A Local Habitation od-2

by Seanan McGuire

  “Toby . . .”

  “I needed the blood.” I looked between them. “Look, I don’t know what he and his sister are—he managed to talk me out of making him tell me—but whatever it is, they’ve got some sort of fucked-up glamour going on, and it’s a strong one. I nearly had to chew a hole through my tongue to keep myself from—” Going off with him and not showing back up until morning. “—kissing him. Even though I knew I didn’t want to.”

  Connor’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. You see a dark- haired lady with orange eyes, you don’t go anywhere with her alone. You’ll find yourself allowing liberties that Raysel probably won’t approve of.”

  He reddened, looking away. Quentin frowned, looking thoughtful. “Does it count as being unfaithful to Katie if I wanted to be with Terrie?”

  “No. It might if you’d actually done anything, but you can’t help being enchanted.” I hoped he’d believe me, because I honestly wasn’t sure. You can’t really get away with saying “magic doesn’t count” when you’re living in Faerie. Still, it was a good question.

  My answer appeared to reassure him, because he nodded. “All right. What do we do?”

  Seeing that look on his face—the look that said he knew I’d have all the answers, and that if he asked the questions right, I’d share them—made me want to run for the hills. I stood, ignoring the unsteadiness in my legs. No matter how shaken I was, I needed to keep moving. “All right, it’s what, one-thirty? Two o’clock?”

  “Two fifteen,” said Connor.

  “Close enough. We’re going to get some work done.”

  “Work?” Connor raised his eyebrows.

  “Work.” I moved to the pile of folders covering one of the cafeteria tables. “Quentin, you’ve got A through L. Connor, you’ve got M through Z. I want you to pull anything that looks even a little bit weird.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Quentin, even as he started to do what I’d asked.

  “Go through these.” I lifted Barbara’s desk drawer. “There may be something here that tells us where to look next.”

  “I didn’t know I was coming to play secretary,” grumbled Connor.

  “Then you should’ve brought a car.”

  The next several hours passed in the sort of mind-numbing grind that was so familiar from past cases. We shuffled files, looked for connections, made more coffee. Rearranged papers, checked time stamps, made more coffee. Jan wandered through, accompanied by April, to drop off a fresh pile of folders and get a candy bar from the machine. I acknowledged her presence with a grunt and a vague wave of one hand, too deeply engrossed in the tangled list of names that represented the company’s lifetime employee tracking to realize I was missing the opportunity to ask her about Alex’s heritage. That realization came later.

  And time rolled on.

  “Toby?”

  “What?”

  “It’s four.”

  I looked up. “In the afternoon?”

  “Yes.” Quentin nodded. Connor was still bent over his own pile, grumbling. “When are you supposed to . . . ?”

  “Sunset.” I rose, closing the binder. “Time to get to work.”

  “What can we do?”

  Get the hell out of here before something happens to you. “You still have those juniper berries?” He handed them to me silently, and I walked over to the counter, putting the mandrake root and juniper berries down next to the sea salt. “Elliot should be back with the flowers soon. It was a pretty big list, but there must be plenty of local florists.”

  A faint buzz in the air warned of April’s approach before she appeared, clutching a small plastic bag. I didn’t flinch this time. Connor did the flinching for me, recoiling so hard that his chair went toppling over.

  I smothered a snicker. “Hey, April.”

  “I was instructed to monitor for signs of ritual preparation. I have brought you candles and feathers.” She offered me the bag. I took it. “I have also been instructed to inquire regarding further needs.” She paused. “Do you have further needs?”

  “Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask.” Seeing that she wasn’t going to react until the question was asked, I continued, “Do you know who was nearest Barbara when she died?” It was a shot in the dark, but one worth taking: if April knew where everyone in the knowe was at all times, she might be able to tell me.

  April frowned. “Define ‘died.’ ”

  I paused. She’d never used the word “dead” in conjunction with any of the bodies. “Was removed from the network?” I ventured, trying to use words she’d understand.

  “The time of removal is not recorded.” Her voice was calm, like she was reporting something of no real consequence. Maybe, from her perspective, she was.

  “I thought you knew where everyone in the company was at any given time?”

  “Yes. I am aware of current locations. I am not aware of past locations unless I have had reason to take note of them.” She shrugged. “Do you require anything further?”

  “No; you can go.” I needed to think about this—but later, after the night-haunts had come and gone. Assuming I was still thinking about anything by that point.

  “Noted,” she said, and vanished in a spray of sparks.

  “What the . . .” Connor began.

  “Dryad who lives in the local computer network,” said Quentin, sounding disinterested. I had to smother another snicker. The kid was definitely learning about playing blasé.

  “She’s Jan’s adopted daughter,” I said, bouncing the bag she’d handed me to check the weight before I looked inside. It contained candles and feathers, just like she’d said. Normal Dryads can’t take things with them when they teleport. The Tuatha can, but their method of teleportation is more direct—they open doors between places, rather than actually disappearing and then reappearing somewhere else. The fact that April could move physical objects said a lot about just how much Jan’s procedure had changed her. “Take a look at this, will you?”

  Both of them walked over to me, but it was Quentin who reached for the bag. I let him take it. He looked inside, then up at me, asking, “What about it?”

  “Does it seem normal to you?”

  “Um . . . yeah. Why?”

  “Because April brought it with her when she tele-ported in.”

  Connor frowned. “Weird.”

  “Just like everything else about this place.” I reclaimed the bag, putting it down on the counter. “You guys want to help me move the tables?”

  “Just tell us where,” said Connor, and smiled.

  I smiled back. “Get ’em up against the walls.” Moving to an empty table, I started to push. Connor and Quentin nodded before doing the same.

  The tables proved to be surprisingly light; plastic is a wonderful thing. We worked in comfortable silence for a while, moving the tables against the walls and stacking the chairs in tidy piles. I was going to need a lot of space if I wanted to make a circle large enough to be secure.

  We were almost done when Elliot pushed open the cafeteria door, Gordan close behind him. Both of them were carrying armloads of dried flowers; Gordan had almost vanished behind her heap of foliage, leaving nothing but the white-topped crest of her hair visible.

  Looking up, I nodded. “Great. Put those on the counter.”

  “I’m sorry it took so long, but your list was very specific, and—”

  “It’s all right. We still have . . .” I glanced up at the clock over the door. “Almost an hour before the sun goes down. That’s plenty of time to set up the circle.” I straightened, planting my hands in the center of my back as I stretched, then walked over to pick up the sea salt. “Quentin, get the candles. Connor, the juniper berries.” They nodded, moving to do as they’d been asked.

  Elliot and Gordan watched me draw a wide circle of salt in the center of the cafeteria floor, making it large enough for me to sit in comfortably. Quentin followed me, handing me candles whenever I reached back
toward him. I arranged all but one around the rim of the circle, using small piles of salt to hold them up. The last candle went into the circle just before I sealed it. There was no need to speak; Quentin understood the basics of ritual magic as well as I did, and he could see the shape of what we were making.

  Finally, Gordan asked warily, “What are you going to do?”

  “Connor?” I held out my hand, and he pressed the jar of juniper berries into it. I began walking around the circle, scattering berries as I went. “Well, most likely, I’m going to get myself carried off by the night- haunts. If that doesn’t happen, I’m going to find out why they aren’t taking your dead.”

  “What?!” Elliot stared at me.

  Even Connor eyed him strangely for that outburst. I put my free hand on my hip, saying, “You knew I was calling the night-haunts, Elliot.”

  “You never said anything about them carrying you away!”

  “What, you thought the night- haunts would be friendly? They don’t like to be disturbed, but the circle should protect me, if I’ve done it right.” I moved to pick up the silk-swaddled mandrake. “This is the sacrifice. Connor, get the feathers, would you?”

  “Got ’em.”

  “What are the feathers for?” asked Gordan.

  “They’re the lure.” Connor handed me the packet of feathers, and I shook them loose, tossing them into the air. They landed helter-skelter all around the circle’s edge, but not a one crossed the barrier of salt. “Ravens are psychopomps. They have a connection to dead things. So their feathers will help me get the attention of the night-haunts.”

  “And the flowers?”

  “They’re more death that used to be something beautiful.” I knelt, placing the mandrake root in the circle, next to the last candle. “Before you ask, they need to be dried because otherwise, they’re too close to being Titania’s, and the night-haunts might be offended.”

  “Are you sure the night-haunts will come when you call?” Elliot again. He didn’t look happy about the idea. That was all right; neither was I.

  “I have the things I was told to get and a ritual to follow,” I said, straightening again. “Now I just need it to work. All of you, help me get the flowers piled around the circle. Don’t scuff the salt.”

  Working together, the five of us were able to get the flowers arranged as needed with time to spare. Not much time, but time. I measured the circle with my eyes and said, “You can go now. I’ll take it from here.”

  Connor put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

  “I’ll tell you later, okay?” I ducked out from under his hand and walked to the coffeemaker, pouring myself a cup with surprisingly steady hands. “Keep an eye on Quentin for me.”

  “Toby . . .” Quentin protested.

  “No, really. You have to go.” I looked back at him, smiling wanly. “It’ll be okay. I’m pretty tough, remember?”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Again, neither do I. Now go, all of you.” My expression hardened. “I need to get ready. Lock the doors when you go.” I didn’t need to add that what they found when they came back in might not be pretty. We all knew that part.

  “I won’t forgive you if you die,” said Connor sternly, walking over and hugging me.

  “Understood.” I returned the hug, enjoying the familiar solidity of him almost as much as I enjoyed knowing that my pleasure in the gesture was real; no magic required. What I felt for Connor was genuine in ways that Alex could never understand. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t lie. Just don’t die on me, either.”

  “I promise it’s not a goal.”

  He released me, turning to follow Elliot out of the room. Quentin lingered, looking at me anxiously before ducking out, pulling the door shut behind him. The bolt clicked a moment later. If I survived, I could shout for my freedom.

  It was going to be a long night.

  I drank my coffee slowly, savoring it, but decided against another cup. When I tired of pacing and worrying about what was going to happen I stepped into the circle, settling carefully into a cross- legged position. Breaking the protective seals wouldn’t be the dumbest thing I’d ever done, but it might be the last. Time to wait.

  If dawn is human-time, sunset belongs to us. I can’t always feel it coming—it’s subtler than sunrise—but sitting in the middle of a half-started ritual, I couldn’t miss it. It didn’t feel like enough time had passed when the air started to tingle around me, signaling the sun’s descent. It was time to start. Oak and ash preserve me.

  I removed the bandages from my left hand, grimacing at the state it was in—the broken glass had already done a number on it, and I was about to make it worse. Drawing Dare’s knife, I placed it across the midpoint of my palm. I hate the sight of my own blood, but the Luidaeg was specific: it had to be the blood of the summoner, or it wouldn’t work. I couldn’t even choose a less essential extremity. My choices were hand and heart, and of the two, I knew which was more likely to be fatal. I just had to hope I wouldn’t need any fine dexterity in the next few days.

  Holding my breath, I jerked the knife across my hand.

  The blade was sharper than I thought. I dropped it, swearing. It didn’t matter; my part of the bargain was fulfilled. Blood was already welling up, running in hot ribbons down my arm. I unwrapped the mandrake shakily with my right hand, letting it roll onto the floor before cupping my hands together, letting my blood pour over it. The root writhed, soaking up the blood as fast as it fell. Drinking it in.

  “My name is October Christine Daye, daughter of Amandine, and I am here to petition for your attentions,” I said, concentrating. The air hummed with the copper and cut grass scent of my magic as the flowers piled around my ritual circle burst into blue-green flame. The candles lit themselves, and the overhead lights crackled, sending out sprays of sparks before going dark. A stabbing pain hit me behind the eyes. Magic- burn. I was going to pay for this night’s work. I just hoped it would be worth it.

  The room began to fill with thick, sweet smoke as the flowers burned. I kept letting my blood fall across the mandrake, trying to ignore the way the temperature was dropping, despite the fires. “I’ve brought you blood and flowers and salt from the sea. All our Courts together here support my plea.” The mandrake whimpered. I raised my hand, bringing my bloody fingers to my lips and kissing them. “I bring you life.” Reaching down, I pressed my fingers to the mandrake’s “head.”

  The root stopped writhing, opening eyes like chips of summer ice. Before it could dodge or squirm away, I grabbed Dare’s knife and drove it through the mandrake’s body. The mandrake screamed, outer layers peeling away until a tiny, perfect duplicate of myself was writhing naked on the point of the knife. I slammed my hands flat against the floor, gritting my teeth as I said, “If I could speak with you for a moment . . .”

  The room went silent. The mandrake stopped screaming, staring past me in terror, and even the crackle of the flames faded and died. A low buzz crept into the silence: the beating of the night-haunts’ wings. I raised my head, barely daring to breathe.

  They filled the room, hovering all around my circle. The ones near me had shapes I could name; they were all the races of Faerie, united by their shadowy pallor and their frail, fiercely beating wings. They dissolved into shapelessness as they drew farther away, becoming deep shadows and the fluttering sound of leaves on the wind. I gasped.

  The figure at the front of the flock was Dare.

  TWENTY

  “DARE?” I WHISPERED. It couldn’t be Dare. Dare was dead. I watched her die. And at the same time, it was Dare, because it couldn’t be anyone else.

  She was too slim for it to be intentional, underfed and scrawny. Her hair was vivid blonde, contrasting with her apple green eyes. Silver clips tipped her ears, and she wore a gown of dust and cobwebs, making her look like a deposed, despotic princess. The wings were new, blurred shapeless by their constant motion—the wings, and her height.
Dare was small before, but now she was Barbie-sized, diminutive enough to stand in the palm of my hand.

  There were other familiar faces in the crowd, similarly reduced and remade—Devin was there, as was Ross, the quarter-Roane changeling who died in Golden Gate Park—but most were unfamiliar, smudged to obscurity by the closeness of their fellows. I didn’t see any of the people who’d died on the grounds of ALH Computing.

  Dare watched impassively as I stared at them, wings beating hummingbird-fast. I wanted to leap to my feet and hold her in my arms and never let go. I wanted to beg her for forgiveness. I stayed where I was.

  “You called. We came,” she said. “What do you want?”

  It was her voice that let me break through my shock. It had Dare’s tone and cadences, but lacked the accent and emotion behind the words. She might have Dare’s face, but that was all she had. “I called because I need your help,” I said.

  The night- haunts tittered. The one who looked like Dare tilted her head, studying me, and said, “I know you.”

  I froze. She continued, “The last owner of my face died with your name on her lips. I remember the feel of it. What do you want, October Daye, daughter of Amandine, who should never have called for us? This gamble is beyond you.”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Don’t play coy. You know my face.” Pain bloomed like a flower behind her apple green eyes, making her expression earnest and innocent. “Can I ask you a question, Ms. Daye?” she said, Dare’s accent suddenly coating her words. Whatever she was, she wasn’t kidding. “You got out—can you get us out, too? Take us with you? Please?”

  “Stop it!” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “That isn’t fair!”

  “Since when has death been fair?” The innocence faded from her face, replaced by calm. “Death is how I know you. How we all do.”

  Other voices called from the flock, some familiar, some not. “Yes . . .” “I remember . . .” “She has forgotten, and we remember.” “They all forget.” “Yes.” They closed around me, and I realized that my salt and juniper berries were no protection. If they wanted me, they’d have me. The mandrake tugged at the knife, slicing its palms, and I felt a brief flash of pity—maybe we were both trapped, but I had some hope of surviving the night. My newborn double didn’t.