through the pages. “Is this the corner of Portland and Colusa?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This says she opened a door from here to…um. To Portland, Oregon. And then back again.” He raised his head, staring at me. “Can she do that?”

  “You’ve heard the old stories. What do you think?”

  He closed the book. “I think we need to find her.”

  “Yeah. So do I.” I glanced at the sky. Our sweep of the street had taken almost twenty minutes. “I guess we’re going to be a little late to the Luidaeg’s. I’m not risking the bridge this close to dawn.”

  Quentin looked relieved. “Good.”

  I snorted and started the car again, hitting the gas harder as I angled up the hill toward Tilden Park. It’s a protected nature preserve, surprisingly wild for being so close to human habitation, and it’s full of secluded picnic areas where we could wait out the sunrise without being spotted.

  The sky was turning rose and gold around the edges by the time I parked in the shadow of one of the old oak groves. Quentin and I didn’t discuss what we were going to do next; we just got out of the car, both of us heading as fast as we could for the shelter of the trees. If any early morning joggers wanted to park in this lot, they’d see the car, but they wouldn’t see us. Hopefully, that would give us time to put on human disguises, hide, or both before we got caught. The car was just out of sight when the sun came up, and the world came down.

  “Not as bad as it used to be” doesn’t mean “pleasant.” The light knocked the air out of my lungs. I grabbed the nearest tree, clinging for dear life as I tried to avoid crumpling to the muddy path. Dimly, through my tears, I could see Quentin doing the same thing a few trees away. The ashy smell of broken illusions rose around us.

  Dawn is difficult to describe. When I was little, I honestly thought I was dying every time the sun rose. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Chelsea, whose mother couldn’t truly understand what she was going through or why she stopped breathing, like clockwork, every morning at sunrise. It’s the death of magic, the end of faerie time, and it hits us like a hammer.

  Dawn passed quickly—dawn always passes—and we were fortunate: no joggers or pre-work dog walkers came down the path before we were able to straighten up, put our human faces back on, and make ourselves look halfway presentable.

  “Well,” I said, with forced jocularity. “Ready to go and sit in rush hour traffic for the foreseeable future?”

  Quentin looked at me mournfully. “Can we stop for food first? I’m starving.”

  “You’re a teenage boy. You’re always starving.”

  “That’s a good reason to feed me.”

  I had to smile at that. “Drive-through okay?”

  “After as much time as I’ve spent with you? Please. I didn’t expect anything better.”

  We were still laughing as we walked out of the trees—as much a stress reaction as anything else. In addition to knocking down any small spells, the pressure of dawn tends to cause a massive fight-or-flight response, which is just cruel, since the pain of dawn makes both options impossible. The end result is a lot of extra adrenaline in the bloodstream, frequently followed by a massive collapse. There’s a reason most fae go to bed shortly after sunrise.

  Our laughter died when the parking lot came into view. Quentin stopped dead. I took one more step forward, reaching back to press my palm against his chest. It was the clearest way I could tell him to stay where he was without actually speaking.

  Then again, the creature stretched out on top of the car might have been enough to keep him from moving.

  “Toby…”

  “I see it.”

  Whatever it was, it was the size of a cow, and looked like what you’d get if you somehow managed to cross a beaver and
a crocodile, looked at the results, and decided what your new monster really needed was a bunch of extra teeth. Its eyes were closed, and its head was resting on its webbed forepaws. That was probably the only reason it hadn’t spotted us yet.

  Keeping my hand against Quentin’s chest, I started backing him up. He went willingly. Once we were hidden by the trees, I stopped, dropping my hand. “That’s…new,” I said, slowly.

  “What is it?”

  “Big. Carnivorous, if the teeth are anything to go by. Big. On top of the car. Big. Possibly dangerous. Oh, and did I mention big?”

  “I was starting to get the idea that it might be big, yeah,” said Quentin, peering around me. Fear made what might have been a sarcastic comment sound sincere. “What now?”

  “I don’t know. Even if we wanted to ditch the car, we can’t get out of here without going past the thing.”

  Quentin sounded suddenly hopeful as he asked, “Do you have your sword?”

  “Yes.” He brightened. “It’s in the car.” He dimmed again. I continued, “Besides, even if I had my sword with me, I’m not going to attack something I’ve never seen before. What if it spits acid? Or grows new heads when you cut off the old one? Attacking mystery monsters is never a good idea.”

  “Well, we can’t stay in the woods forever. We have things to do.”

  “I’m aware.” I peeked around the trees, checking to be sure the monster was still on the car. It was. At least that meant we knew where it was. I retreated back to my position next to Quentin. “Keep an eye on the thing. Let me know if it moves.”

  “What should I do if it tries to eat me?”

  “Scream.” I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket, taking a few more steps into the cover of the trees before dialing the most useful number I could think of: Shadowed Hills. When it comes to getting rid of monsters, there’s no one better than my liege lord, Duke Sylvester Torquill.

  The phone rang six times—enough that I was starting to worry that everyone had gone to bed—before someone picked up the other end. A bleary female voice said, “Hello?”

  “Melly, hey.” Melly has been working at Shadowed Hills almost as long as the Duchy has existed. She’s also the mother of one of my childhood friends, a half-Hob changeling named Kerry. Nothing happens at Shadowed Hills without Melly knowing about it. “It’s Toby. Look, uh, sorry about calling this late. Is the Duke up?”

  “Toby?” Melly’s tone sharpened, bleariness falling away. “Darlin’, what are you doing out of bed, with the sun full up? Are you feeling all right? Do I need to bring you some soup?”

  “I’m fine, really, and so is Quentin. I just need to talk to Sylvester. Is he up?”

  “For you, m’dear, he’s always up. Just you wait here, and I’ll fetch him for you.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said, glancing toward Quentin. He was staring at the monster, an expression of intent concentration on his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  It took almost ten minutes for Melly to rouse Sylvester and drag him back to the phone—ten minutes Quentin and I spent waiting for the monster on my car to wake up and come looking for a snack. Finally, there was a scuffling sound as the receiver was picked up, and my liege said, “October? What’s wrong?”

  Voice tight, I said, “I’m in Tilden Park with Quentin. We’re at the picnic area near the big lake. There’s something on my car, and I don’t know what it is.”

  “What do you mean by ‘something’?” asked Sylvester. The cobwebs were clearing from his voice as he woke up, leaving him sharp and focused. That was good. I needed him focused.

  “I mean it’s the size of a cow, it’s got fur and scales and a really disturbing number of teeth, and since I don’t know what it is, I don’t know if it’s going to try to eat me if I get near it.”

  There was a long pause. Finally, Sylvester said, “That seems less than ideal.”

  “Yeah, it is. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Yes. You should stay where you are. Etienne and I will be right there.”

  “Sylvester—” The line went dead. I clicked my phone shut, glaring at it for a moment before looking toward Quentin and saying, “He’s on his way.”

  “Maybe he’ll bring a sword.”

  “Maybe he’ll bring a tank.” I shook my head. “I hate being rescued.”

  “So why aren’t we trying to get to the car?”

  “Because I hate being eaten even more.”

  We stayed in the shelter of the trees for another ten minutes, occasionally stealing glances at the monster on my car. Our luck was holding, thus far; no humans had shown up to discover our unwanted hitchhiker and freak out as a natural consequence. Most fae know when an illusion is being cast on them. I didn’t dare use a don’t-look-here on the monster; that might just wake it up, and I had serious doubts about whether it was going to wake up friendly.

  The smell of limes and cedar smoke drifted from the clearing behind us a half-second before I heard footsteps crunching on the blanket of fallen leaves covering the dry ground. I turned, relieved, to see Sylvester and Etienne stepping out of a hole cut into the air.

  “Your Grace,” I said, dipping a quick curtsy. Etienne’s eyes were fixed on my face as I straightened, clearly searching for the answer to a question he wasn’t willing to voice aloud. I gave a small shake of my head. He looked disappointed, but nodded.

  Sylvester looked between us, one eyebrow raised. “Is there something I should know?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “There are times when I wish I didn’t trust you quite so thoroughly,” said Sylvester, looking faintly amused. “I am glad you called me.”

  “Who else am I going to call when there’s a monster on my car?” Still, I let him pull me into a hug, taking a moment—just a moment, but a precious one—to relax into the dogwood and daffodil smell of his arms. Sylvester has meant safety my whole life, ever since the night he stepped out of the air and asked whether I wanted to be fae or human. It’s supposed to be your fae parent who offers you the Changeling’s Choice. Amandine wouldn’t, so he did. He’s been a sort of father to me ever since, even when I wasn’t willing to admit that to myself.

  Like Quentin, Sylvester is Daoine Sidhe. Also like Quentin, Sylvester is upsettingly attractive, with hair the color of fox fur and eyes like summer honey. Every Torquill I’ve ever met has had those eyes. He used to be a hero, before he retired to Shadowed Hills and took up full-time regency. He’s also the man who taught me how to hold a sword, although he’s a hell of a lot better than I’m ever likely to be. I attribute it to a combination of natural talent and centuries of practice.

  Sylvester let me go, stepping back. “Now,” he said. “About this monster.”

  I appreciated that he wasn’t going to take this as an opportunity to remind me that I was welcome at Shadowed Hills whenever I wanted to come, or to tell me I didn’t visit enough. Shadowed Hills had meant Connor for too long, during the years when he was married to Sylvester’s daughter, Rayseline. I was already haunted by my own memory. I didn’t need to be haunted by the halls where my lover had lived.

  Motioning for everyone to be quiet, I waved Sylvester and Etienne to the edge of the trees and pointed to the brown hulk atop my car. Sylvester gasped. And then he did the last thing I expected: he left the cover of the trees and ran, empty-handed, toward the monster.

  “Sylvester!” I hissed. I whipped around to stare at Etienne. “Stop him! He’s going to get hurt!”

  Etienne had an odd look on his face, like he was unsure whether or not he was dreaming. “No,” he said, slowly. “I don’t believe he is.”

  “Whoa,” said Quentin.

  I turned back to the parking lot. Sylvester had reached the creature and was scratching it behind one of its small round ears. The creature was awake, and seemed to be enjoying the attention; it was wagging its spadelike tail, slamming it against my car’s rear windshield.

  “What the…?”

  “It is an Afanc,” said Etienne
, sounding stunned. “There is an Afanc atop your car.”

  My own eyes widened. “What? No. That’s not possible. Afanc don’t exist anymore.”

  “The evidence would seem to suggest otherwise.”

  I just stared. Afanc are fae monsters, like Barghests or bogeys. They live in lakes and marshes and are reasonably harmless, as long as you don’t startle them and get yourself drowned. At least, that’s what the old stories said. No one had seen one in centuries. They weren’t indigenous to the Summerlands, and so far as I knew, they’d never managed to establish a population outside of Faerie. Even if they weren’t extinct, there was no way an Afanc should have been in the mortal world, crushing the roof of my car.

  “This is wonderful!” Sylvester twisted around to beam at us, still scratching the Afanc. “I thought they had all been sealed in Tirn Aill!”

  A sudden chill washed over me, bringing with it a host of realizations I really didn’t want to have. “Oh, Maeve’s tits,” I whispered.

  “What is it?” asked Quentin.

  I looked toward him and shook my head before saying—softly enough that Sylvester hopefully wouldn’t hear—“Chelsea.”

  It’s easy to forget, living the way we do, that once, every race of fae had a homeland—a place that they came from. Modern fae make knowes and shallowings, carving their homes out of the membrane between the Summerlands and the human world. Firstborn made worlds. Blind Michael’s land, an islet anchored between the Summerlands and one of the lost realms, was the closest I had ever been to those Firstborn-made worlds, and it had been huge and terrible and incredible, all at the same time. Modern fae make homes. Firstborn made homelands.

  They didn’t do it alone; maybe that’s why all Blind Michael had was an islet, and all my mother had was a tower. Tirn Aill was the ancestral homeland of a dozen races, including the Tylwyth Teg, Ellyllon, and Coblynau. Their Firstborn had worked together to open and shape it, making it a perfect place for their descendants to live. None of the deep realms were paradise—paradise gets boring—but they were perfect. And they had been lost for over five hundred years, the doors sealed by Oberon himself before he disappeared.