Late Eclipses

by Seanan McGuire

  Their human disguises had vanished along with their street clothes. May didn’t change much. Her eyes had bleached from blue to their natural shade of almost colorless gray, while her features acquired a more delicate cast and her ears became visibly pointed. Danny appeared to have gained a foot in both height and breadth. His skin was gray, with the rough, craggy texture of granite, and his hair looked more like moss. I raised a hand to tuck my hair back, feeling the point of my own ear. No illusions for anybody tonight.

  “At least she has a sense of color,” I said, and turned back to the ballroom.

  The place was packed with fae from a hundred different races. They thronged around us, moving in slow eddies, like a living tide. Several of them stared shamelessly in our direction. I resisted the urge to flip them off.

  The stares turned shocked as May stepped up beside me. She was gawking without a trace of shame, even going so far as to lean back on her heels and study the chandeliers. She looked too much like me to be anything but my Fetch, and while bringing her to Court was technically allowed—she was fae, and she lived in the Kingdom of the Mists, at least until she blipped out of existence—it wasn’t what most people would consider proper.

  “I was never a big fan of propriety anyway,” I said reflectively.

  May stopped gawking to blink at me, bemused. “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” The crowd was turning away, buzzing about the tackiness of May’s presence. They didn’t even bother to pretend they hadn’t been staring. Why should purebloods—purebloods associated with the Queen’s Court, no less—care if they were rude to a changeling?

  “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” said Danny. The last of the spectators sniffed and turned away, patently snubbing us. Danny ignored them, slanting a glance toward me as he asked, “How long you think we’ve got before she shows?”

  “I don’t know.” The dais at the center of the room was untenanted, the throne sitting empty. That wasn’t a surprise. The Queen knows the value of a dramatic entrance. “Go ahead and mingle. We’ve probably got a while to wait.”

  May frowned. “So why did we hurry?”

  “When the Queen’s late, it’s fashionable. When we’re late, it’s an insult. Now go on, go get on people’s nerves by existing.”

  May laughed and grabbed Danny’s arm, tugging him into the crowd. I smiled and shook my head, turning to walk in the opposite direction. The courtiers whispered as I passed. Louder whispers in the distance told me where May and Danny were. I let my smile become a grin. My Fetch makes an excellent distraction, and I have no problem using her as one. What’s the point of having a personal incarnation of death if you can’t confuse the locals?

  I found a clear patch of wall and settled against it, watching the Court return to its normal routine. Immortality makes ennui status quo, and not much is interesting enough to disrupt a gathering of purebloods for long. Apparently, traveling with your Fetch isn’t in the right league. Good to know.

  People moved in short arcs, shifting from group to group as they shared information, spread gossip, and looked for juicy bits of blackmail. Someone moved up next to me, waiting a few seconds before clearing his throat in a polite request for my attention. I turned and found myself looking into a pair of inhumanly green eyes set in a sharp-featured face.

  I blinked, trying unsuccessfully to hide my surprise. “Tybalt.”

  “It’s good to see all those blows to the head haven’t impaired your ability to identify faces,” he said, the hint of a smile crossing his lips. His pupils contracted against the light, taking on a feline cast. “They haven’t improved your manners, either. In case you weren’t aware, ‘hello’ is typically what comes next.”

  “I—what are you doing here?” The Cait Sidhe are the only race in Faerie with their own independent aristocratic hierarchy. Tybalt has been San Francisco’s King of Cats for years. He’s not exactly forbidden to visit the Queen’s Court, but he definitely isn’t someone I’d expected to see there.

  His smile became real. “Picking wallflowers.”

  I felt my cheeks go red.

  Growing up around the Daoine Sidhe left me severely desensitized to “pretty.” Pretty is cheap in Faerie. Beauty is even cheaper. Tybalt has more than beauty. He has . . . presence. He can catch and hold a room without even seeming to try.

  I’d have an easier time ignoring him if he’d stopped at pretty.

  Ironically, the things about him that appeal to me are the ones that make most non-Cait Sidhe purebloods view him as “common” or “savage.” His face is eyecatching but too strong for most fae tastes; his hair is brown with tabby-streaks of black, cut practically short to display the subtle points of his ears. His canines are a bit too sharp, more cat than man no matter what shape he’s in.

  Qualifiers aside, Tybalt’s one of those people who’d look good in a burlap sack. He could probably make burlap the hot new thing, and what he was wearing that night was a long way from burlap. Skintight brown suede pants and a crisply-cut white linen shirt made him look like a modern interpretation of a Victorian gentleman. His boots and vest were darker brown leather and fit just as tightly. I wasn’t sure he could breathe in that outfit. A tiny, traitorous corner of my mind whispered that the effect was worth losing a little oxygen.

  I batted the thought forcibly away. “Seriously, why are you here?”

  “Tonight’s festivities sounded like fun,” he said. “I like fun.” Something in his eyes conflicted with his smile, cautioning me not to dismiss him.

  “Fun,” I echoed.

  “Indeed.” Eyes locked on mine, he added, “For someone, anyway.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  Tybalt and I have always had what’s politely called a “strange” relationship. He used to hate me on general principles: I was half-human, and I annoyed him, and that was enough. Hate somehow gave way to grudging respect . . . and then things got really strange. Lingeringlooks-and-cold-showers strange, at least on my side. Not that it can ever go anywhere. Tybalt’s a King of Cats, and I’m, well, me.

  Our current pattern looked a lot like our old one, from the outside. He smiled more than he used to; I smiled back more than was necessarily wise. There was just one problem: Tybalt kept insisting someone was lying to me about something major enough that I wouldn’t believe it unless I figured it out for myself. And he was refusing to get any closer until I knew what it was.

  The man can be insufferable when he wants to. Just like every other cat I’ve ever met.

  He offered his arm with perfect courtly grace. “The Lady of the Mists will be calling Court soon.” He wouldn’t call her “Queen,” but he was smart enough to be polite inside her domain. “May I stand as your escort?”

  I glanced sharply at him, looking for any trace of mockery. It wasn’t there. Just the smile, and the guarded caution.

  “I guess so,” I said, and slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow.

  His smile grew, briefly chasing the caution from his eyes. “I know you object to others choosing your attire, but the gown suits you. You should wear red more often.” My cheeks burned. He laughed. “Not quite what I meant, but the compliment stands.” Standing straight and proper, like the gentleman his clothes proclaimed he was, he turned to lead me to the front of the room. I watched him as we walked, trying to figure out what he was up to. His expression didn’t offer any clues.

  Tybalt pulled his arm away when we reached the edge of the crowd, and the bow he offered wasn’t mocking in the least. I offered a curtsy in automatic response, my blush rising once more. He glanced to the side while I was straightening from my curtsy, and for a moment, I thought his cheeks were as red as mine. Just a trick of the light; when he turned back toward me, he was as composed as ever.

  “You’ll have a better view from here,” he said.

  “Uh, right.” I frowned. “Tybalt, what are you up to?”

  “Oh, no,” he said, waving a finger as he stepped closer. “Don’t question yo
ur betters. It’s not attractive.”

  That was the Tybalt I knew. “Right,” I said. “You’re here to piss me off.”

  “You seem to view it as one of my strengths, and I like playing to my strengths.” Suddenly serious, he stepped toward me again, stopping well within what I considered my personal space. Dropping his voice to a near-whisper, he said, “The Lady of the Mists is planning something. Take care, little fish; she has no love for you.”

  “Tybalt—”

  “I need to leave you with anger on both sides. I’d rather she had no cause to think us friends.” His smile dimmed, turning wry and sincere at the same time. “You’ll do better if you keep me in reserve.”

  I blinked. The Queen was plotting against me? It wasn’t totally surprising—I couldn’t stay off her radar forever. Lacking better instructions from my brain, my mouth seized on the point that seemed the strangest, asking, “We’re friends?”

  Tybalt’s laughter was so soft it would have been inaudible if I hadn’t been close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin and smell the faint pennyroyal undertones of his magic. “When I can bear your company. And in the interests of friendship, I hope you’ll forgive me what I’m about to do.”

  “Forgive you wha—”

  My sentence was cut off as he clamped his mouth over mine, kissing me deeply.

  Well. That was new.

  THREE

  TYBALT’S HAND SOMEHOW FOUND ITS WAY to my hip, giving me something to brace myself against. That was considerate of him, since my knees were shaking so hard I could barely stay upright. Every nerve I had was on fire. The fact that we were standing in the middle of the Queen’s Court seemed utterly inconsequential. So did the fact that we were surrounded by courtiers, even though part of me was sure I’d regret that later. Most of me was busy kissing Tybalt, and as long as he was kissing me back, I was going by majority rule.

  On the few occasions when I’d considered what it might be like to kiss Tybalt, I always assumed he’d be pushy, the kind of man who makes it clear that he’s entirely in charge and you’d better just go along with things. This kiss wasn’t anything like I’d imagined. It was firm, yes, and he was definitely making a case for its continuation . . . but it was also soft, and a lot more considerate than I would have expected. I’m not sure what that says about me.

  Tybalt’s free hand skated up my back to the bare skin between my shoulders. I leaned into him, deepening the kiss. His lips tasted like pennyroyal. His hand slid still farther up, finally pausing on my shoulder.

  Then he shoved me away.

  I staggered back, my shocked stare meeting his icy, familiar sneer. In a tightly controlled voice pitched loud enough for everyone around us to hear, he said, “There. Our accounts are settled. Good evening, Sir Daye.” He turned on his heel and stalked off into the crowd before I could recover enough to ask what the hell he was talking about.

  The courtiers parted to let him pass, closing the gap behind him. The less considerate ones smirked in my direction, their expressions telegraphing the belief that I was getting just what I deserved.

  My instincts said to stay put until my knees stopped shaking, while the lessons on courtly behavior Devin and Sylvester worked so hard to drill through my thick skull told me that was the worst thing I could do. I straightened my shoulders, trying to emulate my mother’s default expression of superior unconcern as I beat a decorous but hasty retreat to the safety of the nearest pillar. Seeing that I wasn’t going to provide further entertainment, the crowd turned away, leaving me free to fade into the shadows. I sagged against the wall, rubbing my forehead as I waited for my heart to stop pounding. Life was a lot simpler when Tybalt just sniped at me all the time.

  “Guy troubles?” asked May, walking up and leaning next to me.

  I eyed her. “Did you miss what just happened?”

  “Nope, and it’s about time,” she said, with disturbing relish. “I caught the whole thing. Is he a good kisser? I know you’ve wondered.”

  “May!”

  “What? I’m just asking. I mean, sure, maybe it’s not important that Tybalt kissed you. And I’m sure it doesn’t matter that he’s leaving, and you look like someone stole your puppy.” She paused. “Maybe ‘stole your kitten’ would be a better comparison.”

  “Can we not have this conversation?”

  “Okay,” said May, amiably. “It’s no skin off my nose if you want to ignore the hottie making ‘pick me up and take me home’ eyes at you.”

  “It was just a ploy.” A ploy that felt an awful lot like a kiss. There was no way he’d ever kiss me like that and mean it, but for a moment, it felt like . . .

  “You’re not that dense. You have to know he digs you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Would I lie to you?” She grinned. “Watching the two of you is fun, in a sick, sad, voyeuristic sort of way.”

  “Get a life.”

  “I’ve got yours. Now come on. Don’t you want to get snuggly with him?”

  I didn’t have to find a way to answer that. The scent of rowan sliced through the air, washing away all traces of lesser magic and casting an anticipatory hush over the Court. My shoulders locked with a whole new type of tension.

  “Whoa,” said May.

  I turned toward the dais at the head of the room, and stared.

  The Queen had made some changes to her image. When I brought her the hope chest Evening Winterrose died to protect, the Queen was an ethereal siren, as elegant and regal as a Tolkien wet dream. Now she looked like the bastard daughter of Titania and Alice Cooper. Kohl ringed her eyes, blue lipstick coated her lips, and her formerly floor-length ivory hair was chopped in a ragged bob, streaked with black and vivid blue. She was wearing fishnet stockings, a ripped white top, and a black leather miniskirt too short to be decent. But it was her. There was no mistaking the moonstruck madness in her sea-foam eyes.

  She studied the room before dropping onto the throne, bracing her elbow on the armrest and propping her chin on her knuckles. She looked as casual as a teenager getting ready to settle in for an evening of mindless television. Only this “teenager” was the most powerful Faerie monarch in Northern California. She waved a hand, still casual, and said, “The Court of the Mists is now in session.”

  That seemed to be all the fanfare we were going to get. Courtiers stepped forward and started reading from scrolls as they made proclamations, clarified prior judgments, and generally made a lot of noise about nothing. The Queen didn’t say a word. She just sat there, studying her black-enameled fingernails.

  This went on for about an hour, long enough for Danny to find us, May to start sniping in a whisper about the Queen’s fashion sense, and me to start relaxing. The Queen looked up, almost as if she’d sensed my guard beginning to drop, and said, “Will Sir October Daye of the Kingdom of the Mists, Knight of Lost Words, daughter of Amandine of Faerie, oath-sworn to Duke Sylvester Torquill, please stand forth?”

  She was using my full title, something that has never, in my experience, been a good sign. I schooled my face into a neutral expression as I stepped away from the pillar and walked through the silent crowd, finally stopping in front of the dais.

  The Queen’s gaze stayed on me throughout my approach, her own expression cool and calculating. I dropped into a deep curtsy, holding the position until she said, “You may rise.”

  I straightened, keeping my eyes focused on the floor. I never look at the Queen when I can help it. I have enough mortal blood in me to make her type of inhuman beauty dangerous.

  “We have summoned you to discuss your recent actions.” Each word was cold and precise as cut crystal. “Raise your head, if you please.”

  I winced, looking up. The sight of her face was just shy of physically painful. “My actions, Highness?”

  “Yes, October.” She sat up and crossed her legs languidly. “Do you remember the last time you stood before me in this Court?”

  That would be the time she’d thrown
me out for daring to tell her that Evening was dead. Oh, yeah. I remembered. “Yes, Highness.”

  “You returned the hope chest which had been in the keeping of the Lady Goldengreen before her . . . departure.” She pursed her lips. Most purebloods consider it a faux pas to admit that they can actually die. “You haven’t been to see me since then. I must wonder why.”

  “I’ve been busy, Highness.”

  “So you have. The Countess O’Leary tells me you spent some time in her lands, and brought the efforts of—” again the moue of disapproval “—a dissident to an end, preventing a possible war.”

  “Yes, Highness,” I said. The Countess O’Leary in question was April, not January; that was one more murder the Queen wasn’t mentioning. I wasn’t sure where she was going with all of this, but it wasn’t helping my nerves.

  “It pleases me to know your memory remains excellent,” she said dryly. A nervous giggle rose from the crowd, stopping when her gaze flicked in its direction. Looking back to me, she said, “I am informed you are the reason Blind Michael’s Hunt has vanished. Is this true?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “Excellent.” She leaned back in her throne. “There have been many requests for the custodianship of Goldengreen since the departure of the Countess Winterrose. Some of the petitioners were quite compelling in their arguments.”

  I frowned, not sure I liked where this was going. “Highness?”

  “The decision was complicated by the fact that the Countess left no heir, placing the burden of choosing a proper custodian on my shoulders.” Her smile was as triumphant as it was bitter. “By my power as Queen of the Mists, Regent of these Western Lands, I name you Countess of Goldengreen. Welcome to the peerage, Lady Daye.”

  The Court erupted in excited whispers. I stared at her, too stunned to speak. Changelings don’t inherit titles, not even from their parents. What was she trying to pull?