Sometimes I feel like my life is turning into one long game of chess with the Firstborn. Every time I manage to get one of them out of the way for five minutes, another one pops up to take their place. It’s enough to make me want to crawl into bed and stay there.
Quentin appeared in the kitchen doorway, making no effort to conceal the relief on his face. “Dean’s fine. He says good morning, and begs your indulgence, but he was up late, and he needs to sleep a little longer.”
“Did he really beg our indulgence, or did he tell us to go piss up a rope?” I asked.
“He didn’t do either of those things,” said Quentin stiffly. “I’m allowed to interpret. You do it for Tybalt all the time.”
“She does?” asked Tybalt, with a sidelong glance at me.
“You talk like a romance novel,” I said. “I’m doing you a favor. The cinnamon rolls are excellent, Marcia, but we need to get moving. Gillian is out there somewhere. I have to bring her home.”
“Open roads, Toby,” she said.
“Kind fires,” I replied, and started for the door. Then I paused, darted back, and grabbed a second cinnamon roll.
Her laughter followed us all the way to the exit. Quentin pulled a don’t-look-here down over the four of us, and we were gone, heading back into the world, back on the trail of my daughter.
TWELVE
THE CAR WAS UNDISTURBED when we reached it. One small mercy for a day that didn’t contain many of them. Quentin started to open the right rear passenger door. I grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Do you feel better?” I asked.
He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Sorry if I was sort of pushy before, but . . . yeah.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. I need to think about other people.” I paused, wincing as I released him. “Including Cliff and Miranda. We need to stop by their place before we go wherever it is we’re going next.”
May frowned. “Why?”
“Because my phone is dead, and I was the only one with Cliff’s number. Even if we found something right now, we wouldn’t be able to call and tell them about it. I need to update them on what’s happened so far, and I need to get Cliff’s information again, so we can call them if we need to.”
“I’m going in with you,” said May flatly.
“I don’t think—”
“She is going in with you,” said Tybalt. I shot him a wounded look. He shook his head. “They consider me your shiftless swain, and while I would normally find accusations of roguishness charming at best and delightfully inaccurate at worst, they are parents in distress, and do not need the additional strain of having you walk in with a suitor in tow. As for Quentin, I ask, are they aware you have a teenage ward who has no blood relation to your house? Among humans, such arrangements are no longer common unless formalized under the law, and I am sure they’d be aware if you had done so. Our presence would raise too many questions. We will remain in the car. And yet, all that being true, I am not comfortable with the idea of you facing them alone.”
I sighed. “Remind me again why I missed you?”
“Because I am the only man who adores you as fully as you should be adored, covered in blood or no.”
It was a good line. I still rolled my eyes as I got into the car and started the engine.
Marcia’s cinnamon rolls were excellent, but they could have been made of paste and putty, as long as they contained calories. Every bite settled the roaring in my stomach and the aching in my head, which had become so status quo I had actually stopped noticing it. My neck itched, and I knew that it was finally healing.
“Dinner tonight needs to involve roughly ten pounds of steak,” I said.
Tybalt smirked. “That can be arranged.”
Quentin leaned forward, his own cinnamon roll in his hand, and eyed Tybalt. “So are you back?” he asked bluntly. “Or are you going to run away again as soon as we’re done with this? If you’re going to run, I’d like to know.”
I stiffened. Tybalt looked at Quentin solemnly.
“You are a prince, and you are my lady’s squire, and for both those reasons, you believe you are owed an answer,” he said. “Please understand I privilege the latter far above the former. Princes of the Divided Courts are owed nothing from the Court of Cats. Yes, I am back. October has requested I not leave her again, and after being reminded how much trouble she can get into in my absence, I believe it is best if I acquiesce. If you are asking if I am better, the answer is, sadly, a different one.” He turned to look out the window.
He didn’t stop talking. “I am afraid of small spaces. For a cat, that is a devastating thing. I cannot seek the comfort of my feline form without fear I will be trapped that way, unable to cry out for those I love, unable to protect them should they cry out for me. I cannot walk among my subjects as I should. Not all Cait Sidhe are capable of transformation. A King should meet those who are bound to four legs in the same fashion, that they may feel they are truly of his Court. I cannot do so. I fail my people, and I fail myself. I have unquiet dreams. I am not a well man, Quentin, and I would not blame October if she bid me not to darken her door until I had recovered. I only pray that she will not, for I think I could not bear to lose another piece of my heart before the last one has come home.”
Silence fell across the car, lasting only until Quentin punched Tybalt in the arm.
“That’s for being stupid,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with being hurt. We all get hurt. But you shouldn’t have been hiding from us. We’re your family, and you’re stupid if you think we would judge you for needing help. We help each other.”
“You are going to make a fascinating King when your time comes, with the people you have chosen to surround yourself with,” observed Tybalt mildly . . . but he sounded pleased.
I decided that was probably a good thing and drove on.
After my disappearance, Cliff had quit his feckless artist’s ways and gone into a career in finance. Something stable, dependable, that would allow him to take care of the daughter he was now struggling to raise alone. He’d done well for himself. The tiny apartment of Gillian’s infancy had been replaced by a large two-story brownstone in one of the nicer residential neighborhoods. Not as nice as my Victorian, maybe, but Cliff didn’t have an ancient fairy lord playing patron. It was more than nice enough, all things considered.
I pulled up and into their private driveway, parking so I blocked the garage. That’s normally a cardinal sin in San Francisco, city of hills and limited parking spaces, but under the circumstances, I didn’t think Cliff was going to mind. I twisted in my seat, so I could address the car.
“All right,” I said. “Tybalt and Quentin, you wait here. If anyone questions you, tell them you’re waiting for someone inside. You’re both pretty charming. I believe in your ability not to get arrested for lurking.”
“Your faith is staggering,” said Tybalt. “Go. We will be here.”
I blew him a kiss and grabbed for the shadows, intending to weave myself a fresh human disguise. They refused to come. I blinked.
“Um,” I said.
“Your blood has yet to return,” said Tybalt. He wove his own fingers through the air, and I felt the weight of illusion settle on my shoulders. He smiled, sweet and a little shy. “Much improved.”
“Flatterer,” I said, and got out of the car, meeting May at the base of the front steps. She looked around with undisguised interest.
“Not bad,” she said.
“Nope,” I agreed. We walked together to the door. I had barely raised my hand to knock when it was wrenched open, revealing Miranda.
“Did you find her?” she demanded.
“Not yet,” I said. “May we come in?”
She stared at me, and for a moment, I thought she was going to refuse and that I would have to do this standing on the porch. Then she sagged and stepped to the side, making room
for us.
“Of course,” she said.
“Is Cliff here?” I asked, trying not to stare as I stepped into the hallway. The walls were covered in pictures of Gillian as I had never seen her, toddler becoming small child becoming gawky adolescent. It was like a museum of my dreams and failures, and I wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of it, memorizing and committing it to heart.
Miranda was in more than half the pictures. She looked like she was Gillian’s mother in blood as well as legality: they fit together. She looked, I realized, like me—dauntingly so. Just blonder and better fed. Was that part of what had drawn Cliff to her in the first place? I wasn’t sure whether the thought was flattering.
“He’s at the police station, following up,” said Miranda. She shut the door, focusing on May. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh,” said May. She smiled wanly and extended her hand. “I’m May Daye, October’s sister. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I just wish it were under better circumstances.”
Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Who are you really?”
Oh. Crap.
When Cliff and I first met, I’d been a walking cliché: the teenage runaway living in a den of poor choices and poorer morals. The fact that I’d actually been substantially older than I looked hadn’t exactly been relevant. I was a runaway, after all, and my upbringing hadn’t prepared me for the mortal world. The Summerlands are a great place to grow up if you want to know how to charm a unicorn or host a Midsummer’s Ball. They’re not so useful if you want to understand human money or how to make macaroni and cheese without setting the kitchen on fire.
The man who’d initially taken me in had understood the difficulties faced by fae-raised changelings escaping from their sometimes overly-protective parents and trying to make a go of things in the mortal world. Devin had always been patient, perfectly understanding of my unique and sometimes difficult circumstances. Of course, that had been because he was using me, like he’d been using all the other “kids” under his care. We were his thieves and his spies and his attack dogs. We were his own private army of Lost Children, and he was our Peter Pan—even now, years and miles away from Home, he was our Peter Pan. Devin had been dead for years. Part of me was always going to be waiting for him to call me back.
Cliff had been my escape from that life, the human man who looked at me and didn’t see my mother or my heritage, but October, a scrawny, pale kid with a funny name that was simultaneously too silly and too big for her. No matter how hard I try, I can’t think of a single person before him who loved me completely for who I was and not for the shadows around me. Not even Stacy. Not even Sylvester. There was no question that they loved me, but they’d started by looking at me through the mirror of my mother, and I had never been enough to eclipse her.
Only problem was, Cliff knew about my family—the dead father, the estranged mother. And he knew I didn’t have any siblings. Which meant Miranda knew that, too. She’d needed to know, if she was preparing to challenge me for custody.
“Really,” I said. I cleared my throat, buying myself a few precious seconds, and decided to go with as much of the truth as I could afford to risk. “May is my younger sister.”
“You don’t have a sister,” said Miranda with a scowl. “You told Cliff you were an only child, and our investigators haven’t found anything to contradict that.”
Lying to someone who’d been investigating me. How fun. “I thought I was an only child.” Dig for the truth. Use it to spin a convincing lie. “Mom never told me about her. She showed up on my doorstep a little while after I got away from my kidnappers. Said she wanted to be a family. I didn’t have anyone else. I decided it was worth giving her a shot. What’s the worst that could have happened? She kills me and gets me out of your hair forever? I gambled. I won. She’s been an incredible help to me these past few years.”
“Plus, I pay half the rent,” volunteered May. “Isn’t this sort of beside the point? We’re supposed to be worrying about Gillian, not debating whether I’m actually related to the woman I look almost exactly like. Either I’m her sister, or she’s the victim of a long con that required a lot of plastic surgery, and I’d expect you to be happy about that second one. Now can we focus? We have things to do.”
“Yes. Gillian.” Miranda returned her attention to me. “Why are you here if you haven’t found her yet?”
“My phone got broken,” I said. “I need to get Cliff’s number again, and I wanted to update you on what we’ve done so far. I went to the school, searched her room, spoke with her roommate—”
“You must not have searched very thoroughly,” said Miranda.
I frowned. “Why not?”
“You just don’t . . . I would have expected you to find something if you’d searched thoroughly. If you didn’t find anything, you can’t have done a very good job.”
“If you don’t think I know how to do my job, you can find someone else to work for you,” I snapped. “I’ll still keep looking for Gillian, I’ll still do everything in my power to find her, but I won’t keep you updated, and when I find her, I may or may not inform you. Does that sound like a better plan? Because we can march right the hell out of here, if it does.”
Miranda scowled. I looked neutrally back, trying not to let her see how much this entire situation flustered me. I knew Miranda didn’t like me. That was a good thing, in its own way, because I didn’t like her either. It was better when neither of us was trying to pretend. That didn’t explain why she was being openly hostile. With Gillian in danger, we should both have been willing to set our differences aside, at least until the girl we both loved came home.
As if she could follow my thoughts, Miranda sighed and said, “Follow me. I need a pen and paper.” Unspoken was the fact that she wasn’t willing to leave us alone in her house. Some things don’t need to be said. She started down the hall. May and I exchanged a look, and both of us followed her.
The hall ended at a large, open kitchen with a greenhouse window in one wall, the protruding glass panes creating a perfect growing environment for a variety of herbs and houseplants. They grew with joyous abandon, filling the air with sweet and spicy scents. I sniffed appreciatively, and then sneezed.
I blinked. I don’t normally have allergies. I was about to comment when I sneezed again, and again, barely covering my nose in time.
“Sorry about that,” said Miranda, not sounding sorry at all as she opened a drawer and rummaged for a writing utensil. “My St. John’s wort is having a very exciting pollination season this year. I may need to cut it back before the next blooming.”
I stiffened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw May do the same. Then I turned, with exquisite care, to consider Miranda’s window garden.
It was artfully planned. At first glance the plants looked like they’d been shoved in wherever they would fit, but a few seconds’ consideration confirmed it wasn’t so. Each had been potted precisely, positioned to receive the exact degree of sunlight it needed to thrive. She gardened like a scientist, like someone who knew precisely what she was hoping to achieve.
I didn’t know the plants by sight, but I knew them by scent. She was growing the usual herbs, rosemary and basil and thyme. She was also growing fennel, and kingcup, and St. John’s wort. She was growing hemlock, and gorse, and dill, and kale.
She was growing everything we’d found in Gillian’s room and more. The only thing she wasn’t growing was cinnamon.
“Here.” Miranda turned to offer me a slip of paper. “My number, and Cliff’s. Call if you find anything.” Her tone made it clear that she didn’t expect me to. She was playing along, grasping at any straw she could find.
I looked at her, searching her face for any sign of inhuman heritage. There was nothing, no smear of fairy ointment around her eyes or glitter of illusion in the air.
But those herbs . . .
I took a breath. I’ve been following my instincts for my whole career, and while they’ve led me wrong a time or two, they’ve been right far more often than that.
“Okay,” I said. “I have just one question before we go. Why are you warding my daughter’s room against the fae?”
Miranda froze, staring at me. Then, taking a step back, she hissed, “Get out.”
So I wasn’t wrong. That might have been reassuring, if I hadn’t been so damn confused. “I found the sachets in Gillian’s dresser. The smell is all over her clothing. What do you know that I don’t?”
“I know you’re all liars and thieves, and you’d take her in the night if you thought you had half a chance at holding her.” Miranda took another step backward. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re mother or monster; you’d steal her all the same. So I kept her safe. I kept her away from those who might have harmed her. How dare you raise your voice to me, as if you had ever done a damned thing to protect that child?”
The image of a meadow that never existed flashed before my eyes. There had been three versions of Gillian there, three versions of my perfect changeling child: the one who was, in that moment, and the two who had the potential to rise from her ashes. I had given her the Choice. I had protected her in the only way I had, in the only way I had known how. If it hadn’t been enough, how was that my fault?
“You have no idea what I’ve done for her,” I said stiffly. “You have no idea what I might still do for her. You’re not her mother. You have no right to act like you are.”
“I’m more mother than you ever were,” Miranda snarled. She turned, apparently intending to grab a knife from the block next to the sink.
Oh, hell, no! I was trying to be nice. I was trying to be reasonable. Neither of those things required me to stand idly by while Cliff’s new wife stabbed me. “Not happening,” I said, and lunged, grabbing her around the ribs. The action pinned her arms to her sides, which was a nice bonus.