A Local Habitation

by Seanan McGuire

  “. . . no,” Elliot said, looking displeased. “We’ll have to get Gordan to look at that.” He crossed to the kitchen area, opening a cabinet and pulling out a clean towel, which he tossed toward us.

  Connor caught it, pressing it into my uninjured hand. “Find her fast, please,” he said, expression worried. “I don’t like the way her hand looks.”

  “The way it . . . right.” I hadn’t really looked at my hand since cutting it. I’d been a little busy. “Guys, let go.”

  They stepped back, and I looked down, assessing the damage. I had all my fingers, and I could move them, if I was willing to cope with the pain: that was where the good stuff ended. My palm was split from the wrist to the base of the index finger, and when my fingers flexed, I thought I saw bone. Changelings heal fast and thoroughly when the wounds aren’t made with iron; my hand would recover if I had it taken care of. It still looked pretty bad.

  Starting to feel faintly nauseated, I said, “Getting Gordan in here might be a good idea.”

  Elliot nodded. “I’ll fetch her. You wait here.” Then he was out the door, hurrying away from the mess and from the questions he wasn’t asking yet. That was fine. I wasn’t ready to start answering them, and I didn’t trust his self-control to last. I really didn’t need him to start cleaning the room while we were still in it.

  “Come on, Toby. Sit down.” Connor took my arm and led me to a chair, with Quentin following close behind. I didn’t fight. Judging by the looks they were giving me, I looked worse than I felt, and that was worrisome.

  I collapsed into a sitting position, sticking my head between my knees. Connor began rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles, fingers shaking. The room was starting to spin. That’s never pleasant. My headache wasn’t helping. My magic isn’t strong to begin with, and I’d just performed the largest blood-ritual of my life. In a way, it was a miracle that I was still coherent enough to hurt.

  “Toby?”

  He sounded worried enough that I forced myself to look up. “Yes, Quentin?”

  “Did they come?”

  I sighed. “Yeah. They came.”

  “Wow.” Quentin sat down in the chair next to mine, shaking his head. “I . . . wow. Did you talk to them?”

  “As much as I could, yes.”

  “Oh.” We were silent for a while, Connor still rubbing my back, Quentin watching worriedly. Finally, voice meek, Quentin asked, “Are you going to die?”

  “What?” The question was unexpected enough to get my full attention.

  Swallowing, he said, “You’ve seen the night-haunts. Are you going to die?”

  “I don’t think it works that way. They don’t cause death. They come after death happens. I’m not going to die because I saw them.” I might die for other reasons, but I was fairly sure the night- haunts wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

  “Oh,” Quentin said, relaxing. “Good.”

  We sat quietly after that. I was glad to have the company; even knowing the night-haunts weren’t coming back, I didn’t want to be alone. Both of them were clearly bursting with questions, but they kept their peace, letting me rest. I needed the chance to breathe.

  Elliot came back after fifteen minutes. “Gordan and Jan are on their way.”

  “Peachy,” I said, sitting up as Connor stepped back. “Got any painkillers?”

  “Gordan doesn’t want me to give you anything until she’s seen your hand.”

  I decided to hate her. “Why not? It’s my head that’s killing me.”

  “Because we don’t know how much damage you’ve done to yourself.” He gestured toward the remains of my protective circle. “It looks like you held a war in here.”

  “I almost did,” I said.

  “Care to explain?”

  “Give me the painkillers and I will.” Connor almost managed to hide his smirk—almost. He knew Elliot was fighting a losing battle; if stubbornness were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist.

  “Right.” Elliot sighed. “We wait.”

  I glared. “That was supposed to make you give me the pills.”

  “I know.” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin. “I’d just rather have you mad at me than Gordan.”

  “Why?” Quentin asked.

  “I’m pretty sure I could outrun you at the moment, but Gordan knows where I sleep.”

  “You sleep?” I said dubiously. “When?”

  Elliot shrugged. “Popular opinion holds that’s the reason I have a house.”

  “Right,” I said, fighting back a wave of dizziness. I let myself lean backward, into Connor. Sleep sounded like an excellent idea. I would have liked it better if I was certain I’d wake up. “I guess that’s understandable.”

  “Did they . . .” Elliot glanced at the circle again. “. . . come?”

  “The night-haunts?”

  Elliot nodded, expression telling me he didn’t really want to know.

  I answered anyway. “Yes.” In retrospect, I hadn’t wanted them to. There’s that damn hindsight again.

  “This can wait until everyone else gets here,” said Connor firmly.

  I offered a wan smile, sending a silent thanks to whoever might be listening. “Good idea. I don’t want to go through all this more than once, anyway.”

  “Fine,” Elliot said disgruntledly and turned to watch the door. I sighed. I was too tired to deal with clashing personalities and sulking locals. All I wanted to do was curl into a ball and sleep until the pain went away.

  “Elliot . . .” I began, only to be saved from further discussion by the door swinging open. Gordan stepped into the room, first aid kit in her hand and a scowl on her face, closely followed by an anxious-eyed Jan. Oh, root and branch. How could I tell her what was going on when I still didn’t understand myself?

  Gordan gaped at the bloody mess that was my left hand, planted her own hand on her hip, and demanded, “What have you done to yourself now?” The cafeteria’s acoustics caught her voice, bouncing it off the walls until it became an invasive presence. My headache announced its displeasure, leaving me even dizzier.

  “Please stop shouting,” I moaned. I wanted to yell, but I didn’t dare. My head might explode.

  Quentin stood, moving to stand a half step in front of me. Even through the pain, I was amused; he was learning how to be protective. “Shut up!”

  “Oh, the pretty boy thinks he’s gonna be a big man now, does he?” Gordan said. “If you’re so tough, why is it her blood I keep having to mop up? You too good to bleed?”

  “You little—”

  “Stop it! Both of you!” Jan snapped. Quentin stopped mid-word, while Gordan snorted and looked away. Glaring, Jan shook her head. “You should be ashamed. Did you stop to think for a second that you weren’t helping her recover by fighting? Huh?” Neither answered. Jan sighed and knelt in front of me, lifting my chin with one hand. I didn’t fight. Connor tightened his hands on my shoulder, and waited.

  Jan tilted my head to one side, then the other, studying my eyes. Whatever she saw there didn’t please her, because she frowned as she let go and stood. “The next person who yells is going to regret it. I don’t know whether whatever she did worked, but it’s left her with a pretty vicious case of magic-burn.”

  Gordan turned to glare at her. “She’s the idiot that pushed her limits. Why do we have to be nice?”

  “She was trying to help you!” Quentin snapped.

  Jan sighed. “I know, Quentin. Gordan, can you please take a look at her wounds without being snotty about it?”

  “I’ll try,” she muttered, and sat down in front of me, ignoring the dirty water covering the floor. “Give me your hand.” I did as she asked; it was easier than fighting her.

  Gordan grabbed my wrist, twisting my palm toward the ceiling. The cut looked even worse in direct light. Jan gasped, while Quentin made a small gagging noise. Gordan just frowned, asking, “What did you do, argue with a lawnmower?”

  I swallowed, vowing not to faint until she was done hur
ting me. “Silver knife. Summoning ritual. I didn’t mean to cut so deep.”

  “You’re an idiot,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “You’ll be lucky if you missed the major muscles. What were you summoning again? Godzilla?”

  Hands tightening on my shoulders, Connor said, “She was summoning the night-haunts.”

  “Oh, right, she’s a fucking moron,” said Gordan, sounding entirely too cheerful about it.

  “Gordan . . .” said Jan warningly. Gordan subsided, grumbling under her breath as she resumed her inspection of my hand. Jan waited for me to relax before asking, “Did it work?” Elliot turned toward me and Gordan glanced up, both waiting for my answer.

  “Yes,” I said. “They came. Sorry about the floor.”

  “No big deal,” Jan said, waving it away. “Did they . . . did they tell you anything?”

  “Some, yes. We were wrong when we thought they weren’t coming. It’s just that the bodies aren’t any good to them, so they’ve been leaving them behind.”

  “Why aren’t they any good?”

  “For the same reason Quentin and I can’t get anything out of the blood. Whatever’s been killing your friends has been somehow stealing the . . . vitality that should be left in their bodies.”

  “It’s stealing their souls?” Elliot asked, sharply.

  I shook my head, wincing as it throbbed. “It’s not stealing their souls; it’s stealing their memories. Your life is stored in your blood, but the blood here is empty. Their memories are gone, and the memories are what the night-haunts need.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” I told the lie without flinching. I’d promised the night-haunts I’d keep their secrets, and I meant it.

  “It’s stealing their memory?” Jan said, putting an odd stress on the last word. Something flitted across her face, there and gone so fast I wasn’t sure I’d seen it at all.

  “Yes.”

  “So the night-haunts are leaving the bodies here . . .”

  “Because they just don’t care,” said Gordan, and grabbed my fingers, yanking them down. The pain was incredible. I screamed.

  What happened next was a little blurred. Jan shouted. I tried to jerk to my feet, and Connor pushed me back down, keeping me where I was. Quentin started to move. Suddenly, my hand was free and Gordan was on the floor with her hand pressed against her cheek. Quentin was standing between us, fists raised.

  “Don’t touch her!”

  Gordan pushed herself up, glaring. Quentin towered over her; she didn’t seem to notice as she spat, “I ought to kick your overprivileged ass!”

  “You want to try?” Quentin asked.

  “Stop it!” Jan said. They ignored her. Whatever internal rivalry they’d created, they seemed intent on finishing it.

  “I think maybe I will,” Gordan said, stepping forward.

  I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and stood. This time, Connor let me. The wet floor didn’t make it easy, but I managed to keep my balance. “Are you two going to cut this out, or do I need to go somewhere else?” I asked.

  Quentin turned, looking mortified. “Toby, sit down, you shouldn’t be . . .”

  “Gordan, back off,” Elliot snapped.

  She glared. “He hit me.”

  “You deserved it,” Jan replied. “Now, if we’re done being jerks? Toby, sit. Quentin, cool it. And, Gordan—was there a reason you just tried to take Toby’s hand apart?”

  “Yes,” she said sullenly, rubbing her cheek. “I needed to see if she had feeling in her fingers.”

  “Well, now you know. So don’t do it again.” Gordan started to speak, and Jan raised her hand. “Please, I don’t want to hear it. Yes, he hit you, and yes, you earned it. I’d like to get the rest of this story today.”

  “Right.” I sighed, and sat again, leaning back into Connor. He returned his hands to my shoulders, lending silent support.

  Grumbling, Gordan knelt in front of me. Quentin backed off, not taking his eyes off her. If she made one wrong move, she was going to regret it. Jan folded her arms, watching; Elliot was standing just behind her. I squinted at them, realizing how bad this looked. I was dizzy and sick from a combination of exhaustion and magic-burn, and now I couldn’t even control my assistant. How was I supposed to help these people when I was barely standing up?

  “Try not to squirm,” said Gordan, slathering antibacterial sludge onto my palm.

  I gave Quentin a sharp look, hoping he’d get the point and stay where he was. “The night- haunts aren’t avoiding this place. There just isn’t any reason for them to take the bodies.”

  “But what are we supposed to do with them?” Jan asked.

  “We’ll have to burn them; that’s what we did before the night-haunts came.” I shrugged.

  Jan paled. “Oh.”

  “That can wait—right now, we need to figure out what’s going o—ow! Gordan!” She’d tightened a loop of gauze around my hand, mashing the edges of the wound together. Quentin started to step forward. I held up my unwounded hand, motioning for him to stop. “That hurt!”

  “So sorry,” she drawled, and kept wrapping. My fingers were going numb; I couldn’t see how that was a good thing. “I don’t have the facilities to give you stitches without them turning septic, and I’ve got to stop the bleeding before you need a transfusion. Unless you want to try telling some human doctors what you’ve done to yourself?”

  “Right,” I muttered, and huddled against Connor, trying to distract myself from the pain. It wasn’t working. My headache was making it hard to think straight.

  Elliot looked at me, saying, “Jan, she met with Alex just before she did . . . whatever it is she did. I think she might need to lie down for a bit.”

  There was that expression again, flickering over her face and vanishing. “Are you sure?”

  “I asked Terrie.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. Neither would meet my eyes. I looked down at Gordan, and saw that even she was focusing on my hand, not looking at me. “What am I missing? What does Alex have to do with anything?”

  “It’s nothing you need to worry about now,” Jan said. I eyed her. She sighed. “I promise. You just need to rest for a while.”

  “And you’ll tell me what’s going on when I wake up?”

  “I will. You have my word.”

  I looked at her. She looked back. Finally, I shook my head. “Quentin? Connor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to take a nap. I want you two to stay together. Wake me if there’s any sign of trouble. Understand?” Reluctantly, they nodded. “Good. And, Quentin, I don’t want to hear about your fighting with Gordan while I was asleep.” Even if she deserves it, I added silently.

  “But, Toby—”

  “No buts. I don’t care if she’s the one starting everything. I’m too tired to deal with this on top of everything else.”

  He sighed. “All right.”

  Jan fixed a stern eye on Gordan. “The same thing goes for you. Both of you behave.”

  “Whatever,” Gordan said, taping the gauze on my hand before starting to repack her first aid kit.

  I eyed this and asked, “Can I have some painkillers first?”

  Jan smiled, almost sadly. “Gordan?”

  “Yeah, she can have some Tylenol.” She pulled a bottle from the kit, tossing it to Jan, who removed the cap with a flick of her thumb. I held out my unwounded hand, and she placed three small white pills on my palm as solemnly as if she were handing me the crown jewels of India. I popped them into my mouth, dry-swallowing them in a single convulsive gulp. I don’t know how we dealt with magic-burn before we had over-the-counter painkillers, but I think there’s a reason the faeries in the old stories are so incredibly cranky.

  Gordan snatched the bottle out of Jan’s hand, scowling. “Be careful,” she said. “Your hand will be weak for a while, and you should really have stitches. Don’t strain yourself if you don’t want to lose a finger.”

  “Go
t it,” I said, nodding.

  “Don’t mention it.” She raked a hand through her spiky hair, shooting a glare toward Quentin. He glared right back. “I sure won’t.”

  “Gordan . . .” Jan began.

  “Whatever,” Gordan said. She turned, shaking her head, and walked out of the room.

  Quentin scowled as he watched her go. “What a—”

  “Stop right there,” I said, levering myself to my feet. Connor moved to support me. “I know she is, okay? You don’t need to stress. Just don’t hit her again.”

  “Fine,” he said. The tips of his ears were red, although I couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or embarrassment.

  Elliot sighed. “That went well.”

  “It could’ve been worse,” I said, as diplomatically as I could.

  “I’m sorry, both of you,” Jan said.

  “It’s all right. We’re all stressed.” I forced a smile, leaning on Connor. “If you don’t mind, I need to fall down until my head stops hurting.”

  “Of course.” Jan looked away, but not before that strange, half-aware expression had crossed her face a third time. What the hell was going on? “Elliot, are you coming?”

  “Sure.”

  I kept leaning on Connor as we left the cafeteria and made our way down several of the knowe’s endless halls. Quentin took up the rear. We stopped at a small room containing a futon, a table and an ancient color television. Ignoring the TV and the fact that I was almost definitely showing how vulnerable I was, I collapsed on the makeshift bed, closing my eyes.

  “Toby?” Quentin said.

  “Stay with Connor,” I said, eyes staying closed. “If you get bored, ask April to come talk. You like April. Don’t . . . make trouble . . .” I was more tired than I’d thought: I was already starting to drift away.

  “All right,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  Connor bent over me; I felt him brush my hair back, fingers lingering against my skin before he whispered, “Don’t you dare bleed to death.”

  I smiled, not opening my eyes. “I’ll just work on that.”

  “You’d better. Don’t you leave me again.” Then he was gone. I heard three sets of footsteps leave the room. I stayed quiet, waiting.