A Local Habitation

He frowned. “Her wounds are different. She had time to struggle?”


“Right.” I removed Jan’s glasses, sliding them into my pocket before gently closing her eyes. I didn’t need to worry about tampering with the evidence: in a very real sense, Quentin and I were the forensics team. “Can you tell me what that means?”

“Um. Is the blood still . . . like the others?”

“The blood in her body is.” Straightening, I walked over to the server rack, studying the smeared blood for patches that hadn’t quite dried.

Quentin’s eyes widened. “You think her killers didn’t get it all?”

“It would make sense if they hadn’t, wouldn’t it?” I glanced back at him. “You think there was more than one killer. Why?”

“She’s . . . well, she’s split open. I don’t think one person could do that.”

“I’d agree with you, but remember, some races are stronger than others.” I’ve seen Tybalt kill an adult Red-cap with no weapons but his own claws. “I’m a lot more interested in the fact that all the footprints are Jan’s, or from the night-haunts.”

“I’ve never heard of the night-haunts leaving footprints,” said Quentin.

“I think they did it on purpose, so I’d know they’d been here.” I’d have to consider what that meant, later; if I had a personal relationship with the ghouls of Faerie now, I wanted to know about it.

“Why?”

“So I’d know they came, and they chose not to take her.”

“Oh.” Quentin dipped the first fingers of his left hand into the blood on Jan’s neck, studying them. He was starting to learn; adult Daoine Sidhe usually go for the blood before anything else, because a solid answer can prevent years of debate. I didn’t stop him. He’d have to learn sometime, and now was as good a time as any.

Something glittered on the lower shelves. I ran my fingers across the spot, pulling them back gooey with congealed blood. I glanced back to Quentin and saw him put his blood-covered fingers into his mouth, tasting the blood I already knew was empty. I waited for his grimace, and then asked, “Anything?”

“Nothing,” he said, spitting into his hand.

“We’ll get some water in a minute. Hang on.” I raised my hand, sucking the blood from my fingers.

I knew the blood was vital as soon as I tasted it. Then Jan’s memories overwhelmed my vision, and I didn’t know anything beyond what the blood was telling me.

Warning bells in the server room; need to make sure everything’s okay, we have enough problems already. The lights are out. That’s no good. Can’t see in the dark, never could, stupid eyesight, stupid glasses. Feel around, find the switch, where’s the switch—

Pain pain pain, pain like burning, pain everywhere, why’s my shirt wet? Reach down, feel the blade where it meets my chest—the fire ax from down the hall? Why is the fire ax in my chest? I . . . oh. Oh, I see. Shouldn’t I be upset? Shouldn’t I be crying? It hurts. It hurts so bad. But all I feel is confused. Why is this happening . . .

“Toby?” Quentin’s voice cut through Jan’s memories.

“Be quiet,” I said, and swallowed again, screwing my eyes closed. I’d already learned something vital: we were right when we assumed it was a “who,” not a “what.” Monsters don’t generally use fire axes. The magic stuttered, trying to catch hold, and started again. . . . here? I grab the ax handle, and pull, trying to free myself. I don’t want to die like this, I don’t want to die without answers . . .