Late Eclipses

by Seanan McGuire

  “Hope I can remember where I parked,” I said, and started walking.

  A narrow strip of grass separated the Tea Gardens from the parking lot. I knelt to study it, but saw nothing more telling than some half-chewed bubblegum. Countless tourists visit the park every day. If Oleander had been there, her tracks were long gone.

  Sometimes I regret my choice of careers. I like my work. I enjoy finding out where people have hidden their secrets, and I like knowing nothing’s ever as secure as people think, even if it means knowing that none of my secrets are safe, either. Still, there are times when something a little stronger than my own knowledge of human behavior would be nice. A full forensics lab, for example.

  “Devin was right,” I muttered. “I should’ve joined the police.”

  I turned as I stood, and found myself nose-to-nose with a male pixie. He was about four inches tall, glowing with a warm amber light that almost distracted from the fact that his short toga-style garment was made from a Snickers wrapper.

  “Uh, hi,” I said. “Can I help you with something?”

  It’s hard for pixies to hold still for more than ten seconds—their wings aren’t built for it, and a light breeze has a longer attention span—but he was just hovering there, expression giving every indication that he was waiting for something. I squinted. He was holding something behind his back.

  “What’ve you got there?” I asked, and held out my hand.

  The question seemed to delight him. Laughing, he darted forward and dropped something into my palm before vanishing into the underbrush. I looked down, just in time to see the oleander flower in my hand burst into pale flames. They burned without heat. The flower was gone in a matter of seconds, leaving an ashy smear behind.

  Feeling suddenly exposed, I turned in a slow circle, rubbing my hand against my hacked-off skirt as I studied the area. Something moved behind the fountain on the far side of the parking lot. I took a cautious step forward.

  Black hair flashed through blue water as Oleander turned and ran.

  There wasn’t time to think, and so I didn’t; I just bolted for the fountain. Everything was suddenly clear, like I’d fallen into a dream where the course of events couldn’t be changed. She ran, and I chased. That was the only way it could go.

  She was ten yards ahead of me when she came into view. My legs were longer, and I was gaining when she ducked into the botanical gardens. I didn’t remember drawing my knives, but I must have, because they were in my hands. That was fine. If I caught her, we’d be done. Killing her would violate Oberon’s law. I didn’t care, just like I hadn’t cared when I killed Blind Michael. He was a monster, and so was she.

  Trees choked the path, cutting off most of the ambient light. I would have paused to get my bearings, but I didn’t need to; the bitter tang of acid hung in the air, marking her trail so clearly that I didn’t need eyes to follow her. I just ran.

  The path opened into a clearing. Oleander stood at the center, silhouetted by moonlight. She looked over her shoulder as I ran into the open, and smiled. The smell of sulfuric acid and oleander flowers was suddenly overwhelming. I gathered the last scraps of my endurance and dove, intending to tackle her—only to slam headfirst into a young elm tree, the illusion shattering around me.

  The pain broke through the haze that had fallen over me, leaving me suddenly aware of my own actions. What in Maeve’s name was I doing? I was chasing a known killer through a manmade forest, alone, when no one knew where I was. That wasn’t even stupid. That was suicidal.

  Behind me, Oleander laughed. I turned in time to see the bottom of one bare foot vanish between two rose bushes, and the dream slammed back down, too strong to be denied. I ran after her, close enough now to hear her feet hitting the ground.

  She was always just a few steps ahead and a few feet out of reach, almost in sight but never quite there. My lungs were burning. I promised myself that if I lived, I’d start working out. Better cranky and alive than cheerful and dead. That thought probably contained some vast truth, but I had better things to worry about, like what would happen if Oleander exhausted me before I caught her. I picked up the pace and was rewarded with a fresh glimpse of her hair. I was gaining. The smell of acid was so heavy it burned my throat. That didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the chase.

  I flung myself around corner after corner, running ever faster. She wouldn’t get away. The path twisted, and I swerved to follow; as long as Oleander stayed on the path, so would I. Her silhouette was framed by the dark mirror of the lake ahead of us, and the sight of water gave me the strength for one last burst of speed. Peri are desert creatures, and Oleander was part Peri; the lake would stop her. I could catch her and force her to tell me what she’d done. And once I was sure she’d told me everything . . .

  I put the thought aside and concentrated on running. I killed Blind Michael in self-defense. If I ran Oleander down and killed her, it would be murder. She deserved it, but it would still be murder. Had I fallen that far? It was time to find out. I skidded around the last corner, knives raised . . . and found myself alone.

  Moonlight bathed the water in white, chasing away the shadows. I came skidding to a stop, feet sinking into the mud as I frantically scanned the lakeshore. There was no one there. I looked down, and my breath caught in my throat, making my already oxygen-deprived lungs stutter. A single trail of footprints led from my feet back to the path. If you judged by the ground, I’d made the run alone.

  I stayed where I was for several minutes, panting, before I heard a twig snap behind me. I stiffened. Maybe I’d come alone—somehow—but one thing was clear.

  I wasn’t alone anymore.

  THIRTEEN

  I RAISED MY KNIVES, HOLDING THEM at waistlevel as I turned. It was a good defensive position, and it wasn’t offensive enough that the person behind me would automatically realize they were about to be attacked.

  Tybalt stood on the hard-packed earth of the path, well out of reach of the mud. He raised an eyebrow as he saw my posture. It rose further as he got a good look at what I was wearing. Clearing his throat, he said, “Fascinating as I find your choices of couture and activity, what in the world is going on out here?”

  “Tybalt?” I lowered my knives. He was draped in a human illusion, features blunted and smoothed into a semblance of mortality. I opened my mouth slightly, breathing in the solid Cait Sidhe of his heritage before letting my shoulders relax. It was really him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Now you’re answering questions with questions. You’ve been spending too much time with the sea witch.” He walked primly forward, stopping where the mud began. “The Dryads called me. They said you were tearing through the park like a madwoman, and given the situation in the Tea Gardens, they were concerned.”

  “I . . . wait, what? I was following someone.”

  Tybalt’s eyebrow arched upward again. “Not according to the Dryads.”

  I hesitated, covering my confusion by sheathing my knives. Had I seen Oleander, or was I chasing a lure-me spell? Both were possible. The Peri aren’t illusionists on the level of the Gwragen, but they’re close.

  Tybalt was watching with concern when I looked back up, a frown creasing his unnervingly human features. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing him like that. It seemed wrong, somehow, like it was more of a deception than the illusions I wore. It didn’t help that he’d changed out of his Court clothes and into something much more reasonable: weathered denim jeans, a linen shirt, and unornamented boots. It was more appealing than the finery, even if it was less openly attractive. He looked . . . normal.

  “Toby, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice sounded small and frightened. I raked my hair away from my face and squelched my way out of the mud, trying to ignore the obscene sucking noises that followed every step. “Root and branch, I need a cup of coffee. Have you heard the news from Shadowed Hills?”

  “What?” He shot me a startled glance. “No. I’ve been here all night. What
’s going on?”

  “. . . Right.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Luna collapsed outside the Beltane Ball. I think she was poisoned.”

  “She sent you to your death once, in case you’ve forgotten,” he said, a sudden chill dropping into his voice. “Why should her collapse concern me?”

  I paused. Tybalt was a cat before he was anything else. If something didn’t affect him personally, he was unlikely to give a damn. Slowly, I said, “Because Rayseline is blaming me, and if Luna dies—”

  “The little bitch will push for your execution under Oberon’s law,” he snarled. I blinked. I’d expected a reaction, but nothing that strong. “She’ll want your head. Titania’s bones, Toby, what happened?”

  “I’m not sure anymore. Remember Karen?” He nodded. “Well, she sent me a dream about Oleander, and then I thought I caught a trace of Oleander’s magic at the Ball. People keep saying Oleander wouldn’t come back here, but I can’t think of any other way to explain what I felt.”

  “I believe you.”

  The words were so simple and so calmly said that it took me a moment to find my voice. Finally, I managed, “Why?”

  “If you were killing people, you wouldn’t start with Luna.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, you’re smarter than that. You wouldn’t get caught.”

  “What, are you waiting for me to snap?”

  Tybalt shrugged. “I’m waiting for everyone to snap.”

  I decided to let that slide. There wasn’t time to think about what it really meant. “If it’s Oleander—if I’m right—then she’s also the one responsible for whatever’s happening to Lily. She has to be stopped.”

  “Why would she attack the Lady of the Tea Gardens?”

  “Lily kept Oleander from killing me once, and she’s a nutcase. Does she need more of a motive than that?”

  “I suppose not, especially since attacking that particular pair implicates you nicely. They’re very . . . unique women. It would take an intimate knowledge of the both of them to accomplish something like this.”

  I stopped, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “Please don’t treat me like a kitten. I know what Luna Torquill is, and I’ll grant that Oleander has motive. Still, why would she risk coming back here? Being caught in this Kingdom would mean her life.”

  “I don’t know. People say she kills for money. Maybe she’s here on a job and just having a little fun on the side.” I rubbed my forehead, longing for aspirin. “There’s no one else who works with poisons the way she does and has a grudge against me. I came to look for signs that she was behind the attack on Lily, and I saw her across the parking lot. I chased her into the botanical gardens, but she vanished, and—” Tybalt was looking at me oddly. I frowned. “What?”

  “No one but the two of us has been here in hours. I don’t smell her, or anything like her magic, anywhere around us.”

  “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” Weariness washed over me. “I’m too tired for this shit.”

  “Liar.” Tybalt glared at me. “Forgive me for calling you on it, but you’re lying. You aren’t tired. You’re exhausted. You keep squinting like you have a migraine, your voice is raspy, and you look like you haven’t slept in a week. You’re going to run yourself to death.”

  “It’s been a long night,” I snapped.

  He snorted. “Maybe it’ll be a relief to bury you. You’ll be quieter. Now what?”

  “I need to check in with the Tea Gardens,” I said. “After that . . . I need to find Oleander. I don’t know what I was chasing, but if it wasn’t her, I need to know what it was.”

  “A tall order.”

  “Yeah, well, thinking small hasn’t been working out too well so far, now, has it?”

  The briefest flicker of a smile crossed his lips. “Fair enough, and I suppose it’s a start.” He turned to start down the path toward the parking lot. Lacking any other options, I followed. “I’ll tell my people to watch for her, and I’ll send Raj if we find anything. If she hurts you . . . my eyes are everywhere. She’ll find no peace and no rest until I have my vengeance.”

  I blinked. “Tybalt—”

  “You’re more fun alive than dead.” He gave my hacked-off dress a once-over before adding, “You look like an idiot. Although I must say I approve of the jacket.”

  “Asshole.”

  Tybalt’s smirk was short-lived, quickly replaced by something less familiar: concern. “I do have to wonder what it is you were chasing. If Oleander is involved . . . ”

  “She hasn’t gotten to me, if that’s what you’re wondering. She hasn’t had a chance.” I didn’t drink anything I couldn’t identify after getting to the Ball, and Sylvester’s staff was well-screened enough that I wasn’t worried about my single glass of wine.

  Tybalt looked at me dubiously, and kept walking. Much as I hated to admit it, his presence was reassuring; if Oleander wanted to come back, she wouldn’t catch me alone.

  I stopped when we reached the Tea Garden gates, squinting as I tried to work out the best way of getting inside. Shouting would just attract the police, and that was a complication we didn’t need. “Care for a little trip through the shadows?”

  “Always amusing, but not necessary tonight.” Tybalt pointed off to my left.

  I turned.

  Marcia was standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself, crying. She’d been crying for a while. Her mascara was running in patchy streaks, and her fairy ointment was all but washed away.

  My stomach sank, but I held to hope, asking, “Marcia? Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “I called the apartment, and May said you were here. I knew if I waited long enough, you’d come. I just had to wait until . . . ”

  Tybalt’s hand was on my shoulder, steadying me. “Marcia, what’s going on?”

  “It’s Lily.” Those two words held all the things I didn’t want to hear. “She’s been asking for you.”

  I took a deep breath, shrugging Tybalt’s hand from my shoulder, and nodded. “Well, here I am. Let’s go.”

  It only took a few moments for Marcia to get us into the Tea Gardens. She never stopped trembling. Her dread went beyond grief and made a sad, terrible sense, highlighting one of the ugly truths about Faerie. Lily might have been the only person in Faerie who’d ever shown Marcia any kindness. I was afraid of losing a friend. Marcia was afraid of losing her entire world. I complain about being a changeling, but things could have been a lot worse. If my blood were any thinner or my mother less highly thought of—Amandine isn’t titled, but everyone knows her—I could have been Marcia. There’s always something worse than what you have.

  We climbed the moon bridge in silence. Lily’s knowe resolved around us as an almost featureless expanse of half-frozen marsh. It seemed like the only solid ground was the spot where we were standing, and the patch of green surrounding the willow grove a few yards in front of us.

  Marcia made a small, strained sound when she saw the trees. I squeezed her fingers, trying to offer what comfort I could. It wasn’t much. There was no way it could have been. Lily’s subjects were gathered on that tiny patch of land, clustered tight to keep from falling into the surrounding swamp. They spanned the gamut from purebloods to changelings, with a few even I couldn’t identify somewhere in the middle. A Hamadryad leaned against a woman with blue feathers instead of hair; a half-blood Urisk sat in the grass with the head of his Glastig companion in his lap.

  Walther was standing at the edge of the crowd. I started toward him, dragging Marcia along. Tybalt followed a few feet behind. The faces I knew were a minority. I should have known more of them. I should have been there more. I should . . .

  I broke that train of thought as firmly as I could. It was too late for “should.” I’d been there as much as I could. That would have to be enough.

  Walther straightened when he saw us. “You found her,” he said, relieved. Tears were running down his face, but his unnaturally blue eyes weren’t puffy or bloo
dshot. Purebloods get all the breaks.

  “I’m sorry I made you wait,” I said.

  “She’s resting,” said Walther, ignoring my lame attempt at an apology. “I thought we should leave her alone until you got here.” The words “because it’s almost over” hung unspoken between us.

  “That was good of you.” I tugged my hand free of Marcia’s. “Can I see her?”

  “She’s waiting for you.”

  Marcia sobbed, knocking me aside as she rushed into Walther’s arms. He stroked her hair one-handed, cradling her with his free arm. I looked away.

  “Maybe I should go in now.”

  “Yes,” Walther agreed. “Maybe you should.”

  Something in his tone made me hesitate. “Walther, how much worse . . . ?”

  “Just go,” he said. That seemed to be all the answer I was going to get. I took a deep breath as I turned and walked into the grove. Tybalt followed me, and Lily’s subjects followed him. They didn’t have permission to come, and they came anyway. That, more than anything, told me how bad things were; they’d never have broken protocol like that if they expected her to recover. I was moving quickly, anxious to reach her before it was . . . just before.

  Then she came into view and I froze, rational thought shutting down as my eyes refused to process what they saw. That’s when I realized that whatever happened wasn’t going to be fixed or forgiven; it was going to be Evening Winterrose all over again, one more person I loved and couldn’t save.

  Then the shock passed—shock always passes when you don’t want it to—and time started moving mercilessly forward.

  Lily’s head was propped against the edge of the pool, hair cascading around her. It didn’t just obscure the lines of her body; it wiped them out, erasing the point where she ended and the water began. Her skin was translucent, strengthening the illusion that she and the water were the same—if it even was an illusion, anymore.