Текст книги "A local habitation"

Автор книги: Seanan McGuire

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“I know you are.” A flicker of something like anger crossed her face. “It’s almost ironic. What we’re trying to do here . . . people shouldn’t be dying. That’s the last thing that should be happening.”

“What areyou trying to do here?”

“Nothing big. Design better computers. Get the Summerlands onto a decent phone plan. Save Faerie.” She waved a hand vaguely, like she was brushing off a fly. “The usual nonsense. What are you going to do now?”

“Go back to Quentin, and go through the rest of this paperwork.” I picked up the drawer, tucking it under my arm. “I need you to be more careful. All of you. Gordan’s in the cube maze, alone. Elliot is Oberon– knows-where, alone. Cut it out.”

“I’ll talk to them,” she said.

“We’ve reviewed the information you gave us and searched the offices we could find. Did Yui have an office?”

“Yeah—she just hid it really well.” She pursed her lips, looking momentarily unhappy. “When Elliot gets back, I’ll ask if he can lead you there. He can usually find it.”

“Elliot? All right. We can’t find anything the victims had in common, other than working here. I’m going to have a second look at the places where the bodies were found, but I don’t expect to find anything.”

“They were hired from a lot of different places, for a lot of different reasons,” Jan said, almost apologetically. “Colin . . . well, we needed a Selkie for some of our integration testing. It’s difficult to explain, but race really mattered. Peter was a history teacher with a specialization in folklore—that wasn’t just human folklore.”

“Faerie historian?”

“Genealogist.”

“Why did you need a genealogist?”

“Market research.” Jan shrugged. “You can’t use the same sales pitch with a Daoine Sidhe and a Centaur. It’s not going to work. Yui was our team alchemist. She could make just about anything compatible with anything else, if you gave her time.”

“What about Barbara?”

“Friend of Gordan’s, hired in a nonsecure position. She was from San Jose. That probably explains why . . .” Jan stopped.

“Why she betrayed you? Yes, it probably does.”

“Don’t the bodies tell you anything?”

“Nothing. They died of some internal trauma; I have no idea what it was, but the external wounds can’t have killed them. Maybe I’d know if I were more of a forensics expert, but I don’t, and I’m not.” The fae have never needed forensics training; that’s what the Daoine Sidhe are for. Unfortunately, that means we don’t have many options when the blood fails us.

“Maybe you’re too weak to ride their blood,” Jan said, slowly. “Changelings are weaker a lot of the time, aren’t they?”

“Quentin tried, too. Nothing.”

“We can’t get you a forensics expert. We can’t get the police involved.”

“I know,” I said. “Unfortunately, the dead aren’t talking.”

“But why are they like that?” she asked. “Why didn’t the night-haunts come?”

“I have no idea.” I raked my hair back with both hands, trying to hide my exasperation. “You’d have to ask the night-haunts.”

“Well, can you do that?”

I paused. “Can I . . . ?”

Could I ask the night– haunts? Were they something you could ask? I’d never seen them, and neither had anyone I knew; they came in the darkness, took the bodies of our dead and were gone. They weren’t something you saw . . . but couldI see them? Was there a way to summon them—and more importantly, could they tell me what I needed to know? The Daoine Sidhe know death, but the night-haunts aredeath. They might have the answer. I owed it to Jan to try.

Jan was watching me. I nodded, saying, “It may be possible; I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it being done. Maybe they can be summoned without a body.” I paused. If there was anyone who would know how to call the night-haunts . . . “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Please.”

“I’m going to head back to the office, go through these files, and try to figure out whether it’s possible. And get coffee. I really need coffee. Will you be okay until Elliot gets back?”

“I’ll be fine.” She pushed her glasses up with one finger. “I’ll lock the door and check in with April every few minutes.”

“Okay.” I inclined my head in the bare outline of a bow, tucked the drawer up under my arm, and walked back out into the hall. I had a lot to think about.

SEVENTEEN

VOICES RAISED IN faint argument were drifting through the door of Colin’s office. I sped up. Quentin’s safety was the one thing I wasn’t willing to risk. That’s why I wanted him to stay in the office in the first place: better paranoid with a locked door between him and the rest of the knowe than following me when I wasn’t sure I could protect him.

“—and I’m telling youthat if they focused more on telling a good story, the graphics wouldn’t matter! How many explosions do you needin the first ten minutes of a movie?” That was Quentin. He sounded annoyed, but not like he was being threatened.

“Your argument is specious,” countered the second voice. April, who sounded like, well, herself. Not quite bland enough to be a machine, but close. “You are a teenage male. Teenage males like explosions.”

“Generalize much?”

I relaxed before leaning forward and knocking, noting impassively that my brief terror seemed to have helped my exhaustion. The voices went quiet. Then Quentin called, “What’s the password?”

“Do your homework. Now let me in.”

He unlocked and opened the door, revealing April in my abandoned seat. The Hippocampi were clustered at the end of the tank, apparently as unhappy with the Dryad’s presence as they’d been with mine. I looked between them and raised an eyebrow.

“I tested that ‘pager’ thing,” Quentin said. “I just said her name and she showed up. And then we started talking about movies.”

April disappeared from the chair, reappearing next to Quentin. “His taste in plot and construction is contrary to that of most teenage males and does not make sense.”

“Chalk it up to his archaic upbringing,” I said, not bothering to smother my grin. “You two about finished? I need to update Quentin.”

“I have duties which I can attend to,” April replied. Looking toward Quentin, she said, “We will resume at a later point,” and vanished.

“Looks like someone has an admirer,” I said, and closed the door. “She open up at all?”

“Not really,” he said, sitting down again. “I learned that she likes AC current but DC tickles, she likes rabbits, and she thinks computer games are good exercise programs. Oh, and she doesn’t approve of people dying, because it disrupts the production schedule.”

I put the drawer from Barbara’s desk down next to the tank of Hippocampi. “So she doesn’t know anything?”

“If she does, it’s not anything I can get out of her.”

“Great.” I shook my head. “Not exactly useful, but you tried. Good for you.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Well, Barbara was spying for the Duchess of Dreamer’s Glass; I found her files. Everyone in this County has a death wish and insists on hanging out alone. And I need coffee. Get your things, we’re heading for the cafeteria.”

Quentin stood, nodding. “Do we know when my ride’s going to get here?”

“Ready to leave?”

He grimaced. “Ready to not be sitting in this office anymore.”

“I need to make a call anyway; we’ll call Shadowed Hills afterward, see if we can get a status.” I was assuming Tybalt had actually given Sylvester my message, and that someone would be waiting by the pay phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Jan’s asked me to try summoning the night-haunts.”

Quentin froze, staring at me. “Can you dothat?”

“We’ll never know until we try.” I was glad he hadn’t asked who I was calling. We’d both be happier if he didn’t know that part of things until he had to.

“Will they be able to help?”

“I have no idea.” The night-haunts live on the flesh of Faerie. They might decide I was an ideal midnight snack and rip me into pieces . . . but they might also decide to answer my questions. They had to have a way of knowing when anyone with fae blood died; they arrived too quickly not to. If they were capable of thought, they’d have a reason for their actions. They could share it with me. There was a chance that I’d get myself killed in the process, but that’s always a risk; if it worked, it would be worth it.

He watched my face as we left the office, starting down the hall toward the cafeteria. “Toby?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this a good idea?”

“Absolutely not. But it’s the only one I’ve got just now, so we’re going to run with it.”

“Right,” he said, with a sigh.

We walked the rest of the way to the cafeteria in silence. I opened the door to reveal Elliot sitting at one of the tables, staring into his cup. He looked up and smiled when we entered, trying to look like he wasn’t worried. It wasn’t working. “Hey.”

“Do we need to have a talk about what ‘keep someone with you’ means?” I asked, heading for the coffee machine. My exhaustion was fading, replaced by a sense of general irritation with the world. “Why are you here by yourself? Jan’s alone in her office.”

He sighed, putting down his cup. “You’re mad at me.”

“I’m mad at everyone.” I poured myself a cup of coffee as Quentin walked past me to the soda machines. “You’re the third person I’ve found alone. Are you tryingto make this harder than it has to be?”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry.”

“Forget about it,” I said, and took a long gulp of coffee, relaxing as I felt the caffeine starting to hit my system. “Quentin, get something nutritious to go with your soda. A Snickers bar or something.” Peanuts have protein, right? Topping off my coffee, I walked over to the pay phone.

“Dial nine for an outside line,” said Elliot.

“I don’t think that’s going to be an issue.” I put down my coffee, picked up the receiver and pressed my palm against the keypad, hitting all the numbers at once. The smell of grass and copper rose around me, almost cloyingly strong as I chanted, “Reach out, reach out and touch someone.” Quentin and Elliot were looking at me like I was nuts. That was all right; maybe I was.

The silence gave way to clicks, which faded and were replaced by watery ringing. Then a familiar, irritated voice was on the line, saying, “Hello?”

There are times for pleasantries; this wasn’t one of them. “Luidaeg, it’s Toby. I need to summon the night-haunts.” Elliot stiffened. Quentin dropped his soda. Well, they recognized the name.

The Luidaeg was silent so long that I was afraid she’d put the phone down and walked away. Then she snarled something in a language I didn’t recognize before demanding, in English, “What?!”

“I need to summon the night– haunts.” Repetition is sometimes the best way to deal with the Luidaeg: just keep saying the same thing over and over until she gets fed up and gives you what you want. All preschoolers have an instinctive grasp of this concept, but most don’t practice it on immortal water demons. That’s probably why there are so few disembowelments in your average preschool.

“Why?”

I outlined the situation as quickly as I could without leaving anything out. Dealing with the Luidaeg is a bit like juggling chainsaws, except for the part where you can’t master the trick. A chain saw won’t flip randomly in midair and dive for your throat: the Luidaeg might. Worse, if she thought I was holding back on her, she could refuse to help.

Elliot paled as I described what I’d found in Barbara’s desk, but kept listening, horrified and fascinated. Quentin gave me a wounded look and turned away. It wasn’t that I was calling for help: it was that I was calling the Luidaeg, who had every reason to hurt me after she helped. Almost everyone’s heard of the Luidaeg; she saw most of Faerie born, and she may see it die. Even for people who are supposedly immortal, that kind of age is scary. Some people say she’s a monster. I just say that she’s got issues.

When I finished she said, “And that’s why you want to summon the night– haunts?” She didn’t sound angry; just tired, and a little bit exasperated.

“Yes. I’m hoping they can tell me why they haven’t come for the bodies.”

“What if they won’t tell you? What if they don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” I said, opting for honesty before cleverness. “I’ll think of something.”

The Luidaeg snorted. “I’m sure you will. How many of the people you’re ‘guarding’ will die while you think?”

That stung. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Is it good enough?”

“Are you going to help or not?” Across the room, Quentin winced. The Luidaeg’s had millennia to learn how to piss people off. It was probably always a natural talent, but at this point, she can pack a world of insult into a single word.

“I shouldn’t, but I will,” she said. “Mostly because if I don’t, I’m sure you’ll try anyway and get yourself killed while I’m not there to watch. Do you have a pen?”

“Yes,” I lied, and gestured to Elliot, making scribbling motions in the air. He handed Quentin a notebook and pen, and Quentin brought it to me, quickly. I nodded to him, saying into the phone, “Go ahead.”

“Ask me the question first.”

“Luidaeg, I—”

“You know the rules. Ask me, and I’ll tell.”

“How do I summon the night-haunts?”

“Good girl. Now, here’s what you’ll need . . .” And she started rattling off ingredients and ritual gestures the way most people assemble shopping lists. Fortunately, I take good shorthand. Quentin watched, grimacing as I wrote out more and more elaborate instructions. I ignored him, continuing to write until she finally stopped, snapping, “You got that?”

“I think so. First, you . . .”

She cut me off, saying, “Good. Remember, don’t get cocky, and be sincere. It’s the intention they’ll be listening to, not the shape; if you don’t believe in what you’re saying, the night– haunts have the right to demand you go with them as a sacrifice.” She paused. “I should set up a deal like that. Bother me and I get to eat you.”

“Luidaeg?”

“Yes?”

“Will this work?”

“Follow my instructions and it will. Do you understand what you’re summoning?”

“I think so.”

“Good. You do this alone. They won’t answer if they feel the calling isn’t unified.”

I glanced at Quentin and Elliot, wincing. They weren’t going to like this. “All right. I understand.” I’d have to explain while we prepared.

“Understand this, too—that was your last question. My debt to you is paid. I don’t owe you anymore.” The line went dead.

I set the receiver back in the cradle, saying, “I know, Luidaeg. I know.” She’d owed me one true answer to any question I cared to ask. She didn’t owe me anymore. If I survived ALH, I might be coming home to my own execution.

Is there a law that says life can’t be simple?

“Toby? What’s wrong? What did she say?” Quentin sounded like he was on the verge of panic. It’s not every day you watch someone call the monster under your bed for help.

“She said . . .” That she’s going to kill me.I took a deep breath, suppressing the thought, and started again with, “She said I could do it. I can call the night-haunts.”

“You’re going to do what?” Elliot asked, eyes wide.

I turned to look at him. “Weren’t you listening? I’m going to summon the night– haunts so they can tell me why they haven’t been coming for the bodies.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Elliot looked more worried than Quentin. Between the two of them, I could tell which one actually had an idea of what the night-haunts could do.

“No. But the Luidaeg told me how to do it, and I guess I should follow her directions.”

“How can you just callthe Luidaeg?” Quentin demanded, somewhere between awed and afraid.

“It helps to have the number.” I sighed, looking at my hastily-written list of ingredients. “Elliot, is there a florist near here?” The ritual the Luidaeg outlined was a gardener’s nightmare, demanding dried samples of all the common fae flowers and about a dozen of the uncommon ones. It made sense, from a symbolic standpoint. From the perspective of obtaining the flowers, it was just annoying.

“Yes . . .” he said, slowly.

“Great. Would you do me a teeny little favor?” Anyone who knew me would have known better—when I ask for favors, run, especially if I’m using words like “teeny.” Cute phrases and I don’t meet often. Stacy and Mitch would’ve been out the door as soon as I opened my mouth, heading for a sudden appointment in Tahiti. Fortunately, Elliot didn’t know any better. The sap.

“Sure. Uh . . . what do you need?” He looked nervously at the phone. Considering what he’d overheard, he was probably expecting me to ask for a live chicken and a boning knife.

“These.” I flipped to a clean page, copying the list. “Dried is better, dead will do. The florists may not want to sell you dead flowers—you may have to dumpster dive.” I ripped out the page, handing it to him. “I need them to construct my circle. The ritual starts at sunset.”

I have to give him credit: he took the idea in stride. “I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Is there anything else you need?”

I consulted my notebook. “Half a pound of sea salt, six unmatched candles—preferably ones that have been burned before—juniper berries, a mandrake root, and some raven’s feathers.” It sounded like I was getting ready for a supernatural Girl Scout Jamboree.

“Oh.” He considered. “There’s sea salt in the kitchen, and about a dozen candles in the earthquake preparedness kit.” Most California fae keep earthquake kits. Immortality’s not that useful when the earth opens up and swallows you whole.

“Really? That helps.”

“Hold on . . .” Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do they need to be feathers from a real raven, or will skin-shifter feathers do?”

I paused. Selkies are the most common breed of skin-shifter, but there are others, including the Raven-men and Raven-maids. “I can’t tell the difference,” I said, finally, “so they should work.”

“Our last receptionist was a Raven– maid, and she left a lot of feathers in her desk. They should be in the storage closet in front.”

I looked at him quizzically, but it was Quentin who asked, “Do you people ever throw anything away?”

Elliot shrugged. “Not really.”

“That’s everything but the juniper berries and the mandrake root,” I said. “Is there an herbal specialty shop or a New Age supply store near here?”

“I didn’t see one,” Quentin said.

Elliot looked at us for a moment, expression unreadable, and then turned to the door. “Come with me.” Quentin and I followed, exchanging a bemused look.

We walked through a series of short hallways, stopping at a row of dark, closed offices. The nearest was marked with a small brass nameplate reading “Y. Hyouden.” I glanced at Elliot. “This is Yui’s office,” I said. “We couldn’t find it earlier. We were looking.”

“It’s hard to get here if you don’t know the way,” he said, pressing his palm against the door. “She liked her privacy.”

“Jan mentioned that. She said you could lead me here.”

“And I have,” he said, voice soft.

“Why are we here?” Quentin asked. “I mean, other than the hunting for clues part.”

“Because she always said she could stock an occult store out of her desk.” Elliot closed his hand into a fist, leaving it against the door. “She was so smart . . . but she couldn’t stop whatever it was that took her away.” His voice was full of raw, angry longing.

I blinked, startled. I shouldn’t have been: in any community as insular as ALH, some ties would be bound to run deeper than “coworkers.” “Elliot?” I said. “Are you all right?”

“We were going to be married this fall,” he said, like I hadn’t spoken. “We were waiting for the leaves to turn. She wanted . . . she wanted to be married when the world was on fire.”

The blows just keep coming. “I’m sorry.” The words weren’t enough. Words are never enough.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s gone, and you’re going to find out who took her from me.” He shrugged and opened the door, motioning us inside. I studied him, and then nodded, walking into the room. Quentin followed a few steps behind me, and Elliot brought up the rear, turning on the lights as he came.

Quentin stopped as the lights came on, eyes widening. “Neat . . .”

The office wasneat, in an eclectic sort of way. It was decorated in a mix of “modern electronics” and “traditional Japanese,” with red walls and soft lighting. The computer was on a raised platform surrounded by cushions, and a more standard drafting desk with deep, wide drawers was centered on one wall. Framed prints occupied three of the four walls; the fourth was dominated by a corkboard covered in glossy photographs.

“Toby, look,” said Quentin, pointing toward the photo at the center of the display. It was the largest picture there, obviously situated in a place of honor, surrounded by smaller, more careless snapshots.

“I see it,” I said, glancing toward Elliot. The picture showed him with Yui, dressed in summer clothes, smiling at the camera. He had one arm around her waist. Both of them were shining with that perfect, fragile happiness strong men have died trying to achieve; a happiness that was gone now. I think it must be worse to find it and lose it again than never to find it at all. Elliot walked over to stand in front of the picture, eyes filling with quiet tears. If it were up to me, I’d have let him do his mourning in peace. Unfortunately, the Luidaeg’s instructions were precise, and we were on a time limit. “Elliot . . .”

“Check the desk,” he said, not taking his eyes away from the photograph.

I doknow how to take a hint. I walked over to the desk and opened the left– hand drawers. Quentin followed, doing the same on the right. Peering inside, I let out a long, low whistle. “Wow.”

Yui wasn’t exaggerating when she said she could stock an occult supply store with the contents of her office. The drawers were packed with jars, bottles, and packets of herbs, wedged alongside bundles of feathers, dried flowers, and stranger things—all the necessities of life. I started to rummage. “Quentin, find the juniper berries.”

“What will they look like?”

“Dark purple pebbles. Sort of leathery.”

“Got it.”

The mandrake was in the second drawer I checked. I slid it into my pocket, shuddering as I felt the power leaking through its white silk covering. It had been gathered properly, wrested from the ground beneath a full moon; that was the only explanation for the way it was radiating strength. The preparation meant that it would work better, and more reliably . . . but I still didn’t like it. Mandrakes are used for the creation of doubles and Doppelgangers. They’re tools for people darker and creepier than I’ve ever wanted to be, but the Luidaeg had made it clear that there were no substitutions allowed.

I was just glad Yui’s mandrake was an infant, barely six inches long; I could never have handled a three foot long adult. It would have been too much for me and might have seized control of the casting. Letting a mandrake root take control of a blood magic ritual is a quick and easy way to die. Quick and easy; not painless.

“I’ve got the juniper berries,” Quentin said, holding up a glass jar.

“And I’ve got the mandrake. Elliot?”

“What?” he asked, finally looking away from the picture.

“You said you had feathers?” I continued to look through the drawers as I spoke, taking note of their contents. Many Kitsune are herbal alchemists, using plants and minerals to strengthen their magic. Some of the things Yui had were powerful, like the mandrake, but none of it was suspicious; it was just a Kitsune’s tool kit, designed to let her work her magic with as little effort as possible.

“Yes—I’ll send them with April after I’ve checked with Jan and arranged for the flowers. What are you doing?”

“Checking the office,” I said, and closed the desk drawers, moving to the drafting table. Elliot stared at me, dismayed. I sighed. “We’ve searched the offices of all the other victims, Elliot. I’m sorry about Yui, I really am, but we still need to do our jobs.”

“I . . . understand,” he said slowly, and leaned against the wall, tugging his beard. “Please, continue.”

“We’ll be as quick as we can,” I promised, and pointed to the prints on the walls. Quentin nodded, moving to start taking them down and checking the backs for hidden papers. I concentrated first on the drafting table, then on the computer and the cushions on the floor around it, turning things over and looking beneath them, hoping for another find like Barbara’s office, and half-dreading it at the same time—I did notwant to be the one to tell Elliot that his fiancée had sold them out.

Fortunately for my sanity, I didn’t have to. We searched for twenty minutes and found nothing but a stack of half-completed projects, some technical manuals, and a book of handwritten sonnets that we surrendered to Elliot without thinking twice. Eventually, we admitted defeat, and I moved toward the door.

“There’s nothing here. Quentin, come on.”

“Can you find your way back without me?” Elliot asked. I could hear the promise of tears in his voice.

I didn’t want to leave him alone. I didn’t want anyone to be alone in this death trap of a company. And yet, somehow, I couldn’t deny him the right to grieve. “Sure,” I said.

Elliot nodded once. “I’ll meet you there.” He turned to exit the office, shoulders bowed. We watched him go, silent. What was there for us to say? I couldn’t promise justice. If there’d been justice in the world, I could have given him Yui back. As it was, all I could do was try to avenge her.

He was barely past the doorway when April appeared, her arrival sending the smell of ozone and electrical fire washing over the office. Elliot stopped, turning back to face her, but her attention was focused on me.

“Are you available to receive a message?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Are you available to receive a message?” she repeated, tone exactly the same.

“That means you’re being paged,” said Elliot. “Yes, April, we’re available.”

“There is a visitor at the front gate.”

I glanced to Quentin. “Sounds like your ride’s here. April, who is it?”

“Identity presented as Connor O’Dell. Purpose presented as ‘beat Toby’s ass until she agrees to get the hell out of this death trap.’ ” April’s neutral expression didn’t flicker. “He is currently held at the front gate. Shall I permit him to enter?”

“Please. Quentin, come on.” I grinned, unabashedly relieved. “We’re getting you out of here.”