“Like what?”
He turned his back on us, opening one of the long drawers in his desk to produce a leather-wrapped bundle. When he unrolled it, he revealed a variety of old-fashioned-looking surgeon’s tools, including a syringe that could probably have been used to extract blood from a Bridge Troll. I blanched.
“That is not a better option than a scalpel,” I said.
“I’ve been a chemist for a long time,” he said, picking up the syringe. “That used to include a lot of the duties humans have transferred to doctors.”
“You practiced bloodletting?” asked Tybalt.
“For about eighty years. Syringes and leeches, that’s the way to keep food on the table. Toby, pick up that bottle of rubbing alcohol and come over here. Let’s see if we can’t find a way to keep you from damaging yourself to get the blood out.” He paused before adding, “It’s the bottle labeled ‘rubbing alcohol,’ next to the bottle labeled ‘H2SO4.’ Don’t grab the wrong one.”
“Why not?”
“Because the other bottle is sulfuric acid, and you’ll die.”
“Oh, because that’s safe,” I grumbled. Grabbing the bottle that wasn’t going to kill me, I walked over and offered it to Walther.
“Good,” he said. “Tybalt, get me one of the ice cube trays from the freezer?” He picked up a cotton ball, dousing it in rubbing alcohol. “Toby, arm, please.”
Hanging my leather jacket on the nearest chair, I held out my right arm. Walther swabbed a square of flesh about an inch wide clean and drove the needle home before I could tense up. Eighty years of practice had left him pretty good at gauging the location of a vein: the syringe in his hand began to fill with blood as soon as he pulled back the plunger.
No matter how advanced my blood magic has become, the sight of blood has always made me nauseous. Not this time. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glass as it filled. My stomach grumbled again. If I couldn’t have goblin fruit, apparently blood would do perfectly well. “Great,” I said, sounding dazed even to my own ears. “Now I’m a vampire.”
“There’s precedent,” said Walther. “There are some old records that claim Daoine Sidhe changelings last longer once they’ve become addicted than most others, because they can take sustenance from the blood of beasts. You’re just cutting out the middle man.”
“I could hunt for her?” asked Tybalt.
“You could, but I think this is more hygienic, and probably more effective. Pass the ice tray?”
“Here.” Tybalt stepped up beside me, holding a bright green plastic ice tray.
For some reason, that struck me as unutterably funny. I put a hand over my mouth, but not quickly enough to smother my smile. Walther just smiled, taking the ice tray from Tybalt’s hand.
“If you’re smiling, there’s hope,” he said, and put the tray down on the counter before picking up another cotton ball. “Hold this to the wound while I determine whether we need more blood.”
“Yay,” I deadpanned. “Holding my blood inside my body is always my favorite part of crazy alchemy adventures.”
He pulled the needle out. A bead of blood welled up before I slid the cotton into the place. The smell of copper still filled the air, relaxing my nerves further and causing my stomach to rumble again. It felt like I was trading one form of addiction for another. At least this one came naturally, and might eventually make me better, instead of making me worse.
Walther turned to the ice cube tray, squirting blood from the syringe into each of the tiny squares. He ran out of blood with only half the spaces filled. Turning back to me, he said, almost apologetically, “Other arm, please.”
“You could at least buy me dinner first,” I said, bending my right arm to keep the cotton in place as I extended my left.
“Tybalt would gut me if I tried,” said Walther. Again, he slid the needle into my vein; again, the glass chamber began to fill with blood.
“See, that kind of attitude is never going to get you anywhere with the ladies.” I sighed, watching the blood flow. Then I paused, and asked, “Shouldn’t I be dizzy? Blood loss is supposed to make you dizzy.”
“Right now, I think your body is too distracted for dizziness.” Walther pulled the needle out again, putting another puff of cotton in place. “Bend your arm.”
I did as I was told. “That doesn’t sound very scientific to me.”
“Says the girl with the goblin fruit addiction and the tomcat boyfriend, to the alchemist who’s about to do something really impressive,” said Walther. He emptied the freshly-drawn blood into the last of the little squares, put the syringe aside, and reached for a saltshaker filled with what looked like paprika. “You may want to step back.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because there’s a fifty-fifty chance this is going to explode.”
I stepped back. So did Tybalt, who positioned himself slightly to my left, where he could push me clear if something actually blew up, without seeming like he was hovering. I appreciated his concern, even as I resented the need for it.
Walther sprinkled the paprika-looking herbs over the squares of congealing blood before waving his hands and beginning to chant in Welsh. The air in the lab chilled by about eight degrees in as many seconds, the faint ice and yarrow scent of his magic surrounding us. He kept chanting, lowering his hands toward the blood. The air got even colder. Then the magic burst like a popped balloon, and Walther turned to face us, grinning broadly.
“I am a genius,” he announced. “You may lavish praise upon me at your leisure. But don’t take too long, I haven’t got all night.”
“I’ll start lavishing praise when you tell me what you did,” I said. The air wasn’t warming as quickly as it had cooled. I shivered and hugged my arms to my body. “Can I put my coat back on now?”
“If the bleeding has stopped, yes.” Walther produced a cookie tray and a roll of parchment paper from the mess on the counter. He spread the paper across the metal, then reached behind himself for the ice cube tray. “Voilà.”
“Walther, seriously, you need to tell me what I’m supposed to be getting excited about, because I honestly don’t have a clue.”
Walther tipped the ice cube tray over the parchment paper. The “ice cubes” fell out . . . but they weren’t ice cubes, not even bloody ones. Instead, a shower of what looked like polished garnets landed on the parchment paper. They ranged in size from Tic Tacs to throat lozenges almost an inch long.
I blinked. “That’s my blood.”
“Yes.”
“You turned my blood into . . . what, exactly?”
“These are like M&M’S; they melt in your mouth, not in your hands.” Walther picked up one of the mid-sized “stones,” offering it to me. “Try.”
“If you say so.” I took the chunk of solidified blood and popped it into my mouth, where it immediately dissolved on my tongue. The growling in my stomach stopped, replaced by a sudden feeling of fullness. It didn’t even leave the taste of blood behind; instead, my mouth tasted like mint and lavender. I stared at him. “What . . . ?”
“It’s a simple preservation spell, with a little herbal mixture to make the taste more palatable.” Walther turned to the counter one more time, this time producing a plastic baggie. “If you take one of these whenever the craving gets too bad, you should be able to keep it under control, for a little while. I’ll keep working on a more general treatment. This is just a short-term solution.”
“What do I do if I run out?”
“Try not to run out.” Walther swept the artificial jewels into the baggie before pressing the zip-seal closed. “This is . . . I’ll be honest, Toby, I have no idea how your body is sustaining itself. You’re the source of this blood. It shouldn’t give you any nutrition you didn’t lose in creating it. At best, this is like dancers eating ice chips to convince themselves that they’ve had an actual meal. At worst, it’s not even that much. You’re going to starve if this goes on too long, and I’m concerned that bleeding you more than once would
wreak havoc on your system when it’s already overtaxed. Do you understand me?”
“Do I understand that this is a stay of execution, not a cure? Yeah. But it’s more than we had when we got here.” It might be enough to get me to a hope chest—or to Mom, although that seemed less likely. I picked up my leather jacket, shrugging it back on. “You do good work, Walther.”
“Yeah, well, I came to the Mists for the tenure, I’m staying for the excitement.” Walther smiled a little as he turned to hand me the bag of gleaming red stones. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Please try to be careful. And Tybalt, if she seems to be running out of stamina, don’t let her argue. Get her out of whatever she’s doing and back to someone who can take care of her.”
“I will have her at Shadowed Hills before she can utter a word of protest,” said Tybalt.
“Hey, right here, remember?” I protested. I took the bag from Walther, tucking it into the inside pocket of my jacket. The urge to eat another stone—just one—was strong. I forced it away.
“Yes, and we’d like to keep it that way.” Walther shook his head. “I know too much about goblin fruit, and not enough about Dóchas Sidhe. Be careful.”
“I’ll try.” That was all I could promise him. That was all I could promise anyone, myself included. This wasn’t the sort of situation that allowed for much in the way of “careful.” But there was “less stupid,” and maybe that would be enough.
It was going to have to be.
SIXTEEN
TYBALT PICKED ME UP before stepping onto the Shadow Roads. I huddled against him, holding my breath and squinting my eyes tightly shut. Better a few frozen eyelashes than a pair of frozen eyeballs. Before I got hit in the face with an evil pie, I would have joked about my eyes growing back. Now . . . well. Until we got things sorted, these were the only eyes I was going to get.
The thought was morbid enough that I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing. Given how little air I had left, that would have been a terrible idea.
Then we were stepping out into the warm, still air of the San Francisco night. I coughed as Tybalt put me down, steadying me with one hand while I wiped the ice from my face. Finally, I opened my eyes and said, “That’s it. You’re nice and all, but I need something with a little more horsepower if I’m going to be running back and forth across the Bay Area.”
He quirked a faint smile. “Are you dumping me for your car?”
“Come on. You always knew it was coming.” I coughed again, grimacing as my cold-chapped lips threatened to split. “But seriously. I can’t keep taking the Shadow Roads everywhere we go. If it means the Queen can track me, so be it.”
“Ah.” Tybalt paused, indecision clear. “I suppose this would be a bad time to point out that your vehicle remains in Pleasant Hill.”
“We’ll work it out.” I started walking toward the Luidaeg’s apartment. None of the Queen’s men were lurking this time—at least, none that I could see. There was always the chance that . . . wait. I stopped dead in my tracks.
“October?” asked Tybalt. “What is it?”
“I’m an idiot,” I said.
“Yes, frequently, but what now?”
“The Luidaeg said I’d be able to see through any illusion while I had the fireflies, and so what did I do? I left them in their damn flask, and then I left the damn thing at the Library.” I started to walk a little faster now. “I need my car, and I need those fireflies, at least until I can get my hands on a hope chest. You know, I did not sign up for a crazy fairy tale scavenger hunt this week.”
“Yes, you did,” said Tybalt, pacing me. I shot him a sharp look. He shrugged. “You got out of bed. The universe does seem to take that as a personal affront.”
The urge to call him something unforgiveable was strong. I settled for glaring and walking faster until we reached the Luidaeg’s door. It looked the same as always. I’d never been able to see through her illusions anyway. Raising my hand, I hammered against the water-damaged wood loudly enough to wake the dead. Then I stepped back, and waited.
It wasn’t a long wait. The door opened just a crack, revealing the scowling, suspicious face of the Luidaeg. She blinked when she saw me, suspicion fading first into puzzlement, and finally into raw shock. Allowing the door to swing the rest of the way open, she said, “Toby?”
“Yeah,” I confirmed.
“Bullshit.”
I blinked. “Okay, that’s not the reaction I was expecting. Look. I have my knife, I have my jacket, I have my sarcastic tag-along . . . what else is required for the position? Because I’m way too tired to stand out here and argue about my identity any longer than I need to. I need your help.”
“What you don’t have is a hell of a lot of fae blood,” the Luidaeg said. Her hand shot forward, grabbed my upper arm, and hauled me into the apartment. Tybalt followed, not protesting her rough treatment of me. Even Kings of Cats have to come with some sense of self-preservation.
“Ow!” I protested, trying—and failing—to pull myself out of her grasp.
She raised her head, eyes narrowed, and turned toward Tybalt. “Close the door,” she said. Then she started walking, hauling me toward her bedroom.
I had time to note that the illusions normally filling her apartment were gone, leaving the place visibly impeccable. She knocked three times when she reached her bedroom door—she almost always did that, and I never knew why—before opening it to reveal the dark, candle-filled cavern of her bedroom. The walls were lined with saltwater tanks. I couldn’t make my eyes focus on half of them, although I knew their contents: that one held hippocampi, brightly-colored as reef fish and the size of my hand; that one housed a pearl-eyed sea dragon the length of my arm. His name was Ketea, and the Luidaeg once used one of his scales to turn me into a Merrow.
“Sit,” she commanded, shoving me toward the large bed. I stumbled backward, barely managing to avoid hitting my hip on one of the carved wooden posts that held up the canopy. She planted her hands on her hips, eyeing me. I squirmed, but didn’t say anything. It seemed better not to. Finally, she said a single word: “How?”
“Someone hit me in the face with a pie,” I said.
The Luidaeg blinked, expression going slack. The candlelight threw strange shadows over her cheeks, and made my stomach clench. I don’t like candles. “That’s . . . wait . . . what? You’re almost human because someone’s been watching too many damn Bugs Bunny cartoons?”
“I don’t know whether I should be horrified or impressed that you know who Bugs Bunny is.” I leaned back to rest most of my weight on my hands and said, “It was a goblin fruit pie. Jin at Shadowed Hills thinks my body liked the fruit so much that it wanted to experience the stuff more strongly, and so it shifted itself around without consulting me. I was sort of overdosing at the time.”
“And you can’t turn yourself all the way human,” said the Luidaeg grimly. “Thank Dad for that.”
I blinked at her. “I didn’t know that.”
“Faerie protects itself, and good thing, too. If you didn’t have that particular failsafe built into your powers, you’d be mortal, and we’d be screwed.”
“But couldn’t we find a hope chest and . . .”
“You’ve said it yourself, October: you can’t make something stronger when it’s not there. If your body had been capable of chasing the goblin fruit all the way into mortality, you’d be off the playing field permanently. Have a nice life, all sixty or seventy years of it, and try not to remind your old enemies who you are. It can be done to you, but it’s not a thing you can do to yourself.” She reached out and grasped my chin, turning my face roughly one way, and then the next. “Right now, you’re basically a merlin. Ten, maybe fifteen percent fae. Even when Amy was fucking with you as a child, she never jobbed you as good as you’ve just jobbed yourself. Gold star, moron.”
“Is there nothing that can be done?” asked Tybalt. I pulled my head from the Luidaeg’s grasp and turned to see him standing near the open bedroom door.
“There’s plenty, assuming you can keep her alive long enough to do it.” The Luidaeg snapped her fingers, pulling my attention back to her. “Hey. Look at me, human girl. How bad is the craving? How many of us would you stab for a jar of jam?”
“It’s not bad right now,” I said. “We went to Walther before we came here. He figured out a stopgap that I should be able to use long enough for us to figure out something more permanent.”
The Luidaeg raised an eyebrow. “Methadone won’t work.”
“I’m not even going to ask why you know what methadone is, but no.” I pulled the baggie of blood gems out of my inside jacket pocket. “He made these from my blood. They dull the wanting for a little while.” But not for long. I could feel it starting to twist in my gut again, telling me that nothing in this world mattered half as much as seeing the beautiful things the goblin fruit had to show me.
“Your little alchemist does delight in surprises, doesn’t he? May I?” She didn’t actually wait for permission before snatching the bag out of my hand, opening it, and removing one of the larger blood gems. She held it up so that it glittered in the candlelight. “Hmm. Good work. I couldn’t have done better.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She dropped the blood gem back into the bag. “I’m not an alchemist. What he’s done is tricking your body into believing that it’s being fed. That’s flower magic, like illusions, and he gets that from his connection to Titania. I’m all blood and water. I could turn you into a turtle so you’d die a little slower, but I couldn’t make your mind into a turtle’s mind.”
“That’s a charmingly specific distinction.” I reclaimed the baggie, tucking it back into my pocket. “I need help.”
The Luidaeg snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I can’t stay this human. The goblin fruit will kill me. I’m not sure how to call my mother—and given what she wanted to do to me before, I don’t know whether calling her would do any good.”
“Ah,” said the Luidaeg softly. “I guess I can see where that would be a concern.”
Chimes at Midnight od-7 Page 19