A Local Habitation

“She’s never going to start to rot.” I rose, crossing to the second cot. Quentin followed. “Is this Yui?” I asked. Jan nodded. “Right,” I said, and pulled back the sheet.

Yui could have been a normal Japanese woman in her late twenties, if it weren’t for her four tails and her pointed, red-furred ears. Her hair was braided, exposing the puncture wound on her throat. This wasn’t good. Kitsune express their power in the number of tails they have, ranging from the usual one or two up to seven or eight. Keiko Inari, their Firstborn, supposedly has nine. The Duchess of Shadowed Hills only has three, and there’s not much that could take her without a fight . . . but Yui looked as calm as the others. Unless we were dealing with someone the victims knew, we were looking at something big and mean enough to take down a four-tailed Kitsune before she had a chance to get angry.

I didn’t like that idea one bit. “She didn’t struggle.”

“Well, why not?” asked Quentin.

“It’s possible that she was so surprised that she didn’t have time to react. It’s also possible that she knew her killer.” I looked up. “Three weeks between Barbara and Yui. How long between Yui and Colin?”

“Two weeks,” Jan said.

“Either somebody’s enjoying themselves, or something’s hungry.”

She flinched.

I sighed. “I’m just trying to get the facts straight. We’ll move on, for now. Do you have any paper cups?”

“What?” It was an odd enough request to make her stop looking upset and start looking confused. It was an improvement.

“Small cups, made of paper? You’d probably find them in the cafeteria.”

“Oh. Yes, we do. Why do you—”

“Great. We’ll need four of them, filled halfway with lukewarm water.” I pulled the sheet back over Yui, saying, “Quentin and I are going to try waking their blood.”

“Will that work?” Jan asked. Quentin looked at me out of the corner of his eye, expression telegraphing the same question.

“Probably not, but I don’t have any better ideas,” I said. “Do you?”

“Guess not. I’ll be back.” Jan turned and walked up the stairs. We watched her go, and then Quentin looked back to me, obviously getting ready to ask what the hell was going on.

I cut him off. “The bodies aren’t decaying because they’re still fae. The night-haunts haven’t come.”

“What?” he said, frowning.

“Do you know why we have the night-haunts?”

“To keep humanity from finding out about us.”

“Partially. And partially because fae flesh doesn’t rot.” I shrugged. “Look, purebloods don’t age, right? So why would they decay? I’m not sure what would happen to a changeling body without the night-haunts, but they take the purebloods so they won’t just be lying around for the rest of time.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, looking toward Barbara. Then, slowly, he asked, “So why haven’t the night-haunts come?”

“That’s the eight-million-dollar question, kid. I’m hoping these three can tell us,” I indicated the cots, including Colin in the gesture, “because I’m not sure who else can.”

“Oh,” he said again, and looked away.

I watched him for a moment. “Beyond the obvious, what’s wrong?” He mumbled something I didn’t quite hear, and I frowned. “Try that again?”

“I said, I want to stay.” He turned to face me again. “Please?”

“Really.” I raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think . . . ?”

“That’s always what happens. Something happens, and all the kids get sent away.” A sour look crossed his face. “I’ve been here before. I want to stay.”

He was a foster, after all. Maybe there’d been a reason for his posting at Shadowed Hills. I tilted my head, considering him. “Why should I let you?”

“Because Sylvester sent me to learn. How am I supposed to do that if you send me away when things get dangerous?” He shook his head. “I’ve never even tried blood magic before—not when it mattered. You have to let me stay. I need to know these things.”