A Local Habitation

“Yes . . .” he said, slowly.

“Great. Would you do me a teeny little favor?” Anyone who knew me would have known better—when I ask for favors, run, especially if I’m using words like “teeny.” Cute phrases and I don’t meet often. Stacy and Mitch would’ve been out the door as soon as I opened my mouth, heading for a sudden appointment in Tahiti. Fortunately, Elliot didn’t know any better. The sap.

“Sure. Uh . . . what do you need?” He looked nervously at the phone. Considering what he’d overheard, he was probably expecting me to ask for a live chicken and a boning knife.

“These.” I flipped to a clean page, copying the list. “Dried is better, dead will do. The florists may not want to sell you dead flowers—you may have to dumpster dive.” I ripped out the page, handing it to him. “I need them to construct my circle. The ritual starts at sunset.”

I have to give him credit: he took the idea in stride. “I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Is there anything else you need?”

I consulted my notebook. “Half a pound of sea salt, six unmatched candles—preferably ones that have been burned before—juniper berries, a mandrake root, and some raven’s feathers.” It sounded like I was getting ready for a supernatural Girl Scout Jamboree.

“Oh.” He considered. “There’s sea salt in the kitchen, and about a dozen candles in the earthquake preparedness kit.” Most California fae keep earthquake kits. Immortality’s not that useful when the earth opens up and swallows you whole.

“Really? That helps.”

“Hold on . . .” Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do they need to be feathers from a real raven, or will skin-shifter feathers do?”

I paused. Selkies are the most common breed of skin-shifter, but there are others, including the Raven-men and Raven-maids. “I can’t tell the difference,” I said, finally, “so they should work.”

“Our last receptionist was a Raven-maid, and she left a lot of feathers in her desk. They should be in the storage closet in front.”

I looked at him quizzically, but it was Quentin who asked, “Do you people ever throw anything away?”

Elliot shrugged. “Not really.”

“That’s everything but the juniper berries and the mandrake root,” I said. “Is there an herbal specialty shop or a New Age supply store near here?”

“I didn’t see one,” Quentin said.

Elliot looked at us for a moment, expression unreadable, and then turned to the door. “Come with me.” Quentin and I followed, exchanging a bemused look.

We walked through a series of short hallways, stopping at a row of dark, closed offices. The nearest was marked with a small brass nameplate reading “Y. Hyouden.” I glanced at Elliot. “This is Yui’s office,” I said. “We couldn’t find it earlier. We were looking.”

“It’s hard to get here if you don’t know the way,” he said, pressing his palm against the door. “She liked her privacy.”

“Jan mentioned that. She said you could lead me here.”

“And I have,” he said, voice soft.

“Why are we here?” Quentin asked. “I mean, other than the hunting for clues part.”

“Because she always said she could stock an occult store out of her desk.” Elliot closed his hand into a fist, leaving it against the door. “She was so smart . . . but she couldn’t stop whatever it was that took her away.” His voice was full of raw, angry longing.

I blinked, startled. I shouldn’t have been: in any community as insular as ALH, some ties would be bound to run deeper than “coworkers.” “Elliot?” I said. “Are you all right?”

“We were going to be married this fall,” he said, like I hadn’t spoken. “We were waiting for the leaves to turn. She wanted . . . she wanted to be married when the world was on fire.”