A Local Habitation od-2

by Seanan McGuire

  “Sure. Uh . . . what do you need?” He looked nervously at the phone. Considering what he’d overheard, he was probably expecting me to ask for a live chicken and a boning knife.

  “These.” I flipped to a clean page, copying the list. “Dried is better, dead will do. The florists may not want to sell you dead flowers—you may have to dumpster dive.” I ripped out the page, handing it to him. “I need them to construct my circle. The ritual starts at sunset.”

  I have to give him credit: he took the idea in stride. “I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Is there anything else you need?”

  I consulted my notebook. “Half a pound of sea salt, six unmatched candles—preferably ones that have been burned before—juniper berries, a mandrake root, and some raven’s feathers.” It sounded like I was getting ready for a supernatural Girl Scout Jamboree.

  “Oh.” He considered. “There’s sea salt in the kitchen, and about a dozen candles in the earthquake preparedness kit.” Most California fae keep earthquake kits. Immortality’s not that useful when the earth opens up and swallows you whole.

  “Really? That helps.”

  “Hold on . . .” Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do they need to be feathers from a real raven, or will skin-shifter feathers do?”

  I paused. Selkies are the most common breed of skin-shifter, but there are others, including the Raven-men and Raven-maids. “I can’t tell the difference,” I said, finally, “so they should work.”

  “Our last receptionist was a Raven- maid, and she left a lot of feathers in her desk. They should be in the storage closet in front.”

  I looked at him quizzically, but it was Quentin who asked, “Do you people ever throw anything away?”

  Elliot shrugged. “Not really.”

  “That’s everything but the juniper berries and the mandrake root,” I said. “Is there an herbal specialty shop or a New Age supply store near here?”

  “I didn’t see one,” Quentin said.

  Elliot looked at us for a moment, expression unreadable, and then turned to the door. “Come with me.” Quentin and I followed, exchanging a bemused look.

  We walked through a series of short hallways, stopping at a row of dark, closed offices. The nearest was marked with a small brass nameplate reading “Y. Hyouden.” I glanced at Elliot. “This is Yui’s office,” I said. “We couldn’t find it earlier. We were looking.”

  “It’s hard to get here if you don’t know the way,” he said, pressing his palm against the door. “She liked her privacy.”

  “Jan mentioned that. She said you could lead me here.”

  “And I have,” he said, voice soft.

  “Why are we here?” Quentin asked. “I mean, other than the hunting for clues part.”

  “Because she always said she could stock an occult store out of her desk.” Elliot closed his hand into a fist, leaving it against the door. “She was so smart . . . but she couldn’t stop whatever it was that took her away.” His voice was full of raw, angry longing.

  I blinked, startled. I shouldn’t have been: in any community as insular as ALH, some ties would be bound to run deeper than “coworkers.” “Elliot?” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “We were going to be married this fall,” he said, like I hadn’t spoken. “We were waiting for the leaves to turn. She wanted . . . she wanted to be married when the world was on fire.”

  The blows just keep coming. “I’m sorry.” The words weren’t enough. Words are never enough.

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone, and you’re going to find out who took her from me.” He shrugged and opened the door, motioning us inside. I studied him, and then nodded, walking into the room. Quentin followed a few steps behind me, and Elliot brought up the rear, turning on the lights as he came.

  Quentin stopped as the lights came on, eyes widening. “Neat . . .”

  The office was neat, in an eclectic sort of way. It was decorated in a mix of “modern electronics” and “traditional Japanese,” with red walls and soft lighting. The computer was on a raised platform surrounded by cushions, and a more standard drafting desk with deep, wide drawers was centered on one wall. Framed prints occupied three of the four walls; the fourth was dominated by a corkboard covered in glossy photographs.

  “Toby, look,” said Quentin, pointing toward the photo at the center of the display. It was the largest picture there, obviously situated in a place of honor, surrounded by smaller, more careless snapshots.

  “I see it,” I said, glancing toward Elliot. The picture showed him with Yui, dressed in summer clothes, smiling at the camera. He had one arm around her waist. Both of them were shining with that perfect, fragile happiness strong men have died trying to achieve; a happiness that was gone now. I think it must be worse to find it and lose it again than never to find it at all. Elliot walked over to stand in front of the picture, eyes filling with quiet tears. If it were up to me, I’d have let him do his mourning in peace. Unfortunately, the Luidaeg’s instructions were precise, and we were on a time limit. “Elliot . . .”

  “Check the desk,” he said, not taking his eyes away from the photograph.

  I do know how to take a hint. I walked over to the desk and opened the left- hand drawers. Quentin followed, doing the same on the right. Peering inside, I let out a long, low whistle. “Wow.”

  Yui wasn’t exaggerating when she said she could stock an occult supply store with the contents of her office. The drawers were packed with jars, bottles, and packets of herbs, wedged alongside bundles of feathers, dried flowers, and stranger things—all the necessities of life. I started to rummage. “Quentin, find the juniper berries.”

  “What will they look like?”

  “Dark purple pebbles. Sort of leathery.”

  “Got it.”

  The mandrake was in the second drawer I checked. I slid it into my pocket, shuddering as I felt the power leaking through its white silk covering. It had been gathered properly, wrested from the ground beneath a full moon; that was the only explanation for the way it was radiating strength. The preparation meant that it would work better, and more reliably . . . but I still didn’t like it. Mandrakes are used for the creation of doubles and Doppelgangers. They’re tools for people darker and creepier than I’ve ever wanted to be, but the Luidaeg had made it clear that there were no substitutions allowed.

  I was just glad Yui’s mandrake was an infant, barely six inches long; I could never have handled a three foot long adult. It would have been too much for me and might have seized control of the casting. Letting a mandrake root take control of a blood magic ritual is a quick and easy way to die. Quick and easy; not painless.

  “I’ve got the juniper berries,” Quentin said, holding up a glass jar.

  “And I’ve got the mandrake. Elliot?”

  “What?” he asked, finally looking away from the picture.

  “You said you had feathers?” I continued to look through the drawers as I spoke, taking note of their contents. Many Kitsune are herbal alchemists, using plants and minerals to strengthen their magic. Some of the things Yui had were powerful, like the mandrake, but none of it was suspicious; it was just a Kitsune’s tool kit, designed to let her work her magic with as little effort as possible.

  “Yes—I’ll send them with April after I’ve checked with Jan and arranged for the flowers. What are you doing?”

  “Checking the office,” I said, and closed the desk drawers, moving to the drafting table. Elliot stared at me, dismayed. I sighed. “We’ve searched the offices of all the other victims, Elliot. I’m sorry about Yui, I really am, but we still need to do our jobs.”

  “I . . . understand,” he said slowly, and leaned against the wall, tugging his beard. “Please, continue.”

  “We’ll be as quick as we can,” I promised, and pointed to the prints on the walls. Quentin nodded, moving to start taking them down and checking the backs for hidden papers. I concentrated first on the drafting table, then on the computer and the cushions o
n the floor around it, turning things over and looking beneath them, hoping for another find like Barbara’s office, and half-dreading it at the same time—I did not want to be the one to tell Elliot that his fiancée had sold them out.

  Fortunately for my sanity, I didn’t have to. We searched for twenty minutes and found nothing but a stack of half-completed projects, some technical manuals, and a book of handwritten sonnets that we surrendered to Elliot without thinking twice. Eventually, we admitted defeat, and I moved toward the door.

  “There’s nothing here. Quentin, come on.”

  “Can you find your way back without me?” Elliot asked. I could hear the promise of tears in his voice.

  I didn’t want to leave him alone. I didn’t want anyone to be alone in this death trap of a company. And yet, somehow, I couldn’t deny him the right to grieve. “Sure,” I said.

  Elliot nodded once. “I’ll meet you there.” He turned to exit the office, shoulders bowed. We watched him go, silent. What was there for us to say? I couldn’t promise justice. If there’d been justice in the world, I could have given him Yui back. As it was, all I could do was try to avenge her.

  He was barely past the doorway when April appeared, her arrival sending the smell of ozone and electrical fire washing over the office. Elliot stopped, turning back to face her, but her attention was focused on me.

  “Are you available to receive a message?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Are you available to receive a message?” she repeated, tone exactly the same.

  “That means you’re being paged,” said Elliot. “Yes, April, we’re available.”

  “There is a visitor at the front gate.”

  I glanced to Quentin. “Sounds like your ride’s here. April, who is it?”

  “Identity presented as Connor O’Dell. Purpose presented as ‘beat Toby’s ass until she agrees to get the hell out of this death trap.’ ” April’s neutral expression didn’t flicker. “He is currently held at the front gate. Shall I permit him to enter?”

  “Please. Quentin, come on.” I grinned, unabashedly relieved. “We’re getting you out of here.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “WHAT MADE YOU THINK you should come without a car?” I stared at Connor, aghast.

  He shrugged, spreading his hands in apology. “I thought you’d let us take yours.”

  “Ignoring the part where you just assumed you could commandeer my only means of transport, is there a reason you didn’t ask the cab to wait until you’d checked with me?”

  Connor shrugged again, looking helpless. “I didn’t think you’d let me in if I had a mortal cabbie with me.”

  “He’s right,” Jan said, looking between us. “We wouldn’t have.”

  I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Great. Just great.”

  Connor’s arrival had triggered an impromptu assembly in the cafeteria; after notifying us of his arrival, April had gone off to tell her mother, who had, quite naturally, summoned Gordan. Recent events meant that it wasn’t a good idea for nonresidents to walk around without an introduction. Only Terrie and Alex had failed to show up, which Jan attributed to the coming end of Terrie’s shift. Quentin looked unaccountably disappointed by Terrie’s absence. I might have been upset over missing Alex, but Connor’s announcement that he’d been planning to take my car had quashed that emotion, covering it with irritation.

  “I couldn’t have known that you were planning to blow up your car!” Connor protested.

  “I wasn’t planning to blow up my car! It just happened!”

  Connor blinked at me. I blinked at Connor. Then, almost in unison, we started laughing. The absurdity of it all was too much. People were dying, Quentin’s ride came without a car, I was exhausted and preparing to summon the night-haunts . . . my choices were “laugh” and “cry.” Laughter seemed healthier.

  Jan and Elliot exchanged a look before she cleared her throat and asked, “Should I be concerned by all this? Because if you’re going to have hysterics, I’m going to scream.”

  “I think this is normal,” said Quentin, uneasily. “I mean. They’re always like this.”

  “Shadowed Hills must be a fascinating place,” said Elliot.

  Quentin sighed deeply. “You have no idea.”

  I wiped the tears from my eyes, getting myself back under control. “I’m fine. Honest. Connor’s a moron—”

  “Hey!”

  “—but I’m fine.” I dug my wallet out of my pants pocket, flipping through it until I found Danny’s business card. “Well, you can’t take my car, since it’s sort of ashes right now, but we can call for a nonmortal cabbie. It’ll just take him a little while to get here.” I smiled, rather sharply. “You can tell Sylvester why we had to put a round trip from San Francisco on his tab.”

  “Doesn’t anyone here have a car that I can borrow?”

  “I rode my bike,” said Jan, apologetically.

  “I need my car,” said Elliot. “I’ve been asked to raid the local florists, and that’s difficult to do on the bus.”

  Connor blinked. “Raid the local florists for what?”

  “I’ll explain later,” I said.

  “Toby’s summoning the night-haunts,” said Quentin.

  “. . . or not,” I said, as Gordan and Connor exclaimed, in unison, “What?!”

  “You can’t be serious.” Connor looked alarmed as he stepped toward me, raising one hand to brush the bandages on my cheek. “You’re already hurt. What if they go for you?”

  “The Luidaeg gave me a ritual to keep them from hurting me.”

  “This is supposed to calm me down because . . . ?” he asked. “She’s ancient and oh, right, crazy. She’s going to get you killed.”

  I reached up, catching his hand and holding it firmly. “I trust her. It’ll be fine.”

  I’m a good liar—I’ve had years of practice—and I’ve been lying to Connor longer than I’ve been lying to almost anyone else. He searched my face for a moment, and was apparently reassured by what he found there, because he squeezed my fingers, raising our joined hands to rest his knuckles very lightly against my cheek.

  “You look like shit, Daye.”

  “You don’t look so good yourself.” I was lying again, but at least this time I didn’t feel bad about it. Connor O’Dell is capable of a lot of things. Looking “not so good” isn’t one of them.

  He was tall, lean, and still managed to be fairly compact; if Alex was the magazine cover-model version of the California surfer, Connor was the real thing, right down to the calluses on his hands and the cut of his hair—long enough to be attractive, short enough that the waves wouldn’t plaster it down over his drowningly dark Selkie eyes.

  “Yeah, well. When His Grace decides to ship me off to Fremont at a moment’s notice, I get a little worried.” He held my hand where it was for a moment more before releasing it and turning to offer Jan a wry smile. “It’s good to see that she doesn’t just cause collateral damage at home.”

  “It’s been educational,” Jan agreed, holding out her hand. “Toby, you want me to call that guy for you?”

  “Please.” I passed her Danny’s card. “Tell him it’s for me, and he’ll come. I mean, he’ll bill through the nose once he realizes I’m not going to be the one in the cab, but that’s why Sylvester has a bank account, right?”

  Jan grinned. “Right.”

  “If you’ll all excuse me, I’d like to get started on those errands,” said Elliot. “The sun should be up any moment now, which will herald the opening of the flower shops. Gordan, would you mind accompanying me?”

  For a moment, Gordan looked like she was looking for an excuse to refuse. Then she shrugged, scowling, and said, “Better than hanging around this mortuary.”

  “April will stay with me,” Jan said. “That way, I can get some work done, but I won’t be alone. Fair?”

  “Fair,” I allowed. “If you see Terrie or Alex, tell them we’re setting up base here in the cafeteria. We’ll just get my thing
s from Colin’s office.” I didn’t want to try cramming Connor, Quentin, and myself into the relatively small office for any length of time; someone would wind up with a bloody nose. Since it would take Danny at least half an hour to get to us, we needed to move to a bigger space.

  “Got it,” said Jan, giving me a small half-salute. And with that, we scattered.

  For once, I was awake at dawn and didn’t really mind that much. The sun came up when we were halfway down the hall, and Quentin, Connor, and I stopped where we were, leaning on each other’s arms until the moment passed and we were able to breathe again. Connor grinned goofily, taking a little longer than was necessary to let go of me as he straightened.

  “Remember that time we almost got caught out, and you pulled the blue eye shadow out of your purse and smeared it on your cheeks so you could tell people we were on our way to a Star Trek convention?”

  Quentin blinked at him. I bit back a groan.

  “Embarrassing stories later, paperwork now, please,” I said, and herded them toward the end of the hall with Connor snickering all the way.

  His snickering stopped when we entered the office. He took in the posters on the walls and the tank of Hippocampi before turning to me, asking, “Whose office is this?”

  “Was. Colin Dunne’s.” He paled. I cocked my head to the side. “You knew him?”

  “Not well, but, yeah, I did. How . . . ?”

  “Same way as everyone else here: under circumstances we don’t understand just yet. We’re working on it. That’s why you’re getting Quentin the hell out of here, remember?”

  Connor nodded, very slowly. “Where’s his skin?”

  His . . . oh, oak and ash. Groaning, I put a hand over my face. “It was in the car.”

  “The car.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which exploded.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “With Colin’s skin inside it.” He was starting to get angry; I could hear it in his tone.