A Local Habitation

Ignoring the sarcasm, I smiled. “Excellent. This won’t take long.”


I meant that seriously. What I didn’t expect was how accurate my words would be. I dialed the pay phone in Paso Nogal, waiting until a winded Melly answered the phone, managing to gasp out, “Hello?”

“Melly?”

“October! Ah, child, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Melly, is Sylvester still there? I need to—”

Melly cut me off, saying, “His Grace has already ridden out, along with most of the knowe, I’m afraid. Even Her Grace went along. Is it . . . is it true that dear January’s left us?”

The image of Luna attacking a killer with an army of rose goblins was interesting, but not useful. “I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, that poor lamb,” she said, with a deep, wounded sigh. “Just take care, if you would. There’s been death enough.”

“I will,” I said, before hanging up. I’ll give Elliot this much; of the pair of them, he was the only one pretending not to listen. “Sylvester’s on his way. He’ll get Quentin out of here.”

“Good,” said Tybalt. “Now may we go inside?”

“Of course,” said Elliot.

Tybalt fell into step beside me as we followed Elliot into the knowe, saying quietly, “I would have come straight to you, but the place is warded. None of the Shadows would open.”

“They have a Coblynau on staff.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “That would do it. Why are you so concerned with what becomes of this ‘Quentin’? Is he a new swain of yours?”

“First, Tybalt, no one says ‘swain’ anymore. Secondly, no. He’s a foster at Shadowed Hills, and he’s been injured. Someone was trying to shoot me, and they got him instead.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“I don’t know.” I paused. “But you might. Elliot, take us to the cafeteria.”

“Why?”

“Because we just got ourselves a bloodhound,” I said, smiling thinly. Tybalt snorted at my comparing him to a dog, but didn’t object. The news that I’d been shot at seemed to have disconcerted him more than I expected. If it made him agreeable, well, I wasn’t going to argue.

The cafeteria was empty. Wherever the surviving denizens of ALH were spending their day, it wasn’t here, perhaps because they were avoiding the grisly sight of Quentin’s blood, which had dried to a dirty, unpleasant brown on the floor all around the soda machine. Elliot stiffened at the sight of it. “No,” I said, before he could ask. “You can’t.”

He shot a glance my way before turning, shoulders tight, to walk over to the coffee machine. Fine. If it would keep him occupied, he could make all the coffee in the world. “I take mine with cream, sugar, and painkillers,” I called. “That’s where Quentin was shot, Tybalt. You think you can find the gun?”

“How, precisely, should I do that?” The look he gave me then was very nearly amused. “Shall I simply wave my hands and call, ‘Here kitty, kitty’?”

“No.” I shrugged. “Follow the smell of gunpowder.”

Tybalt blinked, and then nodded. “Worth trying.”

“At this point, everything is,” I said, without humor. “Elliot, stay here. Get Tybalt anything he asks for. I’ll be right back for my coffee.”

The look Tybalt gave me then was anything but pleased. “Where are you going?”

“To check on Quentin,” I said, and slipped out of the cafeteria, heading down those newly linear halls toward the room where I’d left Quentin and Connor.

Connor cracked the door open on my second knock, peering out into the hall before opening the door all the way and stepping out. “Hey,” he said, voice soft. “Everything okay?”

“Sylvester’s on his way, and Tybalt’s here,” I said. “How is he?” I didn’t need to specify which “he” I meant. There was really only one candidate.

“Asleep.” A brief smile crossed his lips. “April brought him the Hippocampi from Colin’s office a little bit ago. Tank and all. I think she’s trying to make him feel better, she just doesn’t know quite how.”

“And they’re still alive?”