“Wait here,” I said. Manuel didn’t respond; just stood there, staring dully at the wall. “I’m going to go to the office. Can you wait here for me?” I paused, giving him time to answer. He didn’t. “All right. Just scream if anything comes.” I left him there, standing silent in the company of the artificial dead, as I turned to enter Devin’s office for the very last time.
The lights were off, casting the whole room into shadow. I paused at the doorway, just looking at the darkness. No one ever went into Devin’s office without him, and he was never in the office with the lights off. He was really gone.
We’d have to come back later and search the place, tear it brick from brick to find out who might have known what he was planning, who he’d hired, what he’d paid them. For right now, that could wait; the dead weren’t coming back, no matter what we did. The first aid kit was underneath the desk. I picked it up, wincing as the movement put pressure on my ribs, and turned toward the door. Then I paused, looking back toward the bulletin board on the wall. All those pictures . . .
Finding my picture was easy. Mitch towered above Julie and me, making us both look very small, and even younger than we were, in our brand-new street clothes and our nervous attempts at looking dangerous. I took out the tack, continuing to scan the board.
In the end, I found their picture by the eyes. That shade of glaring green even photographed too bright to overlook. I pulled the shot of Dare and Manuel off the wall, tucking it, and the picture of my little gang, into the back pocket of my jeans. Then I turned, leaving the ghosts behind me as I walked back out to where Manuel was waiting.
He wasn’t waiting alone. I stopped in the doorway, blinking.
Help arrived while I was in the office, in the form of Sylvester Torquill and all the knights he’d been able to recall in the time it took for Lily’s message to reach him. The knights were arrayed around the room, looking uncertain—what were they supposed to be fighting? There was nothing left standing—while Sylvester stood beside Manuel, sheathed sword hanging by his side.
“Hey, Your Grace,” I said wearily. I walked toward him, putting the first aid kit down at his feet. “Please tell me you brought a car. I am so not taking another taxi.”
“Are you hurt?” Sylvester reached out, wiping a smear of blood off my cheek. “Tell me this isn’t yours.”
“It’s Devin’s,” I said. I could feel myself starting to cry. “Or Dare’s, maybe. I don’t know. I’m hurt, but I’ll probably live.”
Sylvester winced. “I’m so sorry. I called back the knights as soon as Lily told me where you were going, but the warding spells on the building were stronger than I expected them to be. We couldn’t find our way in.”
“There’s a Coblynau charm above the door outside,” I said, and frowned. “If you didn’t find the sign, how did you . . . ?”
“We followed the night-haunts.”
“Oh, oak and ash.” I took a step forward, leaning my head against Sylvester’s chest. “It was Devin. It was Devin all along. You were right. I should never . . . I should never have . . .”
“Shhh,” he said, putting his arms around me. I made a pained noise, and he pulled back, eyes gone wide. “October?”
“Sorry.” I forced a smile. “It’s my ribs. I think they’re broken.”
“How?”
“Devin decided I needed some kicking.” I indicated the first aid kit. “Think we can have somebody patch me up?”
“I’m taking you home with me. Both of you.” Sylvester’s tone left no room for argument. “You need to see Jin before I’ll willingly let you out of my sight.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I agreed.
Picking up the first aid kit, I put an arm around Manuel’s shoulders and pulled him with me as we followed Sylvester out into the cleansing dark of the night outside.
Sylvester and his knights had come in three large white vans that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the parking lot of a dry cleaning service. Sylvester guided us to the middle van, taking the seat beside me. I flinched as I fastened my seat belt, trying to avoid putting pressure on my ribs. Then I closed my eyes, leaning back against the seat, and let myself relax. Sylvester could take care of things for a little while. That’s what liege lords—and friends—are for.
We were swarmed by anxious faces when we reached Shadowed Hills, with Luna and Connor at the head of the pack. Rayseline was nowhere to be seen. Sylvester commanded me into the hands of Jin, the knowe’s resident healer, and I went willingly, too exhausted to fight. She patched my ribs, shouted at me for reopening the wound in my shoulder, shouted at me more for failing to eat anything substantial for several days, and put me to bed with a stack of sandwiches and orders not to move without her permission. I was exhausted enough that I actually listened. Good thing, too; the sixteen hours I spent asleep in Shadowed Hills were the last moments of true relaxation I’d have for several weeks.
It took me a week to recover from everything that happened.When the magic-burn caught up with me after being delayed by Evening’s curse and my brief contact with the hope chest, it caught up hard. Jin nursed me through the worst of it, and when I could walk again, she handed me over to Mitch and Stacy, who were all too happy to take me. I stayed with them for ten days, while the kids exploited me for every bit of spoiling they could get, and Mitch made regular runs to my place to pacify the landlord. He made sure my carpet got replaced. I almost thanked him for that.
Sylvester took charge of Manuel and of organizing a wake for Dare. She had no family but Manuel; no one in the mortal world would mourn for her. We buried the body the night-haunts left in the Summerlands, in the forest outside the walls of the ducal knowe, and Sylvester stood beside me, and held me when I cried. I was her hero, and I failed her. In the end, I was just like everyone else.
I visit her grave as often as I can. I leave bouquets of rosemary and rue, and I tell her that I’m sorry, and I promise her that next time, I’ll do better. Next time someone makes me a hero, I’ll save them.
It took three weeks to clear Devin’s things out of Home. All the records he’d kept, all the things he’d stolen. Half his kids were never found; their things are in a storeroom at Shadowed Hills, waiting until their owners come to claim them. Somehow, I doubt that’s ever going to happen. I wish things had been different. I’d give almost anything to have Evening insult me one more time, or to see Dare looking at me with hero worship in her eyes. But sometimes the pieces fall together the way they want to, and you can’t change the story; all you can do is try to ride it out.
The last time we went Home, after everything worth saving had been removed, we went with torches, and with three fat salamanders in crystal jars. Sylvester put his hand on my shoulder, asking, “Are you sure you want to do this? I can, if you’d prefer.”
“It’s all right.” I took the lid off the first of the jars, shaking the salamander out onto the sidewalk. It sat there, blinking opalescent eyes in dull reptilian confusion, until Sylvester tossed a lit torch through the open door of Home. It turned, suddenly interested, and raced swiftly forward to pursue the flame. Its siblings followed close behind it.
We managed to catch the salamanders before the fire trucks arrived, luring them back out of the flames with sticks of cinnamon wood and myrrh. The source of the fire was never determined.
Manuel has a place at Shadowed Hills for as long as he wants it. He’s recovering from the loss of his sister, and he seems happy enough, most of the time. He doesn’t have the fire in him that Dare had. Maybe that’s for the best. He avoids me when I come to Shadowed Hills, and I let him. Someday he’ll be able to look at me again. I can wait.
I’ve been at Shadowed Hills a lot more since Devin died. Luna’s helping me get my P.I. license reinstated; walking away didn’t work, so I may as well try going back willingly. Maybe if I’d done that in the first place, none of this would have happened. Connor and I pass each other in the halls; he tries to get me alone, and I try to avoid him. I’m just starti
ng to get my life back. I won’t trade it away that cheaply.
The hope chest was in my possession for two days after Tybalt returned it to me, and I never opened it. I never even touched it after the night I found it. That doesn’t mean it didn’t have the chance to change me. My headaches aren’t as bad as they used to be. My night vision is sharper—still within the range of changeling-normal, but enough of a change that I can tell. If I’d touched the chest again . . .
The balance of my blood can hurt, but it’s mine. I’d like to keep it that way. I gave the hope chest to the Queen. I still don’t know why she wouldn’t help me; I’m still afraid she’s losing her mind, even though I don’t know what I can do about it. There’s not much that one changeling can do to challenge the highest-ranked noble in the Kingdom. For now, I’ll watch and wait to see what happens.
I owe Tybalt for helping me, and the Queen owes me for returning the hope chest to the purebloods. She hates that debt more than I hate mine. She’ll have to pay me someday—love makes the world go round, but favors keep Faerie standing. Sometimes I wonder how much of an enemy I made in the Queen by being involved in all this. I didn’t have a choice, but I don’t think that matters to her. There’s something very wrong there. Meanwhile, the Luidaeg owes me, and that may be the most dangerous debt of them all. The day she pays it off, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
We never found the rest of Devin’s assassins, but that doesn’t matter; it’s been long enough now that I need to stop jumping at shadows. I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for some underpaid goon to step out of the bushes and take me down: living that way isn’t living at all. The mastermind died. The curse was fulfilled. At this point . . . everything else is just a matter of details.
I’m picking up the pieces of my old life, a few at a time; I’m catching up. It’ll be a long process, and I’ll never get back everything I’ve lost, but at least I’ve started trying. Someday, I’ll find Simon and Oleander, and I’ll make them pay for what they did. Someday, my daughter will let me be a part of her life again. There’s plenty of time. Devin lost sight of that. I won’t. As long as you’re alive, there’s time.
My name is October Christine Daye; I live in a city by the sea where the fog paints the early morning, parking is more precious than gold, and Kelpies wait for the unwary on street corners. Neither of the worlds I live in is quite mine, but no one can take them away from me. I did what had to be done, and I think I may finally be starting to understand what’s important. It’s all about finding the way home, wherever that is. I plan on finding out.
I have time.
Coming in March 2010 The second October Daye novel from
SEANAN McGUIRE A LOCAL HABITATION
Read on for a sneak preview.
WAKING UP was complicated by the fact that I had absolutely no idea where I was. I opened my eyes, blinking at the ceiling. The air tasted like ashes. It wasn’t long past dawn; that was probably what woke me.
The ceiling looked familiar. There was a water stain roughly the shape of Iowa in one corner, and that was enough to convince me that I was at home, in my own bedroom and—I glanced down at myself—still dressed for clubbing, in skimpy lace-trimmed tank top and miniskirt. Only the battered brown leather jacket seemed out of place. Maybe if I’d been trying out as the ingénue in an Indiana Jones movie . . .
I groaned, dropping my head back onto the pillow with a thump. “Oh, oak and ash.” My memories of the previous night were fuzzy, but not fuzzy enough. As drunken mistakes go, letting Tybalt carry me home ranked high on the list. And he was never, ever going to let me forget it.
Pushing myself into a sitting position, I swung my feet around to the floor, kicking one of the shoes I’d been wearing the night before in the process. The remaining shoe was sitting atop my purse with my house key tucked into the heel.
“At least he’s a considerate source of aggravation,” I muttered, and stood, walking gingerly toward the kitchen.
Three heads of roughly the same size and shape poked over the back of the couch as I approached. Two were brown and cream, belonging to my half-Siamese cats, Cagney and Lacey. The third was gray-green and thorny, and belonged to Spike, the resident rose goblin.
“Morning,” I said. The cats withdrew while Spike scrabbled fully into view, rattling its thorns in enthusiastic greeting. Adorable, if weird.
The concept of “name it and it’s yours” has always been part of Faerie. Unfortunately, I didn’t think about that until after I gave Spike a name, effectively binding it to me. Luna was too busy being glad I wasn’t dead to mind my taking her rose goblin—she has more—and the cats stopped sulking as soon as they realized it didn’t eat cat food. I don’t mind having it around. It’s pretty easy to take care of; all it really needs is mulch, potting soil, and sunlight.
My illusions had faded when the sun rose, leaving me looking like nothing but my half-Daoine Sidhe, half-human self, pointy ears and all. I’m no more suited to the human world than Spike is, thanks to some genetic gifts from my darling, clinically-insane mother. At least I can fake it when I need to, which makes grocery shopping a lot easier.
Most breeds of fae are nocturnal, and that includes the Daoine Sidhe. Circumstance arranges for me to be awake in the morning more often than I like, and that’s why coffee has always been an important part of my balanced breakfast. After three cups, I wasn’t feeling quite ready to face Tybalt again, but it was enough of a start to leave me willing to face the day. Mug in hand, I walked out of the kitchen and back toward my room. The first order of business: getting out of my club clothes, which smelled like alcohol and sweat. The second order of business: shower. After that, the day could start.
There was a note taped to the bedroom door.
I stopped, blinking. It didn’t surprise me that I’d missed it in my pre-coffee stagger toward the kitchen; it surprised me that it existed at all. Wary of further surprises, I tugged it loose of the masking tape and unfolded it.
“October—
You were sleeping so peacefully that I was loath to wake you. Duke Torquill, after demanding to know what I was doing in your apartment, has requested that I inform you of his intent to visit after ‘tending to some business at the Queen’s Court.’ I recommend wearing something clingy, as that may distract him from whatever he wishes to lecture you about this time. Hopefully, it’s your manners.
You are truly endearing when you sleep. I attribute this to the exotic nature of seeing you in a state of silence.
—Tybalt”
The thought of Sylvester calling my apartment only to find himself talking to Tybalt was strangely fascinating. I stood there for a moment, contemplating its sheer unlikelihood. The idea that Tybalt had stayed in my apartment long enough to take a message was more worrisome, but since I didn’t think he’d want to steal my silver—if I had any silver worth stealing—I decided to let it go.
Letting go of the thought didn’t do anything to resolve my more immediate problem: Sylvester was coming to visit. I scanned the front of the apartment, taking note of the dishes on the table, the unfolded laundry piled on the couch and the heaps of junk mail threatening to cascade off the coffee table and conquer the floor. I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. Combine that with the fact that I’d been regularly pulling eighteen-hour days since getting my PI license reinstated, and it was no wonder my apartment was a disaster zone. I just wasn’t sure I wanted my liege to see it that way.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say “sorry, come back later.” For all that my fourteen-year absence means that I’m currently somewhat outside the social order at Shadowed Hills, I’m still a knight errant in Sylvester’s service. If he wants to drop by my apartment, he has every right to do so. Of course, his impending visit almost certainly meant he had a job for me. Swell. Nothing says “hangover recovery” like being called to active duty.
Spike was twining around my ankles. I knelt to pick it up, wincing as it settled to the serious business o
f kneading my forearms with needle-sharp claws.
“Come on, Spike. Let’s get dressed.” It kept purring as I carried it to the bedroom, calling over my shoulder, “Cagney, Lacey, watch the door.” The cats ignored me. Cats are like that.
One advantage to being a changeling: my hangovers are a lot milder than they should be. Thanks to the coffee, my head was almost clear by the time I finished my dramatically shortened shower. I got dressed at double speed, choosing practical clothing for what was bound to be a long day. I had just finished tying my shoelaces when someone knocked on the front door, the sound punctuated by the rattle of Spike’s thorns.
“At least I’m not naked,” I muttered, and rose.
Sylvester had his hand raised to knock again when I swept the door open in front of him. He stood there for a moment, looking almost comically startled. Then he smiled, offering me his hands. “October. Did Tybalt give you my message?”
“Hey, your Grace,” I said, taking his hands for a second before allowing him to pull me into a hug. A human disguise covered his true features with the dogwood flower and daffodil smell of his magic. I’ve learned to find that particular combination of scents soothing. It means safety. “Yeah, he did. I’m sorry I missed your call.”
“Oh, don’t be. You don’t sleep enough,” he said, letting me go and stepping past me into the apartment. “I had no idea you and the King of Cats were getting on so well.”
I reddened. “We’re not. He followed me home.”
Sylvester raised an eyebrow, saying more with a gesture than words could have expressed. I shut the door, resisting the urge to hunch my shoulders like a scolded teenager. There are some conversations I never wanted to have with my liege. “Why was the King of Cats answering your phone?” was the start of one of them.