A Local Habitation od-2

by Seanan McGuire

  THREE

  MINDFUL OF SYLVESTER’S REQUEST for an immediate departure, I shoved clothes into a duffel bag, tossed my bag of toiletries on top, and called it good. The cats had migrated into the bedroom, curling up atop Tybalt’s jacket. I dislodged them and shrugged the jacket on, ignoring their protests. I didn’t want to leave it in the apartment for him to casually come back for.

  Stacy didn’t answer when I called the house. I left a quick message asking her to come by and feed Spike and the cats until I got back. I glossed over how long my absence was likely to be. The last thing I needed was for her to start calling Sylvester, demanding to know whether he was trying to get me killed. I couldn’t blame her for reacting that way. After all, the last time I went on a job for him, I got turned into a fish and spent fourteen years swimming around a pond in Golden Gate Park. Still. That sort of thing doesn’t happen twice, and I didn’t want her to worry.

  My liege knew where I was going, and my cats were taken care of. That just left one more call that needed to be made before I could leave. It wasn’t to a local area code, even though the apartment I was calling was only a few miles away. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t sure I was even calling a phone.

  Balancing the receiver on my shoulder, I pressed the keys in rapid reverse order. There was a click, followed by the hum of an expectant silence as I chanted, “Mares eat oats and does eat oats, but little lambs eat ivy. A kid’ll eat ivy, too. Wouldn’t you?” It wasn’t much of a spell. It didn’t need to be. All it had to do was remind an existing connection of where it was supposed to lead me.

  There was a pause as lines that had no reason to cross crossed themselves and wires were rerouted to lead to an apartment that had never signed any agreements with the phone company. The receiver clicked twice and began making a deep, murky buzzing noise. I waited. The Luidaeg likes special effects: if you can’t handle them, don’t call her. You could always just drop by—assuming you aren’t particularly fond of having legs. “Just dropping by” on a water- hag older than modern civilization isn’t the sort of hobby meant to ensure a long life span.

  The buzzing stopped with a final click, and a husky, aggravated voice said, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Luidaeg.”

  “Toby, is that you?” Her irritation was fading.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I’m going to Tamed Lightning.”

  She paused. “Tamed Lightning? Why would you go there? It’s nothing but dirt and morons as far as the eye can see.”

  “Sylvester’s sending me.”

  “Right. The head moron.” She paused again. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I may not make it over this week, depending on how long things take. I thought I’d warn you.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment was briefly audible before she covered it with briskness, saying, “Well, good. I can get some things done without needing to worry about your happy ass showing up.”

  “Glad you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Why should I mind?”

  “No reason.”

  “Good. Be careful out there. Don’t go into the dark alone; don’t let their eyes fool you. Remember what you’re looking for. Don’t trust what the blood tells you. Always look back.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Toby—it’s nothing,” she said, sounding slightly disgusted. “Get the hell off my phone.”

  “See you when I get back.”

  “Oh—Toby?” Her tone was almost hesitant. That was a first.

  “Yeah.”

  “I owe you an answer. Come back alive.”

  “I will, don’t worry.”

  “I get to be the one that kills you.” The connection cut off with a snap. I grinned, replacing the receiver in its cradle.

  The Luidaeg and I met six months ago, when she provided me with an essential clue to the identity of Evening’s killer. That meeting left her in my debt, owing me an answer to any question I wanted to ask. She couldn’t kill me while she owed me, and I have to admit that it was kind of nice to know that she couldn’t follow through on her threats. Unpaid debts weigh on the purebloods; I have no doubt they weigh on the Firstborn even more. She started calling after our first meeting—unlisted numbers don’t mean much to someone who thinks the telephone is a cute idea that won’t last—demanding to know when I’d clear her debts so she could kill me. They weren’t the best conversations I’ve ever had, but they were reliable, and before long they were even welcome. It was good to have somebody I could talk to.

  It took a long time for me to realize how lonely she was. It’s hard to think of the Luidaeg as lonely—she’s older than nations, and she’s watched empires die—but she was. People are afraid of her; they avoid her haunts, warn their children about her, and whisper her name when the lights are low. How could she not be lonely? Personally, I’m amazed she’s still so close to being sane.

  I started visiting when I realized why she kept calling. We’d play chess, or wander the docks feeding the seagulls and talking. She had a lot to talk about; it’d been a long time since anybody stopped to listen. So I listened, and every visit ended with the same exchange: “Will you ask me now?” “No.” “I’ll kill you when you do.” “I know.” Then I’d go home and so would she, and for a little while, neither of us would be lonely. I take my friends where I can find them.

  With my calls taken care of, I just needed to gather my weapons. I pulled my new aluminum baseball bat from under the bed, peeling the price tag off the handle before I dropped it next to the duffle bag. Then I turned to my dresser, opening the top drawer and digging through the rolled socks and crumpled nightshirts to pull out a black velvet box tied with a golden ribbon. I tucked it into the duffel bag. It was the last thing I needed. It was everything I had.

  Once upon a time there was a girl who thought I was a hero—or maybe she just thought I was her hero. There wasn’t much difference, in the long run; I couldn’t protect her, and she died. Maybe the knife she left me could do something to protect me. Dare was a good kid. I didn’t mean to let her down. And maybe, if I carried her with me, I could still be somebody’s hero.

  I slung the duffel over my shoulder and grabbed the baseball bat as I headed for the door. Maybe I let Dare down. Maybe I didn’t. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t going to let Quentin down, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to fail Sylvester. Not this time, and not ever again. I paused at the door, winding my fingers through the air and humming as I pulled together a quick but passable human disguise. The cut grass and copper smell of my magic rose around me, eclipsing the smell of pennyroyal that clung to Tybalt’s jacket like herbal perfume. Spike sneezed, leaping up onto the back of the couch and rattling its thorns.

  “Are we allergic today?” I asked. It rattled its thorns again, and I laughed. “Right. You guys be good. No wild parties. Stacy will be over to feed you, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I closed the door quickly, shutting out the reproachful looks from my pets, and started down the path toward the parking garage.

  My apartment is what’s considered “a lucky find” in the San Francisco housing market: not only is it rent-controlled and relatively spacious, but it comes with parking—an unheard-of luxury in a city where fistfights have been known to break out for a decent spot. According to my lease, covered parking is a deterrent to theft and vandalism, and justifies my increased rent. Given the kind of cars I tend to drive, I view it as a deterrent to public mockery.

  My last car was the victim of a one-person car chase through downtown San Francisco that left the shocks destroyed and the brakes beyond repair. After I managed to find it—which wasn’t easy, since I’d abandoned it on the street with the keys still inside—it was clear that the only decent thing to do was put it out of its misery. I sold the parts that still worked, scrapped the rest, and bought myself a lemon yellow 1974 VW Bug. I like Bugs.

  As I let myself into the garage, it became apparent that my car had
acquired a new hood ornament, since last time I checked it hadn’t come with a blond teenage boy. He was sitting cross- legged on the hood with a pair of headphones on, leaning back on his hands and studying the cracks in the ceiling.

  “Quentin, get off there! You’re going to scratch the paint.”

  “With what?” he asked, pulling off the headphones as he turned toward me. “I didn’t bring any sandpaper.”

  “Jerk,” I said, and grinned.

  Quentin and I didn’t exactly get off to a good start: Sylvester sent him to bring me back to Shadowed Hills, and I slammed a door in his face. We’ve managed to smooth things out since then, and he’s one of my favorite people these days. He’s pureblooded Daoine Sidhe and too arrogant by half, but he’s got a lot of potential. He just needs to figure out what to do with it.

  I’ve never met his parents, although I’d bet good money that they’re a long way from California. The nobles have an elaborate system of blind fostering, shuttling their kids from place to place to keep anyone from noticing that things around them tend to be a little odd, or that some of them don’t age at the normal rate. Quentin was fostered at Shadowed Hills about a year before I officially came back to Sylvester’s service. He spends his days at one of the local high schools, learning how the humans live, and spends his nights serving as a page, learning how to be a Faerie noble. One day he’ll be a squire, then a knight, and finally, his parents’ heir. A pretty tall order for a kid his age, but I think he can handle it.

  He slid off the hood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and giving me an expectant look. “So where are we going?”

  “Tamed Lightning,” I said, peering into the backseat before opening the car doors. “You all packed?”

  “His Grace had me pack before we left home.”

  “Of course he did. Get in.”

  One thing I had to give him; he was definitely eager to get started. He was in his seat and buckled in before I had my door closed. I gave him a sidelong look, raising a brow.

  “Little anxious, aren’t you?”

  Quentin squirmed. “It’s summer break. I had plans.”

  “Right.” I started the engine. “And what’s her name?”

  “Katie.” A slight lilt on the word betrayed the depth of his infatuation.

  “Katie?” I frowned, reviewing my internal list of the fosters at Shadowed Hills. “What Court is she with?”

  “She’s not. I go to high school with her.”

  “So she’s . . . ?”

  “Uh-huh.” He paused before adding, with a besotted grin, “And she’s beautiful.”

  I didn’t bother hiding my answering smile. “Well, that’s cool. Are you being careful?” The question would have had a sexual meaning for a human teenager. For a fae kid, it meant exactly what it sounded like. We always have to be careful when we let the humans get close to us. The burning times are in the past, and mankind has almost forgotten, but we never will. Not forgetting is what’s going to keep us alive through the years ahead.

  Quentin nodded, utterly self-assured. I remember being that confident—when did I stop? Oh, yeah. When I grew up. “She has no idea what I am.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. I don’t want to have to rescue you from the conspiracy nuts.”

  “Oh, yeah, because they really stress about the existence of elves.”

  “Do the words ‘alien autopsy’ mean anything to you?”

  “Ew.”

  “Exactly.” I pulled out of the parking garage and onto the street, heading for the freeway. It was a beautiful day, I had an easy—if unwanted—job to do, and I had decent company to do it with. Maybe things were going to work out after all.

  FOUR

  “SO WHERE ARE WE GOING?” asked Quentin, for the fifth time.

  We’d been driving in circles through the Fremont business district for the better part of an hour and had finally stopped in front of a park so that I could review the directions. A group of joggers made its way dutifully past on the sidewalk. I grimaced, eyeing them. I’ve always thought of joggers as being sort of like Blind Michael and his crew: deserving of respect, but slightly psychotic. Who in their right minds would want to get out of bed and run around in their underwear before noon?

  “Place called ALH Computing.” Finding Fremont hadn’t been the problem. It’s hard to misplace an entire city, no matter how bad your directions are. Unfortunately, Sylvester’s directions were a lot more interested in defining fae territories than, say, providing me with street names. I knew exactly whose fiefdom we were in, when we’d entered it, and how far we could go before we left. I just didn’t know where we were.

  “We’re going to ALH?” Quentin perked up. “They do Summerlands-compatible computer and wiring systems. I’m pretty sure they did the phones at Shadowed Hills. I have one of their MP3 players.” He held up a little white box about the size of a pack of cards, adding proudly, “It works no matter how deep you go.”

  “Works to do what?”

  “Play music.”

  I eyed it. “Where does the cassette go?”

  “Toby.” He rolled his eyes. “You really are a Luddite.”

  “I spent fourteen years as a fish, remember? I’m allowed to be clueless about your crazy modern techno-toys.” I waved a hand. “Anyway, I think the company’s somewhere in the business district.”

  “You think?”

  I thrust the folder of instructions at him and restarted the car. “Here. See if you can figure out where we’re supposed to be going.”

  “Okay . . . hey.” He flipped through the papers, frowning. “Where are the directions?”

  “And thus you put your finger on the problem.” I shrugged. “We go left.”

  “Left?”

  “We’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “Left it is.” He sighed. “I have got to show you how to use the on-line map services.”

  “Maybe later.”

  The two of us working together were able to make something like sense from Sylvester’s twisted notion of “giving directions,” and twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of a gate with a number that matched the one in the file. The fence stretched a full block in either direction, protecting a tangle of undergrowth Sleeping Beauty’s groundskeeper would have envied. The plants I could identify were fast-growing varieties probably chosen for the ability to cover ground in a hurry, while the trees were all eucalyptus, the tallest weed known to man. They grow fast enough to create thick cover years before almost anything else, and here in California where they have no native predators, they grow taller than they were ever meant to.

  A stone arch spanned the driveway, supporting a portcullis that looked like it was stolen from the set of Camelot. Something flashed in the darkness behind the gate; I doubted it was a deer.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  I pointed to the wooden sign reading ALH COMPUTING and said, “Looks like it.”

  “How do we get in?”

  “Good question. Hang on.” There was an intercom set into the fence: high-security or not, they needed a way to know when they had guests. I got out of the car, moving to study it more closely. “Hey, Quentin, bring me the folder.”

  “So I’m your servant now?”

  “Very funny. Give me the damn folder.” I held out my hand. Laughing, he passed the folder over.

  There was no security code in Sylvester’s directions; there wasn’t even mention of a security system. Lovely. I leaned forward, pressing what I assumed was the “talk” button. “Hello? Anyone there?” There was no reply. I shook my head, looking back at Quentin. “Ideas?”

  He shrugged. “We could go home.”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Sighing, I turned back to the intercom and hit the button again. “Hello? This is October Daye—I’m here to see January Torquill. Can someone let me in?” I waited several minutes, frowning. It was a nice day, but I didn’t want to spend it outside.

  Finally, annoyed, I blew the intercom a
kiss and said, “Speak ‘Friend’ and enter,” while projecting the firm belief that I’d entered the correct code. The smell of copper rose in the air as a sharp, stabbing pain hit me behind the eyes, making it clear that even if the spell didn’t work, my body’s limited magical resources had noticed it and debited me accordingly.

  All fae have a limit to what they can do, and mine is lower than most. Just maintaining my human disguise can be a strain; when you add the rest of my daily magical wear-and-tear . . . let’s just say that I have more than my share of magical migraines.

  At least the pain wasn’t for nothing. The intercom crackled, displaying the word “welcome” on the reader screen as the portcullis began cranking upward. I straightened. “Right. Let’s go.”

  Quentin frowned. “What did you just do?”

  “I picked the lock.” Seeing his disapproving expression, I sighed. “Look, we’re here because Sylvester’s worried. That justifies a little breaking and entering. Now get in the car.”

  He rolled his eyes but did as he was told. The security system was more impressive than practical; it took almost five minutes for the portcullis to open, and that’s too long to wait for a door. With the purebloods, style almost always triumphs over substance. Once the opening was wide enough, we drove through, following the winding driveway down a short hill to the parking lot. The undergrowth dropped away, replaced by a well-manicured lawn that surrounded the two buildings at the blacktop’s far side. Trees rose in a forebidding tangle around us, the illusion of wilderness only leavened by glimpses of the city skyline. They’d done an excellent job with it, especially when you considered that they were in the middle of Silicon Valley, where very few people can afford their own private forests.

  The buildings were red brick, connected by concrete paths that wound in seemingly random curves across the lawn. The taller building was five stories high; the smaller one was only two. It looked more like a private school than a computer company. There was a distinct lack of steel and chrome.

  The strangest thing about the landscape was all the cats. There were about two dozen scattered around the almost empty parking lot, strolling lazily along, bathing themselves, or just dozing in the sun. Even more were on the grass, lounging, watching us come.