Luna laughed, offering her hand. “Come on. Sylvester will want to speak with you.”
“I do so love meeting with my liege when I’m dressed like an idiot and just concussed myself on the floor,” I grumbled, letting her pull me up. “Still, that’s a good thing, because I want to speak with him, too.”
Her laughter died, taking the light in her eyes with it. “I rather thought you might,” she said, quietly. “I’d hoped that someone else would . . . but it’s no matter. Come along.”
Still holding Spike against her chest, she turned and walked away down the hall, clearly trusting me to follow. Perplexed by her change in moods, I did exactly that. Sylvester needed to know what was going on.
SEVEN
SHADOWED HILLS IS THE BIGGEST KNOWE I’ve ever seen and it’s easy to get lost there. I’m not sure whether it actually rearranges itself when no one’s looking, but I wouldn’t be surprised. After all, we’re talking about a sprawling Summerlands estate large enough to hold Sylvester, Luna, their daughter and her husband, their fosters, the staff, an entire Court, and all of Luna’s gardens. It’s a wonder the place isn’t bigger than it is.
Luna led me down the hall into a room with walls made of falling water. She didn’t say a word, cradling Spike against her chest and looking fixedly ahead, like she was afraid her head would fall off if she turned it. Even Spike seemed subdued, lying passively in her arms with its head down and its thorns slicked flat against its back. That didn’t strike me as a good sign.
“Luna . . . ?”
“Please, October.” She glanced back over her shoulder, expression pained. “Just give me a moment. Please. Everything will be explained.”
That answer just worried me more. Still, I quieted, following her out of the waterfall room and into a vast hall filled with darkness. There was no visible floor. Doors hung suspended in the air, scattered with no regard for where the room’s walls might have logically fallen. Luna walked to the nearest door, opened it, and stepped through, vanishing into the nothingness on the other side. Swell. I swear, if anything will eventually condemn Faerie to becoming nothing but a world of fantasy and kitsch, it’s the pureblood obsession with special effects. Hoisting my skirt around my knees, I followed her.
The darkness broke into shards of yellow and turquoise before resolving into the lush green of an English country garden. Luna and I were standing on a narrow cobblestone path that wound off in a multitude of directions, branching around trees and statuary. Ferns arched overhead, casting lacy shadows on the stones beneath our feet. Like a proper English garden, it was so artfully tended that it looked like it had never been tended at all. Fat gardenias and gladiolas nodded their heads in the shade of climbing ivy and honeysuckle vines, while morning glories twined around the arms of a hanging loveseat. Marble statues peeked out of the corners, nearly buried in the heavy greenery.
“This is new,” I said, looking around.
“This is very, very old,” she corrected. “I sealed it for some time, to let the trees grow. It seemed appropriate for today.”
I gave her a sidelong look. “Luna, what’s going on?” “Just come,” she said, and started down the nearest branch of the path. Spike looked over Luna’s shoulder at me, clearly expectant. With a sigh, I followed.
The odds are against me ever having a knowe of my own—changelings don’t usually get that kind of real estate—but if I ever do, I’m posting maps with arrows saying YOU ARE HERE on every corner. I’d be completely lost if I let Luna out of my sight, and that didn’t seem like it was going to help with the quest at hand.
We didn’t go far. After circling an ornamental bird-bath ringed with rosebushes, we found ourselves facing an elegant picnic spread beneath a weeping willow. All the dishes came from the garden: salads, platters of fresh vegetables and cut fruits, jars of jam and honey. Harvest food. Sylvester was sitting on the blanket, slicing into a blackberry pie. Looking up, he smiled.
“There you are! Etienne said you’d be coming to return Quentin. Come on, have a seat. You look like you could use some lunch.” His smile faltered, melting into confusion. “Luna? What’s wrong?”
“Everything. Nothing.” Luna laughed—a thin, brittle sound, like fingernails on a blackboard—and moved to drop almost gracelessly onto the blanket next to him. Her tails were lashing madly, tying themselves into complicated knots that untied just as quickly. Spike jumped free of her arms as she sat, and it ran back to me, flattening itself against my ankles. Luna didn’t seem to notice. “The hills are on fire, Sylvester. The candles are going out.”
His hands slowly stilled, the pie apparently forgotten as he stared at his wife. Finally, he turned to look at me, and said, in a voice that had gone almost flat, “Why don’t you sit down, October, and tell us what’s been going on?”
“I’m not completely sure what’s been going on, Your Grace, but I can try,” I said, walking over and sitting carefully. I still didn’t trust my skirt. “This morning—”
“Eat.”
I looked toward Luna, blinking. Sylvester did the same. She had snatched the knife he’d abandoned, using it to slash the pie into ragged, uneven slices. Her hands were shaking as she lifted the first slice onto a plate and thrust it in my direction.
“Eat,” she repeated. “You have to eat something.” She forced a wavering smile. “You’re too thin.”
“No, I’m not,” I said automatically as I reached out and took the plate. Blackberry juice leaked from the sides of pie, forming a viscous purple slick. “Luna, are you okay?”
“Oh, no, dear. No, I’m not okay at all.” Her smile was beatific and almost dazed. It was a madwoman’s smile. My mother used to smile like that in the years just before I disappeared. “I’m so many miles from okay that I don’t even know where it is anymore. Eat your pie.”
I glanced to Sylvester. He nodded. Taking that as instruction of a sort, I picked up a fork and prodded at the pie before taking a cautious bite. It was excellent pie. The crust was light and flaky, and the blackberries were perfect, managing to be sweet and tart at the same time. It was even still warm. Too bad I was too wound up to enjoy it.
Sylvester cleared his throat after I’d taken two bites, saying, “I do appreciate your returning Quentin. His parents would be rather put out if I lost track of him.”
“I bet,” I said, taking that as a sign that I could put my plate aside. “How long is he fostered here, anyway?”
“Oh, we’re to have all of his training. We’ll be assigning him a knight soon enough, getting him started on his time as a squire.” Sylvester’s smile was almost nostalgic. “I was squired to Sir Malcolm in Gray Fields. That was how he met my sister. I’m not sure our parents ever forgave me.” He glanced toward Luna. “Parents so rarely do.”
“I never asked them to forgive me,” said Luna. “I only asked them to leave me alone.”
“Um, guys?” I raised a hand. “Can we get back to why Quentin was on my doorstep this morning? I can’t stay for long. I have to go take care of things.”
“You have no idea what you’re trying to take care of,” said Luna, in that same sharp tone. “You have no idea at all.”
Spike rattled its thorns, chirping at her.
Luna’s attention switched to the rose goblin. “I don’t believe that’s relevant.”
Spike chirped again.
I blinked at the pair of them. “Luna? Do you understand what it’s saying?”
The strangeness cleared from her expression for a moment, replaced by perplexity. “Well, yes. Didn’t you know?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t.”
“You’re not surprised when Tybalt talks to the cats, are you?”
“No; he’s their King.” Tybalt’s kingship meant he could probably get running updates on how I was doing just by coming by the apartment and talking to Cagney and Lacey. I tried not to think about that too much.
“By that same logic, you shouldn’t be surprised that I can talk to my roses.” She looked back to Spike, the darkness re
turning to her face as she said, “Although there are times I wish they had less to say.”
“Luna.” Sylvester leaned over, placing a hand on her arm. “Please.”
She sighed deeply, seeming to pull the sound up from the very center of her being. “I don’t want to,” she said.
“I know.” He turned toward me. “Toby?”
I know a cue when I hear one. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Stacy Brown called me this morning. Two of her kids went missing sometime right around dawn.”
“How old were they?” asked Luna. There was no surprise in her words, only sorrow.
“Jessica is six, and Andy just turned four.”
“Such perfect ages,” said Luna, and closed her eyes. “How many others?”
“Five from Tybalt’s Court,” I said, slowly. “Quentin’s girlfriend, Katie, is missing, too, but I’m not sure whether it’s connected or not. She’s mortal.”
Luna’s answer was a bitter laugh. Shaking her head, she said, “Oh, no. She’s the proof. Without her, this still might be something other than what it is. At least eight in a single night, with two more nights to go? How many haven’t called for help yet? Always take them just before dawn. That leaves the most time before they sound out the alarms.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. That didn’t stop her words from upsetting me.
“Oh, you will, soon enough. Are there any others?”
“Mitch and Stacy’s middle daughter, Karen. She’s eleven. She isn’t missing, but she won’t wake up, no matter what we do. Lily has her now.”
“That should do for the time being.” Spike rattled its thorns again. Luna looked down at it, frowning. “Really?” Her attention swiveled back to me. “What time did she arrive?”
Somehow, I knew which “she” Luna was talking about. “A little bit before dawn.”
“Who?” asked Sylvester.
I sighed, looking down at my partially-eaten pie. “My Fetch.”
Silence fell among the three of us, broken only by the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Even Spike had stopped rattling. When the silence got to be too much, I raised my head and found myself looking into Sylvester’s eyes.
“Really?” he asked, in a dangerously soft voice.
“Really,” I said, swallowing. Forcing a smile, I added, “She said her name was May.”
“October . . .”
“Her Fetch came when he was taking the children from their beds like a farmer taking apples from his tree,” said Luna. Sylvester whipped his head around to stare at her. She met his gaze without flinching. Her expression was more than solemn—it was sad and frightened and wounded, all at once. “He Rides, Sylvester. He Rides, and she’s bound to go following after.”
“Amandine—”
“Isn’t here,” Luna said, quietly. “Hasn’t been here. Won’t be here again anytime soon. Those roots fell on shallow ground, and you know it. Now will you keep him from our gates and let me tell her what she needs to know?”
Sylvester’s expression hardened. The look he turned on Luna was colder than any I’d seen him cast her way. Standing, he crossed to me, pulled me to my feet, and hugged me, almost hard enough to keep me from noticing that he was shaking. Then he released me and strode away down the garden path without a single word. He didn’t look back.
I was staring after him when I felt Luna’s hand on my shoulder, and turned to see her standing next to me. “He needs to warn the Court. It’s his duty and his privilege, because . . . because of who he is.” Her voice faltered. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”
I couldn’t take it anymore: the demand burst out of me, born of fear and frustration. “Oberon’s teeth, Luna, what’s going on?”
“You’ve been to see Lily.” It wasn’t a question. “She told you to ask the moon.”
“Did Spike tell you what color my underpants are today, too?” I scowled. “I have no idea what she was talking about.”
Luna didn’t answer. She just looked at me.
“Oh, damn.” Ask the moon. There were a couple ways to interpret that, and the most obvious—the one I should have thought of first—was ask Luna. She was the only moon I knew who could answer questions. “What’s going on, Luna? What do you mean by ‘He Rides’?”
She sighed. “Toby, if I say challenging him is futile, that you’ll change nothing and only grant the omen you saw this morning power over you . . . if I say you can save your life and your heart by walking away from this, will it matter?”
Part of me—most of me—wanted to say, “Yes, it would matter; please tell me to stay here. If you tell me, I’ll stay.” I didn’t want to go. I’m not a hero; I never have been. I just do what has to be done.
But when you get right down to it, isn’t that the definition of hero?
“No,” I said. “It won’t.”
Sounding resigned, but not surprised, she said, “His name is Blind Michael.”
“Blind Michael?” I frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. He and his Hunt only harass you if you go into the Berkeley Hills on the full moon. They—”
She looked at me. I stopped, biting my lip. After a moment, she continued; “His name is Blind Michael. His mother was Maeve and his father was Oberon. His domain was wider once, but none of us are what we once were.” Her smile was brief and bitter, gone in an instant.
“He’s Firstborn?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “He saw the races of Faerie born, yours and mine alike.”
“What does he have to do with this?”
“Have you never wondered where he gets the members of his Hunt?”
“What?” That wasn’t a question that ever occurred to me. Blind Michael and his Hunt were part of the landscape, like the trees or the rocks. They didn’t need to come from anywhere.
Her voice was calm and measured as she continued, like she was reciting something she’d memorized years before, something painful. “He rides them hard. Night after night through the darkest parts of the Summerlands, where there are still monsters, and old magic—he brings the madness with him. He rides them, and there are casualties. There are always casualties. Where do you think he finds his Riders? Who would willingly bow to such a fate?”
I stared at her, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. It wasn’t easy to do; I’m not stupid. Damn it. “No one.”
“No one,” she agreed. Her eyes were too bright, but she wasn’t crying. Yet. “And when there are no willing Riders, the unwilling will suffice.”
“The children.”
“Yes. Once a century. Fae children to be his Huntsmen; human children to be their steeds. No locks can keep him out. No door can bar his way. He’s too old and too strong, and he follows the laws of Faerie too closely to be caught that way.”
I shook my head to clear away my growing horror, asking, “What does he do to them?”
“Do?” She cocked her head. “He takes them and he binds them. Fae children ride, so they grow strong and fierce; human children are ridden, so they learn the ways of hoof and bridle. And they are changed. Beware Blind Michael’s children, Toby—beware all his children, no matter how honest or honorable they seem. I can’t stop you from trying. Heroes never listen. That’s why they’re heroes.”
“Luna—”
I don’t know if she heard me; she just kept talking, words falling together like stones constructing my tomb. “You, at least, I can still warn: beware his children. They’re too lost. There is no peace for them. There is no salvation. There is nothing but the Hunt and the darkness and the hope that, one day, death will claim them.” She shivered and turned her face away. “Be wary, beware Blind Michael’s children and come back to us. Please.”
Slowly, I asked, “Where did Sylvester go?”
“There are ways to keep him out. Not gates, not locks or bars, but laws and rituals that make him less than welcome. Sylvester has gone to warn the Court so that we can keep the dark at bay a little longer.” She shook her head, ea
rs flattened. “It’s all we can do. It’s not enough.”
I shuddered. Her words were taking on two meanings in my head. Neither of them was good. Maybe that was all they could do, but I had to do more; staying safe was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I wanted to ask Luna how she knew so much and why her eyes were so far away, why she was almost crying. I didn’t. I didn’t have that luxury either.
“How do I find Blind Michael?”
She glanced back toward me, expression bleak. “There are roads.”
“Can you tell me how to find them?”
“My roads are Rose Roads. If you seek darkness, ask the darkness. It can help you.”
“Luna . . .” I shook my head, biting back a groan of frustration. “What do you mean, ask the darkness? I’m getting tired of being told to talk to things that won’t talk back just because people don’t feel like saying, ‘Hey, go ask Bob, he knows what to do.’ ”
She sighed. “I’ve sent you to her before, when I thought we might lose you if I didn’t. Now I’m sending you again. This time, I’m afraid you’re already lost.”
I froze. “Oh. No.”
“Yes,” she said. “You have to go to the Luidaeg. Tell her he Rides.”
Oh, Lord and Ladies. The Luidaeg and I may be the equivalent of old Scrabble buddies these days, but there’s a big difference between visiting a friend and asking a favor from one of the Firstborn. The latter is a lot more likely to get you killed. And that was exactly what Luna was telling me to do.
EIGHT
I WALKED TOWARD THE EXIT with Spike riding on my shoulder. I’d finally given up on fighting with my skirt, hacking it off above the knees before letting Luna lead me out of the garden. It was a relief to walk without constantly feeling like I was going to trip myself. That was the only thing that gave me relief.
Once I called the Luidaeg, everything would be in her hands, not mine. Luna was right. The situation called for extreme measures, and the Luidaeg is about as extreme as you can get.
The Luidaeg’s Firstborn, like her brother, and she hasn’t lived this long by being kind. None of the Firstborn have. Maybe more important, the Luidaeg is one of Maeve’s children, and there are very few of them left. Cruelty always came easier to the children of Titania; the only survivors of Maeve’s line are the ones who let themselves learn how to become monsters. Titania’s children are cold and hard and beautiful. Maeve’s children are hot and strange and come in every shape imaginable. Oberon doesn’t claim most of his descendants, leaving them to the mercies of their mothers. Those few races that he does claim . . . those are Oberon’s children. And Oberon’s children are heroes.