An Artificial Night

“Before the break of day?” Quentin finished, putting his hand over mine. I flashed him a grateful look as the flame changed colors, going from blue to a hot amber gold.

That wasn’t the only change. Runnels of wax began dripping down the sides, streaking the previously smooth surface. There was no actual blood, but I could feel the tingling burn of blood magic taking hold around me. “That’s our cue,” I said, standing. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“If this is working, to the kids.” And if it’s not, I added silently, straight to hell.

The flame brightened as we raced from building to building, trying to outrun the wax and our unseen pursuers at the same time. The flame dwindled whenever we took a wrong turn, guiding us along and consuming wax at a frightening rate. We ran until I wasn’t sure I could run anymore, and I was about to call for a stop when the flame flared, turning blue again. I skidded to a halt. Quentin wasn’t quite as fast; he caught himself on my shoulder, nearly knocking us both over. “Hey!” I protested. “Remember, you’re bigger than I am!”

“Sorry,” he said, straightening. “Why did you stop?”

“I think we’re here.” I gestured toward the nearest door. It was made of rough wood shoved into a badly assembled frame, and the walls around it were more intact than those of the other buildings. The wax had stopped melting. I was taking that as a good sign.

“Now what do we do?”

“We break in. Here, hold this.” I handed him the candle and turned to examine the door. Just for fun, I tried the handle. It was locked. I hadn’t expected anything else. Drawing my knife, I inserted it into the keyhole and twisted until it had gone as deep as it would go.

“What are you doing?” asked Quentin.

“Hang on.” Devin had taught me a lot of things, including opening locked doors. He said I was one of the best students he’d ever had. I jiggled the knife a bit more, getting it exactly where I wanted it, and smacked the pommel with the heel of my hand. The lock gave way, leaving the door to swing easily open.

Quentin gaped. I stood, shoving the knife back into my belt, and reclaimed the candle. “One of the many skills you can learn from a wasted youth,” I said and stepped inside.

The room was dark and square, filled with rustling noises and small, huddled shapes that seemed to be trying to crawl into the walls. I held the candle up in order to see what they were, and a small voice from the back of the room asked, “Toby? Is that you?”

Oh, thank Maeve; we were in the right place. “Raj?” I called back. “Come on out, kiddo. It’s me.”

The shadows rustled again, resolving into children. They were clinging to each other, obviously terrified, and I couldn’t blame them. One stepped forward, holding his head high as he tried to look like he hadn’t been afraid. I lowered the candle to keep the light from hurting his eyes, but even in the dimness, it was impossible to miss the bruises covering his face and shoulders. The Hob he’d escaped with before was leaning on his arm, limping; she looked like she’d been beaten worse than he had.

Raj stopped, looking at me gravely. “October. You came.”

“I came,” I said. Quentin stayed silent behind me, watching.

“Auntie Birdie? Is that really you?” The voice was soft and anxious, like it expected to be silenced at any moment. I froze. Jessica has always been one of the most confident children I’ve ever known. Hearing her sound like that . . .

Blind Michael was going to die. There wasn’t another option.

“Yeah, baby,” I said. “It’s me.”

That was all the confirmation she needed. Jessica came running out of the back of the room, towing Andrew along with her, and flung her arms around me. My height—or lack thereof—didn’t seem to matter; I’d said the right words. She buried her face against my shoulder, sobbing, “I was so scared.”

“I know, baby,” I said, stroking her hair with my free hand. I looked down at Andrew, who had switched his grip from Jessica’s arm to my belt. “You okay?”