Rosemary and Rue
Page 7
I raised my finger to my lips.
Blood magic is dangerous, because it skips the brain and goes straight for the gut. When you’re talking about someone as weak as I am, you’re lucky if nobody winds up trying to fly off the top of a ten-story building. Out of all Titania’s descendants, only the Daoine Sidhe can measure another’s death by the taste of their blood; everyone else with that capacity descends from Maeve and the darker paths of Faerie. Evening was my fifth time. It doesn’t get any better with practice.
The world twisted until I was looking at the apartment through a red-tinted fog. The police and the body were gone; this was what the world looked like through Evening’s eyes just before the end. It was disorienting but not painful, like trying to walk after three beers. The knowledge that coming down from this would be worse than a hangover hovered on the edge of my awareness, but I pushed it away, forcing myself deeper into the red.
The room snapped into focus, clean, perfect, and unmarred by any signs of a struggle. A warm wave of satisfaction flowed over me. Everything was where it belonged.
Especially the key.
Pulling myself back from the veil of Evening’s memories, I dragged my fingers across the bloody carpet again. Key? What key? Her blood was bitter and sweet at the same time, and my eyes unfocused, sending me crashing back into the moments before Evening’s death.
The door slams open, but it doesn’t matter; they’re too late. I know that as I turn to face them, phone in my hand. It’s too late. October knows, and she’ll come to chase her answers to ground. They’re too late, too late to take the key, and she’ll find what’s been left for her to find, she’ll end this mockery at last . . .
A flash of memory that wasn’t mine cut across the images the blood was feeding me:
I was handing a key to a small winged figure—a sprite? Where did the sprite come from?—and it took a gift of blood from my palm, running a hand along the shallow cut I had opened there, and then it flew away, leaping out of my window with the key in its arms. And then I made a final phone call, summoned October, who would never understand, who would end this at last, and the door slammed open, and I screamed, and then . . .
Then the pain came.
Riding the memories of the dead is unpleasant at the best of times. Whatever they felt, you feel, and there’s always the risk you’ll hold on too long. Following them into death is like riding a roller coaster into hell: if you’re lucky you might come back, but you shouldn’t bet on it. I ripped myself out of her memories after the shots were fired, after her throat was slit, and just before her heart stopped.
I staggered to my feet and out of the apartment, shoving my way past the police. I made it halfway down the hall before my knees buckled. I grabbed the rim of the nearest decorative pot as I fell, retching. No amount of gagging was going to get the foul taste out of my mind. You ride the blood and you pay the price, and part of that is remembering whatever you set out to remember. You get to keep it and treasure knowing what death feels like for however long you live.
I’d ridden deaths before, and come through shaken but stable. But Evening . . . oh, rowan and ash, what they did to Evening.
There are a lot of ways to kill the fae. Most of the things that kill humans will kill us—I’ve yet to meet anyone short of a Manticore that could survive being hit by a train or wouldn’t be bothered by losing their head. Even so, there are ways of killing us that would make decapitation seem like a picnic, and the worst is death by iron. It kills the magic, then the mind, and finally the body. It’s the great leveler, the one thing that can kill anyone. Death by iron is slow, painful, and all too often inevitable.
And the bastards killed her with it. It wasn’t enough that they’d invaded her privacy and ended her life: they had to make a show of it. What could she possibly have done to deserve that?
A cop walked by, heading for the apartment, and muttered, “Rookie,” as he passed. I’d obviously hit him before, and he was still seeing me as whatever he wanted to see; good. The last thing I needed was questions about why I was kneeling outside a murder scene covered in blood when my head was still spinning.
Even inside Evening’s memory, I hadn’t seen her killers. They’d somehow managed to keep themselves out of sight, or had erased themselves from the blood before they went. I didn’t know if that was possible, but I couldn’t discount it. These people were dangerous, and this was bigger than murder: someone used iron to end a life. Not just any life, either. The purebloods might have looked the other way if it had been a changeling, called it a “reprehensible affair” and left it alone . . . but Evening was one of them, born under the hills when mankind still thought fire was a neat new idea. The purebloods have their failings, but they look out for their own.
If I didn’t move quickly, things were going to explode.
FIVE
GOING BACK INTO THAT apartment took all the self-control I had, but I did it; I had to. I had heard three shots fired, and there were only two gunshot wounds on the “body.” That meant one of the bullets might still be somewhere in the room. If I wanted to be certain of the way that Evening died, I needed to find it.
Iron bullets are heavy and uneven. That changes their ballistics; they can’t fly smoothly. Even if the police knew about the third bullet, they would’ve been starting their search from the shooter’s position with an incorrect idea of how far the bullet could have gone. I found it buried in the wainscoting of the wall across from the balcony, a small, uneven sphere that told me everything I needed and didn’t want to know.
It was iron, pure enough to sting even from several feet away. I left it where it was and left the apartment for the last time. Physical evidence wasn’t required, and you can’t work sympathetic magic with iron. I’d just needed to know.
The news van was still on the street as I walked back to my car, got inside, and pulled away, but the camera crew was nowhere in sight. That was good. My misdirection spells aren’t strong enough to stand up on film, and I didn’t want them recording me with blood caked on my hands and jeans.
The iron told me two things: first, that Evening’s killers were fae, since no human would have used that particular weapon, and second, that I wasn’t dealing with any of the usual suspects. My own wounded sensibilities wanted to jump straight to the assumption that Simon and Oleander were involved, but they depended too much on magic to carry that much iron. They don’t have many scruples. That doesn’t mean they’d be willing to deaden their own magic for weeks, maybe even months, by having that much contact with iron. All that would do was get them caught, and they’re just too smart for that.
Evening’s blood had its own share of information to impart, although it was a bit more nebulous in its usefulness. She didn’t call anyone else before she died; I was the only one who knew she was gone, other than the night-haunts—and her killers. Somehow I doubted the people who killed her would be spreading the news that they’d broken Oberon’s first law—the prohibition against killing purebloods except in formally declared war—and the night-haunts aren’t big conversationalists. I don’t even know anyone who’s actually seen them. I was on my own, and I was on a time limit, because I had to find her killers before I found myself drowning in her curse instead of pond water.
And all that would have to wait, because I had more immediate duties to fulfill. There were rites to be observed, words that needed to be said, for the sake of the ones who hadn’t died. The purebloods don’t take death easily. Something has to cushion the blow. Beyond that, there was the simple fact that a woman had been brutally murdered by someone who clearly knew her nature. Humans don’t carry cold iron knives—they’re heavy, clumsy things, and modern technology is so far beyond them that they only appear in fae hands. Whoever killed Evening made sure her death would be as painful as possible. That made this a matter for her liege, and that meant I had to go someplace I really didn’t want anything to do with: the Court of the Queen of the Mists, monarch of Northern California.
She and I have never gotten along. Sylvester and Evening were the ones who insisted he be allowed to knight me for services to the Crown when her original Court was destroyed; the Queen was all for throwing me out with the rest of the changeling rabble. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s a mixed-blood—her heritage is a strange blend of Siren, Sea Wight, and Banshee—or maybe she’s just a snob, but the woman has never liked changelings, and titling me went against all her sensibilities. She did it anyway, because the services I’d performed were too large to be ignored, and because Evening was pushing for it. I don’t think the Queen has ever forgiven me. I’ve made it a rule to stay out of her presence as much as possible, just to avoid reminding her that she’s unhappy.
It doesn’t help that changelings form the lowest rung of fae society; we’re too mortal to belong and too fae to be sent back to our human parents with a pat on the head and a “have a nice life”—assuming our human parents are still alive after we’ve been in the Summerlands long enough to realize how raw the deal there can be, which is by no means guaranteed. Most of us wind up spending the centuries as hangers-on in the various Courts of Faerie, following our immortal relatives and begging for crumbs like puppies until our own mortality catches up with us and we crawl off to die. That’s the way the game is supposed to work. Only I’ve always refused to play by those rules, and it hasn’t exactly endeared me to the higher echelons of the nobility.
It was late enough that there were few cars heading for the bay. Some places are too cold to take a date on a December night, even in a city whose fame is based around an icy ocean and constant fog. Since freezing to death isn’t conducive to having a good time, the tourists had set their sights farther inland, leaving me with a clear shot at my destination: a little cluster of streets and crumbling businesses about six miles down the coast from Fisherman’s Wharf. The beach I was aiming for wasn’t part of any nature preserve, coast trail, or tourist attraction. It was just a small, stony stretch of ground on the inside curve of the coastal wall, isolated enough to be forgotten and important as all hell from the faerie point of view.
There were no street vendors or tourist traps where I was headed: just the smell of the sea and the natural decay of any seaside city. In most of the city, parking is at a premium because of the tourists. Near the Queen’s knowe, it’s hard to find because there just isn’t very much of it. Warehouses and aging industrial buildings don’t exactly inspire the construction of parking lots. It took fifteen minutes of circling before I found a space without a meter tucked halfway down a side street that was more like an alley. I shoved my purse into the glove compartment before getting out. Maybe it was an invitation to theft, but I don’t like to carry anything unnecessary when I’m visiting the Queen. There’s too much of a chance that I’ll need to run.
The taste of roses flooded my mouth as I got out of the car. I staggered, the image of a sprite with tattered oak-leaf wings flashing across my mind. The key . . .
Whatever it was, it was important, but it was something I’d find when I was through telling the Queen what had happened. I forced the image down, along with the thorny arms of Evening’s entangling curse. I had a job to do. Hiking my coat up around my chin, I started down the alley, moving toward the sea.
Almost all fae Courts are tucked in hidden places called “knowes,” little pockets of reality balanced between the mortal world and the Summerlands. Some of them are easy to get to while others require everything up to and including blood sacrifice just to get inside. It depends on who built them, and who controls the doors.
I’ve seen doors tucked away in carnival photo booths, gas station restrooms, and old cardboard boxes, as well as in the more traditional grass rings and stone gateways. The Queen of the Mists opened her own doors, which means that her knowe is well-hidden and not easy to reach; getting inside means walking a quarter mile of largely uninhabited beach, scrambling over damp rocks coated in seagull shit and old seaweed and trying not to fall into the Pacific Ocean on the way. An after-dark hike across a slippery beach isn’t exactly the ideal follow-up to a murder scene unless you’re a masochist, which I’m not. Fortunately, the tide was out. Unfortunately, the moon wasn’t providing much light, and even changeling vision is no help when the fog is rolling in.
Sneakers aren’t really made for wet sand and slippery stone, but I somehow managed not to fall into San Francisco Bay before I reached the cave that marked the entrance to the Queen’s Court. It was narrow, dank, and dark, almost hidden behind a seemingly random fall of rocks. Altogether, it managed to project the impression that the whole thing might come crashing down at any moment, and of course that meant it was the only way in.
I stepped off the rocks and winced as my socks were immediately soaked through with seawater. The night just kept getting better. Now I had bad news to deliver to a powerful woman who didn’t like me, a terrible crime to avenge, and wet socks. Grumbling, I walked into the darkness.
The water in the cave got deeper as I moved farther in, reaching to the middle of my calves and soaking my jeans to the thigh. I shivered, keeping one hand against the damp wall for guidance. Someday, I hope Her Majesty discovers central heating and basic drainage systems. Until then, visiting her is a matter of stumbling around in the dark and hoping that there’s nothing nasty waiting there to jump out and shout “surprise.”
The stone began to glow a pale, luminescent white about twenty feet from the entrance. I kept walking, ignoring the feeling of phantom hands plucking at my clothing and hair. The ground abruptly leveled out, water disappearing as the rough stone was replaced with polished marble. I walked on, my wet shoes slapping against the marble with every step, and after another ten feet, the walls opened up, and I was suddenly walking through a vast ballroom with ice-white marble floors and fluted columns holding up the distant ceiling. Courtiers thronged like exotic birds, pointing and whispering behind their hands as they took note of my untidy appearance. I pressed on.
The trouble with the Queen of the Mists is that she’s so far above normal protocol that she feels no need to live by it, save when it suits her, even as she forces it on everyone around her. If I broke the slightest rule, I could find myself in more trouble than I’d ever get out of. She, on the other hand, could do whatever she wanted, and all I could do was curtsy. That meant I needed to head for the throne room, because propriety says that visits begin with a formal presentation. If I was lucky, she’d be there.
I’m so rarely lucky. There was a shimmer in the air, and the taste of frozen salt assaulted my tongue. The sound of wet shoes hitting the floor stopped as my sneakers were replaced by low-slung heels to go with the floor-length blue silk gown that had taken the place of my clothes. I only know one woman rude enough to do something like that without my consent, and technically, it wasn’t rude when she did it. Rank hath its privileges.
Burying my hands in the skirt, I dropped into a deep, low curtsy, bowing my head. “Your Majesty, it’s an honor.”
“October.” The voice was light and airy, like a half-forgotten dream. There was no surprise in her tone; she sounded mildly pleased, like I came traipsing through every day. I guess ennui is a good thing when you’re facing an eternity in politics. “How very delightful it is to see you.”
From the sound of her voice, she was somewhere off to my left. G
ood. If I could just avoid looking at her, this might not go too badly. “The delight is mine, Your Majesty,” I said, and straightened, keeping my eyes turned straight ahead.
The Queen was standing right in front of me.
I didn’t expect it, and I didn’t have time to look away without giving offense. Forcing myself to swallow the urge to recoil, I looked into her face. She smiled slightly, expression saying she knew what she was doing, and didn’t care. It was, after all, her right.
A lot of Faerie’s children are beautiful, but the Queen takes it past beauty, to the point where beautiful and terrible collide. It’s hard to look at her and stay focused on anything but continuing to look at her, making her happy, making her smile for you. It’s part of the reason I don’t come near her when I can avoid it. I hate being forced into things.
She was wearing a snow-colored velvet gown that brought out the pink undertones of her skin, saving her from looking like she’d been carved from ivory. Her silver-white hair fell to the floor in an unbroken line, trailing almost a foot behind her. I’ve always assumed that her hair is at least part of the reason she never leaves the knowe—give her five minutes in the mortal world and her shampoo bills would be astronomical. A thin band of silver sat atop her head, but it was really just for show. There was no question of who the monarch here was. I stayed standing, fighting the urge to drop to one knee.
She stepped toward me, her dress rippling like water. Only a pureblood would accessorize with the ocean itself.
“What are you doing here, October? You avoid my court when you can. That seems to be most times, these days. I was beginning to think you had, perhaps, forgotten the way.”
Never lie to anyone who can have you locked up for looking at them funny. It’s just a good survival strategy. Still, I could try to skirt the issue. “I’ve been keeping to myself, my lady.”