An Artificial Night

Eventually I must have dozed off. It wasn’t that surprising; except for my nap in Danny’s cab, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept when not injured or enchanted. I was a little surprised that I hadn’t collapsed sooner.

I woke up tucked into a large bed and wearing clean clothes, with Spike curled up in the middle of my chest. My hair was braided, and the blood had been rinsed off of me; the cut on my arm was sore, but it had at least been bandaged. I sat up, ignoring Spike’s protests as it hopped off my chest and curled up, glaring, on my pillow. My stomach made a rumbling noise. I had no idea when my last meal had been, and I was starving.

That’s why Shadowed Hills has kitchens. I’d almost managed to climb out of the bed when May swept through the door with a tray in her hands, scolding, “Get back in that bed! Luna’s orders: you have to eat something before I’m allowed to let you get up.”

I eyed her. “You’re my Fetch. Who says you get to order me around?”

“The Duchess,” she cheerfully replied, putting the tray down next to the bed. She was wearing a patchwork skirt and a peasant blouse tie-dyed in clashing stripes of red and purple. The combination was frightening. “Now shut up and eat.”

My stomach rumbled again, and I looked at the tray, suddenly happy to do as I was told. The eggs were perfect, the coffee was hot, and the toast was burned just enough to convince me that I wasn’t dreaming. Heaven. Spike gnawed on a crust, staying out of the way on my pillow.

Luna arrived as I was finishing and sat down on the edge of the bed, saying without preamble, “I need a favor.”

I blinked at her. “Of course.”

“The Luidaeg called. I need you to take Quentin to her. It’s about Katie.”

I froze before nodding, slowly. “Yes, of course.” It wasn’t done yet. If Katie was still broken, it wasn’t done. Oak and ash. Sometimes it feels like the train wreck never ends.





THIRTY-TWO



IT WAS A MORTAL TAXI DRIVER THIS TIME, and he didn’t speak English. That was okay; Quentin held my hand for the entire drive, his fingers clenched in mine, white-knuckled and shaking. He was terrified, and there were things that needed to be said, but I couldn’t say any of them. Saying something makes it real. There was also our human driver to be considered; he claimed not to speak English, but he still might understand enough to pose a problem if we opened our mouths around him.

So I kept my mouth shut, slid my arm around Quentin’s shoulders, and just held him. It was all I could do. It could never have been enough. It had stopped being enough when I handed Spike to Luna and got into the cab to take Quentin off to face his fate.

The driver dropped us off at the mouth of the Luidaeg’s street and left; Sylvester had already paid the fare. I just hoped he’d used real money. The purebloods can have a sort of creative interpretation of “polite” behavior when it comes to mortals, and cabbies tend to get cranky when they make a big run and wind up with pockets full of dead leaves and ashes.

We stopped on the Luidaeg’s doorstep. I looked at Quentin, gauging the strain in his eyes. “Are you going to be all right with this?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’m not. But I have to.”

I nodded. More and more, I was coming to appreciate the concept of “have to.” “You know she may not be quite right. Not yet.” You understand that she may be broken beyond even the Luidaeg’s capacity to fix? That we may bring her back, but never bring her home? Do you understand?

There were a lot of things I wanted to say, and I couldn’t bring myself to say a single one, because saying them would make them real, and no amount of preparing him would change what was waiting for us.

“I know. I do. I’m not giving up hope. But I know.”

“All right, Quentin. Just remember that I’m here, okay? I’m not going away again.”

He managed a smile, squeezing my hand. “I know. You’d never be that stupid twice.”

“Brat,” I said fondly and turned to knock on the door.