My name does the same thing, and that’s why I’ve never changed it to something more normal. My mother was what she was, and I am what she made me, and she thought “October” was a perfectly normal name for a little girl, even one born in 1952 at the height of human conservatism. If that little girl’s last name happened to be “Daye,” well, that was all the better! She was a loon, even then, and I miss her.
The sky was getting lighter; my encounter with the Kelpie had slowed me down enough to take me into dangerous territory. I started to walk a little faster. Getting caught outside at dawn won’t kill me—sunrise is painful, not fatal—but dawn also means a massive increase in the human population, and the last thing I needed was someone deciding I needed medical aid while my illusions were off. I look closer to human than a lot of changelings do, but “close” doesn’t cut it on the streets of a human city.
The streetlights above me flickered and went out, giving a final warning of morning’s approach. Time was up. Hiking up the collar of my coat for a little more cover, I started to run. Not that it was going to do much good; I was still blocks from my apartment, and the light was moving a lot faster than I was. There was no way I was going to make it.
A narrow alley stretched between two buildings about half a block ahead. Forcing one last burst of speed, I raced to the alley’s mouth and ducked inside, moving as far back as I could before the growing pressure of the dawn forced me to stop and slump against the wall. I could feel it spread across the city, ripping down all the small illusions and minor enchantments of the night. Then the light hit the alley, turning my slump into a collapse, and I stopped thinking about anything more complicated than taking my next breath.
There’s nothing kind about the way sunrise affects the fae. Just to make it even less fair, it’s harder on changelings than it is on purebloods, because we have fewer defenses. The light didn’t quite burn, but it came close, filling the air around me with the ashy taint of dying magic. I kept my eyes closed, forcing myself to take slow, measured breaths as I counted down the moments between the dawn and the day.
When the pressure of the dawn passed enough to let me move again, I straightened, taking a shaky breath, and moved deeper into the alley. The aftereffects of sunrise last for five minutes—ten at the most—but most spells just won’t take during that time. That’s part of why it’s so dangerous to be outside at dawn. The threat of discovery is always there, and it’s not a good idea to take chances.
It helps that humans don’t believe in faeries anymore. Not even the people who say that they do. Oh, sure, they may believe in cartoon sprites and sexless fantasy creatures, but they don’t believe in the real thing. There are reasons for that, and some of them are even good ones, but there are also the reasons they believed in the first place. Dawn is one of those reasons. It pulls down our illusions, making us too easy to see and too hard to deny; after all, even the most stubborn humans will usually believe their own eyes. All it takes is one moment of carelessness on the part of the faerie world, just one, and after that . . .
After that comes the iron and the silver and the rowan wood, and the mass graves on both sides, and the burning. In the end, it always comes down to the burning, and that’s a risk I’ve never been willing to take. I may be playing at being human, but that doesn’t make me stupid.
People were starting to pass on the sidewalk outside the alley. Humans have always preferred to live their lives by daylight. I used to think it was because human beings have crappy night vision, and it wasn’t until I got older and more cynical that I realized it was because they have less to be afraid of during the day. Illusions don’t last as long in broad daylight. The monsters can’t find as many places to hide, and all Faerie’s lies get easier to catch and define. You can be human and still be safe, during the day.
Something rustled behind me, and I tensed. I wasn’t alone.
“Great.”
First I got caught outside at dawn, and now I was sharing an alley with somebody who could see me for what I really was. If this day got any better, I was going to scream.
I turned, hiking my coat up around my chin. Anyone who looked closely would be able to see that something wasn’t right, but the alley was dark and narrow, and frankly, the sort of person you meet in dark alleyways at dawn is looking for things besides pointed ears. “Hello?” I peered into the shadows.
Two green circles flashed in the dark. I yelped, jumping backward and pressing myself against the wall.
“And may I wish a very good morning to you, too, October.” The voice was amused, underscored by a chuckle like thick cream. “What happened? Did the prettiest little princess miss her carriage home?”
“Tybalt,” I said, surprise dissolving into disgust. I straightened. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
The shadows parted, flowing around the man who stepped through them into the alley. They slid together again once he was through, closing seamlessly. I’ve always wished I could do that—but then, Tybalt’s pureblooded Cait Sidhe, and he can do a lot of things I can’t. He smirked. I glared.
I’m not short, but Tybalt’s about six inches taller, giving him just enough height to look down on me when the fancy takes him. He’s got the sort of sleek, muscled build that only comes from a few specific types of exercise programs. For most men, that would mean yoga or running. In Tybalt’s case, it means bloody control of the local Court of Cats. He became their King by right of blood; he’s held the position by beating the crap out of anyone who tries to take it away. The Cait Sidhe take a more direct and violent approach to succession than most of Faerie.
Even in the dim light of the alley, I could pick out the darker bands of brown that streaked his short-cropped, slightly tousled hair, mimicking a tabby’s coat. His eyes were narrowed, but I knew that if I could see them, they’d be green, split by cat-slit pupils. Add all that to skin like ivory and the sort of face that winds up on magazine covers, and it’s no wonder that Tybalt’s looks get him a long way with a lot of people. Not with me. That doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed them—the man is basically walking sex appeal—but I’m not dumb enough to do anything more than look. Even when I was interacting with Faerie of my own free will, I only looked when I was sure he couldn’t see me. Some games are too dangerous to play.
“But you’re so easy to sneak up on.” He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. “You should be honored that I bother, since there’s no challenge to it.”
“Right,” I said, dryly.
Tybalt has never made a secret of his contempt for changelings in general and me in particular. Not even the fourteen years I spent missing and presumed dead could change that. If anything, it made things worse, because when I came back, I promptly removed myself from all the places he was accustomed to finding me. Hating me suddenly took effort—an effort he’s proved annoyingly glad to make. On the other hand, it’s actually been something of a relief, because it’s something I can count on. Dawn comes, the moon wanes, and Tybalt hates me.
His smile broadened, displaying the tips of oversized canines. “Maybe I should make it a hobby. That might give you something to look forward to.”
“You could get yourself hurt that way.”
If the threat bothered him, he didn’t show it. He just smirked. “Is that so?”
His words were mild, but there was a warning underneath them, telling me that if I pressed things further, it was at my own peril. It’s moments like these when I think he’s not the King of Cats just because he’s so tied to his subjects, but also because of the way he plays with people. And I, of course, had put myself into the perfect position to be a plaything, since I couldn’t exactly claim the protection of my liege lord while I was denying all of Faerie.
“Probably not,” I admitted, as calmly as I could. I didn’t need to get myself hurt just because I was being jumpy. “I just don’t like it when people sneak up on me.” Past experience told me he could smell my fear; it also told me that the anger accompan
ying it would pretty much cover the scent. It’s good to know how to compensate for your own weaknesses.
“I do adore the costume. What are you these days, a maidservant? A charwoman in one of these glass towers?” Tybalt tilted his head to the side, studying me. “The trousers fail to flatter, but the blouse is sufficiently gauzy.”
“Ha, ha,” I said, pulling my coat closed and folding my arms over my chest. I was blushing, much as I didn’t want to be. Bastard.
“Really, if you’d just do something with your hair, perhaps you could take a few steps up the social ladder. I understand that there are things called ‘scissors’ these days, very advanced, they allow you to—please don’t be alarmed, I promise it’s painless—shorten and even out the strands. It’s far more flattering.”
I reddened further. “Did I miss the announcement that today was ‘mock Toby’ day?”
“Don’t be silly. That’s every day. But if you’d like a new topic, we can talk about something else. For example, what brings you out at such an unpleasant hour? Did you feel the need for a little company and come to watch the sunrise from the privacy of my alley, hoping I’d show up?” He put a subtle stress on the possessive, watching me with a territorial air that was more intimate than I liked. He didn’t like me, and he never had, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take a certain perverse glee in watching me squirm.
“I got caught out, Tybalt. I’m only here until I can hide myself and go home.” I had every right to be where I was, and he knew it. Rules are rules, and this one came straight from Oberon: it doesn’t matter whose territory you’re in, you can hide from the dawn. “And this isn’t your alley any more than it’s mine. You should be in the park.” The Court of Cats is hard to find or pin down, so officially it’s part of the myriad fiefdoms of Golden Gate Park. That was probably part of why he was taunting me—I’d caught him out just as much as he’d caught me.
Tybalt’s answering smile was thin. He wasn’t happy that I’d called him on that one. I spared a moment to consider the wisdom of pissing him off while we were stuck together in an alley and shrugged. It was too late to take it back. “I go where the urge takes me, October; you should know that by now. All places are alike to me, and today I wanted to check on my little fish. To see where she was . . . swimming.”
The last word was almost a whisper, all smooth edges and insinuation. I stiffened, hands clenching as fury cut through my fear like turpentine through oil paint. “That was uncalled for.”
“If you can’t take the heat, maybe you should go back to the pond.” His tone was triumphant. He knew he’d managed to get to me, and at that point, I didn’t really care. All I cared about was shutting him up and forcing the memories back into the hole where they belonged.
“Tybalt,” I said, and paused to choose my words with care. The sunrise lull was ending: I could feel the potential for magic creeping back into my blood, almost unwillingly. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, and I’m going to leave now. You’re not going to follow me. Understand?”
“Running away already?”
“I’m walking away before I do something we’d both regret.” Reaching out, I grabbed a handful of shadows from the alley wall, molding them between my hands as I ordered them to hide me. Illusions have always come easier when I’m angry—I don’t know why, because nothing else works that way. Still, sometimes it seems like I can only craft a really good disguise when I’m so mad I can’t see straight.
Tybalt didn’t bother to look away as I blunted the tips of my ears and glossed over my eyes with a veneer of human blue. My hair and skin could be left alone, which was a good thing; there are too many steps involved in a stable disguise, and none of them are simple ones. Thanks to my father’s blood, I look almost entirely human. Someone seeing me with my masks off might think I had an unusually fine bone structure, or that there was something wrong with my eyes, but they’d be unlikely to think “fairy-tale creature walking the streets of San Francisco.” Thanks to my mother’s conditioning, I’m basically incapable of taking the risk.
It was a good five minutes before I shook the clinging shadows from my hands and let them drop, resisting the near uncontrollable urge to pant. The smell of copper hung heavy in the air.
“Good job!” said Tybalt, applauding. I glared. He grinned, displaying his fangs. “I could almost believe that you were really a trained monkey and not just the worse half of one.”
“Stick a cork in it, Tybalt. I’m out of here.” The traffic outside was getting more urgent as the city woke. “You should do the same.”
“Should I? Good-bye, then; open roads, kind fires, and all winds to guide you.” He laughed, seeming to fold inward. There was a popping noise as a rush of warm air that smelled of musk and fresh pennyroyal blew over me, leaving a brown tabby-patterned tomcat where Tybalt had been. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said he was smiling.
All Cait Sidhe are drama queens and jerks as far as I’m concerned. Tybalt’s never seemed interested in proving me wrong.
“Good idea,” I said. “You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”
The cat winked and stood, slinking over to rub up against my ankles. I lashed out with one foot, aiming a kick at his middle, but he dodged effortlessly and bounded away, tail held high. Shaking my head, I watched him blend into the shadows at the rear of the alley. “Damn cat,” I muttered, and left the alleyway for the street and the rest of my long walk home.
TWO
THE FOG HAD BURNED away with the dawn, and I walked the rest of the way through a city with no illusions at all. There weren’t any fairy tales in the streets around me. If there was ever a Cinderella, her glass slippers shattered under her weight and she limped home bleeding from the ball.
My apartment isn’t in the best neighborhood, but it suits my needs. The roof doesn’t leak, the managers aren’t nosy, and my rent includes a spot in the attached parking garage, where my car languishes day in and day out, thanks to the lack of employee parking at the Safeway. I punched in my code at the side gate, unlocking it, before following the narrow outdoor path to my building. I’m in one of the ground-floor units that actually has an outside door. There are neighbors above and to my left, but there’s nothing to my right but walkway and grass. I like having at least the illusion of privacy.
That illusion didn’t last either. There was a teenage boy slouching in my doorframe, hands jammed into his pockets, every inch of him radiating discontent. The shimmer of magic around him was visible even halfway down the path, tagging him as fae. The air tasted like steel and heather; the illusion that made him seem human had been cast recently, and on my doorstep. He’d been there since before dawn.
I hesitated. I could ignore him and hope he’d let me into my apartment without a scene. I could go to the Starbucks down the street, nurse a coffee, and hope he’d go away. Or I could get rid of him.
Never let it be said that I’d chosen the easy way out or shown a fondness for uninvited visitors. Narrowing my eyes, I stalked down the path toward him. “Can I help you?”
He jumped, turning toward me. “I . . . what?”
“Help you. Can I help you? Because you’re between me and my apartment, and I was hoping to get some sleep today.” I folded my arms, scowling.
He squirmed. Judging by body language alone, he was actually the age he appeared to be, putting him somewhere in his mid-teens. His hair was dandelion-fluff blond, and his eyes were very blue. He’d probably have been beating the girls off with a stick if he hadn’t been dressed like he was about to ask me if I’d accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior. Any kid dressed that formally and standing on my porch at dawn had to be on some sort of official business, and that just made me scowl deeper. I prefer to avoid official business. All it ever does is get people hurt.
“I . . .” he stammered. Then he seemed to remember himself and straightened, puffing out his chest in the self-important manner that seems to be endemic to pages everywhere. “Do I have the privi
lege of addressing the Lady Daye?” He had a very faint accent. Whoever he answered to now, he’d started life somewhere in or near Toronto.
“No,” I snapped, pushing past him to the door. The red threads that store my warding charms were still taped above the doorframe, almost invisible in the early morning light. Dawn damages wards, but it usually takes three or four days to destroy them completely. I dug for my keys. “You have the ‘privilege’ of annoying the crap out of Toby Daye, who isn’t interested in your titles, or whatever it is you’re selling. Go away, kid, you’re bothering me.”
“So you are the Lady Daye?”
Eyes on the door, I said, “It was Sir Daye, when it was anything at all.”
“I’m here on behalf of Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, protector of—”
I turned to cut him off before he could launch into a full recitation of Sylvester’s titles and protectorates. Holding up my hand, I hissed, “This is a human neighborhood! I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, and frankly, I don’t care. You can take your message and your on-behalf-of back to Shadowed Hills, and tell Sylvester I’m still not interested. All right?”
The kid blinked, looking like he had no idea what he was supposed to say. My reactions didn’t fit inside his courtier’s view of the world. I had a title, one that had clearly been awarded to me for merit, rather than out of courtesy, if I was insisting on the use of “sir” over “lady.” Changelings with titles are rare enough to be conversation pieces, and changelings with titles they actually earned are even rarer; as far as I know, I’m the only changeling to be knighted in the last hundred years. I had a liege, and not an inconsequential or powerless one at that. So why was I refusing a message from him? I should have been turning cartwheels of joy just to be remembered, not blowing off a Duke.
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