A Local Habitation

“Uh-huh,” I agreed, unbuckling my seat belt. I got out of the car, tucking the folder under my arm. Giving the cats a confused, speculative look, I glanced back toward the gate.

There was someone—a little girl—standing by the trees. She was wearing denim overalls, and the wind was rippling her long blonde hair in a wave. The light winked off her glasses as she turned her head, looking at me. I raised a hand . . . and she was gone.

“Okay, that was creepy,” I said. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Quentin asked, stepping up next to me.

“That’s a ‘no.’ ” I squinted at the place where she’d been. There are several races in Faerie who can disappear like that. I couldn’t for the life of me guess which one she’d been.

Quentin was giving me a funny look. “What’re you staring at?”

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on.” I locked the car and turned, heading for the smaller building with Quentin close behind. Half a dozen cats followed us, stopping to spread out in a wide semicircle on the grass when we had almost reached the door. They didn’t move any closer to the building, and their eyes never left us.

A brass plaque was bolted to the wall, out of place in its simplicity. “ ‘And gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name—William Shakespeare.’ Huh.” I reached out to touch the lettering, and a jolt of static stung my hand. “Ow!”

“What was that?” Quentin demanded, sounding alarmed.

“Low-level warding spell. It’s not supposed to hurt people . . . at least, not the ones who don’t mean any harm.” I stuck my finger into my mouth, studying the plaque.

“How does it know?”

“See this line, here?” I indicated one of the streaks of silver, careful not to touch the metal a second time. “This is Coblynau work. It’s probably the real security system.”

“How so?”

“Even if someone manages to break through the gate, they won’t be able to get in with this on the door. It’s only a low-level ward for us because we’re supposed to be here. If we were here to hurt things, it’d be a lot worse.” And that “little spark” would have been enough to do some serious damage.

“Oh,” said Quentin. “Is it safe to go in?”

“Let’s find out.” There was a piece of cardboard taped to the door, the words “please take deliveries to the back” scrawled across it in black marker. An arrow under the words pointed toward the corner of the building. I ignored it, pushing the door open only to be hit by the dual indignities of arctic air-conditioning and a truly tasteless pea-green carpet.

Most reception areas are meant to make people feel at home; this one combined the worst features of a seventies color scheme with plastic art-deco furniture. It seemed to be designed to make people leave as quickly as possible. The plants were also plastic, and the magazines on the glass end tables were all at least three years old.

“Ew,” said Quentin, looking at the carpet.

“Agreed.” I frowned. No one used this room for business; they didn’t maintain it because they didn’t have to. There was a door at the back. I started toward it. “Come on.”

“Shouldn’t we try to call someone or something?”

“The sign said deliveries go to the back, and this looks like the back to me.” I shrugged. “We’ve just become a delivery.” What we lacked in postage, I was sure we’d make up for in destructive potential. The knob was unlocked. That was all the invitation I needed.

“I’m not comfortable just barging in,” said Quentin.