An Artificial Night

She caught her breath and held it for a moment. Then, slowly, she said, “I can help.”


“I know,” I lied. I hadn’t known. I’d hoped. After what Luna said to me, hoping seemed like the best course of action I had.

“I don’t come cheap. You’re willing to give me a blank check?”

I winced. “Yes. I am.”

“You’re still an idiot,” she said and laughed, low and bitter. “It’s good to know some things never change. You’re at Shadowed Hills?”

“Yes.”

“Hang up and get over here before I change my mind. I need you to do exactly what I tell you to. Can you handle that?”

“I think so.”

“You’d better know so, or we’re finished before we start. Leave now. Don’t go home. Once you’re on the road, don’t stop, don’t look back. Have you eaten today?”

“Not much. I’ve had about half an egg, some home fries, two bites of blackberry pie, three cups of coffee, and some tea at Lily’s.”

“I can work around that. Get your ass over here.”

The line went dead. I hung up and turned toward my car, massaging my throbbing temple with the palm of my hand. I didn’t look back—something that became increasingly difficult as I got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot. I eventually decided that “don’t look back” was a literal command, and I’d be fine as long as I didn’t actually turn my head to see what was behind me. It was a cheat, but it was the best I had.

The drive to the Luidaeg’s took more than an hour and a half, thanks to that famous San Francisco traffic. She lives next to the docks; it’s not easy to get there even when the tourists aren’t out in force. Fill the streets with idiots who want to see Pier 39 “one more time,” and you’re lucky if you can get anywhere near the water without getting stuck in stop-and-go traffic. My headache had developed into a full-grown migraine by the time I reached her neighborhood.

The brightly colored tourist traps gave way to crumbling, half-decayed buildings that looked like they were longing for an excuse to collapse. They pressed in on each other, creating a corridor of close-set looming walls. The air stank like stale water and rotting fish. I’ve gotten used to it—visiting frequently makes it easier to bear—but that didn’t keep me from wondering how she could live with it every day. I guess the answer is simple. The Luidaeg was born to the marsh and fen, the places where land and sea meet, mate, and destroy one another. She lived there still.

Spike huddled in my lap, watching the landscape and occasionally letting out a small, frightened whine. Judging by its reactions, it knew who we were visiting, and it didn’t approve. It doesn’t like the Luidaeg. It never has.

“It’s all right, Spike,” I said. “She’s not likely to rip off your head and show it to you.” That pleasure was reserved for me.

I slowed as the Luidaeg’s building came into view on the left. It was a heap of crumbling brickwork and peeling paint that looked like it was going to collapse any day. I think she’s the only tenant—at least, I hope she is. No one should live that way unless it’s by choice. I pulled into the first available space. Whimpering, Spike followed me out of the car. I couldn’t reassure it. Hell, I couldn’t even reassure myself.

The Luidaeg’s door was set deep in the shadows, sheltered by a rickety fire escape. The frame was darkened and warped by years of neglect. There were no wards; she didn’t need them. Raising one hand, I knocked.

“It’s open!”