A Local Habitation

It was Elliot who broke the silence, saying uncomfortably, “This is . . . rather untidy. May I clean you?”


I pulled away from Quentin and Connor enough to look down at myself. Blood, ash, and streaks of muck stained my clothes and Tybalt’s jacket. I was sure my hair looked like a dead animal stapled to my head. Still. Holding up my hand, I asked, “Is it safe when I’m still bleeding?”

“. . . no,” Elliot said, looking displeased. “We’ll have to get Gordan to look at that.” He crossed to the kitchen area, opening a cabinet and pulling out a clean towel, which he tossed toward us.

Connor caught it, pressing it into my uninjured hand. “Find her fast, please,” he said, expression worried. “I don’t like the way her hand looks.”

“The way it . . . right.” I hadn’t really looked at my hand since cutting it. I’d been a little busy. “Guys, let go.”

They stepped back, and I looked down, assessing the damage. I had all my fingers, and I could move them, if I was willing to cope with the pain: that was where the good stuff ended. My palm was split from the wrist to the base of the index finger, and when my fingers flexed, I thought I saw bone. Changelings heal fast and thoroughly when the wounds aren’t made with iron; my hand would recover if I had it taken care of. It still looked pretty bad.

Starting to feel faintly nauseated, I said, “Getting Gordan in here might be a good idea.”

Elliot nodded. “I’ll fetch her. You wait here.” Then he was out the door, hurrying away from the mess and from the questions he wasn’t asking yet. That was fine. I wasn’t ready to start answering them, and I didn’t trust his self-control to last. I really didn’t need him to start cleaning the room while we were still in it.

“Come on, Toby. Sit down.” Connor took my arm and led me to a chair, with Quentin following close behind. I didn’t fight. Judging by the looks they were giving me, I looked worse than I felt, and that was worrisome.

I collapsed into a sitting position, sticking my head between my knees. Connor began rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles, fingers shaking. The room was starting to spin. That’s never pleasant. My headache wasn’t helping. My magic isn’t strong to begin with, and I’d just performed the largest blood-ritual of my life. In a way, it was a miracle that I was still coherent enough to hurt.

“Toby?”

He sounded worried enough that I forced myself to look up. “Yes, Quentin?”

“Did they come?”

I sighed. “Yeah. They came.”

“Wow.” Quentin sat down in the chair next to mine, shaking his head. “I . . . wow. Did you talk to them?”

“As much as I could, yes.”

“Oh.” We were silent for a while, Connor still rubbing my back, Quentin watching worriedly. Finally, voice meek, Quentin asked, “Are you going to die?”

“What?” The question was unexpected enough to get my full attention.

Swallowing, he said, “You’ve seen the night-haunts. Are you going to die?”

“I don’t think it works that way. They don’t cause death. They come after death happens. I’m not going to die because I saw them.” I might die for other reasons, but I was fairly sure the night-haunts wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

“Oh,” Quentin said, relaxing. “Good.”

We sat quietly after that. I was glad to have the company; even knowing the night-haunts weren’t coming back, I didn’t want to be alone. Both of them were clearly bursting with questions, but they kept their peace, letting me rest. I needed the chance to breathe.

Elliot came back after fifteen minutes. “Gordan and Jan are on their way.”

“Peachy,” I said, sitting up as Connor stepped back. “Got any painkillers?”

“Gordan doesn’t want me to give you anything until she’s seen your hand.”

I decided to hate her. “Why not? It’s my head that’s killing me.”

“Because we don’t know how much damage you’ve done to yourself.” He gestured toward the remains of my protective circle. “It looks like you held a war in here.”

“I almost did,” I said.