Текст книги "A local habitation"

Автор книги: Seanan McGuire

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

TWELVE

THE DESK CLERK CRINGED when we stormed through the lobby. Quentin had crafted his human disguise during the drive from ALH, and I’d slammed mine into place in the parking lot. It wasn’t very well sealed, but I didn’t care. It was just there to keep us out of the tabloids until we’d reached our rooms and taken what we needed. Colin’s sealskin was slung over my arm, disguised to look like a slightly dingy towel; I wanted to keep it out of harm’s way, so that it could be returned to his family when everything was finished—if we survived.

We could probably have done without the disguises; the desk clerk was the only one in sight, and he was a pale, worried man who’d never have recognized what we really were; a child of the modern world, raised to think of faeries as pastel creatures dressed in flower petals and bathing in moonbeams. If he saw us undisguised, he’d think he was looking at a kid playing Star Trek games and a giant Tinker Bell knockoff with PMS, and he wouldn’t understand why he wanted to run away. I glanced at him as we passed, and he flinched. Looking away, I shook my head. It never gets better. I don’t think it ever will.

The humans aren’t stupid, no matter what the purebloods say; they’re just blind, and sometimes, that’s worse. They put their fear in stories and songs, where they won’t forget it. “Up the airy mountains and down the rushy glen, I dare not go a-hunting for fear of little men.” We’ve given them plenty of reasons to fear us. Even if they’ve almost forgotten—even if they only remember that we were beautiful and not why they were afraid—the fear was there before anything else. There were reasons for the burning times; there’s a reason the fairy tales survive. And there’s a reason the human world doesn’t want to see the old days come again.

Neither do most of the fae, myself included. Faerie didn’t need changelings to bridge the worlds in those days: her children ruled the night, and they were going to live forever. It didn’t last—it couldn’tlast—but they didn’t know that then. Time made Faerie weak while it made the humans strong; that’s the reason people like me can exist. Faerie is finally weak enough to need us. So, no, I don’t want the dark years back; I don’t want to rule the night or cower in the dark, and those would be my choices. But there are times when I want to drop the illusions and say, “Look, I’m a person, just like you. Can we please stop hiding from each other? We have better things to do. ”

I want to. But I never will.

Quentin and I stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor. “What now?” he said.

“Get what you need—some clean clothes, any weapons you have. You did bring some kind of weapon, didn’t you?” He shook his head. I sighed. “What are they teaching you?”

“Etiquette, heraldry, how not to offend visiting dignitaries . . . that sort of stuff,” he said.

“Unless you’re planning on dining with Kings and Queens on a regular basis, none of that’s as important as having something sharp to put between yourself and whatever’s trying to kill you. Understand?” When I got done shouting at Sylvester, we were going to have words about Quentin’s education. Shadowed Hills had plenty of knights; one of them would be able to start teaching Quentin to fight properly. Etienne, maybe. I’d have to talk to him, assuming we made it back.

“Sorry, Toby.”

He looked so repentant I couldn’t stay annoyed. It wasn’t his fault they weren’t teaching him properly. Shaking my head, I said, “Get your things and meet me in the lobby in ten minutes. We’ll see what we can do about getting you something resembling a weapon.”

“Got it,” he said, and headed off down the hall at a fair clip. I watched him go, shaking my head. If nothing else, we could raid the cutlery section at the local all-night grocery store or something. There’s always an option if you’re willing to be creative. When he was out of sight, I turned and walked the short distance to my own room, digging the key out of my pocket.

Housekeeping had been through while I was out, replacing the wet towels with fresh ones and folding down the covers on the bed. It’s nice to have someone play Brownie for me—that’s one faerie service changelings can’t sign up for, and I really need it. The word “slob” doesn’t even start to cover my household skills.

My duffel was on the floor of the closet. I dropped the sealskin and scooped the bag onto the bed, rummaging through my wadded-up clothes until I found the velvet box at the bottom under my spare jeans. The ribbon fell off as I pulled the box free; not that it mattered. I’d been using it to keep things closed. It was time to open them.

We don’t get to redo the past just because we don’t like the way things turned out. Dare died for me. It was up to me to survive for her.

I pulled out the knife she gave me, sliding it into my belt and anchoring the hilt through one of the loops before tugging my shirt down to cover it. It was a standard faerie fighter’s blade, hardened silver sharpened to a killing edge. It was also the best talisman I had. Silver doesn’t burn the way iron does, but it comes closer than anything else.

The baseball bat was under the bed, tucked away where it wouldn’t upset the cleaning staff more than was necessary. I picked it up, hefting it thoughtfully, and let out a breath I’d barely known I was holding. Being armed always improves my mood, especially when something’s been killing people. Maybe a dead girl’s knife and a stick of aluminum aren’t “mighty weapons,” but they’d have to do.

I picked up the phone after cramming my clothes into the bag, dialing the number for Shadowed Hills. Melly answered on the second ring. “Shadowed Hills, how may I be of service?”

“Is Sylvester there?”

She paused. “October? Child, you sound exhausted. What’s the matter?”

The sound of her voice—of any voice that meant I had a chance of reaching my liege—was like sunlight through the clouds. I sat down on the edge of the bed, closing my eyes. “Just put Sylvester on, Melly. Please. It’s sort of urgent.”

“All right, dear, all right. Just hold on a moment.”

“I’ll be right here.”

There was a click as she put the call on hold; Sylvester picked up less than ten seconds later, tone vibrating with concern. “October?”

I took a deep breath, letting it rush out before I said, “Hey. Did you get my message?”

“What message?” He sounded honestly perplexed. “I’ve been waiting for you to call. Is everything all right? What’s going on?”

“No. Everything’s not all right. Everything’s not even a little bit all right. Listen.” And I told him what was going on. There was a lot of ground to cover, especially since he kept breaking in with questions. I did my best to answer them. In the end, there was a moment’s silence, both of us waiting to hear what the other would say.

Finally, subdued, Sylvester said, “I want to call you home more than anything. You know that, don’t you?”

“But you can’t. I know that, too.”

“No, I can’t. Toby . . .”

“I want to send Quentin back to Shadowed Hills. It’s not safe.”

He hesitated. “If this is some sort of political attack, as you say January fears, it isn’t safe to send him back alone. I’ll have to find someone who can come and collect him without angering Riordan. Can you make sure he stays alive until then?”

I laughed bitterly. “I’m not sure I can keep myselfalive until then, but I’ll try.”

“Do what you can,” he said. “Just do me the favor of being careful?”

“I will. Check your phones, okay? I don’t know why our messages aren’t getting through, but it’s freaking me out.”

“I’ll keep someone by the phone night and day. Call every six hours.”

“Or what?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, flatly, he said, “I’ll think of something.”

There was nothing to be said after that. I made my good-byes and hung up, shoving Colin’s skin into the bag before leaving the room. Quentin was waiting in the lobby with his backpack over one shoulder, leaning against the wall by the elevators.

“What took you so long?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Come on. We need to find you something to hit people with.”

“What, we’re going to go steal me a brick?”

“It’s an idea.” I started for the door. The desk clerk winced as we passed; apparently, our appearance wasn’t improved by the addition of an aluminum baseball bat. I was just glad my knife was covered—he’d have had an aneurysm. I offered a genial nod, and he smiled tremulously. I was suddenly glad that we weren’t checking out. His nerves weren’t up to the strain of actually talking to us.

Getting to the car meant going through the garage, where the flickering overhead lights made too many shadows. I hurried us to the car. Quentin moved to the passenger side, and I caught his eyes as we peered through our respective rear-door windows. We shared a brief, wry smile. There are worse things I could do than infect the kid with a healthy sense of paranoia—for one thing, I could leave him thinking nothing in the world was ever going to hurt him.

The car was clean. I unlocked my door, leaning over to open the passenger side before tossing my things into the back. Quentin clambered in, settling his backpack between his knees.

“Any idea where we can get you a meat cleaver or something?”

“Grocery store?” he offered.

“You’re on.”

We pulled out and headed for the city’s main drag. If anything was open, it would be there. I glanced at Quentin as I drove; he was staring pensively out the window. Shaking my head, I turned back to the road.

The hero’s journey has suffered in modern years. Once we could’ve gotten a knight in shining armor riding to the rescue, pennants flying. These days you’re lucky to get a battered changeling and her underage, half-trained assistant, and the princesses are confused technological wizards in towers of silicon and steel. Standards aren’t what they used to be.

THIRTEEN

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when we reached ALH. Quentin slid his bargain-bin carving knife back into its cardboard sheath, watching the streets scrolling by outside the window. I hadn’t told him I was sending him back to Shadowed Hills. I couldn’t figure out how.

“It’s so dark,” he said.

“Everyone’s gone home.”

This time, the gate didn’t open at our approach. I rolled down the window and leaned out, calling, “It’s Toby and Quentin. Come on, let us in.” There was no answer. I was about to get out of the car and try enchanting the controls again when the gate began cranking upward.

“Maybe it’s still confused from the power outage?” said Quentin.

“I guess so.” I started the car again.

We were halfway through the gate when the portcullis froze above us, making a horrible grinding sound.

“Toby, what’s it . . . ?”

It creaked. And then it fell.

It’s funny, but they never mention the incredibly offensive design of the portcullis in those old movies about knights and castles and kings. That suddenly seemed like a glaring omission, because those spikes were sharp, heavy, and headed straight for us.

“Toby!”

“Hang on!”

Too much of the car was through the gate for me to back up; we’d get impaled if I tried. I took the only option left, slamming my foot down on the gas so hard that something snapped. There wasn’t time to find out whether it was my ankle or the car. My little car did its best, the engine screaming a mechanical battle cry as it leaped forward. On a good day, it could have raced the wind.

The portcullis was faster.

The spikes at the bottom pierced the roof behind our heads, slowing us to a crawl. Quentin screamed. The portcullis was still descending, peeling back the roof as it went. It was going to lodge in the back seat, slamming up against the rear end, and we were going to wind up pinned.

The rear end. “Unfasten your belt,” I snapped, taking my hands off the wheel.

“But—”

“Do it!”The gas tank of the old-style Volkswagen Bug is in the back of the car, not the front. I’m not a mechanic, but I’m not stupid; I know rupturing your gas tank isn’t a good idea.

Quentin’s eyes widened as he fumbled with his belt. I pulled mine off and tried the door—jammed.

I reached back and grabbed my baseball bat, shouting, “Duck!” Quentin ducked. I swung the bat, hitting the windshield as hard as I could. It cracked but didn’t break. Safety glass. It’s a great idea, until it’s keeping you in a car that’s about to get shish– kabobbed by the world’s biggest cooking fork. Swearing, I fumbled the glove compartment open, pulling out a spray bottle of marsh water mixed with antifreeze. I’d used it for a case two weeks earlier that required a little breaking and entering, along with the usual assortment of small misdemeanors. Fortunately for me, Barrow Wights aren’t really in much of a position to press charges.

“Toby, what are you—”

“Quiet!” I squinted my eyes closed, chanting, “Apples-oranges-pudding-and-pie! Can’t find the door and nobody knows why!” I pulled the top off the spray bottle, flinging the liquid across the glass. The smell of antifreeze filled the car, overwhelming the sudden copper and cut grass flare of my magic. The windshield trembled, going milky with fractures before it imploded and showered us with shards. I threw the bat out the window, twisting around to face Quentin.

He was straightening, wide-eyed, fragments of glass glittering in his hair. “What—” he began, words dissolving in a startled squawk as I grabbed his shirt and tossed him onto the hood of the car. He landed on his shoulder, rolling out of sight. I braced my hands against the steering wheel, boosting myself up and diving after him.

Hitting the ground hurt more than I thought possible. I rolled with it, trying to ignore the glass shards cutting my back and sides. The hilt of my knife was digging into my waist, but at least the blade was staying in place—bruises would be much easier to deal with than accidentally gutting myself.

Dimly, I hoped someone had taught Quentin how to fall.

Inertia pulled me to a stop. I raised my head, tensing to run. The car was pinned about eight feet behind me. The engine was still screaming, but now it sounded strained and strange, and there was a sharp, almost pensive ticking running underneath it. I’d never heard a car sound like that before.

That wasn’t the worst of my problems. Quentin was sprawled on the ground a full body length back, facedown, not moving. His newly purchased knife was next to him, blade bent nearly double from the force of the fall. It hadn’t defended him after all.

There’s nothing wrong with my reflexes. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the glass cutting my hands, and sprinted toward him. “Quentin!” When he didn’t react, I grabbed his upper arms, dragging him upright and slinging him over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry. My back and knees screamed with pain, but I didn’t slow down. I needed to get some distance between us and the car.

Cars don’t catch fire easily: that’s a device used for dramatic effect in the movies and on television. I know that. But I also know that security systems, even ones built using the “medieval wonderland” blueprints, don’t usually attack visitors. Knowing something is or isn’t true doesn’t change what actually happens.

I made it about ten yards before the ticking stopped. They say that when the music stops the rest is silence. That’s true. What they don’ttell you is that the silence is probably going to be painful. I kept running, stumbling as a charge raced through the air, sending a warning screaming through my bones. I know magic when I feel it. I tried to reach for the spell’s source, looking for the person behind it, but it was already too late; the charge grounded itself in a spray of half-visible sparks, obliterating the caster’s magical signature.

The car exploded.

The wave of heat came first, racing ahead of the shrapnel and knocking us both to the ground. Quentin was jolted out of my hold, landing about four feet away. I let forward momentum carry me into a roll, ignoring the pain reawakening in my shoulders, back, and knees. I had more pressing problems, like the question of whether or not my hair was on fire. A chunk of the hood embedded itself in the ground a foot from my head, and I amended that idea; burning hair wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as being decapitated by the flying remains of my car.

Momentum gave out and I rolled to a stop, tucking my head under my body and listening to the debris raining down around me. There were a few soft thuds, then silence. The air stank of gasoline, smoke, and melted tar, but no one was screaming; I decided to take that as a good sign. Even so, it was several minutes before I raised my head.

The remains of my car were smoldering in the gate, pinned by the portcullis. The vegetation on all sides was charred and broken, but the gateway itself wasn’t even scratched, and the stones were clean. Whatever spells they’d built into that thing were holding.

“If this was part of the alarm system, I’m going to kill them,” I muttered.

Quentin was where I’d dropped him, head resting on his arm. None of the debris seemed to have hit him; that was a small blessing. I walked over and bent to check his pulse, noting the scrapes scoring his arms and neck. He looked like he’d taken less damage than I had. His pulse was fast, pushed up by panic and adrenaline, but it was there, and it was strong.

“You’re lucky as hell, kid,” I said, brushing the glass away and rolling him onto his back. My hands left bloody prints on his shoulders and upper arms. I straightened, despite the protests from my back and knees, and turned to face the parking lot. And I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. People are pulled to explosions by an instinctive desire to see something forbidden, and that goes double for the fae. Only a few minutes passed before I heard running footsteps and Jan shouting, “That’s Toby’s car!”

“Well, it was,” I said, even though none of them were close enough to hear me. My hands were starting to seriously hurt. That would have to wait. There’d be time to worry about how badly I was or wasn’t injured later, if I was lucky—time was turning into a limited commodity, and if Quentin and I were targets, it was running out.

Jan crested the rise separating us from the parking lot, Terrie running close behind her. Terrie was panting, one hand pressed against her chest, gaping at the wreckage.

“Oh, my . . .”

“Yes. The car exploded. Can someone pick up Quentin? I’d do it myself, but my knees are killing me.” My desire to get Quentin to safety was warring with the need to collapse into hysterical laughter, and I didn’t think that was a good idea. At least not before I got the two of us inside.

“What happened?”

“Your security system tried to kill us.” I paused, remembering the charge that raced through the air just before the explosion occurred. “Or somebody else did.”

“Are you all right?” Jan ran across the debris-strewn driveway, skidding to a stop a few feet in front of me. Her eyes were enormously wide behind her glasses, making her look more like an overgrown child than the Countess of her own fiefdom.

“I’m better than Quentin. At least I’m awake.” Something was running down the side of my face. I raised my hand to my cheek, touching the dampness. My fingertips came away slick with a mixture of blood, ash, and broken glass. I can’t stand the sight of my own blood. I added the urge to vomit to my already long list of suppressed reactions. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I said, wiping my hand across my lips. “I do this every day.”

Jan moved to take my arm. “Let’s get you inside.”

I licked my lips, grimacing at the taste of blood. “We have to take care of Quentin.”

“Terrie’s got him. It’s all right.”

The taste of my own blood—which was nowhere near empty—seemed to be focusing my thoughts. I frowned, pulling away from Jan, and said, “No. I’ll take care of him.”

“No, you won’t,” said Jan, reclaiming my arm. “You’re barely upright. Let Terrie.”

Grudgingly, I allowed her to guide me, shooting a poisonous look back toward Terrie. “I know how badly he’s hurt. If he’s any worse, we’re going to have words. Understand?”

She looked stunned, but nodded, moving to scoop Quentin off the ground. I watched until I was sure she had him, then turned to Jan, asking, “Has this happened before? This kind of reaction from the security system?”

“No.” She shook her head. “The gate’s Coblynau design. It’s perfectly weighted. This can’t have happened.”

I looked at her flatly, asking, “Just like the lights can’t go out?”

“Yes! Just like . . .” She stopped, staring at me. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can. I’ve said as much to Alex. Whatever’s doing this isn’t a what—it’s a who, because this has to be an inside job.” I gestured to the gate, trying to ignore the blood drying on my cheeks. “No monster did that. Monsters aren’t that subtle. This was a trap.”

“Oh.” Jan closed her eyes. “Oh, oak and ash.”

“Yeah.”

Someone tried to kill us; the gate proved it. Even if the fences were under a “no damage” enchantment, they should have been dirtied when the car blew up—should have, but weren’t. There was no reason to put that sort of spell on a building fixture. A normal accident would have attracted the police and been covered by their insurance. Mine wasn’t normal, and I was willing to bet that if the police were called by one of the neighboring businesses, they’d be quietly sent away. This was a duck hunt, and neither Quentin nor I was the one holding the rifle.

“Looks like someone didn’t bother filing for their hunting license,” I muttered.

“What?” Jan flashed me a pained look.

“Never mind.” I know how it feels to realize that someone in your family is a killer. Devin and I were family once. “Family” really means “the ones that can hurt you the most. ” So yeah, I understood; I would even have pitied her, if I’d had the time. There’s never time for sympathy when you need it the most.

“Your car . . .”

“It’s not important,” I said, with a small shake of my head. Terrie and Quentin were long since out of sight. “I’m going to be fine. Let’s just get inside before Quentin wakes up and thinks he’s been kidnapped.”

Exhaustion was rolling over me in a wave. I just wanted to crawl into a bed—any bed—and stay there until this was all over. Maybe I’d get lucky and somebody else would show up to take care of everything. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t have to lift a finger to bring us to a simple, happy ending. Unfortunately, the sinking feeling in my stomach said my luck had finally run out.