The Winter Long

by Seanan McGuire

  Tybalt seemed to know that something was wrong, but since he didn’t ask me directly, I didn’t have to answer him. It was relatively easy for the three of us working together to carry her down the junk-choked hallway to the gaping wound of the door, and out into the cool afternoon air. I carried her feet this time, while Tybalt held her head and arms and Quentin walked near her hip, helping to keep her body from knocking against anything. Once again, Tybalt walked backward, leading the way.

  My car was parked to fill the mouth of the alley. I don’t think I’d ever been happier to see it, especially not after Quentin ran ahead, peered into the backseat, and called, “It’s clear.”

  “Thank Maeve,” I said, and started toward the car.

  As soon as my foot left the Luidaeg’s front step, there was a grinding, shifting sound from behind me, like rocks sliding into position. Tybalt stopped where he was, a nonplussed expression on his face.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s one means of guaranteeing the security of your belongings.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The Luidaeg’s door was gone, replaced by an unbroken expanse of plain red brick. “I hope she can reopen that when it’s time to come home,” I said. “Now let’s move.”

  Buckling a limp, unresponsive body into the backseat of my car was not something I’d rank among my favorite experiences, although it didn’t make the list of the worst things I’d ever done, either. With a lot of shoving, swearing, and prayer, we managed to fold her into the vehicle and secure her with a seat belt, thus hopefully guaranteeing that she wouldn’t fly out of a window in the event of an accident. I straightened up, swiping my sweat-dampened hair out of my eyes with one hand, and turned to Quentin.

  “Keys, please,” I said.

  “You’re going to make me ride in the backseat with the unconscious woman, aren’t you?” he grumbled, digging the keys out of his pocket and dropping them into my waiting palm.

  “Got it in one,” I said. “We need to get the Lu—get her to our destination, and I need you free to focus on casting the best don’t-look-here spell you’ve ever put together in your life.”

  “Promise you’ll at least turn the radio to something decent?”

  “No,” I said. “Now get in the car.”

  Quentin sulked theatrically as he climbed into the backseat. He might have seemed flippant to someone who didn’t know him, but I could tell how worried he was by the way he twisted in his seat as soon as his own belt was buckled, his eyes going to the Luidaeg’s face. She had been his friend for almost as long as I had, and their relationship had always been refreshingly straightforward, unlike the relationship I had with her. She always threatened to kill me like she meant it; when she threatened to kill him, it was like she was saying “I care.”

  Then again, maybe she’d been threatening us both that way, and I’d just been too close to the situation to understand. I turned on the ignition, trying to push my own concerns to the back of my mind. She was going to be all right. I had saved her. I was a hero.

  Speaking of heroism . . . “Quentin, do you know if Arden has the phones working yet?”

  “They’re not stable,” he said. “April’s got them doing all kinds of weird stuff with wires and fast-growing vines, but it’s going to be a little while before they’re consistently accessible via phone. Why?”

  “I need to know if May and Jazz have reached her safely and brought her up to speed. I also need to let her know that someone beat the holy hell out of the Luidaeg, and damn near killed her.” Had killed her, but that wasn’t something I wanted to advertise. Ever. If I could raise the dead, that was going to be my little secret, at least for now. “If I were Queen, I’d want to be informed if something powerful enough to mortally wound a Firstborn was loose on my lands. You know. Just because I’m nosy that way.” I scowled at the traffic around us. “Call May. I know her phone works in the Summerlands.”

  I hated to delegate something as important as bringing the Queen in the Mists up to speed, but even after we put a don’t-look-here on the car, I was going to need to focus on traffic, or we were going to die. I always drive a little sloppily when I have a headache, and tempting as it might be to take the time to heal up after a serious injury, I couldn’t afford the delay. I’d been awake for more than a full day at this point. Exhaustion was going to hit me sooner or later, and it was going to hit me hard.

  That didn’t mean I could stop. Not even for a second. Simon showing up in the Mists made everything personal. The Luidaeg being attacked made it urgent. Someone was going to pay for what had happened to her.

  “Okay, I’ll call May,” said Quentin. “What do you want me to tell her?”

  “Explain that the Luidaeg has been attacked, and that we’re taking her somewhere safe, but we can’t say where. Tell her I may not be available by phone for a while.” I paused before adding, “And tell her what we learned about Mom. Arden can confirm it if she says you’re full of shit.” Arden knew my mother had been married to Simon—she’d been shocked when she met me, because she couldn’t believe Mom would have a half-human child. So at least she’d be able to help May cope with that part. Everything else . . .

  It was what it was.

  While Quentin pulled out his phone and dialed, I glanced to Tybalt and asked, “Can you cast the first don’t-look-here? You’re better at them than I am.”

  “Only because you refuse to practice,” he said, but raised his hands, sweeping them through the air in a grand gesture before saying, “My good lords and ladies, if you will attend to the stage, I would like to prepare you for an evening of wonders untold, and miracles such as the eye has never once beheld . . .” The smell of pennyroyal and musk rose and burst around us, perfuming the air inside the car. Quentin sneezed in the backseat.

  I gave Tybalt a sidelong look, keeping most of my attention on the road. “What’s that from?”

  “Something a friend of mine used to say before curtain on each night’s show.” He smiled, the expression visible in the tension of his cheek and the way his lip curled upward. “He would be pleased to know that his magic lives on in the spells and wastrel charms of this modern world.”

  “May’s caught up, and she called you some things I don’t want to repeat,” said Quentin, poking his head up between the seats. “She said to tell you that Jazz is awake and feeling better, even though she’s still shaky, and that Arden has a really sweet guest room. We should go there for a vacation after all this is over.”

  “The day I get a vacation is the day the world ends,” I said. “Still, you have done well, my squire, and as your reward, you may choose the radio station.”

  Quentin made a noise of wordless satisfaction, leaning farther forward as he clicked on the radio dial. The sound of Canadian folk-rock filled the car. I strongly suspected he’d convinced April to mess with my radio reception, since we seemed to get more folk music than was strictly normal, but it made him so happy that I didn’t care that much. He pulled back into his seat, resuming his position next to the Luidaeg, and I drove on.

  Quentin cast a don’t-look-here on top of Tybalt’s when we neared Golden Gate Park. It seemed like the safe thing to do.

  The most common entrance to the Court of Cats appeared periodically in the alley next to the old Kabuki Theater. I don’t know why Tybalt chose that location—I would have expected something on Market, in the actual theater district—but it was isolated enough to be safe, and with two don’t-look-here spells shielding the car, I was able to drive right up to the mouth of the alley. I parked to block the sidewalk. A lot of people were going to find themselves jaywalking to the other side of the street without being able to explain why.

  Once again, the three of us wrestled the Luidaeg’s unmoving body out of the backseat. As soon as she was clear of all obstructions, Tybalt swung her up into his arms, holding her in a perfect wedding carry. He looked down at her sleeping face, and t
hen back to where Quentin and I stood in momentary silence.

  “I will be back,” he said, and turned, carrying the Luidaeg into the alley like her weight meant nothing to him. I watched him walk away. Between one step and the next he was simply gone, taking the sea witch with him out of the world.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Quentin quietly.

  “No,” I said. “But it’s the only one we have right now. She needs to be safe. Tybalt will keep her safe.”

  Quentin nodded. “Okay,” he said. He hesitated before saying, “I almost expected you to say that we should take her to Shadowed Hills. That’s where you always would have taken her before.”

  “I know.”

  Minutes slunk by like hours, and I had to fight with myself not to run into that alley and begin clawing at shadows until one of them opened and let me inside. Finally, Tybalt came walking back, empty-handed and wearing a shirt that looked almost exactly like his previous one, only minus the blood stains.

  “She is safe,” he informed us gravely. “I have advised my people of what must be done, and she will not be left alone. Someone will always be with her.”

  I bit my lip and nodded, unwilling to trust my voice. He smiled, very slightly, as he reached out and touched the side of my face.

  “She wasn’t elf-shot, October; she’ll be awake and making your life miserable before you have a chance to properly miss her.”

  “I know,” I said, and sniffled, fighting the urge to cry. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We still have way too much work to do.”

  “If I may?” Tybalt leaned forward and tapped the collar of my shirt. I looked down at my bloody shirt, then back up again to him. “You need to change your clothing. Your house is five minutes’ drive from here. You will feel better if you’re not covered in someone else’s blood. I will feel better if you’re not covered in your own blood.”

  “I’d just like it if no one was covered in blood for a little while,” said Quentin.

  I paused before sighing and saying, “All right, I’ll give. Let’s go get me some clothing that can’t stand up on its own—and then it’s back to the Library, all right? Maybe we can still shake something out of the stacks. And if not, at least we’re somewhere safe while we figure out our new plan.”

  “As my lady wishes.” Tybalt sketched an elaborate bow before stepping around the car and sliding back into the passenger seat. Quentin ran after him, and I actually smiled as I got behind the wheel. Clean clothes would be a blessing. Getting the Luidaeg’s blood off me would be even better.

  Tybalt’s estimate wasn’t perfect: we pulled into the small covered garage next to the house about ten minutes after leaving the Court of Cats. Quentin was the first out of the car, as usual. What was unusual was the way he froze halfway down the path, shoulders going tense and back going ramrod straight. I was out of the car in an instant, hand going to my knife as I ran toward my squire and whatever threat had caused him to stop in mid-step. Tybalt was right behind me, and he would have been in front of me if the path had allowed him to pass without shoving me to the side.

  Not Quentin, I thought fiercely. I couldn’t be sure of raising the dead twice in one day—I wasn’t even willing to count on doing it once under most circumstances—and I would throw myself in front of whatever bullet was coming for him before I allowed him to be harmed. It wasn’t just the whole “Crown Prince” thing; that was a relatively new development. He was my squire and my friend and he would not be harmed if I could prevent it.

  I stumbled to a halt as I pulled up alongside him, blinking at the back porch. Tybalt was more decorous about his confusion; he strolled to a stop, rather than skidding like the rest of us, and frowned in bewilderment. Normally, I might have teased him for looking so openly baffled. This time, I couldn’t blame him.

  The sight of Simon Torquill sitting on my steps with his arms full of roses was plenty confusing, after all. The fact that I was already able to tell him from his brother without thinking about it was worrisome to me, but that aspect of the situation was lost as I stared at the roses. He was holding at least fifty of them, long-stemmed and wrapped in a cone of tissue paper. Their petals were a dozen shades of blue and white, from the pristine shade of falling snow to the near-black color that lives at the heart of glaciers. Sprigs of a purple flower I distractedly identified as rosebay ringed the bouquet, protecting the roses from harm.

  Simon stood, walking silently toward us. I shied back before I could think better of it, my shoulder bumping against Tybalt’s chest. I felt his sternum vibrating from the slow, rumbling force of his growl. It was comforting. This time, if Simon decided to raise a hand against me, it wouldn’t be me and one Raven-maid with a baseball bat against his transformation magic.

  He stopped a respectful distance away from the three of us and held out his bouquet. When I didn’t move to take it, he cleared his throat and said, “I would be most grateful if you would accept this small token of apology for the trouble that I have caused to you and yours.”

  “Aren’t those flowers from Duchess Torquill’s garden?” asked Quentin, narrow-eyed and wary. “It seems to me that giving someone a gift of stolen flowers sort of negates the apology.”

  “Shadowed Hills is my brother’s land, and I have long had permission to walk its gardens and pick what I like from its soil,” said Simon. His eyes never left my face. “My brother has barred me from his halls, but his lady wife has not yet barred me from her grounds. I think she hopes to trap me, like a spider traps a fly. I will not risk her succeeding, and so I say again that I would be most grateful if you would accept this gift from me. I doubt I’ll be able to provide you with anything so lovely in the future.”

  “Why are you here, Simon?” I asked. My voice sounded thin to my own ears, and if my shoulder hadn’t still been pressed to Tybalt’s chest, I doubt I could have stood my ground without shaking.

  “To bring you this,” he said, holding out the flowers a bit more pleadingly. “They are yours. You have earned them, and they are the least that I can do.”

  This close to the bouquet, I could feel the chill rolling off their petals, like they had brought a little slice of Luna’s private snowfall with them. “Roses and rosebay,” I said. The combination tickled at the back of my mind, sorting through options until it finally reached the inevitable conclusion. I froze, straightening as I stiffened. “Get off my property.”

  Simon blinked. “What? But I—”

  “Rosebay is a member of the same family as the oleander,” I snapped. “They both mean ‘danger’ or ‘beware’ when they show up in a bouquet, and given that my mother’s magic tastes of roses, it’s pretty hard not to read your little gift there as a threat against my mom. Get the hell out of my yard or I’m calling the Queen.”

  “I always forget that Amandine took the time to train you,” said Simon. He sounded almost embarrassed, like he’d committed some unthinkable error in judgment. “I apologize, October; I assumed you did not speak the language of the flowers, and included the rosebay in hopes that someone around you might translate. It was not my intention to distress you more.”

  “Perhaps you did not hear my lady when she bid you leave her grounds,” said Tybalt, speaking in the tightly clipped tone that meant his mouth had suddenly filled with fangs. He had better control over his feline nature than most Cait Sidhe, but I knew from experience that his control could—and would—slip when he felt that the things he loved were being threatened. “If you do not heed her, you will wish that I had left you to your brother’s tender mercies.”

  “I intend no insult to your mother and would have used another flower for my bouquet had I not considered clarity to be more important than discretion.” Simon spoke hurriedly, like he was afraid of being chased away before he could get his message out. “I would never hurt Amandine. She is the only woman I have ever loved, and I was privileged beyond measure when
she chose to be my wife. I am here to help you, not to hurt you. Please.”

  “We do not need your help,” snarled Tybalt.

  “Wait.” Once again, the sound of my voice surprised me. Was I really the one telling him to wait, rather than ordering him to rip Simon’s throat out with his teeth? It seemed that I was. I stepped forward, finally accepting the offered roses. The tissue paper was thick enough that I didn’t fear the thorns as I gathered them close and sniffed their cold perfume. It smelled like snow, like ice, and like the first stirrings of a storm, all overlaid with the sweet, familiar attar of rose. I looked up, meeting Simon’s yellow eyes, and asked, “Why did you bring me flowers?”

  “There is so much I can’t say to you, October,” he said. “The best I can do is work within my limitations, and try to prepare you for what’s coming.”

  I hesitated. He sounded so lost . . . “The Luidaeg was attacked.”

  He started. I think that was the moment when I really started to believe that he was trying, however poorly, to help: he looked genuinely surprised, and more than a little bit afraid. “The sea witch? Is she . . . is she well?”

  “She died.” That wasn’t the full truth, but it was close enough that I didn’t have to fake the grief in my voice, or the tremor in my hands as I considered the magnitude of what had happened to her—and what I’d done. The roses in my arms seemed to be getting colder, threatening to freeze me clean through. “She died alone in her apartment, bleeding out on the carpet with no one to save her.”

  “That isn’t possible,” Simon said, staring at me. “I did not think . . . she can’t die. She’s the sea witch. She’ll outlive us all.”

  “Firstborn are immortal, not unkillable,” I said. “Hard to kill, I’ll give you that, but wow did her attacker put in the effort.”

  Simon closed his eyes. “Then I am too late already. You should have let me make of you a tree, October. I am very good at making trees, and you would have had a little time. You would have been stronger still by the time you won free of the soil. That might have been enough.”