A Local Habitation

“Frisky as ever.”


“Huh.” If April could teleport living things, she had definitely become something very different from your average Dryad. “You holding up okay?”

“Sure, for now. What are you doing wandering around alone?”

I leaned over to hug him, briefly. “Just checking in. Stay safe.”

He kissed my cheek. “You, too.”

“Trying,” I said, and turned to return to the cafeteria. Once he was out of sight, I raised my hand, touching the spot where he’d kissed me. If Raysel had reason to hate me before . . .

There’d be time to worry about that later, when we weren’t dead. I stepped back into the cafeteria and into a tableau strange enough to stop me in my tracks, just blinking.

Three mugs of coffee and the last box of donuts were sitting in the middle of one of the tables, as decoratively placed as any tea party preparations. A bottle of Tylenol was sitting next to one of the mugs. Elliot, sleeves rolled prissily up to keep them from brushing the floor, was kneeling next to an open vent, peering into it. Tybalt was nowhere to be seen.

I cleared my throat.

Elliot looked around, and said, “Your coffee’s on the table,” before returning his attention to the vent.

“What’s going on?” I didn’t let my confusion prevent me from heading for the coffee. It was still hot. Blessed caffeine. Better yet, blessed caffeine with a side order of painkillers. Maybe mortal medicine can’t beat fae healing, but it comes close, and it’s a damn sight more reliable.

“He believes he’s found a trail.”

As if on cue, a burly tabby-striped tomcat popped out of the vent, looking disgusted. The smell of pennyroyal and musk rose around him, and Tybalt was seated on the floor. “Nothing,” he said, sounding disgusted. “What a charming place this is.”

“Have some coffee,” I suggested. “You’ll feel better.”

“Will it bring back the dead?”

“No. But it may save your sanity.”

“Excellent.” He stood, moving to join me before turning baleful eyes toward Elliot. “What have you people been doing here?”

“Nothing,” said Elliot, looking uncomfortable.

“Dying,” I said. “Tybalt, come on with me. I’ll show you Barbara’s work space. Maybe you can find a trail there.”

He looked at me, clearly trying to decide whether I was simply trying to distract him, before finally offering an imperious nod. “Very well.”

“Elliot—”

“I’ll get April to escort me to Alex’s office. He and I have some things to go over, anyway.”

“All right.” I held up the phone. “I’m keeping this.”

“Excellent. I’ll have you notified at once if Sylvester shows up.”

“Good. Tybalt, come on.”

He gave me a dubious look, but followed me out of the cafeteria and back into the halls. It was almost five-thirty; sunset was still hours away, and Sylvester was Maeve-knows-where.

I just hoped he’d get here soon. We were running out of options.





TWENTY-SIX



SPENDING SEVERAL HOURS WITH TYBALT was surprisingly easy, maybe because we had a common task to focus on: sorting through Barbara’s personal effects. When I asked, hesitantly, why she left her files in a place where they’d be so easy to find, Tybalt laughed, replying, “She was a cat, October. Where would the fun be if she hid them?” There was the Cait Sidhe mind-set in a nutshell.

I became a PI because I was good at focusing my attention and shutting out the things that wanted to distract me from the task at hand. I was so preoccupied with studying the contents of Barbara’s desk, trusting Tybalt to notice any threats that might arise, that it was a genuine surprise when Elliot walked up, saying, “It’s time.”

“What?” I looked up. “Oh. Elliot. Sunset, already?” I frowned, glancing toward the wall like I expected a window to appear. “Sylvester’s not here yet?”