A Local Habitation

The world flashed cold around us, all the heat ripped away in a few seconds. I nestled down against him without thinking about it as I started counting down in my head from ten, measuring the distance by the feel of Tybalt running. Drunk as I was, the experience was less disconcerting than it had been the first time Tybalt pulled me through the Shadows. It would have been almost pleasant, if it hadn’t been for the cold.

My silent countdown had just reached three when we plunged back out of the cold and into the comparative warmth of the June night. I opened my eyes, squinting through the ice crystals on my lashes. We were at my own front door. To fae eyes, the edges were marked with the glowing red tracery of the wards I’d set before heading out for the night.

“Much simpler,” said Tybalt. He walked up to the porch, noting, “I can’t go any further than this, I’m afraid. Wards.”

“Mmm.” The cold had made me drowsy, and I was comfortable where I was. Waving a hand, I mumbled, “Hey-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.” The wards flared and disappeared, leaving the coppery scent of my magic hanging heavy in the air. I closed my eyes again. “There.”

“Nursery rhymes?” He sounded amused.

I shrugged. “They work.”

“Even so. The key?”

“Oh.” I freed a hand to dig into my tiny purse, finding my house key by feel. Tybalt plucked it from my fingers, juggling me effortlessly as he unlocked the door and carried me inside.

I fell asleep somewhere between the living room and the hall.





TWO



WAKING UP WAS COMPLICATED by the fact that I had absolutely no idea where I was. I opened my eyes, blinking at the ceiling. The air tasted like ashes. It wasn’t long past dawn; that was probably what woke me.

The ceiling looked familiar. There was a water stain roughly the shape of Iowa in one corner, and that was enough to convince me that I was at home, in my own bedroom and—I glanced down at myself—still dressed for clubbing, in skimpy lace-trimmed tank top and miniskirt. Only the battered brown leather jacket seemed out of place. Maybe if I’d been trying out as the ingenue in an Indiana Jones movie . . .

I groaned, dropping my head back onto the pillow with a thump. “Oh, oak and ash.” My memories of the previous night were fuzzy, but not fuzzy enough. As drunken mistakes go, letting Tybalt carry me home ranked high on the list. And he was never, ever going to let me forget it.

Pushing myself into a sitting position, I swung my feet around to the floor, kicking one of the shoes I’d been wearing the night before in the process. The remaining shoe was sitting atop my purse with my house key tucked into the heel.

“At least he’s a considerate source of aggravation,” I muttered, and stood, walking gingerly toward the kitchen.

Three heads of roughly the same size and shape poked over the back of the couch as I approached. Two were brown and cream, belonging to my half-Siamese cats, Cagney and Lacey. The third was gray-green and thorny, and belonged to Spike, the resident rose goblin.

“Morning,” I said. The cats withdrew while Spike scrabbled fully into view, rattling its thorns in enthusiastic greeting. Adorable, if weird.

The concept of “name it and it’s yours” has always been part of Faerie. Unfortunately, I didn’t think about that until after I gave Spike a name, effectively binding it to me. Luna was too busy being glad I wasn’t dead to mind my taking her rose goblin—she has more—and the cats stopped sulking as soon as they realized it didn’t eat cat food. I don’t mind having it around. It’s pretty easy to take care of; all it really needs is mulch, potting soil, and sunlight.