A Local Habitation od-2

by Seanan McGuire

  “I know.”

  “And we’ll figure out what to do about the bodies.” I shook my head. “I still don’t understand what’s going on with them.”

  “The night-haunts always come,” said Quentin.

  “Maybe they aren’t really dead.” Jan looked at me, suddenly hopeful. “Can you bring them back? Wake them up?”

  “No.” I didn’t know how to tell her how dead they really were. Jan hadn’t tried riding their blood; she hadn’t tasted the absence of life like sour wine. Quentin and I did, and we knew they were gone. Worse than gone: their blood was empty. Blood is never empty. It remembers all the little triumphs and tragedies of a lifetime, and it keeps them for as long as it continues to exist. Their blood remembered nothing. Whatever lives they’d lived and whoever they’d been, it was lost when they died. They took it into the darkness with them, out of Faerie forever.

  Jan sighed. “I see. I . . . oak and ash, Toby, I’m sorry. You should never have gotten wrapped up in all of this.”

  “My liege sent me, so I came.” I shrugged. “I’m not leaving until this is over.”

  “And Quentin?” asked Terrie, biting her lip.

  Quentin shot me a worried look. Clearly, he’d been wondering the same thing.

  It was going to come out eventually. “Sylvester is sending someone to get him. Until then, we just need to keep him safe.”

  “Toby—”

  “She’s right,” said Terrie. “This isn’t your fight, Quentin. You don’t have to stay.”

  “I want to,” he said.

  “Hey, I say we let him,” said Gordan. “At least if the killer picks him, we get to live a little longer. Call it a learning experience.” You have to respect self-interest that focused. Most people at least try to pretend your welfare matters as much as their own.

  “Gordan, that isn’t fair,” said Jan.

  “Fair isn’t the point, and this isn’t a discussion. Sylvester’s calling him home. He’s going,” I said. Quentin’s expression was one of sheer betrayal. Tough. I wasn’t going to be responsible for getting him killed. “I’ll be here until this is over. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “I don’t think anyone ever has,” Gordan muttered. She’d given up glaring: now she just looked sullen.

  “In the meantime,” I said, ignoring her, “we’re going to need all the things I asked for. The information on the victims, access to their work spaces, everything. I don’t want any of you going anywhere alone. Is it possible for you to go somewhere else in the County until this is fixed? Someplace outside the knowe?”

  Jan shook her head. “No.”

  “Jan—”

  “April can’t leave.” The words were simple, quietly said, and utterly without hope. “I don’t have a portable server set up for her. If we went, we’d have to leave her behind. She’d be defenseless. I won’t leave my daughter.”

  “And we won’t leave our liege,” said Elliot.

  “If everyone dies, you lose the County. Let me call Sylvester. Let him help.”

  “Dreamer’s Glass will see it as a threat.”

  I eyed Jan. “Is there any way for us to get help without going to war?”

  “No,” she said, simply. “There isn’t.”

  “Maybe that’s what they want.” Gordan stood, crossing her arms over her chest. “How do we know Sylvester sent them? Maybe they’re here to make sure we don’t figure things out.”

  “Gordan—” Jan began, and stopped, glancing toward me. They didn’t know. With the lines down between them and Shadowed Hills, there was no way they could. Much as I was coming to dislike her, I almost had to admire the way Gordan’s mind worked. She wanted us out, and she’d found one of the fastest ways to get what she wanted: calling our credentials into question. She was smirking now, visibly pleased.

  “That’s crap,” snapped Quentin.

  “He’s right,” I said. “If you want to work yourselves into a paranoid frenzy, go for it. Whatever. Just understand that it’s not my damn problem. The dead are my problem.”

  Elliot had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that politically . . .”

  “Politically, it would be a good idea to send saboteurs. We’re not them.”

  “I believe you,” said Jan. Behind her, Gordan scowled.

  “Good.” I walked to the coffee machine, aware of the eyes on my back. Let them stare. I needed to regroup before I started screaming at them. I’d been trying to ignore the political aspects, but they still mattered. No one should die for land. Oberon believed that: he fought to keep the playing field even. Some people say that’s why he disappeared—he saw what Faerie was becoming and couldn’t bear to watch. I wasn’t sure I could bear it, either. I didn’t have a choice.

  “One way or another, I guess we’ll know your motives soon,” said Terrie.

  I toasted her with my coffee cup. “Same to you.”

  “We know the risks,” said Jan. Before the fae grew soft and secretive, the look in her eyes would have sent armies to die. There’s no stopping that kind of look; all you can do is stand back and hope the casualties will be light. “So where do we go from here?”

  I met her eyes, and sighed. She wasn’t going to back down; we both knew it. The people that were going to leave were already gone, leaving only the loyal ones, the heroes, and the murderer. I’m not a hero; if I’m lucky, I never will be. I just do my job.

  “You’re going to have to do everything I say,” I said.

  “Of course,” she said, and smiled. It was a victor’s smile, and she was right to smile that way. We were staying at ALH, and they were counting on me to win their war. I just didn’t see a single way to do it.

  FIFTEEN

  “ANY ANSWER?”

  A “None.” Quentin dropped the phone back into the cradle, looking disgusted. “I’ve tried calling eight times, and no one’s picking up.”

  “Sylvester said he’d keep someone by the phone. So we’ve got two choices. Either he forgot . . .”

  Quentin snorted.

  “My thoughts exactly. Which means something’s stopping the calls from going through. How much do you know about the phones at Shadowed Hills?”

  Quentin shrugged, putting down the folder he’d been pretending to read. “They’re ALH manufacture. They were installed shortly before I was fostered with Duke Torquill.”

  “Uh-huh. Ever had any problems with them?”

  “No. Never.”

  “But no one’s picking up, and none of Jan’s messages got through, even though we were able to call just fine from the hotel.” A nasty image was starting to form in my mind. “Give me the phone.”

  “What?”

  “Give me the phone.” I held out my hand. “And keep reading. We need to know whatever there is to know about these people.”

  “I don’t understand why I have to do this,” he grumbled, handing me the receiver. “You’re making me go home.”

  “Because I said so. Now shut up, and read.” Half-holding my breath, I punched in the number for the Japanese Tea Gardens, and waited. Shadowed Hills was a knowe. Shadowed Hills had a Summerlands- based phone system. The Tea Gardens . . . didn’t.

  After our discussion in the cafeteria, Elliot had taken us to what had been Colin’s office, where I could get started on the investigative side of things while keeping Quentin out of trouble. It was a small, boxy room, with surfing posters on the walls and Happy Meal toys cluttering the shelves. The single window looked out on an improbably perfect, moonlit beach. That was a Selkie for you. He’d found a way to work inland and still be close to home.

  We searched the office thoroughly, but found nothing to justify murdering the man. There was a small Ziploc bag of marijuana behind the fish tank, and a large collection of nudie magazines which caused Quentin to forget he was mad at me for almost ten minutes while he snickered. A herd of miniature Hippocampi swam from side to side in the tank, eyeing us suspiciously. The largest was no more than eight i
nches long, a stallion whose perfect equine upper half melded seamlessly into the scales and fins of his bright blue tail. His mares came in half a dozen colors, as brilliantly patterned as tropical fish.

  The phone kept ringing. I sighed, and was about to hang up. There was a clatter and a shout of, “Dammit!” as the receiver was slapped out of the cradle on the other end. Breathless, Marcia said, “Hello?”

  “Marcia?”

  “Toby? Oh, thank Oberon. I found Tybalt for you. He’s—”

  “Marcia, I don’t have time for this right now. I need you to do me a favor, okay? I need you to go to Shadowed Hills, and tell Sylvester I need help. I’m in Fremont, and there’s something wrong with the phones here. I can’t call Shadowed Hills.”

  “Fascinating. Do go on.” The voice was dry, amused, and distinctly not Marcia’s.

  I paused. “Tybalt?”

  “Did you expect that you would call for me, and I would refuse? Perhaps you did. Much as I appreciate your deciding to provide me with an afternoon’s amusement, I must say . . . ‘here, kitty, kitty’? Did you really expect this to have any positive result?”

  “Tybalt, this is really not the time.”

  “What did you want to discuss with me that was so vital you had to send a handmaid begging at the bushes?” His tone sharpened, turning dangerous. “I don’t take kindly to being toyed with.”

  I rubbed my forehead with one hand. “All right, look, my methods were maybe not the best, but they got you to wait on my call, didn’t they? I’m guessing you didn’t do anything to Marcia?”

  “She assured me her activities were entirely your fault.”

  “Good.” Quentin was giving me a quizzical look. I turned away from him before he could distract me, and said, “Did she tell you why I’m in Fremont?”

  “No. I assume that honor was being left for you. I do hope you’re giving my counterpart the troubles you normally reserve for me.”

  Oh, oak and ash. That was what I’d been hoping not to hear. Keeping my tone light, I said, “Your counterpart. I assume you mean Barbara Lynch, the local Queen of Cats?”

  “None other.” The danger bled out of his voice, replaced by amusement. “She must not know you’ve elected to phone me. We’re not precisely on good terms, she and I. Silly little thing should never have taken a throne. Why, with her delicate sensibilities—”

  “She’s dead, Tybalt.”

  Silence.

  “She died last month.”

  Now he spoke, voice a low, harsh rasp that was closer to a snarl: “How?”

  “We don’t know. That’s the problem.” I closed my eyes. “You didn’t know.”

  “How would I have known?” The bitterness and anger in his tone were undisguised. “She held a crown without a kingdom, thanks to that Riordan bitch.”

  That was new information. “What do you mean, ‘a crown without a kingdom’?”

  “There were no true Cait Sidhe in her domain, only our feline cousins and their changeling children. The others left long ago, when it became clear that Riordan held no respect for Oberon’s word.”

  Oberon established the Court of Cats, gave them a political structure outside the standard Faerie Courts and Kingdoms. They ruled themselves, and no political power in Faerie had any say over them. There have always been rulers who didn’t want to listen to that ancient declaration. They try to tax the Cait Sidhe, subvert them, recruit them into their political reindeer games. It wasn’t much of a surprise to hear that Riordan was one of those.

  Still . . . “You can talk to my cats.”

  “Your cats are my subjects, and subject to my laws. The cats of Barbara’s Court weren’t. They couldn’t reach me.”

  “Where did all the other Cait Sidhe go?”

  “My fiefdom. Others. But Barbara remained, stubborn to the end.” His tone turned more bitter still. “I think she liked the perversity of it. Bowing at the knee to a daughter of Titania.”

  “She’s not bowing anymore,” I said, with a sigh. “I’m sorry to be the one who told you. And I’m sorry about the ‘here kitty, kitty’ thing. It just seemed like the best . . .”

  “Wait. She died in Fremont, and you don’t know what killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re still there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  I considered lying. Only for a few seconds, but still, the urge was there. Pulling his jacket closer around me, I said, “People are dying. Sylvester’s sending someone to get Quentin out, but I’m staying until we know what’s going on. I can’t run out on them.”

  Again, silence.

  “Tybalt?”

  “You really are a little fool, aren’t you?” His tone was distant, almost reflective. “You still have the jacket I left with you?”

  “I do,” I admitted.

  “Good. I’ll be wanting it back.”

  “I’ll try to stay alive long enough to return it. Can you put Marcia on? I need to ask her for a favor.”

  His tone sharpened. “What favor?”

  “Something’s wrong with the phones, and I can’t get through to Shadowed Hills. Someone needs to tell Sylvester we’re in trouble. Big trouble. Someone just tried to kill us, and they came pretty close to succeeding.” I paused. “He can probably call me from the pay phone in the parking lot. He should station someone there.”

  “Consider the message relayed,” said Tybalt, in that same distant, thoughtful tone.

  “What are you—”

  The phone buzzed in my ear. The line was dead; he’d hung up on me.

  Groaning, I turned and dropped the receiver back into the cradle. “Whatever’s wrong with the phones, it’s specific to Shadowed Hills. I got through to the Tea Gardens just fine.”

  Quentin was once more pretending to review the employee files. He slanted a sidelong look my way, and asked, “What did Tybalt want?”

  “To give me a headache. Still, he wouldn’t take the message if he wasn’t planning to deliver it.” I leaned over to take the folder from his hands, scanning the first page, and wrinkled my nose. Maybe the company dietitian cared about the fact that Barbara liked her field mice alive, but I didn’t. “Change of subjects. Does it say anything in here about where her office is?”

  “Nope. Did you know that Colin had a doctorate in philosophy?”

  I looked up. “What year, and where from?”

  “Nineteen sixty-two. Newfoundland.”

  “Any of the others have degrees from Canadian colleges?” I flipped through Barbara’s folder, stopping at the sheet labeled “education.” “Babs didn’t—her degree’s from UC Berkeley. Women’s Studies and English.”

  “Peter taught History at Butler University in Indianapolis, and Yui’s file says she used to be a courtesan in the court of King Gilad.”

  I looked up again, eyeing Quentin. “Please tell me you know what that means.” He turned red. “Good. I didn’t want to explain it. So we have basically no connections.”

  “None.”

  “And of the four victims, two have offices that don’t seem to exist.” We’d done Peter’s office before Colin’s. It was almost empty, containing a desk and an assortment of office supplies. The few personal touches we found dealt with football—a Butler University pennant on one wall and a foam- rubber football that he probably tossed around when he was bored. There was nothing that provided us with a visible motive for murder, and that worried me.

  “One at least—I mean, no one’s actually said Barbara had an office.”

  “Right.” I dropped myself into the chair by the fish tank. The Hippocampi fled to the far end, the tiny stallion swimming back and forth in front of the rest as he “protected” them from me. “Maybe she worked out of a broom closet, I don’t know. No offices means no leads. Not that we’re getting much from this place unless you like weed.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” I shook my head. “So they were telling the truth about the turnov
er rates. It doesn’t look like they’d lost an employee in a long time before this started.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “It leaves ‘us’ nowhere, Quentin. You’re leaving as soon as your ride gets here.”

  “And what if I won’t go?” He crossed his arms, jaw set.

  “Sylvester’s orders, kid. You’ll go.”

  “Why are you so determined to get me out of here? I want to help. I want to—”

  I grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled it down, exposing the scar on my left shoulder. Quentin stopped talking, and gaped. I held the collar down long enough to make sure he got a good look before tugging it back into place, glaring at him.

  “That was made with iron.” His eyes were wide, and scared.

  “Good to see they’ve taught you what iron damage looks like.”

  “How did you—”

  “I lived because I got lucky, and because someone was willing to pay a lot to keep me around a little bit longer. Most people don’t get lucky.”

  He swallowed, and stood. “I’m going to feed the Hippocampi.”

  “Good idea,” I said, and reached for the stack of folders. I didn’t want to scare him—he was making more of an effort to do the right thing than most purebloods twice his age would bother with—but he needed to realize that this wasn’t a game. This was real, and he was going home.

  The Hippocampus food was on the shelf beneath the fish tank. Giving me one last sidelong glance, Quentin opened it, shaking bits of dried kelp and barley into the water. The tiny horses flocked to the food, their wariness forgotten as they chased it around the tank. I smiled faintly and flipped the first folder open.

  They liked records at ALH: everything from employment history to diet and heritage was recorded, like they were trying to paint portraits of their employees on paper. Even though was it helping us research, I couldn’t figure out why they’d bothered in the first place.

  The first page of Colin’s file included a listing of family members. I found myself wondering who was going to have to tell them he was gone. Disgusted by the thought, I slammed the folder down on the desk and pushed it away. “This isn’t helping.”