Текст книги "A local habitation"

Автор книги: Seanan McGuire

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SEVEN

MELLY ANSWERED ON THE THIRD RING. “Shadowed Hills, how can I help you?” Her voice was broad, accented with the sort of jolly American drawl that thrived in the middle of the country about two hundred years ago. I’ve known Melly since I was a kid—she’s Kerry’s mother, and she used to sneak us sweets from the kitchen at Shadowed Hills—and just the sound of her was enough to relax me.

“Hey, Melly. Sylvester around?”

“Toby! How are you, darling? Did Himself really ship you off to Tamed Lightning with naught but a foster to keep you company?”

“Quentin’s not so bad.” Quentin was presently being “not so bad” in his own room, where he was hopefully going to get some sleep. ALH seemed to operate on a diurnal schedule, and we were going to be clocking a lot of daylight hours before we went home. “Put the boss on? I’ve got an update for him.”

“You’ll visit soon?”

“I will.”

“All right, then. Hold on a second.”

Sylvester must have been waiting for my call, because I was on hold less than a minute before he picked up, breathless. “Toby?”

“Here,” I confirmed. There were a few cold fries left on my room service tray. I picked one up, swirling it in a puddle of ketchup. “We’ve arrived safely, and I met your niece. You should’ve told me she was twitchy and paranoid.”

“I would have, if she normally were. Did she say why she stopped calling?”

“That’s the funny thing. She says she’s beencalling, and that you haven’t been answering her messages.”

“Wait . . . what? But that’s ridiculous. Why would she say something like that?”

“You say she’s not paranoid. She says she’s been calling. You say she hasn’t been. This sounds to me like something’s up.” I popped the fry into my mouth, chewing quickly. “Is there any chance you can send reinforcements without causing some sort of diplomatic incident?”

“Not without more to go on, no. Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah. It was about as productive as talking to Spike. Maybe less. I mean, at least Spike makes an effort. It could be because she’s not sure I am who I say I am, and she’s trying to be careful. Has she been having a lot of issues with Dreamer’s Glass recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Sylvester hesitated. “Are you comfortable continuing?”

“To be honest, no, but if she’s not getting messages somehow, I don’t think swapping me for somebody else is really going to make her less twitchy.” I sighed. “I’ll go back tomorrow and see what I can find. If you need to pull me out of here, we’ll reassess the situation from there. All right?”

“All right. Just keep me informed.”

“Of course.”

We chatted for a few minutes about inconsequential things—Luna’s latest gardening projects, my cats, Quentin’s performance so far—before I hung up with another promise to let him know if we needed anything. I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

My dreams were fuzzy, tangled things that faded when the sun came up. I rolled over, wrinkling my nose at the smell of ashes, and peered at the alarm clock. The first digit was a five, which was all I needed to see; groaning, I buried my head under the pillow and went back to sleep.

The sound of knocking hauled me back to consciousness about six hours later. I pulled my head out from under the pillow and glared at the door. The knocking continued. Knowing hotels, the knocking would probably be followed by someone from the housekeeping staff deciding to come in and start dealing with the sheets. I was too bleary to remember whether I’d thought to put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

Some people like to sleep naked; me, I like to sleep in a knee-length T-shirt. Nudity wasn’t the issue. The issue was that my human disguise had dissolved at sunrise, and I didn’t have time to weave a new one.

“Come back later!” I shouted, sitting upright and trying to finger-comb my hair over my ears. I could pass for human long enough to slam the door, if I could get my hair to behave. “I’m not decent!”

The sound of muffled laughter drifted through the door. “I didn’t know decency was a requirement for breakfast.”

“Alex?” I lowered my hands, scooting out of the bed and reaching for the hotel robe. “What are you doing here?”

“Currently? Shouting through your hotel room door. I brought breakfast.”

“Yes, but what are you doinghere?” I shrugged into the robe, tying it shut as I moved to open the door. “I don’t remember ordering room service.”

Alex smiled, holding up a paper bag that smelled of eggs and melting cheese. He had a tray in the other hand, with two large paper coffee cups prominently displayed. My stomach rumbled. “Ordering, no, but needing to? Definitely yes. I told you I’d see you at breakfast.”

“I guess you did,” I said, and held the door wider. “Come on in.” I was taking a chance by asking a man I barely knew into my hotel room, but somehow I doubted that anyone who could be incapacitated with a cafeteria door was going to be much of a threat. If he’d been a pureblood, I might have thought differently. I’d take my chances against another changeling, even one whose bloodline I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“Nice digs,” said Alex, walking past me. I watched him as I closed the door. He was clearly one of Faerie’s rare morning people, making a tidy contrast to my own bedraggled and half-awake self. I was in robe, oversized T-shirt, and socks, with my uncombed hair raked unevenly over my ears. Suddenly, I found myself wishing desperately for some excuse to sneak off for a shower and a change of clothes.

“Luna booked our rooms,” I said, giving my hair another swipe with my fingers. “I probably wouldn’t have asked for anything this nice.”

“Well, then, my compliments to the Duchess.” Alex put the tray down on the desk, opening the bag. “Egg and ham croissant, or egg and sausage croissant? Please don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian. I’d die of embarrassment.”

“I am definitely nota vegetarian. Can I get the egg and ham?”

“Egg and ham it is.” He tossed a waxed paper-wrapped breakfast sandwich toward me, and I caught it easily, sitting down on the edge of the bed as I did. Alex beamed. “Nice reflexes. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black is fine.”

He walked over to offer me one of the cups. “Sleep well?”

“Fairly,” I said, sipping the coffee. It was hot, strong, and about the most wonderful thing I could have wished for. I let my shoulders relax. “You?”

“It was a good night.” He walked back to the desk, picking up the second cup.

Sipping at my coffee again, I watched him. He looked perfectly comfortable. Whatever was bothering Jan, it didn’t seem to have touched him at all. “So how’re things back at ALH?”

“Oh, the usual. Mornings are essentially downtime—once the graveyard shift goes home, things slow down. I probably won’t get paged to fix anything for a few hours.”

“What is it that you do, exactly?”

“System maintenance. I’m a code monkey.” Seeing my blank expression, Alex explained, “I tell the computers what to do, and when they do something they’re not supposed to, I correct their instructions.”

“And Terrie? She does the same thing?”

“Pretty much. She works nights and I work days, but our jobs are essentially the same.” Alex quirked a smile, one eyebrow raising. “Just so we’re clear, has breakfast suddenly turned into a game of twenty questions? Because if it has, I think it’s only fair that we both play.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ll answer yours if you’ll answer mine.”

“Fair enough.” I put my coffee down next to the clock, unwrapping my sandwich. “Start from the top. January O’Leary. What do you know about her?”

“A lot, considering I’ve been working for her for about twelve years. She’s focused. I mean, scary– focused. Once she starts a project, she sticks with it until it’s finished or until she’s managed to beat every possible solution into the ground. She can get a little twitchy when she doesn’t have a handle on things, but she means well. Do you have a boyfriend?”

I nearly choked on my sandwich. Swallowing, I managed, “What?”

“I answered one for you, now you get to answer one for me. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not right now,” I said, cheeks starting to burn. I coughed to clear my throat and said, “Elliot. He does what around here, exactly?”

“He’s the County seneschal. He does administrative stuff, like the bills and talking Riordan’s people out of challenging us to single combat in the middle of the local computer store. He’s been with Jan for like thirty years. What’s the deal with your sidekick?”

“Quentin’s a foster from Shadowed Hills. Duke Torquill asked me to bring him along, since this is a pretty straightforward diplomatic job.”

A shadow crossed his face, there and gone before I could identify it. “Straightforward,” he said. “Right.”

“Is it going to do me any good to ask what that look was for?”

His grin was only a little bit forced. “Nope. Your question.”

“All right: April.”

Alex blinked. “April?”

“Sylvester didn’t say anything about Jan having a daughter. What’s the situation there?”

“April is . . . a special case. She’s adopted. Sort of.” Seeing my blank expression, he shrugged, and said, “She’s a Dryad.”

This time, there was no “nearly”; I literally choked on my coffee, coughing for several minutes before I managed to croak out a startled, “What?”

“She’s a Dryad.”

“How does that even work?” Most Dryads are sweet, reclusive bimbos who avoid people whenever possible, preferring the company of woodland fauna and other Dryads. They’re not the sharpest crayons in the box. Most of them probably don’t even realize the box exists.

“It’s a long story, and it happened before I got here, so it’s sort of secondhand . . .” Alex looked at my expression and continued without missing a beat, “But I guess I can try. April was an oak Dryad. She lived in a proper Grove and everything, with about a dozen others. Then some developers bulldozed the place—including her tree—to put up condos.”

“That’s horrible.”

“The Dryads thought so, too. Most of them sealed themselves away and waited to die, but not April.” Alex shook his head. “She grabbed the biggest branch she could carry and ran like hell.”

“So what happened?”

“She got lucky. She found Jan.” Alex picked up his own coffee, turning the cup in his hands. “Jan loaded her into the car and drove home. From what I understand, she paged Elliot while she was en route—they’ve been friends forever—and sent him to look for survivors. All he found was kindling. He cursed the land and came back to see what was going on.”

“And?”

“Jan was up with her all night. No one knows exactly what she did, but April lives in an information ‘tree’ inside one of the Sun servers now, and she’s doing fine.”

I paused. “You’re telling me you have a Dryad living in your computers.”

“She’s happy there. She doesn’t get sluggish in winter like most Dryads do, she doesn’t need clean water or fresh air, she’s pretty much indestructible—she’s happy.”

Jan moved a Dryad from her home tree into an inanimate object all by herself? I shook my head. “How does that work?”

“I’m not sure. You’d have to ask Jan.”

These people kept managing to get weirder. “What does April do in there?”

“She acts as the interoffice paging system.”

This time, I wasn’t trying to swallow anything. I gaped at him. “What?”

“Have you ever been on one side of a building and needed to talk to someone on the other side?”

“Yes.” That was why Shadowed Hills had a small army of pages on continuous duty.

“That’s what April does. She finds you, relays the message, and goes back to whatever she was doing before you called. She doesn’t seem to mind, and Jan doesn’t stop us, so we use her to make sure people are where they need to be.”

“You’re using the Dryad who lives in your computers as an intercom.”

“Basically, yes.”

“You’re all nuts.”

“Yes, and we’re cute, too.” Alex winked. My cheeks burned red. Now clearly amused, he walked over to sit down beside me on the bed. “I believe that makes it my question.”

“I believe you’re right.”

“ Whydon’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Ask the insulting questions, why don’t you?” I took a large gulp of coffee, ignoring the way it burned my throat, and shook my head. “It’s complicated. There just hasn’t been time.”

“So that means you’re available?”

I gave him a sidelong look. “I think that’s two questions.”

“Maybe.” Alex grinned. “Is that a complaint?”

“Three questions.” I could feel the heat coming off his skin. He hadn’t dropped his human disguise, and this close, I could smell the clover and coffee of his magic beneath the brisk cleanness of his shampoo. “No, I’m not seeing anyone, and yes, I might be available. After I’m off duty.”

“Good.” Leaning over, he plucked the coffee cup from my hand, set it on the floor, and kissed me.

Privacy and familiarity make a big difference where I’m concerned. I pressed myself against his chest, returning the kiss without hesitation. The state of my hair and clothing was forgotten in favor of the much more interesting question of how close we could pull each other without one of us actually winding up in the other’s lap. He’d been talking with his hands since the moment we met, and now, tangled in my hair and cupping the back of my neck, they sang.

Alex was the one who pulled away first, leaving me out of breath and wide-eyed. “After you’re off duty?”

Not quite trusting myself to talk, I nodded.

“Good.” He brushed his lips across my forehead as he stood, walked back to the desk and picked up his own discarded breakfast. “I’ll see you at the office?”

That was an easier question. I swallowed, and answered, “Yeah.”

“Great.” Grinning, he opened the door, and he was gone.

I stared after him for a long, stunned moment before I groaned, flopping backward on the bed. The smell of coffee and clover still lingered in the air, and I had the not entirely unwelcome feeling that things had just gotten a lot more complicated.

EIGHT

ALEX LEFT SHORTLY AFTER TWELVE, but it was half-past two by the time I managed to get Quentin moving. More things you only learn when you spend a lot of time with someone: Quentin was even less fond of getting up early than I am. I’m normally the one being hauled out of bed, not the one doing the hauling. I was in too good of a mood after my unexpected breakfast date to get grumpy about it; I just got myself ready to go, ordered more coffee from room service, and let him take his time.

It was already a warm day outside, but I wore Tybalt’s jacket anyway, combining it with my T-shirt and jeans in a way that Tybalt would probably have found positively slovenly. The faint scent of pennyroyal still clung to the leather. It was comforting, somehow, even if I didn’t want to examine that thought too closely.

On the plus side, our late departure meant we missed most of the traffic. Spending rush hour in a car with a half-awake teenager isn’t an experience I’m in any hurry to have. We reached ALH a little after three o’clock, sailing free and easy all the way.

The gate cranked upward as we approached. “That’s more like it.”

Quentin yawned, damp dandelion-fluff hair still plastered against his head. “You even scare the landscape.”

“It probably remembers us from yesterday and doesn’t want to be enchanted again. The inanimate can have a surprisingly long memory.” It really was a beautiful day. I was almost humming as we pulled down the slope to the parking lot and into the first available space.

A little girl appeared on the sidewalk ahead of us. There was no transition or warning; one second the sidewalk was empty, and the next second she was there, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans, watching us with the clinical interest of a cat watching a bird through a closed screen door.

“That’s . . . different.”

“Toby? Do you see that?”

“You mean the little blonde girl on the sidewalk?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, yes, I do.” I unfastened my seat belt, climbing out of the car. “Let’s go say hello.” Quentin followed close behind as I started across the lot.

The girl wasn’t as young as I’d assumed; she was probably closer to thirteen than ten, although Quentin still looked a few years older. There was a strange blankness to her features that created the illusion of her being a much younger child—a certain lack of information, of the experience you’d expect from a girl in her early teens. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a gray T-shirt, and her only visible adornments were the rabbit-shaped barrettes that kept her shoulder-length blonde hair from falling into her face.

Everything about her was yellow, from the faint golden tan of her skin to her wide yellow eyes, shadowed by the green frames of her glasses. Her irises matched her hair with eerie exactness. She had the Torquill bone structure; whatever she’d started out as, she was definitely her mother’s daughter now.

“Hi,” I said, stopping a few feet away. Quentin stopped beside me, but didn’t say a word.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was neutral: it was like talking to a recording. She could have been Daoine Sidhe—her stance and the shape of her ears suggested it—but I didn’t think so. She didn’t feel like one of the Daoine Sidhe. She didn’t feel like anything.

“I’m—”

“You are October Daye, Knight of Shadowed Hills. And this is Quentin, currently fostered at Shadowed Hills from parts unidentified.” It wasn’t a question.

Great. All-knowing kids aren’t my idea of a good time. “Yes, I’m Toby, and this is my assistant, Quentin, and we’re from Shadowed Hills.”

“I’m April.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“Why? Does your mother want to see me?”

A quizzical look crossed her face, marring her neutral expression. “My mother is occupied with greater concerns. I thought you had come to view the body.”

There are a lot of ways to get my attention. Saying the word “body” is near the top of the list. “The what?” Quentin gaped at her.

“The body. Colin has suffered a hardware failure and fallen out of synch with the server. Everyone is greatly upset; they’re running in circles, just like last time, and they’re not getting any work done. There is still testing to complete, you know.” She said the last almost peevishly, like the world was creating bodies just to spite her.

“No, I didn’t know,” I said slowly, thinking, Just like last time?“Where’s the body?”

“Inside, through the glass doors, at the center point of the cubicle maze. Everyone is there. You should go there as well. Then you can worry about it for them, and they will all go back to work.” There was a sharp snapping sound, like an electrical cable breaking, and April vanished. Ozone-scented air rushed into the space where she’d been standing.

That’s not something you see every day. I stared at the empty air.

“Toby . . .”

“I know,” I said, shaking myself out of it. “Come on.” Turning, I ran for the door.

This time, I was expecting the transition into the Summerlands, and I took note of the moment when it happened, already wondering how many other ways there were to move between the two sides of the building. Quentin pulled ahead and opened the door into the hall, pausing as he waited for me.

I could smell blood mixing with the processed air as soon as the door was open. Strange as April was, she’d been right about at least one thing: something was very wrong.

“Behind me, Quentin,” I said, stepping past him.

“But—”

“No buts. If things look dangerous, you run.”

Quentin hesitated before falling in close behind me. Being a page teaches you how to shadow people without being underfoot; that’s part of being a good servant. Now he was getting the chance to see how it also prepared you for combat. If anything attacked us, his position meant he was already balanced to fight back.

Elliot, Alex, and Peter were standing at the center of the cubicle maze, arranged in an unconscious parody of the way we’d first seen them. Their fear was so strong it was almost something I could reach out and grab hold of. Peter’s human disguise shimmered around him, casting off sparks as his almost-hidden wings sent up a panicky vibration that made my teeth itch. I moved closer, close enough to see what they were staring at.

Colin was sprawled on the floor, eyes open and staring, unseeing, up into the darkness of the catwalks. I didn’t need to check for a pulse or ask if they’d tried CPR. I know dead when I see it.

The ground around the body was clear, with no signs of a struggle. Discreet punctures marked his wrists and throat; there were no other injuries. I glanced back at Quentin. He was standing a few feet behind me, wide-eyed and pale as he stared at the body. I couldn’t blame him. The first time you see real death is hard.

“Out of my way,” I said, stepping between Peter and Elliot. There are times when I have a lot of patience, but there are things that don’t get better, or easier, when you let them wait.

“Toby . . .” Alex began.

“Now,” I snapped. “And stay here. I need to talk to you.” They moved without any further protest. Elliot, at least, looked somewhat relieved. I’m half-Daoine Sidhe; that means people assume I know how to deal with the dead. After all, of all Titania’s children, only the Daoine Sidhe can “talk” to the dead, using their blood to access their memories—often including the memory of how they died. We’re like the fae equivalent of CSI. Some races got shapeshifting or talking to flowers, and we? We got borrowed memories and the taste of blood, and people washing their hands after we touch them. Not exactly what I’d call a fair trade.

I’m half-Daoine Sidhe; I’m also half– human. That does a lot to damage my credibility, but being the daughter of the greatest blood-worker alive in Faerie makes up for my mortal heritage. Lucky me. I’ve been trying to live up to my mother for my entire life. Because a crazy, lying idiot is the perfect role model.

The Daoine Sidhe didn’t sign up for the position of “most likely to handle your corpses,” but we didn’t have to. Most fae don’t have much exposure to death, and they’re grateful when someone—anyone—is willing to play intermediary. Death doesn’t really bother me anymore; somewhere along the line, it just became a part of who I am. Coffee and corpses, that’s my life. Sometimes I hate being me.

I dropped to my knees next to the body. “Quentin, come over here.”

“Do I have to?”

I paused, almost reconsidering. Sylvester asked me to let him follow me around for a while; he didn’t ask me to start teaching him the gruesome realities of blood magic. Then again, I don’t believe in hiding the truth from our children. It always backfires.

“Yes, you do,” I said.

Anger and fear warred for ownership of his expression before he sighed, moving to join me. The habit of obedience was stronger than his desire to rebel. Faerie trains her courtiers well.

“Good,” I said, and turned my attention to Colin. Maybe it’s a sign of how many bodies I’ve seen over the past year, but I felt no disgust: only pity and regret. I sighed. “Oh, you poor bastard.”

I was aware of the men behind us, but they didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the body and what it had to tell me.

Colin’s coloring was normal under the lines of his henna tattoos, showing no signs of lividity, and his eyes were still moist, almost alive in their blank regard. He’d died recently. He looked startled but not frightened, like whatever happened was a surprise without being unpleasant. At least until it killed him.

“Toby . . .”

“Yeah?” I lifted Colin’s hand, frowning at the ease with which his elbow bent. He was cold enough that rigor mortis should have set in already, but his joints were still pliant. That wasn’t right. There’s a point at which rigor mortis fades, replaced by limpness, but he wasn’t suffering from that, either; his body had normal muscle resistance. He just wasn’t in it.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know yet. Hush a minute, and let me work.” The punctures on Colin’s wrists were nasty, but not enough to be the cause of death. The skin around them was only slightly bruised; the trauma of whatever killed him wasn’t enough to rupture many of the blood vessels. There’s a lot of blood in the average body, but most of Colin’s was still inside where it belonged.

The third puncture was nestled below the curve of his jaw on the left side of his head, surrounded by a ring of jellied blood. There were no other visible injuries. There was something else wrong with the body, but my eyes seemed to slide off it when I tried to look more closely.

I frowned. “Quentin, look at the body. What’s wrong with it?”

“You mean besides being dead?” he asked, with an odd half-stutter in his voice.

“I know it’s hard. It was hard for me the first time, too. But I need you to look closely, and tell me what you see.”

The first time—ha. My first time was one of Devin’s kids, back when I still worked there. He overdosed in the bathroom an hour before his shift in the front was supposed to start, and he wasn’t even cold when we found him. I helped three older boys carry him behind the bar and leave him for the night– haunts, and I was sick three times before morning. Devin still made me stand my watch, because duty was duty. I’ve never been that cruel a taskmaster . . . but Devin was my teacher, and I learned a lot from him. One of his most important lessons was that the hard things are best done quickly: face what you’re afraid of and get it over with, if you can. It hurts less in the long run.

Quentin swallowed and looked down, scanning the body. He frowned, confusion breaking through his disgust. “Is there something wrong with his hands?”

I looked down. Colin’s hands were webbed, like a Selkie’s should be, curled at his—

Oh, no. Oh, root and branch, no. Stiffening, I said, “Yes, Quentin. I think there is.”

The fae don’t leave bodies. That’s a lot of how we’ve stayed hidden all these years. When we die, the night-haunts carry us away, leaving behind illusion-forged mannequins to fool human eyes. The signs of Colin’s heritage should have been gone, replaced with apparent humanity by the night– haunts. They should have been gone . . . but they weren’t. His fingers and toes were webbed, and his eyes were brown from edge to edge. Except for the punctures at his wrists and throat, he could have been playing some sort of tasteless joke.

But he wasn’t joking; he was dead, and something was very wrong. The night-haunts never leave a body long enough for the blood to chill. So why hadn’t they come for Colin? Why was he still here?

“Toby?”

“It’s okay.” I patted him on the shoulder with a suddenly clumsy hand, aware of how cold the comfort must seem. “I think this may be why Sylvester sent us here.”

“I don’t think he knew . . .”

“I know.” I pulled my hand away. “Go see when Jan’s getting here.” I didn’t want him to see what I was going to do next. I may not like lying to the young, but even I have my limits.

Quentin nodded and stood, trying to hide his relief as he turned toward Elliot. “Sir? Where is your lady?”

“April went to get her,” Elliot said, voice low and numb.

“How long?” I asked, without looking around as I dragged my forefinger across the wound on Colin’s left wrist. Sometimes being Daoine Sidhe is the most disgusting thing I can imagine. Those of us with skill at blood magic can taste a person’s entire past in the weight of their blood. It makes us excellent counselors and better detectives; it also means we spend a lot of money on mouthwash. After a while, the taste of blood never really goes away.

The blood clung to my finger. I stared at it. The last time I rode the blood, I wound up so bound to a murdered pureblood that I almost followed her into death. A little paranoia was natural. Careful not to glance behind me—I didn’t want to know if Quentin was watching—I slid the finger into my mouth and waited.

Nothing happened. The blood was sour and curdled, and there was nothing in it that spoke of life or death or anything else. I leaned forward, Quentin and the others forgotten. The existence of a fae corpse was jarring and unnatural, but not being able to ride the blood was just plain wrong. Nothing I’d ever heard of could empty blood of its vitality like that. This time I used the first three fingers of my right hand, dipping them into the blood at his throat and sucking them clean. Nothing. Colin’s memories, his self, the things that should have been waiting for me, those were gone.

There was no possible way for this to be good.

I looked up to find Quentin staring at me, expression somewhere between horror and fascination. I met his gaze without blinking, deliberately licking a wayward drop of blood from my lower lip. He was going to have to deal with some of the less attractive aspects of being Daoine Sidhe one of these days. After all, he was one, too.

Peter blanched when I licked the blood away, but Alex just watched, seeming fascinated by the gesture. I flushed, fighting the urge to duck my head, and looked to Quentin. “Have you had any training in blood magic?” I asked.

“A . . . little,” he admitted. “I’ve never . . . not with someone that had . . .”

“There’s a first time for everything. Come down here.” He shook his head before he could stop himself. I nodded firmly. “Yes. I need you to confirm what I’m getting from him. You’re supposed to be helping me. So help.”

He knelt reluctantly, asking, “What do I . . . do?”

“Touch his right wrist. Get some blood on your fingers.” That was the only wound I hadn’t tried yet. Amandine may have been the most powerful blood– worker in the country, but I’m still just a half– blood. It was possible that Quentin, even young and half-trained as he was, would be able to pick up on something I’d missed.

He did as I told him, shivering the whole time. I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “It’s all right. You’re doing fine. Now put your fingers in your mouth.” He shot me a terrified look. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to put your fingers in your mouth.” He flinched, and I continued, “Then you’re supposed to swallow. The blood can’t hurt you; it’s just a conduit for the magic.”

“All right,” he said. Screwing his eyes closed, he shoved his fingers into his mouth, and swallowed. There was a pause before he opened his eyes, licking his lips automatically, and said, “When does the magic start working?”