“Good,” Quentin said.
We turned a corner, bringing the cafeteria door into view. Quentin sped up, dashing through, with Alex following at a more sedate pace. When he reached the door, he stopped, opening and holding it for me.
“After you,” he said, with exaggerated gallantry.
“After Quentin, you mean.” He was obviously trying to make me feel better. It was almost working. All this would make more sense once I’d eaten. Food would settle the queasiness in my stomach and my head; if it didn’t, it would at least cover up the taste of blood. This looked like it was going to be a long day, and I needed whatever help I could get.
“Right,” he said, and followed me inside.
TEN
AFTER GETTING MYSELF a cup of coffee, I made my way to the pay phone mounted on the wall. There was no dial tone. I frowned at the receiver before remembering what Jan said about outside lines, and dialed “nine.” Success: the familiar buzz began. I punched in the number for the Japanese Tea Gardens, pumped in quarters until the prerecorded operator stopped prompting me, and waited.
The ringing went long enough that I was starting to lose hope when a soprano voice picked up with a breathless, “Hello?”
I relaxed. “Hey, Marcia. How far did you have to run?”
“Other side of the—Toby? Is that you?”
“That’s me,” I confirmed.
As a quarter-blooded changeling, Marcia is proof that Lily has a generous soul; most purebloods would never think of employing someone like her. She’s too human to have any real magic, too fae to want to live in the human world, and too flaky to do much beyond sitting around and looking decorative. Still, she’d been nice enough, after we got past the part where I introduced myself by enchanting her into letting me in without paying.
“Did you want me to get Lily?” she asked.
“No, actually, I was calling for you. I wanted to ask a favor.”
Now her tone turned wary. “What kind of favor?”
“I know the Court of Cats doesn’t have a phone. Can you go find Tybalt and tell him I need him to call me at ALH Computing? I have the main number, and I need to talk to him.”
“Go find Tybalt? How are you expecting me to do that?”
“I don’t know. Get a can of tuna and go around the Park calling ‘Here, kitty, kitty’?” I sighed. “Look, you know I wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t important. Please?”
“All right,” she said, dubiously. “But if he guts me . . .”
“If he threatens you, tell him to take it out on me instead.”
“I will.”
“Good.” We talked for a few minutes, Marcia chattering about the latest gossip while I sipped my coffee and made interested noises at the right places. When she started winding down, I said good-bye and hung up, immediately dialing again. Shadowed Hills, this time; I wanted to keep Sylvester posted.
My call rang straight to voice mail. I frowned, recorded a quick, curt message, and hung up again, turning to look for Quentin and Alex.
Quentin was buying bags of chips from a vending machine, while Alex was loading a plate with donuts from the counter. Ah, the eating habits of the young and healthy. Alex had to be an exercise junkie: there was no other way he could maintain his figure, which definitely didn’t betray the fact that he appeared to live on starch and sugar.
Pulling my attention away from Alex, I surveyed the rest of the cafeteria. There was only one more person present, head bowed over a heap of disorganized-looking notes. I frowned thoughtfully and moved to fill a tray before starting in her direction.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Gordan grunted assent, not looking up. Putting down my tray, I sat, taking the opportunity to study her more carefully. I still couldn’t identify her bloodline; her eyes were throwing me. They were dark gray speckled with flecks of muddy red, like rusty iron. There’s no race in Faerie with those eyes. I’d already pegged her as a changeling—more fae than human, but human enough to be mortal—and those eyes confirmed it. The only question was what her bloodline was.
She looked up, scowling. “Coblynau.”
I lowered my coffee mug. “What?”
“You were going to ask—I saw you staring. My mother was Coblynau; my father wasn’t.” Her brows knotted together. “And yes, he was half- human. Happy now?”
“Oh. Sorry.” I felt the blush run up the back of my neck. I hadn’t realized how obvious I was being.
“Yeah, you better be. You corpse- lickers having any luck with the dead?”
“Better than you would, metal-whore,” I replied, genially.
There are derogatory terms for every race in Faerie; it would be more surprising if there weren’t. What is surprising is how rarely most of them are used—but then, the fae usually get insulting with spears and siege engines. “Corpse-licker” is one of the more pleasant insults. The less civil ones delve into the nature of the night-haunts and exactly where we spend our nights. Those are fighting words. “Corpse-licker” is just casual profanity.
The Coblynau are the best smiths in Faerie. They can trap enchantment in living metal, creating spells that last for years; they’re artists in a world with little art that it doesn’t steal, creating beauty for the joy of it. They’re also tiny, twisted, ugly people, scarred by the iron that stains their blood. Some spend their lives in darkness, pretending they don’t care what goes on above, while others come to the faerie markets and barter their masterworks for the types of favor only Faerie’s more beautiful children can provide. They’re metal’s whores. Supposedly, it’s a fair trade on both sides. Sometimes, anyway.
Gordan’s scowl vanished, replaced by a grin that transformed her face into a mask of cheerful wrinkles. I couldn’t help wondering what her mother paid for the pleasure of bearing a mixed-blood child. “All right, you can stay,” she said.
“How nice of you,” I said. Quentin walked up, expression curious, and I nodded to the seat next to me. He put down his tray and sat, moving with an almost exaggerated care.
“I thought so.” Gordan’s smile faded when Quentin sat, hardening into something less pleasant. “Who’s the pretty boy? We have sheltered jerks in town already—you didn’t have to bring your own.”
I looked at her impassively, not rising to the bait. “Quentin, meet Gordan. Gordan, this is my assistant, Quentin. He’s a foster at Shadowed Hills.”
“Ooh, a courtly pretty boy.” Her lips pursed in a moue of distaste. “How much did they pay you to baby-sit? Because it wasn’t enough.”
Quentin bristled. I put a hand on his shoulder. “They’re not paying me. He’s here because Duke Torquill thought he might be able to learn something from working with me for a while.” I nodded toward his tray, and he started picking at his lunch, still glowering.
“Huh,” said Gordan. “Looks like you got screwed on that deal.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said, shrugging. “What are you working on?”
She held up her notebook, shooting a sour look at Quentin as she displayed a snarl of notes interspersed with thumbnail sketches of machine parts. It looked like an illustration from Alice in Wonderland interpreted by Picasso. “I’m rebuilding one of the routers.”
“Okay . . .”
She sighed, recognizing my feeble reply as an admission of ignorance. “Look. Routers move information—data—around. I think I can change the hardware, and make that data move twice as fast.”
“Right,” I said, nodding. “I think that makes sense.”
“Good.” Her tone shifted. “Do you two morons have any clue what you’re doing?”
“What do you mean?” said Quentin.
Gordan leaned back in her chair, splitting her attention between us. Her eyes were cold. “Either Jan’s uncle sent you, like you say, or you’re here for Riordan and lying about it. I don’t care. What I want to know is whether you’re going to make people stop dying. Do you know what you’re doing, or are you going to string us along until you can run?”
An interrogation over lunch—just what I always wanted. “We’re here by order of Duke Sylvester Torquill, and yes, we’re staying until it’s over.”
“Brave souls. Stupid, but brave. How long before your little boy runs back to the nursery? We probably don’t meet his lofty standards.”
“At least I have standards,” Quentin snapped.
“Quentin, be quiet. I don’t see you going anywhere, Gordan. Why should we?”
She smiled again, bitterly this time. “Where would I go? This is my home.” She had a point. That didn’t explain why she was being so nasty to Quentin.
“You’re right,” I said. “So, since you’re a native, care to share any ideas you might have on who could have done this?”
“What?” She laughed. “Not one. I’d blame Yui if she hadn’t been the second one down—the little fox always had a vicious turn of mind. But no. We’re down to the dregs, and none of the chumps we have left would have the brains to start killing people.”
“Not one of them?”
“No.” She put her notebook down, looking disgusted. “Let’s guess. You’re expecting me to think for a minute and then go ‘Hmmm, Alex is very quiet except for his collection of ice picks and hammers,’ aren’t you? You hoping to get this wrapped up before the commercials?”
“Actually, no. I just wanted your opinion.”
“My opinion? Fine: you’re wasting your time if you’re looking for a killer in this company. We’re a family.”
“Does that go for the ones that have run out on you?”
“Maybe they ran, but that just means they had something to live for. It doesn’t mean they betrayed us. If you want to find a killer, look outside. Or don’t bother, and die here with the rest of us.” She picked up her fork, jabbing it into a piece of cantaloupe. “Send the kid home if you decide to do that. Dying would mess up his hair.”
Quentin glared at her, but focused on his chips. Good boy. I picked up my coffee, saying, “You’re a little pessimistic.”
“Am I? Wow, I’m sorry. Try having all your friends die or run and see how cheery you are.” Her eyes narrowed. “You come down here with your little pureblood squire and say you want to ‘help.’ Yeah, right. That won’t last. In the end, you’ll run scared like the others.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrugged. “And he’s not my squire, just my friend.”
“Funny taste in friends.” Gordan stood, tucking her notebook under her arm. “I hope you’re a better judge of murder scenes than you are of people.” She turned and stalked away, not bothering to say good-bye.
“That’s not fair,” Quentin said. “She’s the one insulting us, and she gets to walk away?”
“Dramatic exits are the last refuge of the infantile personality,” I said. “Now drink your soda and help me think of nasty names to call her next time she shows up.”
“All right.” Not even being insulted could make him lose his appetite: he was eating his chips with astonishing speed and was starting to filch pieces of fruit cocktail off Gordan’s abandoned tray. Good for him.
“Told you that you were hungry,” I said, earning an amused snort from Quentin. I ignored my lunch in favor of propping my chin on my knuckles and sipping my coffee. Gordan disliked Quentin on sight. She might just be prejudiced—some changelings really hate purebloods—but that didn’t explain how she justified working for Jan.
Alex reached the table, pushing Gordan’s now-empty tray aside to make room for his own. “Whoa!” he said, spotting our expressions. “Was the coffee that bad?”
“We just had a nice talk with Gordan,” I said.
“Gordan, huh?” Alex sighed, brushing his bangs back with one hand. They immediately flopped back over his eyes. “I’m sorry. She’s always been a little . . .”
“Nasty?” Quentin said.
“I was going to say ‘sharp,’ but if you want to go with nasty, we can work with that. It’s not her fault.”
“So whose fault is it?” I asked. “The Tooth Fairy?”
Alex shook his head. “No, I mean it—it’s not her fault. Barbara was her best friend. Losing her . . . I’m surprised Gordan’s holding up as well as she is. That’s all.”
Some information has the effect of making me feel like a total jerk. “Oh,” I said.
Alex’s statement didn’t seem to hit Quentin the same way. He scowled, asking, “Why does that make it okay for her to act like I’m the bad guy?”
“She was a little harsh,” I said. “If she didn’t work for Jan, I’d assume she was racist.”
“She is, a little,” Alex said. “Being a Coblynau kid isn’t easy. She got knocked around a lot before she hooked up with Barbara, and I think she holds a few grudges. I mean, she was working here for over a year before she stopped being nasty to the purebloods on staff.”
“So why . . .”
“Because she’s good, and because she was the only Coblynau who needed the work. Jan needed somebody who could handle iron, at least until we got all the systems fully working. By the time her first contract was finished, she was hooked, and she stayed.” He shrugged. “She’s the one who convinced Jannie to hire Barbara.
So, I mean, she does settle down.”
“Well, if she listens to you, you might try telling her we’re just doing our jobs.”
“We want to help,” Quentin added, wounded pride overcoming his dislike of Alex. I was sure that would be temporary.
Alex sighed. “I know you’re coming into this cold. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“You’ve been a lot of help so far,” I said.
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “We’ve been milling around like a flock of sheep—it’s nice to have something to do. And I’m really, really sorry I couldn’t say anything earlier.”
“Right,” I said.
“What I’m saying is that if you need help, go ahead and ask me.” Alex grinned. I grinned back, at least until Quentin “accidentally” kicked me in the ankle. I shot him a warning glare. He smiled angelically.
“. . . and besides,” Alex said, “if I have actual work to do, I can always leave it for Terrie.”
Quentin brightened. “When does Terrie get here?”
“Good question,” I said, more slowly. “When does she get in?”
“What?” Alex blinked.
“Your sister?” I said. He was a lot less attractive when he looked that confused. “When does she come on shift?”
“Oh. Uh . . .” He looked at his watch, then at the window. The gesture looked habitual, like he wasn’t sure he could trust the time. “She usually shows up a little past eight.”
Quentin asked, “Does she come find you, or what?”
“Oh, no. I’m gone by the time she gets here.”
“It must be hard, never seeing your sister,” I said.
“What?” He looked nervous—he didn’t like us asking about Terrie. I hoped it didn’t mean anything. I was really starting to like him. “Oh, yeah. I mean, no. I mean . . . we’re not close.”
“Okay.” I changed the subject, watching his expression. “What can you tell us about the people here?”
Quentin looked like he was going to protest the change of topic, and I took great pleasure in “accidentally” kicking him in the ankle. “Ow!”
“What was that, Quentin?” I asked sweetly.
“Nothing,” he said, glaring. He wasn’t going to question me in front of Alex, and we both knew it. Knowing the weaknesses of your friends matters as much as knowing the weaknesses of your enemies.
“Keep eating.” I shoved my tray over to him and turned to Alex. “You were saying?”
Alex was staring at me, dismayed. “You think it was one of us. Why?”
“Yui.”
“What?” Alex said. Quentin looked up from my lunch, frowning.
I didn’t blame them for not getting it; I would have missed it, too, fifteen years ago, but time has given me a new distance from Faerie. Sometimes that’s a good t
hing. “Yui was a four-tailed Kitsune. That means she was strong, fast, and had pretty powerful magic, right?”
Alex nodded. I continued, “Whatever killed her took her by surprise—we know she didn’t struggle. We also know she was strong enough to defend herself: she could have fought back, and the amount of power she had would have stopped most people. It would definitely have stopped someone like me. That means one of two things. Either her killer was something so nasty that it could take down a four-tailed Kitsune without a fight, or . . .”
“Or it was someone she knew,” Alex said, horrified. “I didn’t even think of that.”
“Most people wouldn’t.” Most people don’t spend as much time dealing with death as I do. Lucky them.
“If it was a monster, would the bodies have been there?” Quentin asked.
“That depends on what it eats. The best answer is ‘probably not’—we could be dealing with something that killed in self- defense, but killing for food is more likely, and I’ve never heard of something that can kill a Kitsune but wouldn’t eat the body. Have there been any unexplained disappearances in the County that you haven’t reported to the Crown?”
“What? No. We report all deaths and disappearances to the Queen’s Court.”
“Up until this most recent batch, you mean,” I said.
“Yes. No. I . . . Jan tried to report those!”
“To her uncle, not the Queen, but whatever. I’m not going to fight with you. I’m just going to trust that if you think of any deaths I’m missing, you’ll tell me. Have you found any unusual tracks or spoor? Animal markings? We might have a shapeshifter on our hands.”
“Not that I’ve heard of.” He leaned forward, putting his hands over his face. “I can’t believe one of us is doing this. I just can’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it; it hurts when your family betrays you.
“You could be wrong,” Alex said, through his fingers.
“We could be,” I agreed. “How long has the company been here?”
A Local Habitation Page 12