An Artificial Night

“What are you talking about?”


“Finish your story, then I’ll tell you mine.” He eyed me, and I added, “Promise.”

“All right.” He sighed. “Her mom came in and said I needed to leave. She was pretty worried.” He bit his lip. “So am I.”

“Understandably.” I picked up the filter and slotted it into place, then turned on the coffee maker. I needed more caffeine before I tried to deal with any more of this.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

“I probably should,” I said, and sighed. “Come on.” I pushed past him into the living room, not waiting to see if he was following; it’s not that big of an apartment. I sat on the end of the couch, tugging the hem of my skirt until it was even.

Quentin followed, sitting on the other end of the couch. Spike leaped into his lap, and he started scratching the rose goblin behind the ears. “Why would the windows hurt me?”

“Because Katie’s not the only one that’s gone,” I said. “Stacy Brown called this morning because her two youngest children were missing. When I searched their rooms, I found the same scents you found in Katie’s. I’ve also spoken to Tybalt, and he says five children disappeared from his Court last night.”

“Same smell?”

“Same smell,” I said. “I touched a window when I was following the scent trail. It burned my hands.”

“But they don’t look—”

“Lily healed them. Katie . . .” I sighed. “She’s pure human, right? Not thin-blooded or a merlin?” Humans with very small amounts of fae blood are sometimes still capable of working magic and perceiving the fae world; it’s rare, but it happens. We call them “merlins,” and we avoid them when we can. They’re dangerous, in their way.

“She’s human,” Quentin said, glaring.

I winced. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. But Quentin—whatever this is, it’s snatched purebloods, changelings, and now a human girl. What does that mean?”

“It means we have to get her back,” he said, jaw set in a hard line.

“Right,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Does anybody know you’re here?”

“Not exactly. I came straight from school.”

“So kids are disappearing and you just ran out? Did you at least tell Sylvester and Luna you’d be home late?” Quentin’s parents fostered him at Shadowed Hills to be trained in the courtly arts. I’ve never met them, but they must have been fairly minor nobility to place him in a court as unfashionable as Sylvester’s. Judging by the slight accent Quentin displayed in times of stress, they were somewhere in or near Canada. The Torquills are both his liege lords and his parents now, at least until the fosterage ends.

“No . . .”

“Maeve wept, Quentin.” I stood. “Stay where you are. Understand?”

He nodded as I stalked back to the kitchen, where I grabbed the phone and dialed the number for Shadowed Hills. The phone rang twice before a man’s voice came on the line, saying, “Shadowed Hills. How may I assist?”

I paused, amazement overwhelming my annoyance. “Etienne, is that you?”

“Oh, blast. Hello, Toby,” he said, wearily. “Please don’t start.”

“Was the phone in danger? Did they have to get a big, brave knight to guard it?” Etienne is one of Sylvester’s most reliable knights. Pureblooded Tuatha de Dannan and so honorable that he squeaks—in short, boring as hell. I respect the man and even like him in the abstract, but when it comes to actually spending time around him, well, let’s just say that we’ve devoted a lot of time to driving each other crazy.

“Melly is out, so someone had to mind the phone. What’s going on?” It was impossible to miss the disapproval in his tone. I’m a lot more likely to just show up, trouble following on my heels, than I am to call ahead.

“Right. Sorry.” I sobered, saying, “Quentin’s at my place. He’s fine, and I’m about to bring him back to the knowe.”