A Local Habitation

“Yeah, she can have some Tylenol.” She pulled a bottle from the kit, tossing it to Jan, who removed the cap with a flick of her thumb. I held out my unwounded hand, and she placed three small white pills on my palm as solemnly as if she were handing me the crown jewels of India. I popped them into my mouth, dry-swallowing them in a single convulsive gulp. I don’t know how we dealt with magic-burn before we had over-the-counter painkillers, but I think there’s a reason the faeries in the old stories are so incredibly cranky.

Gordan snatched the bottle out of Jan’s hand, scowling. “Be careful,” she said. “Your hand will be weak for a while, and you should really have stitches. Don’t strain yourself if you don’t want to lose a finger.”

“Got it,” I said, nodding.

“Don’t mention it.” She raked a hand through her spiky hair, shooting a glare toward Quentin. He glared right back. “I sure won’t.”

“Gordan . . .” Jan began.

“Whatever,” Gordan said. She turned, shaking her head, and walked out of the room.

Quentin scowled as he watched her go. “What a—”

“Stop right there,” I said, levering myself to my feet. Connor moved to support me. “I know she is, okay? You don’t need to stress. Just don’t hit her again.”

“Fine,” he said. The tips of his ears were red, although I couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or embarrassment.

Elliot sighed. “That went well.”

“It could’ve been worse,” I said, as diplomatically as I could.

“I’m sorry, both of you,” Jan said.

“It’s all right. We’re all stressed.” I forced a smile, leaning on Connor. “If you don’t mind, I need to fall down until my head stops hurting.”

“Of course.” Jan looked away, but not before that strange, half-aware expression had crossed her face a third time. What the hell was going on? “Elliot, are you coming?”

“Sure.”

I kept leaning on Connor as we left the cafeteria and made our way down several of the knowe’s endless halls. Quentin took up the rear. We stopped at a small room containing a futon, a table and an ancient color television. Ignoring the TV and the fact that I was almost definitely showing how vulnerable I was, I collapsed on the makeshift bed, closing my eyes.

“Toby?” Quentin said.

“Stay with Connor,” I said, eyes staying closed. “If you get bored, ask April to come talk. You like April. Don’t . . . make trouble . . .” I was more tired than I’d thought: I was already starting to drift away.

“All right,” he said. “Sleep well.”

Connor bent over me; I felt him brush my hair back, fingers lingering against my skin before he whispered, “Don’t you dare bleed to death.”

I smiled, not opening my eyes. “I’ll just work on that.”

“You’d better. Don’t you leave me again.” Then he was gone. I heard three sets of footsteps leave the room. I stayed quiet, waiting.

I didn’t have to wait long. Jan stepped closer, sneakers scuffling on the carpet, and said, “Toby? We haven’t—I haven’t told you everything, and I think it’s important for you to understand what we’re really working on. Promise you’ll come find me when you wake up?”

“I’ll find you,” I mumbled. I wanted to make her tell me now, but I couldn’t find my legs, much less make them work. We all have our limits, and I’d exceeded mine.

“Okay. What you said about the memory? This may explain. And I think it’s important that you know.” She sighed. “I need you to know everything.”

“Promise . . .” I said. Something in me was screaming for answers, but the fog didn’t care. I don’t remember how long she sat there or when she left; all I remember is the fall into darkness and the half-dreamed sound of the night-haunts’ wings.





TWENTY-TWO