A Local Habitation

by Seanan McGuire

“I told you she was fond of her coffee,” commented Tybalt.

  “Observant,” I said, approvingly. “Hey, Elliot, why’s Gordan in April’s room, anyway?”

  “Maintenance.”

  “Maintenance?” I echoed, filling my mug.

  “Her server has to be checked every morning. Gordan’s the only hardware expert left.”

  Tybalt frowned. I realized that he hadn’t been filled in as to April’s nature. “Why does this ‘server’ require checking?”

  “If it breaks down or loses power, April goes off-line.” Elliot shrugged. “We have to perform regular maintenance to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  I paused, mug halfway to my lips. “Repeat the bit about the power.”

  “If April’s server loses power, she’s off-line for the duration.”

  “And off-line means what, exactly?”

  “She disappears. She leaves the network and ‘dies’ until the power comes back.”

  “And then what? She’s fine?”

  “Well, yes. As soon as she’s been rebooted.”

  I put my cup down. “Right.” No wonder April didn’t understand why Jan wouldn’t wake up; she didn’t understand death, because every time she “died,” she came right back to life. She would have been the perfect suspect, the innocent killer . . . if not for Peter, who died during a power outage. How could she kill him when she was “dead” herself? “Can she come here?”

  “Not during a maintenance window.”

  “Right.” I started toward Tybalt. “Where’s her room?”

  “Near Jan’s office.”

  “Okay.” I glanced at the clock. The sun would be up soon, and the answers I needed would only be found with the dead. “Do you have a key to the futon room?”

  Elliot frowned. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now listen carefully: don’t go anywhere near April’s room. I want you to head back to the futon room, and lock yourself in. Don’t let anyone in. If April shows up . . .” I paused. “Don’t let her open the door.”

  His frown was deepening. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just trust me, okay?” It wasn’t Terrie: Terrie was dead. It wasn’t Elliot: if he’d been the killer, I’d have been dead as soon as we were alone together. That left April and Gordan . . . and April didn’t understand what death was, but could never have been the one to kill Peter.

  We had a problem.

  Elliot frowned worriedly, saying, “All right,” before turning to hurry out into the hall.

  “Will he be safe?” Tybalt asked. The question sounded academic; he didn’t care one way or the other, and he wasn’t bothering to pretend.

  “April’s off- line and Gordan’s busy,” I said. “This may be the last time he’s safe.” I looked up at him. “I’m assuming you plan on coming with me.”

  He smiled, very slightly. “As if I’d let you risk life and limb alone?”

  “Right,” I said. “This way.”

  It was almost dawn when we reached the basement door. I thought about trying to make it down the stairs and decided not to push it. I might make it. I might also be halfway down when the sun came up, and the idea of breaking my neck because I was dumb enough to play chicken with the dawn didn’t appeal. Closing my eyes, I leaned against the wall, and waited. Tybalt put his arm around my shoulders, and I jumped, but didn’t look. Dawn always passes. That’s one of the few things I like about it.

  If I hadn’t slept, the force of the sunrise would have been enough to knock me out. As it was, my headache was back full force by the time the pressure went away, leaving me queasy and glad that I’d skipped breakfast. I would have been sick otherwise. Tybalt kept his arm around my shoulders the whole time, steadying me. As dawn passed, I opened my eyes and flashed him a grateful look. He turned away, expression unreadable.

  Right. For a moment there, I’d forgotten that we weren’t friends. I pushed away from the wall and opened the basement door, heading down the stairs into the makeshift morgue.

  One small, important detail had changed. If I hadn’t known the contents of the basement so intimately, I might have missed it, but as it was, it was like finding water in the desert: too out of place to overlook.

  Alex was lying in Terrie’s place.

  Tybalt breathed in sharply. Apparently, he hadn’t believed me when I said something would happen. More fool him.

  “Jackpot,” I said, with a satisfied smile.

  Alex looked like all the others: like he should open his eyes at any moment and demand to know what he was doing in the basement. There was one major difference, however, which became evident when you looked for it; the punctures on his wrists and throat were gone. The dawn had healed as it transformed.

  “What in the . . .”

  “Two people, one murder,” I said, pressing my ear against Alex’s chest. There was no heartbeat. I hadn’t really expected dawn to revive him—that would’ve been too easy—but I’d hoped. “Alex’s blood is still alive. That’s why he changed when the sun came up. Now I’ve just got to figure out how to wake him the rest of the way.”

  Tybalt growled, the sound resonating through the basement. “Why not let him rot?”

  “It’s tempting. But I need to talk to him. Besides, fae don’t actually decay.” When dawn healed him, it left him with a body that was fully intact and ready to function. I just needed to figure out how to jump-start it.

  It had to start with blood. Everything starts with blood. Pulling the knife from my belt, I turned his arm toward me and cut shallowly across his wrist. There was very little blood. It had probably settled in his veins when his heart stopped. That was fine; I could cope.

  Bending, I pressed my lips to the cut, and drank.

  Down the corridor quick now quick run away run for safety find Toby find Elliot find anyone no not now no not me no I won’t die this way I can’t I won’t so run run get awa—

  Gasping, I jerked myself out of the memories and staggered backward, into Tybalt. He caught me easily, eyes gone wide.

  “October?”

  “Too close,” I said, trying to get my breath back. “It starts too close to dying. I can’t see who killed her.”

  “Then find another way,” he said, and set me back on my feet.

  I blinked at him. “You think I can?”

  He smiled, briefly, and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “I believe it. This suits you far better than your silly illusions.”

  “Oh.” I kept blinking at him for what felt like an impossibly long time before wrenching my gaze away, reaching for my knife. “The blood remembers itself. There’s nothing but inertia keeping him dead.” I paused to smile, grimly. “I’m going to regret this.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Not sure. Now hush.”

  He hushed.

  Blood magic is based half on instinct and half on need. There are patterns to follow and rituals that can make things easier, but in the end, it all comes down to instinct and need. I had to have lessons in flower magic and water magic; I had to be taught to spin illusions and mix up physical charms. But blood magic . . . blood magic just told me what needed to be done, and I did it. It’s the only thing that’s ever come without a struggle, even if it’s never been exactly easy.

  My mother can make stone sing with a few drops of blood and a heartfelt plea. I wasn’t looking for anything that flashy. Just a little resurrection.

  Placing the knife against my left wrist, I cut a careful X, deep enough to bleed but shallow enough that it wouldn’t be life threatening if I took care of it quickly. The smell of grass and copper began to rise, crackling in the air as the spell, still half-formed, began to sing. Good. Blood welled up from the cuts, running down my arm. The smell of copper strengthened, overwhelming the grass almost entirely.

  Keeping my movements deliberate, I placed my knife gingerly on the counter and turned toward Alex, tilting my arm to let the blood run down my fingers. The gauze covering my hand promptly turned
a rich and vivid red. I ignored it; for the moment, it wasn’t important. Things felt exactly right. Even the pain wasn’t important. All that mattered was the pattern that the blood was telling me to follow.

  “October . . .”

  I’d almost forgotten that Tybalt was in the room. “Hush,” I said again, beginning to drip blood onto Alex’s forehead and lips before pressing my hand flat over his heart, leaving a crimson handprint. The magic was catching hold, the pattern so clear I could almost see it . . . and it wasn’t enough. The pieces of the spell were there, but the picture wasn’t coming clear.

  Fine. If the universe wanted to play rough, I’d play rough. Raising my wrist, I chanted, “Oak and ash and willow and thorn are mine; blood and ice and flowers and flame are mine.” I pressed my lips to the cut, taking a mouthful of blood and swallowing. It burned all the way down. “Mine in turn are those who hold me, hurt me, bend me to their ends; I have bled and burned here, and I demand the return of what is mine.” The scent of cut grass and copper was overpowering. I took a second mouthful of blood and bent over Alex, pressing my lips to his and forcing the blood into his mouth.

  The spell shattered in a mist that sent me staggering. My feet slipped on the bloody floor and I nearly fell before Tybalt caught me, holding me upright.

  And Alex opened his eyes.

  That was the final piece to end the feeling of absolute serenity that had come when the spell caught hold; suddenly, I realized that I was bleeding, dizzy, and my head was pounding. What’s more, the taste of blood was coating my throat, making me want to gag. “Damn,” I muttered, stepping away from Tybalt to grab the sheet off Yui’s cot and start wrapping it around my arm. I’d just raised the dead—technically—and I didn’t need to bleed to death as a consequence. I’m not that fond of irony.

  “Oberon’s balls . . .” whispered Tybalt, in a small, awed voice. I glanced toward him, and he looked away, not meeting my eyes. That hurt.

  There would be time to worry about Tybalt later. I wrenched my attention back to Alex, who was sitting up now, eyes unfocused. He didn’t look like he was quite all there, and I couldn’t blame him. Being dead couldn’t have been easy.

  “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.” All that blood was a little distracting. I didn’t know whether I wanted to throw up or faint.

  “I . . .” Alex raised his hands, staring at the bloody fingerprints running down his arms. “I’m alive?”

  “Good guess.”

  “How . . .”

  “You weren’t really dead. You just thought you were.”

  “What?” He looked at me blankly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tybalt doing the same.

  I sighed. “You weren’t dead.” I felt surprisingly lucid, despite the pain and blood loss. I should really learn to recognize when I’m in shock. I can spot it in everyone else, but it somehow always takes me by surprise. “Whatever attacked you tried to drain the memories from your blood. I think that’s what actually kills people. They lose themselves.” I paused, wobbling. “It got Terrie, but it couldn’t get to you. Not at night. So here you are.”

  Alex’s eyes went wide. “Terrie’s dead,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry.” And then everything hit me at once.

  Dying probably takes a lot out of you. I wouldn’t know—I’ve never died—but I know how hard blood magic can be on the body. I managed to take a shaky step toward the cot before I fell. Tybalt didn’t catch me this time. Alex was shouting, far away, and I angrily thought that I’d told them not to go anywhere alone. What was he doing all the way over there? I tried to tell him to go find the others, but there were no words, just the taste of blood and ashes . . .

  And there was darkness.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I WOKE SLOWLY, fighting every inch of the way. The more awake I was, the more I hurt . . . but I was alive. That would have to do. I’ve always run myself hard—it’s one of my worst flaws—but I’d never tried two major acts of blood magic that close together before, and I was starting to think I’d blown some sort of internal fuse. My headache was worse than ever. I groaned, raising my right hand to my temple, and the last of the comfortable darkness dissolved, leaving me inarguably awake.

  Damn.

  “Toby? Are you all right?” I didn’t recognize the voice. That wasn’t surprising. I barely recognized my name.

  “Is she awake?” This voice was higher, although not high enough to be April. I sorted through the possible speakers, settling on Gordan. That wasn’t good, given my suspicions.

  “Her pulse is steady,” said a third voice. This one I recognized: Tybalt. Once I allowed that moment of recognition, I realized I was on my back with my head on someone’s leg, and that something cool and damp was pressed against my forehead. Probably a washcloth. “I think we just need to wait.”

  “I’ll wake up fast if someone gets me some coffee,” I said, not opening my eyes.

  “Toby!” That was Alex. Oh, good. He’d stayed not-dead. “You’re okay!”

  “No, I’m annoyed. There’s a big difference.” The inside of my mouth tasted like dried blood. Yuck. “Can I get that coffee?”

  Shuffling footsteps on what sounded like tile. “Toby, this is Elliot. Can you hear me?”

  “I’m answering you, aren’t I?” All this talking was making my headache worse. I was starting to seriously question the wisdom of not being dead.

  “She’ll be fine if she doesn’t do anything else stupid,” said Gordan, tone making it quite clear that she wasn’t harboring delusions about my intelligence.

  I considered my options. Movement was out—my head wasn’t allowing any argument—but I could open my eyes if I was willing to deal with the pain. I’d have to do it eventually.

  When I worked at Home, I woke up with hangovers on a regular basis. Most of them made me feel like my skull had liquefied. This was worse. The light was too strong, and the colors were too bright. I winced, forcing my eyes to stay open as I looked around. My head was in Tybalt’s lap. Elliot and Alex were standing nearby, and Gordan was off to one side, packing things back into her first aid kit.

  “How do you feel?” asked Alex.

  “Like I’ve been through a meat grinder. Am I getting that coffee?”

  “You lost a lot of blood,” said Gordan. “That’s twice I’ve had to tape you back together. Don’t make me do it again.”

  “I’m not planning to.” Especially since I was pretty sure she wanted to take me apart herself.

  “Good.” She picked up her kit and turned, starting for the stairs.

  “No going off alone,” said Elliot.

  She stopped, scowling. “I need to get back to work.”

  “Take Alex.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I need to talk to him.”

  “Well, I have work to do.” Gordan glared at us all.

  “So go do it,” I said, hoping I sounded tired enough that she’d believe I was slipping—and that she really was our killer. I wanted to be sure before I confronted her. I also wanted to be able to stand under my own power. “Call April if anything happens.”

  “Your concern is touching,” she said, and flounced up the stairs.

  Elliot turned to me once she was gone, frowning. “You let her go off alone.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I tilted my head back, looking up at Tybalt. “Help me sit up?”

  Without a word, he slid his hands under my back and scooped me into a sitting position. I pulled away, managing to support myself for almost a second before my arm buckled and I fell back against his chest. He put an arm across my shoulders, holding me there.

  “Stay,” he said, firmly.

  “You got it,” I said, looking around the room. We were still in the basement. A thick bandage had been wrapped around my left wrist, streaks of red staining the white. Tybalt and I were sitting on the cot where we’d placed Terrie’s body. That made sense. It was available real estate now.

  “You were bleeding so much we didn’t dare move you,�
�� said Elliot. “If Tybalt hadn’t told us you did it to yourself, we’d have thought you were attacked. I’ve never met anyone who cuts themselves open as often as you do.”

  “It’s a talent of hers,” said Tybalt.

  “Not a good one,” said Elliot, picking up a mug and offering it to me. “Drink this.”

  “Coffee?” I took the mug, peering into it. It wasn’t coffee. Not unless the description had been rewritten to include “green and sticky.”

  “No,” said Elliot. It was good to know that I didn’t need to add hallucinations to my list of symptoms. “Just drink it.”

  “I don’t drink green things.”

  “I made it. Drink it.”

  That didn’t strike me as being an incentive. “What is it?”

  “One of Yui’s recipes,” he said. It was the first time he didn’t flinch when he said her name. “It’s good for headaches. She used to give it to Colin when he stayed human too long.”

  I peered into the cup. If it tasted anything like it smelled, I was going to be very unhappy. Still . . . “Does it work?”

  “Colin said it did.”

  “Right.” I was an excellent target in my current condition, and I couldn’t afford to turn down anything that might help. Squeezing my eyes shut, I chugged the contents of the cup.

  It didn’t taste as bad as it looked. It tasted worse. Stars exploded behind my eyes as the mug slipped out of my hands to shatter on the floor. For a moment, I was halfway convinced that I’d been poisoned; then my headache withdrew, so abruptly that it left me dizzy. The ache in my wrist and hand seemed to worsen, filling the vacuum, but that was the sort of pain I could deal with. I’m used to it.

  I opened my eyes. The world snapped obligingly into focus. “What was in that stuff?”

  “Pennyroyal, cowslips, and wisteria, mostly,” Elliot said. “Are you all right?”

  “No, but I’m feeling better.” Sometimes I hate our inability to thank each other. Tap-dancing around the phrase gets old, especially when I’m tired.

  “Good,” said Tybalt, removing his arm.

  I leaned back on my good hand, taking a breath. I still felt queasy, but it was nowhere near as bad. Straightening, I turned to Alex. He looked surprisingly good for someone that had recently been dead.