Ashes of Honor: An October Daye Novel

“What?” asked Quentin.

“Nothing.” I uncapped the thermos, pouring half its contents down my throat and the other half out on the concrete. The smell of spilled coffee filled the air as I slammed the edge of the thermos against the top of the car, knocking it again and again until the interior seal came loose and I was able to yank the entire center piece free. I threw it into the car, grabbed another dose each of dampener and counteragent, and slid them carefully into the place where the center piece had been. As I’d expected, they fit perfectly.

I sighed again. “At least my thermos didn’t die for nothing.” Putting the lid back on, I twisted it as tight as it would go and tossed the whole thing over to Tybalt.

He caught it, frowning at the brightly colored plastic cylinder. “What, precisely, is this?”

“Well, the orange stuff on top is an alchemical concoction designed to block the powers of anyone it gets spilled on for a year and a day. Walther specifically said not to get it on any shapeshifters, since he has no idea what that would do; let’s try to do what the alchemist says.”

Tybalt blanched. “Yes,” he murmured. “Let’s. October, please don’t think I’m inclined to reject any gifts you choose to give me, but why, pray tell, have you chosen to give me this?”

“If you see Chelsea, you need to dump it on her. I would have done it before, if I’d been carrying the stuff.” And if dampening her powers then and there wouldn’t have stranded us in Annwn, possibly forever. That was the sort of detail that couldn’t always be accounted for.

That didn’t seem to make Tybalt feel better. He eyed the thermos the way I would eye a venomous snake and asked, “What happens if I spill it?”

“There’s a jar of green stuff underneath the jar of orange stuff. It’s a counteragent. If you apply it within twenty minutes, you can cancel the effects of the power dampener. Or at least Walther thinks you can. This is all theory at this point.” I jabbed a finger toward the cooler. “Quentin. Gear up.”

“How come he gets the thermos?” grumbled Quentin, as he moved to retrieve jars of variously colored goo from inside the cooler.

“Because he’s the one whose side effects are completely unknown if he gets doused, whereas you get to wear baseball caps for a year, and I get to spend a lot more time sitting on the couch watching late-night television while enjoying a brief respite from being forced to leave the house. In this particular instance, we’re both better risks than Tybalt is.”

“I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or appalled,” said Tybalt.

“Neither am I,” said Quentin.

I smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, but it was a genuine one. “You know, if I have to march off to certain doom, I can’t think of many people I’d rather be marching with.”

“You can think of any?” asked Quentin, sealing his own jars of glowing goo in Ziploc Baggies.

“Anybody who owns a tank is at the top of the list. But you’re right underneath them.” I tossed the box of Baggies back into the car and closed the door, locking it before tucking the keys back into my pocket. There was a thick patch of shadows underneath the eucalyptus trees separating the campus from the street. I gestured toward them. “Shall we?”

Tybalt nodded. “I suppose we shall.”

The three of us walked into the shadow of the trees, our pockets heavy with the promise of magic’s end. And then Quentin took Tybalt’s hand while I took hold of his elbow, and he pulled us backward into the darkness, and the world fell away again. It was time to end this. One way or another, it was time for us to find Chelsea, and bring her home.





TWENTY-ONE