“Ah, you see.” Tybalt pulled his mouth away from my throat, turning a lazy, smug-eyed smile on Quentin. “I am a King of Cats, and she was a fish for quite some time. We are both very, very good at holding our breath.”
“Off.” I pushed him away, shaking my head. “You just had to go to the fish place, didn’t you? Quentin, did you get my coffee?”
“I like being alive,” he said, and passed me the cup.
“Good.” I took it, refastened my belt, and started the car, trying to pretend that Tybalt wasn’t grinning wickedly at me from the passenger seat. It wasn’t easy. “Buckle up.”
I let Tybalt hold my coffee as we drove the last mile or so to the Luidaeg’s neighborhood. The area where she lived wasn’t exactly what you’d call “upscale.” Or “nice.” Hell, even “livable” was pushing it, although the definition is different when you’re a functionally immortal sea witch who likes to be left alone. San Francisco grew up around the Luidaeg. She could live wherever she damn well wanted to.
The streets changed around us as we drove, careful maintenance giving way to benign neglect, then wanton vandalism, and finally the sort of disrepair that implied the residents had abandoned all hope. It was just another facade. The people living in the Luidaeg’s shadow enjoyed some of the lowest crime rates in the city. When we had earthquakes, their foundations didn’t crack; when it rained for a week, their roofs didn’t leak. The residents of the blocks surrounding the Luidaeg’s dockside home were her last passive line of defense against strangers, and she took care of them.
No one lived on the Luidaeg’s block. There was maintaining a neighborhood, and then there was putting up with neighbors. One was good sense. The other was likely to get someone killed.
I parked on the street, reclaiming my coffee from Tybalt and letting Quentin carry the burritos as we walked down the alleyway to the Luidaeg’s door. It was old, faintly bloated wood, set into a frame that looked so water-damaged it might fall apart at any moment. Appearances can be deceiving, especially where the Luidaeg is concerned. I knocked lightly. Then I stepped back, sipped my coffee, and waited.
“Think she’s up?” asked Quentin, rummaging through the bag of burritos.
“If she’s not, we’re probably all about to be torn limb from limb. Get ready to run.” I peered into my cup. “Maeve’s tits, I think they pumped this stuff up from the center of the Earth. It’s not coffee. It’s fermented dinosaur blood.”
“Cool.” Quentin pulled a foil-wrapped burrito out of the bag and began unpeeling it.
I raised an eyebrow. “‘Cool’? That’s all you have to say?”
“Be glad he’s not grilling you about the comet that killed them all,” said a dry voice. We turned, almost in unison, to see the Luidaeg standing in the alley behind us, two paper grocery bags in her arms. She looked faintly puzzled, but not annoyed. I’d take it. “What the fuck are you three doing here?”
The Luidaeg is fond of human profanity, I think because it tends to shock the purebloods. I shrugged. “We were in the neighborhood.” I didn’t want to tell her I’d been exiled until after she’d agreed to let us in.
“Uh-huh. Is there a burrito in that sack for me?”
“Lobster, shrimp, and every pepper in the store,” said Quentin happily.
“Ew,” I said, and took the bag. If I left it alone with the two of them, Tybalt and I weren’t going to get any.
“You don’t have to eat it.” She turned her deceptively normal-eyed gaze on me, considering my dress. Finally, she said, “You reek of the bitch-Queen’s magic, and you don’t normally bring the kitty-cat here. What’s wrong?”
“Can we talk about it inside?” I asked. “Please?”
The Luidaeg smiled, showing too many teeth. “I love it when you beg. Come on in.” She pushed past us to the door. It swung open at her touch, revealing a dark hallway. She stepped inside, calling, “Hurry up, I don’t have all night,” without turning back.
“You know, the first time I came here, she used a key to get in,” I commented to Quentin, as we followed her.
“I guess she doesn’t feel like she has to pretend as much,” he replied, pausing long enough to close the door behind him.
The idea that the Luidaeg wasn’t pretending for us anymore was reflected by the hall itself, which was pristine, in that slightly shabby, lived-in way older apartments get when they’ve been well-cared for and well-loved for long enough. The air smelled like clean saltwater, a scent that implied there was a beach somewhere in the house, if we were brave enough to look. Knowing her, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a stretch of shoreline inside the pantry, waiting for beachcombers and human sacrifices.
It was almost a relief when I saw a cockroach scuttle across the floor. No matter how much she cleaned the place up—or how much of the mess had been an illusion—she was still the sea witch we knew and liked more than was probably good for our health.
We followed the Luidaeg down the hall to the kitchen, where she began unpacking her groceries. Tybalt and I stayed in the doorway, watching, while Quentin moved to help her put away the cans. There was no illusion-sheen in the air around her because she wasn’t wearing one: she was the oldest among us, and her nature was protean enough that she didn’t need anything as crude as an illusion when she wanted to pass for human. She just changed herself.
She looked like she was somewhere in her early twenties, with the fading ghosts of acne scars under the freckles on her cheeks and strips of electrical tape holding her thick brown pigtails in place. I’d seen her fae nature slip through a few times, but never for long, and never all the way. I was pretty sure that the day I saw the Luidaeg’s true form would either be the day she killed me, or the day when I had much bigger things to worry about.
She placed a twelve-pack of Diet Coke in the fridge before turning to face me, folding her arms, and saying, “Well?”
“Well?” I echoed. “What ‘well’? Did I miss something that would trigger a ‘well’?”
“Well, can I have my burrito?” She held out her hand. “And, well, you want to tell me what’s going on? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, and you wouldn’t have come here like this, fresh from Court and with an entourage, because you thought I wanted a burrito. You’re not stupid enough to think I wouldn’t realize something was up.”
“Gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel good.” I straightened, dug her burrito out of the sack, and passed it to her. There was another burrito labeled “chicken w/o beans.” I handed it to Tybalt before taking a deep breath, putting the bag down on the kitchen table, and saying, “We finally found proof that the goblin fruit is killing changelings. At least a dozen so far.”
“You found a body and waited until the night-haunts came, didn’t you?” She took a bite of her burrito, foil and all. Her teeth had turned sharp at some point, more like a shark’s than a human’s.
“Yeah,” I confirmed quietly.
The Luidaeg took another foil-covered bite of burrito and swallowed without chewing before she said, “They must really like you, or they’d have killed you by now. So the stuff is killing changelings. We knew it would, eventually.”
“I went to the Queen of the Mists. I had to tell her.”
“You what?” The Luidaeg lowered her burrito, the color draining out of her eyes until they were the color of green driftglass, weathered and worn down by the sea. “Mom’s tits, Toby, are you stupid?”
“I had to know if she knew.”
“Let me guess: she did.”
“She’s the one who’s been distributing it.” The depth of loathing in my voice didn’t surprise me, although maybe it should have. At some point in the drive, my dislike of her had solidified into hatred. She was a murderer, even if Oberon’s Law didn’t see her that way.
“And? Kings and Queens need money, too, and people like their drugs too much to care about whether or not they’re going to be fatal. Hell, sometimes ‘it will kill you’ is the main appeal.”
&n
bsp; “It’s too fast,” said Quentin. We all turned to look at him. He shrugged. “Almost nothing is addictive just because you taste it once. Goblin fruit doesn’t give people a choice. You could make someone a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, if you wanted to be a jerk. And there’s no way to quit. It doesn’t seem . . . I dunno, fair.”
“Faerie isn’t fair, kid, and if you don’t know that, it’s high time you learned it.” The Luidaeg shook her head. “Fair was never on the table.”
“It’s not right,” I said, suddenly annoyed by her casual dismissal of Quentin’s concerns. “It’s endangering Faerie. Even if ‘fair’ was never a consideration, survival was. Is. As long as we’re stuck in the human world, we can’t afford the risks goblin fruit encourages people to take.”
“Better,” said the Luidaeg, and took another bite of burrito.
I was warming to my subject. “How are they even growing the stuff? You can’t cultivate goblin fruit in the mortal world. You can barely grow it in the Summerlands without a dedicated team of horticulturists who don’t have hobbies. Walther tried to cultivate a bush, just so he could chart the life cycle, and he gave up when even doing the whole thing inside Goldengreen didn’t make the berries germinate.”
“Where does goblin fruit grow naturally?” asked the Luidaeg.
“Tirn Aill, Tir Tairngire, and the Blessed Isles.” The answer was automatic. Back when I lived with my mother, I spent hours being trained on the names of all the lands of Faerie, even the ones that I would never live long enough to see.
“Uh-huh. And they’ve been sealed for centuries, right?”
“Yes, but during the exodus, people brought soil and stuff. I just don’t understand why it hasn’t all been used up by now. I mean, how long does a pot of dirt from the Blessed Isles stay a pot of dirt from the Blessed Isles, and not a pot of dirt from Marin?”
The Luidaeg smiled. “Now you’re asking better questions. Here’s the deal with goblin fruit: it keeps showing up on the street because purebloods with the space and magic to grow the bushes like the berries. And where there’s a market, people will find a way to get to the product. I hate the shit. It wreaked hell with the Selkie community about two hundred years back, and I don’t like anything that screws with the Selkies. But I wasn’t able to stop people from selling it, just drive them off my territory. With the Queen backing them and with me in semi-retirement, there’s nothing standing in their way.”
“Yeah.” The Luidaeg didn’t like anything that screwed with the Selkies, except for the Luidaeg. They were her property, in a messed-up way, because they existed due to the horrible murder of most of her descendants. I tried not to think about that too hard. “Are you going to come out of retirement?”
“Can’t. Wish I could, but I can’t.” The Luidaeg shook her head. “I withdrew for a reason. Don’t ask me about it. It’s one of the things I’m not allowed to tell you.”
“Swell.” I was aware that the Luidaeg used to be more active than she was these days—the stories about her confirmed that, even if she’d rarely left her apartment for anything but groceries in the years I’d known her. Why that changed was something I didn’t know, and that apparently wasn’t going to change any time soon.
“All of this is well and good, but it does not touch on what really brought us here,” said Tybalt gravely. “October. You need to tell her.”
The Luidaeg frowned, gaze sharpening. “Tell me what?”
“The Queen . . .” I took a deep breath. “I asked her about the goblin fruit. I asked her if she would please stop allowing it on the streets.”
“And . . . ?” prompted the Luidaeg.
“And I’ve been exiled. I have three days to get out of the Mists. After that, she’s not going to show any leniency with me.”
To my surprise, the Luidaeg laughed. “Oh, is that all?” She put the remainder of her burrito down on the counter before turning to me. Her teeth were back to normal. “See, the trouble here is that once someone has a throne, it’s damn hard to tell them they’re doing it wrong. Three days is a lot of time, if you know how to use it.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“I’m just saying, you have more resources at your disposal than you think you do, and she’s letting her own prejudices blind her. You’re just a changeling, after all. What could you possibly do to hurt her?” She grinned broadly. “You can do a lot. For starters, you can try talking to some of the people who knew King Gilad and find out what they can tell you.”
Quentin and Tybalt looked at her blankly.
For once, I wasn’t the last one in the room to get what the Luidaeg was hinting at, and I didn’t like the feeling very much. I stared at her. She raised an eyebrow, clearly content to wait me out if that was what it took. Finally, slowly, I asked, “Luidaeg, if there’s something you want me to know, why don’t you just tell me?”
“Because I can’t.” Her smile slipped, replaced by an expression of deep frustration. “This is one of those areas where I’m bound and counter-bound until I can’t see straight. Unless you know the right questions, I can’t give you the answers you need.”
I slammed back the rest of my taqueria coffee in a long, profoundly unsatisfying gulp. Wiping my mouth, I said, “Just one question, then. Can the people who knew King Gilad help me take down the Queen?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. So it’s time to play scavenger hunt.” I looked at Tybalt and Quentin, who were watching me hopefully, and sighed. “Okay. Just one more question.”
The Luidaeg gave me a flat, frankly disbelieving look. “Really.”
“Yes, really.”
“What is it?”
“Can I have one of your Diet Cokes? Because I’m not up for saltwater coffee right now.” And if I was going to go talk to the only people who I knew for sure had known King Gilad before he died, I was going to need more caffeine. Hell, I was going to need a caffeine IV.
The Luidaeg blinked at me. Then she laughed, indicating the fridge with one hand. “Help yourselves.”
“That’s what you’re always telling me to do,” I said, and went to get myself a soda.
FIVE
WE LEFT THE LUIDAEG’S about half an hour later, after burritos and sodas had been consumed. Give me another six cups of coffee and I might start feeling normal, if not for the whole “counting down to exile” thing. Tybalt didn’t even complain as we walked back to the car. He didn’t trust the Queen not to have guards out looking for me, and, consequently, he wasn’t willing to take the Shadow Roads if I wasn’t with him. I wanted to call him paranoid, but after the night we’d had, I couldn’t. It’s not paranoia if they are really out to get you.
“Can we listen to a good station? Please?” asked Quentin, climbing into the backseat. “Something recorded this century, maybe?”
“Says the kid who listens to country music,” I said. I shook my head, starting the car. “No radio. We’re going to talk.”
Tybalt raised an eyebrow, looking at me. “Talk?”
“Yeah, talk. Both of you: what do you know about King Gilad?”
Quentin spoke first: “Are you asking to test whether I’ve been paying attention in my history lessons, or because you don’t know?”
“Both,” I admitted. “I know who he was, but that’s about it. Now spill.”
“If you get anything wrong, I will know,” added Tybalt helpfully.
“Swell,” said Quentin. “Um, Gilad Windermere became King of the Mists—”
“King in the Mists,” corrected Tybalt. I turned to frown at him. “The proper form of the title. Your current regent does not make use of it.”
“In, of, whatever,” said Quentin. “He took over in 1800 after his parents, Denley and Nola Windermere, died in their beds. No one was ever accused in their deaths, but most people assumed they were poisoned. No fingers were pointed at the Prince, since he was extremely open about not wanting to take the throne yet.”
“I knew they were assassinated.” I grima
ced. “Wasn’t Oleander already known here?”
“There had been sightings,” said Tybalt. “There was some effort made to blame the deaths on her, but nothing could be proven before she disappeared. It was fifty years before she darkened these shores again.”
“Even dead, she can ruin my day.” Oleander de Merelands had been a paid assassin and major threat right up to the day I killed her. I didn’t want to kill her, but she didn’t leave me any choice, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it would keep her from hurting the people I loved.
“Well, she ruined Gilad’s pretty good, too. He was King in the Mists from 1800 until he died in the 1906 earthquake. His knowe was lost at the same time. Um . . . he never married, and there was concern the Kingdom would have to petition the High King to have a new monarch officially recognized when the current Queen appeared, said she was Gilad’s daughter, and took the throne. She had the backing of a lot of local nobles, and I guess they just sort of decided it was easier not to involve the High Court in a matter of local succession.”
“Not all the local nobles backed her claim,” said Tybalt. “She was a haughty thing even then, and she put up the hackles of many of the landholders. Most of them are gone now, fled for kinder political climates.”
“Or buried in shallow graves,” I guessed.
Tybalt nodded grimly. “Nothing has ever been proven, of course.”
“Naturally.” I turned onto a side street, listening to the engine whine as we climbed one of San Francisco’s many hills.
“Where are we going?” asked Quentin. “Home’s the other way.”
“Yes, and Goldengreen is this way.”
“Ah,” said Tybalt. He sounded approving. “The Lordens?”
“The Lordens,” I confirmed. The San Francisco Art Museum houses the doors to Goldengreen, the knowe held once by Countess Evening Winterrose, and once by me, before I weaseled out of my promotion. I’d passed my lands and title to Dean Lorden, eldest son of the Duchess of Saltmist, our local Undersea neighbor. His parents, Patrick and Dianda, were also contemporaries of King Gilad. The old King had been an attendant at their wedding—and if there was a way to speak to them without going into the Undersea, it was by visiting their son.
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