The Winter Long

by Seanan McGuire

  “You became the sea witch because of her?” I asked, unable to keep the horror from my voice.

  The Luidaeg spread her hands. “I am what she made of me. I wonder sometimes whether she’s sorry. I don’t think she is. I don’t think she’s capable of that. My mother . . . she took what vengeance she could. Do not ask me what it was. I can’t tell you yet.”

  “Yeah, well.” My chowder was half gone, and my bones no longer felt like they were made of Jell-O. I pushed the bowl away. “Evening is at Shadowed Hills. She has my friends. She has my liege. The wards are closed—no one can get in or out. How do I get them back? How do I . . .” I hesitated, the words seeming too large for my mouth. Evening had been my friend for years, or at least I’d believed that she was. “How do I kill her?”

  “Honestly, Toby, I don’t think you can.” The Luidaeg stood, gathering our bowls and carrying them quickly to the sink. “But I’ll come with you. I may not be able to fight her directly; I can help you at least a little. And we need to move now. The longer she has Sylvester in her thrall, the more likely it becomes that he’ll never throw off her power. The man you know will be gone, replaced by a shell of loyalty and cold.”

  The idea sickened me. “She’s had more than enough time already,” I said. “I can drive us to the park, but I have no idea how we’re going to get through the wards.”

  The Luidaeg’s eyes narrowed in chilly amusement. “Oh, don’t worry. There’s more than one way to cross an ocean, and more than one way to crack my sister’s wards. She thinks she’s the smartest of us. She’s not. She’s simply the least scrupulous.”

  I looked at her for a moment before shaking my head and saying, “You know, just once, I’d like my life to be all about spending Sunday afternoon in my pajamas, instead of all about racing around the Bay Area trying to stop one of the Firstborn from committing a hostile takeover.”

  Tybalt put a hand on my shoulder. “To be fair, this is the first time this particular issue has reared its head.”

  “Somehow, not helping,” I said.

  The Luidaeg rinsed our bowls and turned, wiping her hands on a dishtowel that she summarily dropped on the counter. She picked up a rose stem that had been lying next to the dish drainer—all that remained of one of Simon’s melted winter roses—and grabbed an apple from May’s bowl of fruit. “Let’s go. I’ll help you get us there. And don’t bother with disguises; no one’s going to see either of you.”

  It was better not to ask when the Luidaeg said things like that. I just nodded and followed her out the back door, Tybalt sticking close behind me.

  The car waited in the driveway. The Luidaeg walked over to it and put the rose stem down on the middle of the hood, setting her pilfered apple on top of it. “Stand back,” she suggested mildly. “Sometimes this doesn’t work out exactly as I planned it.”

  “And it just keeps getting better,” I muttered, pressing myself against Tybalt. “Well, it’s been a while since one of my cars died horribly in the line of duty.”

  The Luidaeg clapped her hands together. All sounds from the street stopped. No horns honked, no birds sang. There was only the soft sound of the Luidaeg singing in a language I didn’t know, but which sounded vaguely like the snatches of Scots Gaelic that I’d heard from some of the older fae I’d crossed paths with. The apple rocked. The air chilled. And then, like something out of a Disney movie, the apple and the rose stem dissolved into glittering mist that swirled around the car, etching what looked like patterns of frost onto the otherwise dingy brown paint job. Bit by bit, my car’s true colors were concealed by an ice-white sheen. The smell of roses hung heavy in the air.

  The Luidaeg stepped back and flashed me a smug smile. “Apples and roses. My sister’s signatures. She’ll never see us coming if we’re surrounded by things she believes belong exclusively to her. Her ego won’t allow it.”

  I stared. “That’s . . .”

  “I know.” She turned to Tybalt. “I need a distraction, cat; I need her to think we’re coming down a road she knows. Can you take the Shadow Roads and meet us in the parking lot?”

  “Can you promise me that you will keep October safe?”

  Her expression softened a bit. “As safe as I can. We both know that absolute safety and October are never going to cross paths.”

  He snorted. “True enough. Very well, then: I will go. For all that I dislike what you ask of me, I will go.” He turned to face me. With no more preamble than that, he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me close for a kiss that should probably have caused damage to the polar ice caps. He kissed me like he was never going to see me again, crushing his lips against mine until I tasted pennyroyal and musk under the veil of his desperate need for contact. I returned the kiss as best as I could, until he pulled away, leaving a void between us where his body should have been.

  I must have gawked at him, because he smiled, the expression almost eclipsing the worry in his eyes.

  “Now you will miss me,” he said. “Let the sea witch care for you. I will see you in Shadowed Hills.” He turned, stepping into the shadow formed by the corner of the house, and was gone.

  I looked back to the Luidaeg. She was smiling, standing next to the open passenger side door. I guess Firstborn don’t care whether something is supposed to be locked. I scowled and walked past her, the taste of Tybalt’s magic clinging to my mouth as I slid behind the wheel. The Luidaeg got in next to me, slamming the door. She was still smiling.

  “Don’t say a word,” I said, jamming the key into the ignition.

  “I wouldn’t,” said the Luidaeg. “Love is love. It’s rarer in Faerie than it used to be—rarer than it should be, if you ask me. If you can find it, you should cling to it, and never let anything interfere. Besides, he has a nice ass.” Her lips quirked in a weirdly mischievous smile. “I mean, damn. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to wear leather pants. He’s one of them. He’s a clear and present danger when he puts those things on. Or takes them off.”

  “And now you’re creeping me out,” I said. “It’s a long drive to Pleasant Hill. Maybe you could save the creepy for the halfway point?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. Her eyes had gone black again, and as I watched, they faded to white, like the sun rising behind a bank of thick fog. Her smile remained. “We’re going to take a little shortcut.”

  I fastened my seat belt, checking it twice before I asked, “Should I even bother starting the car?”

  “It helps, believe me. Just drive normally and don’t freak out.”

  “Oh, because people saying ‘don’t freak out’ never freaks me out at all,” I muttered, turning the key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life around us. I pulled out of the driveway, trying to focus on the road, and not on whatever the Luidaeg was doing in the seat next to me.

  She wasn’t making it easy. She began chanting under her breath in that same unknown language, and the smell of brackish marshes and cold, clean ocean air rose around her, filling the car. My own magic stirred in response to the flood, and was quickly drowned out by the power that the Luidaeg was putting into the air. Her ice-white eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

  And then, with no more preamble than that, the road was gone, and we were driving through the dark with nothing beneath us or around us. It was like plunging into the Shadow Roads, and not like that at all, because it wasn’t freezing cold, and there was still air; I could breathe. That was a good thing, since I let out a rather audible gasp when the transition occurred. The Luidaeg slanted me what I could only interpret as an amused look, despite her continuing chanting. The darkness shivered—there was no other word that could encompass the ripples that spread through the black, shadow on shadow and yet somehow still visible—and then fell away, replaced by an overgrown forest of creeping vines and heavy-branched trees that seemed to grab for our vehicle as it rocketed along the narrow horse trail that had replaced the road.


  “Don’t slow down don’t look too closely don’t stop the car for any reason,” rattled the Luidaeg, her words coming staccato fast and without pauses between them. She chanted another line in that unrecognizable language before breaking back into English to say, more slowly, “This road was my sister Annis’ once, to hold and to keep open. She died a long time ago. No one keeps the byways here anymore.”

  “And we’re driving a forgotten road belonging to a dead Firstborn exactly why?” I couldn’t stop my voice from cracking with half-contained panic at the end. This was the sort of situation that called for a certain amount of terror.

  “Because it’s the fastest way, and because no one can find us here, or stop us, or keep us out,” said the Luidaeg. The smell of her magic surged again, filling the car until there was no space for anything else. “Let my frozen bitch of a sister hunt as long as she likes. She’ll never be able to find the doors to this place, much less pry them open.”

  “Is it safe?”

  The Luidaeg didn’t answer me. She just laughed. That was somehow more unnerving than anything she could have said. I tightened my grip on the wheel and turned on the headlights, illuminating the rocky, hard-pressed dirt in front of us. Eyes peered out of the brush to either side of the road, shining in the reflected halogen glare. That didn’t help. I didn’t know what kind of creatures could or would exist in a place like this, and I was pretty sure that finding out would involve a lot of blood on my part.

  “There’s a left coming up ahead,” said the Luidaeg. “Take it, and for my mother’s sake, don’t slow down.”

  “Oh, that’s not helping,” I muttered, and focused harder on the road, trying to spot the break in the trees. Even watching for it we nearly overshot our goal before I could haul on the wheel and send us rattling down a second, even narrower trail. Thick ropes of thorns overhung this stretch of road, scraping against the roof and slapping the windshield as we drove.

  “If we slow down, we could get stuck,” said the Luidaeg, who either didn’t know that she wasn’t helping or—more likely—didn’t care. “This isn’t a place that’s used to people anymore. We’re a curiosity here. Something that can be kept and used as it chooses.”

  “Not making me feel any better about the situation!” I yelped, as I swerved to dodge a particularly hefty-looking branch.

  “Wasn’t trying to,” said the Luidaeg. She dipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out a key that gleamed in the dimly-lit cabin with a faint rosy sheen, like it was an independent source of light. I glanced at it for only an instant, but an instant was long enough to tell me what I was looking at. It was silver, shaped from a single ingot and then inlaid with copper, bronze, and gold, until the rings of ivy and roses carved from its substance seemed to take on life of their own, chasing each other around and around the key’s head and handle. They tangled like real vines, like living things, almost obscuring the shape of the key in their riotous overgrowth. But the key knew what it was. It had always known.

  It had known on the day when I had taken it from the rose goblin that would become mine, the one that had been entrusted with the key’s keeping by one of Evening’s servants. The Luidaeg had claimed the key from me almost as soon as she had seen it. I’d traded her a game of questions for the prize, and I’d never really expected to see it again. I’d never really wanted to.

  “Luidaeg . . .”

  “Trust me,” she said—and the worst part of it was, I did trust her. She was the sea witch. She was the monster under our collective beds. And it didn’t matter, because I trusted her, and I always would. She had earned it time and time again, even when she had no reason to.

  She held the key up, its rosy light growing in strength. I could only see it out of the corner of my eye, and that was more than enough; I had the distinct feeling that if I looked any closer it would blind me, that it wasn’t a thing intended to be seen by anyone but the Firstborn. Its glow grew stronger, shading from pink into red, until the car was filled with a bloody brilliance that made my eyes burn. I squinted, fighting to see the road. I didn’t want to lose control of the vehicle. Not here, not now.

  “Mother, if you can hear me, I’ve been very good,” said the Luidaeg. “I haven’t killed anyone who didn’t deserve it, not even my sister, who should probably have been killed a hundred times over by now. I haven’t stolen any hearts or broken any vows, and I’m only calling on you now because I need you more than I’ve ever needed you before. Mother, I am your oldest living child. I am your eternity made flesh. Now please, hark to me, heed me here, and open the door before we die a horrible and lingering death in the darkness.”

  The smell of her magic surged again, this time underscored by roses like I had never smelled before—not the cold, snowy roses of Evening or the perfect hothouse roses of Luna; not even the bloody-thorned roses of my mother’s magic, which used to define my entire world. These were wild roses, untouched by any gardener’s shears and untamed by any horticulturist’s design. They grew where they wanted, thrived where they chose, and would never be anything but their own truest selves, unable to conform to anything else. They were the roses that had grown at the beginning of the world, and the roses that would grow at the end of it. There were a hundred other scents beneath the roses, loam and fresh-turned earth and the sweet decay that leads to new growth, but I knew that what I would remember was the roses. They would stay with me, because . . . because . . .

  Because no one could smell Maeve’s magic and forget it.

  It took everything I had not to turn and gape at the key that had somehow torn a hole in everything I thought I knew about our world, calling forth the magic of our missing Queen. Instead, I watched the road as beside me the Luidaeg murmured, “Thank you, Mother,” and raised the key to her lips.

  As soon as they touched the metal, it exploded into light like I had never seen. The road, the trees, everything went away except for that glaring brilliance, which managed to be white and red at the same time, like it was bleeding as it purified. I slammed my foot down on the brake, fighting to keep control of the car as we reduced speed more quickly than the laws of physics would advise. The Luidaeg didn’t want me to stop. I was not willing to drive blind into a landscape I didn’t know.

  I couldn’t force my eyes to stay open. When everything went from white to black, I realized I had shut them at some point to block out that horrible brightness. They were still closed when the Luidaeg put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Hey. October. Open your eyes, I put the key away.”

  She couldn’t lie to me—I knew that—but I still cracked my right eye open with caution, in case some of the light had managed to linger. Natural light can’t do that, but that’s the trouble with magic: it does what it wants, and screw the laws of nature.

  The cab was reassuringly dim, and the world outside the window was visible, painted in late afternoon shades of green and brown and gold. I opened both eyes and blinked, twisting in my seat as I realized that we were at Paso Nogal Park, the spot where Shadowed Hills was anchored to the mortal world. We were parked in the main lot, assuming you used the term very generously, since the car was sitting slantwise across three spaces. I blinked twice, and then took my foot off the brake as I carefully navigated us into a more proper parking place and turned off the engine.

  The Luidaeg was quiet while I parked the car, possibly because she recognized that my battered nerves couldn’t take much more. Finally, once I was sure my heart wasn’t going to burst out of my chest, I twisted in my seat and asked, “Did we just drive from San Francisco to Pleasant Hill in less than ten minutes?”

  “I told you, shortcut,” she said, sounding pleased with herself. “Let’s go ruin my sister’s day, shall we?”

  “In a second.” I undid my seat belt and slid out of the car, feeling better as soon as my feet hit solid ground. Maybe this was how Tybalt felt every time he had to take a ride. I’d have to apologize to him for
not being as understanding as I could have been. Speaking of Tybalt . . . “I don’t want to go anywhere before Tybalt shows up. He’d freak out if we weren’t waiting for him when he arrived.”

  “You do have a remarkable talent for getting yourself injured when your allies let you out of their sight,” said the Luidaeg.

  I shrugged. “I heal fast.”

  “Most of the time.”

  I didn’t have an answer for that one.

  Standing still felt obscurely like failing. Evening was a big enough threat that we should never have been allowed to stop long enough to take a breath, much less stand around a parking lot waiting for my boyfriend to show up. There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to take that pause. The need to be moving, to act, would have sent me running into the knowe, even if I knew that I was running into certain danger. “I guess I’m growing up,” I muttered.

  “No, but you’re maturing, and that’s more than I hoped for when we met,” said the Luidaeg. I glanced at her, blinking. The bones of her face had shifted during the drive, going from what I thought of as her Annie-face to the one that I was more accustomed to. They were very similar; she could have been her own sister. They weren’t quite identical. She met my eyes with a small shrug and said, “It’s true. I don’t lie to you, remember?”

  “It took me a while to get used to that,” I said. “How much danger are we walking into?”