I vaulted the couch and ran down the hall to snatch the phone. “Stacy? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, thank O-Oberon you’re there,” she sobbed. “I was calling and calling, but you weren’t h-home . . .”
“What’s going on?” Stacy’s one of the calmest people I’ve ever met. She could look a dragon running rampant in a school zone in the eye and swat it on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. She doesn’t panic, ever.
“It’s Andrew and Jessie,” she whispered.
I froze. “What about them?”
“They’re gone.” Her voice quavered. “I went to check on the kids and make sure they’d slept through sunrise without any problems. Andy and Jessie weren’t there.”
Oh, root and branch. “When? What about Karen and Anthony?”
“An hour ago, and Karen and Anthony were still in their beds.”
I glanced at the clock. It was a little after eight. “Have you checked the backyard?”
“We checked the whole neighborhood.” She sniffled. “We even called Cassie at school, to see if she took them to class for some reason. They weren’t there. She’s on her way home.”
Great—we could get everyone in the same place for the nervous breakdown. “You’re sure you’ve looked everywhere?”
“We’ve looked everywhere. Toby, Andy’s only four! He can’t cast his own illusions!”
“Oh, oak and ash,” I muttered. That explained why Stacy was calling me instead of the police: she couldn’t involve human law enforcement even if she wanted to.
It takes children a while to grasp controlled illusions. There’s a brief period where things like that are automatic, but our reflexive magic fades as we get older, making everything a matter of focus and intent. Disguise spells take time to learn and some kids learn faster than others. Unfortunately, Andrew was one of the slow ones.
“Can Jessica hide them both?”
“For a little while. Toby, please come. We have to find them.”
“Shhh, I know. I’m coming.” I was fighting not to let her panic infect me. The kids were probably sitting under a tree in someone’s yard while Jessica showed her brother the finer points of a don’t-look-here illusion. “Just stay calm until I get there, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
Something else was wrong. Stacy shouldn’t have panicked that fast, even when two of the kids might be missing. “What else is going on?”
“I . . .” She hesitated. “We can’t wake Karen. Mitch even poured a glass of ice water over her head, and she didn’t move. I’m scared, Toby. I’m so scared . . .”
My heart lurched. “Stacy, slow down and stay with me. Is she breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Make sure she’s comfortable.” If Stacy had something to do, she might not do anything foolish. “No more water. Just wait for me.”
“Hurry.” She was sobbing as she hung up. I stared at the receiver before slamming it down and bolting for the bedroom. First a Fetch, and now something was messing with Stacy’s kids. This wasn’t shaping up to be a good day.
Silently thanking Connor for getting me out of the house long enough to eat something, even if it wasn’t much, I started yanking drawers out of my dresser and scattering clothes across my bed. The cats slicked their ears back and fled the room. “Oak and ash and stupid, rotten pine,” I swore, digging through the mess. It was juvenile, but it made me feel a little better.
“Ow!” I moved my hand back,putting it on the handle of my knife rather than the blade as I pulled it from the tangle of T-shirts. The sheath was a foot away, buried under a drift of socks. I pulled it free as well, slid the knife into it, and clipped it to the inside of my jeans. I try not to go into danger unarmed these days; I’ve learned my lesson and I have the scars to prove it. And I’ve gotten smarter about my weapons. I started wearing a sheath after the incident at ALH Computing, where I nearly gutted myself rolling away from my exploding car with an unsheathed knife tucked into the waistband of my jeans.
Life has been interesting lately.
Returning to the living room, I grabbed my jacket off the floor and pulled my hair into a loose ponytail that would hide the tips of my ears. Disguises are for times when subtlety is required; I wasn’t intending to deal with anyone besides my friends, and I wasn’t going to waste the magic unless it was absolutely necessary. I might need it later. I turned to head for the door.
Claws drove themselves into my calf. I stopped, looking down to see Spike clinging to my leg with both forepaws. “Spike, let go. I need to leave.” It yowled, not releasing my leg. “What do you want?” It looked toward my shoulder. I sighed. “You want to come?”
Spike took that as consent, withdrawing its claws and scrambling up my side to perch on my shoulder. I shook my head and left the apartment. No more delays.
Despite Spike’s tendency to ride pressed against the windshield, I didn’t need to worry about it being spotted; rose goblins have instinctive glamours that keep them hidden from anyone they don’t want seeing them. Control erodes natural magic. The better any race of fae gets at “using” magic, the less instinctive magic they have left. Some things come easier to certain races—like blood magic to the Daoine Sidhe—but a lot of the natural talents common to the smaller fae are almost missing among the races that can pass for human. Spike can do pretty much whatever it wants without fear of being noticed by the human world.
The drive to Mitch and Stacy’s felt like it took no time at all. Panic does that, cramming weeks into hours and hours into seconds. Devin used to call it “running on changeling time,” his way of referring to that state where time runs too fast and no matter how much you have, it’s not enough. All I could think about while I drove was how losing Gillian had nearly killed me. I couldn’t let that happen to Mitch and Stacy. I just couldn’t.
Mitch met me at the car. “Mitch,” I said, and hugged him. He clung for a moment before I pushed him to arm’s length, looking him in the eye. “Where’s Stacy?”
“Inside,” he said. His voice was shaking as much as he was. “She won’t let the kids out of her sight. She even had me move Karen downstairs so she could watch her sleep.”
“Okay. Can you answer a few questions before I go in?”
He stared long enough that I was afraid he didn’t understand me. Then he nodded, saying, “I can try.”
“Stacy said Andrew and Jessica were missing.” He nodded. I continued, “Did you see them go to bed?”
“Yes. They were there, and Cassie says Jessica was in her bed when she left.”
“Good to know.” That was when Spike leaped from the car roof to my shoulder, anchoring itself through my leather jacket with a full complement of claws. I flinched. Cats are blunt instruments compared to rose goblins.
Mitch stared. “Toby, why is there a rose goblin on your shoulder?”
“Spike wanted to come, and I didn’t have time to argue.” Spike sniffed the air and growled. I frowned. “It’s never done that before. Spike? What’s wrong?” That was all the warning it gave before it launched itself from my shoulder and raced for the house, claws churning divots out of the lawn. It looked enraged, like it was running to defend its territory against an unwelcome invader. I glanced at Mitch, snapping, “Go to Stacy,” and followed Spike.
I almost caught up with Spike on the run across the yard, but it jumped through the window to the living room while I was forced to take the door. It beat me to the stairs by leaping over furniture while I had to weave past Stacy and the kids. We paced each other to the upstairs hall where it began to circle, thorns rattling angrily. It was making a low, almost subsonic snarling noise, like something about the hall offended it. That didn’t bode well. Spike originally belonged to the Duchess of Shadowed Hills. It usually had a pretty good idea of what was and was not dangerous, and if it was unhappy about the hallway . . .
I drew my knife, holding it against my hip. “Which way?” Spike looked up and hissed. I sighed. “That doesn’t help.”
>
There were six doors. One led to the linen closet, and the one next to it led to the bathroom. The door to Cassandra’s room was ajar, showing a tangle of papers and discarded clothes on the floor, and the door to Mitch and Stacy’s room was open, displaying the characteristically unmade bed. Mitch works nights; Stacy must have woken him when she found the children missing.
The first door led to Jessica and Karen’s room; the door to Anthony and Andrew’s room was across the hall. Both rooms were cluttered, verging on messy—nothing out of the ordinary, considering the age of their inhabitants. I started toward the girls’ room, scanning for signs of a struggle. It was in disarray, but not beyond the normal limits of a room shared by two preteen girls. Whatever happened, Jessica left without a fight.
A hand on my shoulder stopped me as I started to step across the threshold. I stiffened. Only the knowledge that Anthony and Cassandra were in the house kept me from swinging around blade-first. Sometimes I think I’m getting trigger-happy. Then I think of how many things have tried to kill me and I wonder why it’s taken this long for the paranoia to kick in.
“Aunt Birdie?” Cassandra whispered.
I relaxed, looking over my shoulder. “Yeah, puss?” Spike was still turning in slow circles, growling. I wasn’t sure what had it so pissed, but I wasn’t going to get in its way.
“Did you find them?”
“Not yet. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” she said, face falling. “Mom’s not doing so good. Will you come down?”
The tone of Spike’s snarling changed, becoming more insistent as it stopped circling and began advancing, stiff-legged, toward the boys’ room. “Not yet,” I said. “Keep your mother and everyone else downstairs, all right?”
“Okay,” Cassandra said dubiously, looking at Spike. “Your rose goblin is growling.”
“I know. Go downstairs, Cass. I’ll be there soon.” Or I’ll be dead, I added silently. I try not to ignore warnings, especially ones I don’t understand. Spike could be freaking out over a mouse, but it might also be reacting to a threat I couldn’t see. Assuming the worst is a good way to keep from being surprised.
She looked at me, frowning. Then she turned and went downstairs.
I waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade before following Spike into the boys’ room. Half of it was Anthony’s, decorated in spaceships and astronomical posters; the floor was marginally cleaner on that side. Andrew’s half was done up in dinosaurs and clowns, all bright colors and rounded angles. The dinosaurs I gave him for his birthday were on the shelf beside his bed, seeming small and somehow sad. The boy who loved them wasn’t here.
Spike stopped in the center of the room, tossing back its head and howling. The sound scraped at my nerves, leaving them raw. I flinched and stepped past it, moving to study Andrew’s bed. It didn’t look like there’d been a struggle: the sheets were thrown back and the blanket was shoved to one side, but that was normal. Kids sleep hard. If Andrew was taken from the bed, he either didn’t wake up, or he went voluntarily. Considering Faerie, both were options. I knelt to check under the bed before moving to poke through the closet.
Nothing looked out of place, and yet, despite the outward lack of disturbance, there was something in the air that made the room feel like it was somehow wrong. Sliding my knife back into its sheath, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. There were other scents under the expected odors of sweat and small boy. I started focusing on them, shutting out everything else.
The smell of blood came first. Of course it did; I’m my mother’s daughter and if there’s blood I’ll find it. I identified it as Andrew’s almost without thinking, spending just enough time feeling it out to be sure that he’d been the only one to bleed, and that his wounds had been superficial at worst. There were other things layered in an undefined pattern beneath the blood, and so I pushed it aside to study them more carefully.
Mold; old, dry dust. Ash. Fire. Steel. They were faint, nearly overwhelmed by the smells of blood and plastic and fabric softener and finger paint, but they were there. And I had no idea what they meant.
Eyes still closed, I stretched my arms out in front of me and began following the scent trail, ignoring the plastic dinosaurs squeaking underfoot. The scents were stronger close to the bed. My hands hit the window, and I stopped, pressing my palms against the glass as I tried to sort through the increasingly disparate scents.
There was a distinct tang of candle wax, freshly burned and not quite dry, hidden under the stronger scents of blood and fire. “Candles?” I said, bemused. Spike snarled again, the sound climbing to a roar as the smell of ash became overwhelming. The glass beneath my hands was suddenly searing-hot, and I jerked away, opening my eyes. “What the hell—?”
The window looked normal, showing nothing but the front yard and street beyond. I glanced at my hands. They were already starting to blister.
I had my answer, after a fashion; the kids hadn’t run away. They’d been taken by something that made glass burn and left the scent of ashes and candle wax in its wake. Unfortunately for all of us, I had no idea what it was. The only thing I was sure of was that it was going to take more than a few missing-child flyers to get them back.
“Spike, come.” I turned away, beckoning for the goblin to follow as I left the room. Surprisingly, it came. I closed the door behind us, ignoring the pain in my hands, and turned to at least look into the girls’ room. It was much the same: messy, cluttered, and with no signs of a struggle. Their window was open, and the fresh air had wiped away any traces of the scent trail I’d followed in the boys’ room, if it was even there to start with.
Shaking my head, I walked down the stairs to where Stacy waited. There was no way I could tell her I was done, even though I knew damn well that we wouldn’t find the kids without a lot more power than I had. You don’t tell a panicking mother that her children have been taken by something you can’t identify or name; it doesn’t work that way. So I did the next best thing.
I lied. I told her I thought they might have wandered away on their own. I made a lame excuse about hurting my hands by picking up Spike the wrong way and bandaged them myself in the downstairs bathroom. The rose goblin didn’t notice or care that I’d defamed its character; it was perfectly willing to follow me through the house, although it refused to calm down. It kept stopping and snarling at nothing, rattling its thorns in challenge. I took note of the places where it stopped and didn’t touch any more windows. I can be taught.
Stacy stayed in the living room, clutching Karen’s hand. She’d stopped crying about twenty minutes after I arrived, but she didn’t look like she felt any better; shock can take an awful lot of forms. I was in shock myself—fortunately for me, my version of shock normally manifests as anger. Anger, I can use—I understand it. Sometimes it can even help keep me alive.
We didn’t find anything. I hadn’t really been expecting that we would, since judging by the traces upstairs, there was nothing for us to find. Anthony didn’t even put up a pretense of searching; he just followed me, trusting that I would protect him. Cassandra at least tried, but she eventually went to join her mother in the living room, taking Stacy’s free hand and sitting in silence.
Mitch stayed with me to the bitter end, combing the house for some sign that his children had left under their own power. When we’d emptied the last drawer and searched through the last closet he turned to me, expression begging for some sort of reassurance. “Toby?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re not here, are they?”
I looked down before my face could give me away. “No, Mitch. They’re not.”
“Where are my children, October?”
“I don’t know.” I looked up. “But I’ll find them.”
“I believe you’re intending to try—and that’s not enough. In a minute, we’re going to have to tell my wife that they’re missing. I saw your hands.”
“What?”
“Your hands were fine when you got here. How did
you burn your hands? Where are my kids?” That last statement was delivered with such vehemence that I realized for the first time in years just how large Mitch was. He doesn’t usually go in for violence, but he still has eleven inches and at least a hundred pounds on me.
Sometimes honesty is the best policy, especially when you’re dealing with someone who could break you in two without blinking. “I don’t know, but they aren’t here,” I said. “I don’t think they’re anywhere this side of the Summerlands.”
The look on his face was beyond broken; he’d passed all the way into bereft. “Can you find them?”
“I can try,” I said.
“And Karen?”
Oak and ash, Karen. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. But I can take a look.” I’m not a miracle worker; I’m just a half-blood with a talent for not getting killed. So far. The problems start when people assume that if I can survive, I can do anything. I wish they were right. It would make my life a lot easier.
Turning, I walked back to the stairs without another word. I was halfway down before I heard him following me.
Stacy looked up as we approached. She was still clinging to Karen’s hand. Cassandra was sitting on the other couch with her arms around Anthony, her chin resting lightly against the crown of his head. The pressures of the day had been too much for him, and he’d fallen asleep. Anthony nestled closer to his sister as I watched, whimpering in his sleep.
“Did you—” Stacy began. I shook my head. She pressed her free hand against her mouth. I’d never seen her look so old. I always knew her thinner blood meant she’d age faster than the rest of us, but it never seemed real before. She’d seemed too alive to show the signs of mortality. Now her children were in danger, and she was showing those signs in full. Looking at Stacy, I wasn’t sure she’d ever recover the vitality her fear had leeched away.
She still looked better than her middle daughter. Karen was practically a wax statue of herself, all the color bleached from her skin and hair. It was like looking at a corpse with faintly pointed ears, and my stomach lurched before I glanced away, trying to compose myself. Faerie corpses are supposed to be impossible. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I know that’s not the case; it’s possible to keep the night-haunts away, if you really try. I don’t advise it.