Ashes of Honor: An October Daye Novel

“I need to check something,” I said. “Both of you, stay out in the hall, please.”


As I’d hoped, a girl who kept her room as neat as Chelsea did, and who had such an obvious interest in science, also kept very careful notes. The notebook was full of columns showing dates, times, locations, and what she called “relevant factors.” Everything was written in heavy block letters, making it easy to read, even if it took me a moment to understand.

“Oak and ash,” I repeated, and added a human, “Fuck. Quentin, can you come in here?”

“Sure.” He walked over to me, followed by Bridget, who seemed to have decided “stay in the hall” only applied as long as she and Quentin were both doing it. I didn’t comment on her presence. I just handed Quentin the notebook.

He frowned at the pages, brow furrowing for a moment before it smoothed out as his expression became one of pure surprise. “Was she experimenting with herself?”

“She was,” I confirmed. Bridget looked utterly bewildered. Taking pity, I explained, “Etienne said that you knew he was Tuatha de Dannan. What you may not know is that they’re teleporters, and so is Chelsea. Based on what’s written here she’s been opening small portals for the last year or so. She’s been testing what she can do.”

“That’s not possible. I would have known.”

“Have you ever encouraged her to use her magic? Or have you told her to hide it, no matter what?” Bridget’s silence was answer enough. I continued: “She wanted to know what she could do. And I think she managed to catch someone’s attention.”

What I didn’t say was that if the locations in Chelsea’s book were accurate—and I had no reason to suspect they weren’t—she was opening portals that stretched a lot farther than she should have been able to manage. Etienne could go from Pleasant Hill to San Francisco, if he stretched. His little girl had recorded trips from Albany to Vancouver. And that wasn’t good. There are always stories about changelings with too much power. None of them end well.

“Where is she?” whispered Bridget.

“I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.” I held up the book. “Can I take this?”

Clearly reluctant, Bridget nodded.

“Okay. We have to go now. We have to go and find your daughter.” Assuming she was still alive. And that, unfortunately, was looking like an increasingly big assumption.





SEVEN


WE REWOVE OUR HUMAN DISGUISES before we left. Bridget didn’t argue about our leaving—I think she was too stunned to try to make us stay. She let me keep Chelsea’s notebook and even gave us a recent picture from the living room wall. I gave her my cell number, asking her to call if she thought of anything that might help us find Chelsea. She wouldn’t call. I could see it in her face. But maybe having something as concrete as a phone number would give her a little bit of comfort in the days ahead. I’m a big believer in giving comfort whenever possible. Maeve knows, it can be a hard thing to hold onto.

Besides, there was no way she could use the phone number to track me. April O’Leary set up my account, and I wasn’t sure it strictly existed from the mortal perspective. If Bridget decided not to trust me, all she’d get from tracing my number was a headache.

Speaking of headaches…I waited until Quentin and I were safely in the car, away from human ears, before I asked, “You realize what our next step is, right?”

Quentin frowned. “Is this one of those questions where I’m supposed to work out the answer for myself, as a training thing, or is it one of the questions where you give me the answer, so I shouldn’t even bother trying?”

“The latter,” I said. “We need to talk to the Luidaeg.”