A Local Habitation

by Seanan McGuire

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THERE WAS NO SIGNAL IN THE HALL. I snapped the phone closed, glaring at it like it had done this just to spite me, and moved toward the futon room door. “I need to go outside and find a signal. Just let me tell Connor where I’m going.”

  My knuckles hadn’t even hit the door when April appeared, expression—for her—distraught. My arm was going straight through her throat. I yelped, jerking backward.

  “Quentin is sleeping. Connor is monitoring his condition. Please do not persist in your attempts to disturb him. His batteries must recharge if he is to remain on the network.”

  I glanced at Elliot, bemused. He looked as bewildered as I felt. “All right, April. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Apology accepted. Leave now.” She vanished, the smell of ozone hanging in the air.

  “That was weird,” I said.

  “She seems to have taken a shine to your assistant. Maybe it’s just that he’s the age she appears to be. Shall I show you the way outside?”

  “Please.”

  The simplification of the knowe had continued while I slept; Tamed Lightning was in mourning, just like the rest of us, and there was no reason to complicate the halls. It had nothing left to hide. The more I see of our world, the more convinced I am that everything in Faerie is alive. April was a sentient computer, and one of my pets is a rosebush with feet. Why shouldn’t the places where we live be just as awake? In Faerie, the land can hold opinions.

  Elliot respected my obvious desire for silence, pulling a few steps ahead of me as we approached what was presumably the door to the outside. He undid the lock and pulled the door open—only to squawk in surprise and vanish, yanked out the door by the hand that had suddenly latched around his throat. Swearing, I broke into a run, rocketing out the door only a few seconds behind him. Then I stopped, clamping a hand over my mouth, and stared.

  Tybalt was holding Elliot a foot off the ground. He’d shown at least a little bit of mercy, letting go of Elliot’s throat in favor of grabbing his collar. While this seemed less likely to rip Elliot’s jugular open, it wasn’t doing him any favors in the “breathing” department; Elliot was thrashing, face turning a worrying shade of plum. Every cat in the place seemed to have gathered around them, turning the lawn into one teeming, furry mass.

  “Tybalt?” I said, lowering my hand.

  He turned toward me, and dropped Elliot. “October?” His eyes flicked from my pristine condition to the scrapes on my cheek and the bandages on my hands before narrowing, attention swinging back to Elliot, who was huddled in a graceless, gasping heap. “Is this one responsible for your hands?”

  “What? No! No, I did it myself.” I was smiling, irrationally relieved by his arrival. Tybalt doesn’t normally move me to smile, but somehow, having additional fire-power didn’t strike me as a bad idea. “I sort of had to.”

  “How do even you wind up in a circumstance where you ‘sort of have to’ slice your hands open?” Tybalt prowled toward me, Elliot clearly dismissed. “Did you also ‘sort of have to’ do whatever it is you’ve done to your face?”

  “No, that happened when I jumped out of my car to keep myself from being inside it when it decided to explode.” I shrugged. “It’ll heal.”

  “If you don’t die.”

  “If I don’t die,” I agreed.

  He gave me another up and down look, finally saying, “Nice coat,” before turning back to Elliot, who shrank back. “You. The cats say you’re one of the people in charge here.”

  Elliot glanced at the cats surrounding him like he was looking for support. A fluffy orange tomcat flattened its ears, hissing. He winced. “I . . . I suppose I am. Can I help you?”

  “You can begin by explaining why no notice of Barbara’s death was sent to the other Regents of the Court of Cats,” said Tybalt, sounding almost bored as he hoisted Elliot back to his feet. “Then, you may explain why my subjects tell me that any who enter that building,” he indicated the door with a jerk of his chin, “never come out again.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Elliot?” Elliot didn’t answer, being preoccupied with once again turning a rich, slow shade of purple. I sighed. “Tybalt, most people can’t answer questions when they can’t breathe. Put him down.” After a pause, I added, “Gently.”

  Tybalt lowered Elliot’s feet to the ground, not letting go of his shirt. “Speak,” he growled.

  “We didn’t tell you because we didn’t have any way to reach you! There aren’t any other Cait Sidhe in the County! Jan said her uncle knew you, but we couldn’t get through to him, and people kept dying!” Elliot was babbling, words spilling over one another as he fought to get them out before Tybalt cut off his air again. “We weren’t hiding it from you!”

  “And the cats?” Tybalt asked, in a tone that seemed much more relaxed, and was likely much more dangerous. I didn’t mind. I wanted the answer to that one, too.

  “I . . . the cats were Barbara’s responsibility,” Elliot said. “I really don’t know.”

  Tybalt released his shirt and knelt, not taking his eyes off Elliot. A calico hopped onto his shoulder, meowing, and he nodded, expression grave. The cat jumped down again as he straightened. “The cats agree with your story.” The words “luckily for you” didn’t need to be spoken. They were already all too present. “You may take me inside now.”

  “Wait.” I raised a hand, remembering why we’d left the building in the first place. “I’d rather not be left alone out here, and I still need to make a call. Can you two hang on?”

  “Of course,” said Tybalt, in a dry tone. “I came entirely to wait on your pleasure, not to avenge a dead Queen of my line at all.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, I smiled. “Excellent. This won’t take long.”

  I meant that seriously. What I didn’t expect was how accurate my words would be. I dialed the pay phone in Paso Nogal, waiting until a winded Melly answered the phone, managing to gasp out, “Hello?”

  “Melly?”

  “October! Ah, child, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Melly, is Sylvester still there? I need to—”

  Melly cut me off, saying, “His Grace has already ridden out, along with most of the knowe, I’m afraid. Even Her Grace went along. Is it . . . is it true that dear January’s left us?”

  The image of Luna attacking a killer with an army of rose goblins was interesting, but not useful. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh, that poor lamb,” she said, with a deep, wounded sigh. “Just take care, if you would. There’s been death enough.”

  “I will,” I said, before hanging up. I’ll give Elliot this much; of the pair of them, he was the only one pretending not to listen. “Sylvester’s on his way. He’ll get Quentin out of here.”

  “Good,” said Tybalt. “Now may we go inside?”

  “Of course,” said Elliot.

  Tybalt fell into step beside me as we followed Elliot into the knowe, saying quietly, “I would have come straight to you, but the place is warded. None of the Shadows would open.”

  “They have a Coblynau on staff.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “That would do it. Why are you so concerned with what becomes of this ‘Quentin’? Is he a new swain of yours?”

  “First, Tybalt, no one says ‘swain’ anymore. Secondly, no. He’s a foster at Shadowed Hills, and he’s been injured. Someone was trying to shoot me, and they got him instead.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” I paused. “But you might. Elliot, take us to the cafeteria.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we just got ourselves a bloodhound,” I said, smiling thinly. Tybalt snorted at my comparing him to a dog, but didn’t object. The news that I’d been shot at seemed to have disconcerted him more than I expected. If it made him agreeable, well, I wasn’t going to argue.

  The cafeteria was empty. Wherever the surviving denizens of ALH were spending their day, it wasn’t here, perhaps because they were avoiding the g
risly sight of Quentin’s blood, which had dried to a dirty, unpleasant brown on the floor all around the soda machine. Elliot stiffened at the sight of it. “No,” I said, before he could ask. “You can’t.”

  He shot a glance my way before turning, shoulders tight, to walk over to the coffee machine. Fine. If it would keep him occupied, he could make all the coffee in the world. “I take mine with cream, sugar, and painkillers,” I called. “That’s where Quentin was shot, Tybalt. You think you can find the gun?”

  “How, precisely, should I do that?” The look he gave me then was very nearly amused. “Shall I simply wave my hands and call, ‘Here kitty, kitty’?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “Follow the smell of gunpowder.”

  Tybalt blinked, and then nodded. “Worth trying.”

  “At this point, everything is,” I said, without humor. “Elliot, stay here. Get Tybalt anything he asks for. I’ll be right back for my coffee.”

  The look Tybalt gave me then was anything but pleased. “Where are you going?”

  “To check on Quentin,” I said, and slipped out of the cafeteria, heading down those newly linear halls toward the room where I’d left Quentin and Connor.

  Connor cracked the door open on my second knock, peering out into the hall before opening the door all the way and stepping out. “Hey,” he said, voice soft. “Everything okay?”

  “Sylvester’s on his way, and Tybalt’s here,” I said. “How is he?” I didn’t need to specify which “he” I meant. There was really only one candidate.

  “Asleep.” A brief smile crossed his lips. “April brought him the Hippocampi from Colin’s office a little bit ago. Tank and all. I think she’s trying to make him feel better, she just doesn’t know quite how.”

  “And they’re still alive?”

  “Frisky as ever.”

  “Huh.” If April could teleport living things, she had definitely become something very different from your average Dryad. “You holding up okay?”

  “Sure, for now. What are you doing wandering around alone?”

  I leaned over to hug him, briefly. “Just checking in. Stay safe.”

  He kissed my cheek. “You, too.”

  “Trying,” I said, and turned to return to the cafeteria. Once he was out of sight, I raised my hand, touching the spot where he’d kissed me. If Raysel had reason to hate me before . . .

  There’d be time to worry about that later, when we weren’t dead. I stepped back into the cafeteria and into a tableau strange enough to stop me in my tracks, just blinking.

  Three mugs of coffee and the last box of donuts were sitting in the middle of one of the tables, as decoratively placed as any tea party preparations. A bottle of Tylenol was sitting next to one of the mugs. Elliot, sleeves rolled prissily up to keep them from brushing the floor, was kneeling next to an open vent, peering into it. Tybalt was nowhere to be seen.

  I cleared my throat.

  Elliot looked around, and said, “Your coffee’s on the table,” before returning his attention to the vent.

  “What’s going on?” I didn’t let my confusion prevent me from heading for the coffee. It was still hot. Blessed caffeine. Better yet, blessed caffeine with a side order of painkillers. Maybe mortal medicine can’t beat fae healing, but it comes close, and it’s a damn sight more reliable.

  “He believes he’s found a trail.”

  As if on cue, a burly tabby- striped tomcat popped out of the vent, looking disgusted. The smell of pennyroyal and musk rose around him, and Tybalt was seated on the floor. “Nothing,” he said, sounding disgusted. “What a charming place this is.”

  “Have some coffee,” I suggested. “You’ll feel better.”

  “Will it bring back the dead?”

  “No. But it may save your sanity.”

  “Excellent.” He stood, moving to join me before turning baleful eyes toward Elliot. “What have you people been doing here?”

  “Nothing,” said Elliot, looking uncomfortable.

  “Dying,” I said. “Tybalt, come on with me. I’ll show you Barbara’s work space. Maybe you can find a trail there.”

  He looked at me, clearly trying to decide whether I was simply trying to distract him, before finally offering an imperious nod. “Very well.”

  “Elliot—”

  “I’ll get April to escort me to Alex’s office. He and I have some things to go over, anyway.”

  “All right.” I held up the phone. “I’m keeping this.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have you notified at once if Sylvester shows up.”

  “Good. Tybalt, come on.”

  He gave me a dubious look, but followed me out of the cafeteria and back into the halls. It was almost five-thirty; sunset was still hours away, and Sylvester was Maeve-knows-where.

  I just hoped he’d get here soon. We were running out of options.

  TWENTY-SIX

  SPENDING SEVERAL HOURS WITH TYBALT was surprisingly easy, maybe because we had a common task to focus on: sorting through Barbara’s personal effects. When I asked, hesitantly, why she left her files in a place where they’d be so easy to find, Tybalt laughed, replying, “She was a cat, October. Where would the fun be if she hid them?” There was the Cait Sidhe mind-set in a nutshell.

  I became a PI because I was good at focusing my attention and shutting out the things that wanted to distract me from the task at hand. I was so preoccupied with studying the contents of Barbara’s desk, trusting Tybalt to notice any threats that might arise, that it was a genuine surprise when Elliot walked up, saying, “It’s time.”

  “What?” I looked up. “Oh. Elliot. Sunset, already?” I frowned, glancing toward the wall like I expected a window to appear. “Sylvester’s not here yet?”

  “No. But you should come with me, please. Terrie will be here soon.”

  “Right.” I put down the papers I’d been holding and moved to follow him, Tybalt silently trailing us.

  Elliot glanced at me as we walked, and said, “We haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

  “I noticed,” I said. “You’ve never embraced ‘full disclosure’ around here, have you?”

  “In more ways than you know. Alex will meet us in the cafeteria.”

  “Alex?” I stared. “Oak and ash, Elliot, I don’t want to accuse his sister of murder in front of him!” I didn’t like the man, but there are limits.

  “Don’t worry.” He smiled regretfully. There was something I needed to know in that expression. I just couldn’t tell what. “She never gets here before sunset.”

  “What are you talking about?” I paused. “If she’s some sort of bloodsucker and you haven’t told me—” Faerie has its vampires, sort of, and most of them can’t stand the sun.

  “That’s not it,” Elliot said, stopping at the cafeteria door and pushing it open. “After you.”

  Alex was sitting at one of the tables, wearing a denim jacket over a white cotton shirt and a pair of leggings. He looked exhausted. Glancing up, he saw me and paled. “Uh, hi, Toby. Elliot. Dude I don’t know.”

  “Tybalt,” I supplied. As for Tybalt, he had moved closer to me, starting to snarl almost silently. I glanced at him, surprised.

  “Uh,” Alex said. “Right.”

  “It’s almost sunset, Alex,” said Elliot. “Toby needs to talk to your sister.”

  “What?” Alex sounded almost frightened. I narrowed my eyes, watching him. “She’s not here. You know that.”

  “We need you to stay until she comes.” Elliot shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Elliot . . .” Alex began.

  “Toby,” Elliot said, not looking at me, “please tell Alex your suspicions.”

  I took a breath. “I don’t think that’s any of his business.” Tybalt’s growl was getting louder, distracting me.

  “It’s important that he know why he needs to stay.” Elliot sounded serious.

  I frowned. “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I am.”

  “All right.” Turning t
o Alex, I said, “I think your sister is involved with the murders.”

  He made a startled squeaking noise. “Really?”

  “I don’t know what her motives are, but she has no alibis, she hasn’t participated in any of the searches, and she was alone when she found the first body. She may not be guilty. She may have good reasons for everything. But it doesn’t look good.”

  “And now you want to see her.”

  “I do. There’ve been too many deaths. We can’t just let this lie.” If I didn’t find someone for the nobility to punish, they’d choose someone on their own, and they tend to be a lot less picky than I am. They might take all of us, on charges of obscuring justice.

  “Elliot?” Alex looked toward him, eyes wide.

  Elliot shook his head. “This one’s yours.” His smile was bitter. “You should have been more careful. I’ve told you before not to play games.”

  That seemed to mean something to Tybalt that it hadn’t meant to me. His snarl became suddenly louder, and he all but pounced on Alex, hoisting the other man by the upper arms like he weighed nothing at all. “How dare you!” he roared.

  I stared. “What the hell—”

  “I didn’t hurt her!” Alex shouted, his attention fixed on Tybalt.

  “You’re not going to have the chance.” Tybalt released Alex’s left arm, pulling back a hand that was suddenly bright with claws.

  And the sun went down.

  Transformations in the real world never happen the way we expect. The light around Alex blurred as his hair melted from gold to black, the tan bleaching out of his skin, the focus shifting until Tybalt was holding a gasping Terrie off the ground. The change seemed to have disoriented him, because she was able to squirm out of his grip and wobble in place. Women have smaller lungs than men do; sunset had to feel like the worst asthma attack ever.

  The change was the piece I needed to answer the question of Alex and Terrie Olsen’s heritage, spelling it out in neon letters that made everything else fall into place. Gordan’s comments about it getting cold out on that hillside. The speed of our mutual attraction. The way he could make me forget about doing my job, just by smiling. A glamour that kept hitting me, even after I knew it was happening, a bloodline I couldn’t identify, and the way I’d hated Terrie, just as quickly as I’d fallen for him. And the birds . . . oh, root and branch.