Rosemary and Rue

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE - December 23, 2009: fourteen years, six months later

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Teaser chapter

  “Make sure they don’t win.”

  ‘‘October? October, are you there? October, this is Evening.” There was a long pause. I heard her take a wavering, unsteady breath. “Oh, root and branch . . . October, please pick up your phone. I need you to answer your phone right now.” It was like she thought she could order me to be home. There was no telling how much time had passed between messages, but it had been enough for the worry to stop hiding and come out to the surface of her voice, obvious and raw. The only other time I’d heard that much emotion in her voice was when her sister died. This wasn’t sorrow. This was sheer and simple terror.

  “Please, please, October, pick up the phone, please, I’m running out of time . . .” The message cut off abruptly, but not abruptly enough to hide the sound of her crying.

  “Oak and yarrow, Eve,” I whispered. “What did you get yourself into?”

  I thought I wanted an answer. And I was wrong, because the last message answered me more completely than I could have dreamed.

  The speakers crackled, once, before her voice began to speak for the final time.

  “October Daye, I wish to hire you.” The fear was still there, but the command and power that was her nature shone clearly through it, brilliant and terrible. She was looking at the end of everything, and it was enough to remind her of who she really was. “By my word and at my command, you will investigate a murder, and you will force justice back into this kingdom. You will do this thing.” There was a long pause. I was starting to think the message had ended when she continued, softly, “Find out who did it, Toby, please. Make sure they don’t win. If you were ever my friend, Toby, please. . . ”

  DAW Books Presents Seanan McGuire’s October Daye Novels:

  ROSEMARY AND RUE A LOCAL HABITATION (Available March 2010) AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT (Available September 2010)

  Copyright © 2009 by Seanan McGuire.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1487.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, September

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES —MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14010-9

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my mother, Mary Mickaleen McGuire, who never made me stop reading.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There were a lot of people involved in making this book come together. Huge, huge thanks to my crack team of machete-wielding proofreaders, whose tireless efforts took care of a lot of bad grammar and more than a few misplaced commas; without them, I would make a lot less sense. My agent, Diana Fox, knew exactly what to ask for, and my editor, Sheila Gilbert, knew exactly how to make me answer. Here at home, Chris Mangum and Tara O’Shea organized my Web site, while Kate Secor and Michelle Dockrey organized everything else.

  Finally, thanks to Rebecca Newman and Amanda Weinstein for logging countless telephone hours dealing with the details, and to Tanya Huff, for assistance above and beyond the call of duty. The errors in this book are mine. There would be a lot more of them without all the people who helped me get it done.

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Bannick: ban-nick. Plural is Bannicks.

  Banshee: ban-shee. Plural is Banshees.

  Cait Sidhe: kay-th shee. Plural is Cait Sidhe.

  Candela: can-dee-la. Plural is Candela.

  Coblynau: cob-lee-now. Plural is Coblynau.

  Daoine Sidhe: doon-ya shee. Plural is Daoine Sidhe, diminutive is Daoine.

  Djinn: jin. Plural is Djinn.

  Glastig: glass-tig. Plural is Glastigs.

  Gwragen: guh-war-a-gen. Plural is Gwargen.

  Kelpie: kel-pee. Plural is Kelpies.

  Kitsune: kit-soon. Plural is Kitsune.

  Lamia: lay-me-a. Plural is Lamia.

  The Luidaeg: the lou-sha-k. No plural exists.

  Manticore: man-tee-core. Plural is Manticores.

  Nixie: nix-ee. Plural is Nixen.

  Peri: pear-ee. Plural is Peri.

  Piskie: piss-key. Plural is Piskies.

  Pixie: pix-ee. Plural is Pixies.

  Puca: puh-ca. Plural is Pucas.

  Roane: ro-an. Plural is Roane.

  Selkie: sell-key. Plural is Selkies.

  Silene: sigh-lean. Plural is Silene.

  Tuatha de Dannan: tootha day danan. Plural is Tuatha de Dannan, diminutive is Tuatha.

  Tylwyth Teg: till-with teeg. Plural is Tylwyth Teg, diminutive is Tylwyth.

  Undine: un-deen. Plural is Undine.

  Will o’ Wisp: will-oh wisp. Plural is Will o’ Wisps.

  PROLOGUE

  June 9, 1995

  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 kno
w 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 t
he 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.