Ashes of Honor: An October Daye Novel

“It’ll hurt. Gotcha.” I tucked the sphere into my pocket. Quentin did the same with his. “If that’s all, then we should probably—”


My phone rang.

The Luidaeg’s expression went blank. “You should answer that,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Frowning a little, I pulled out my phone and flipped it open. “Hello?” My eyes widened. “Bridget, calm down. What did you say?”

Chelsea’s mother took a shaky breath, and repeated, “Chelsea just called me. She said she was at a pay phone in Seattle.”

Oh, oak and ash. “Is she still there? I can go pick her up.” Etienne would be able to take me. Even if that was normally farther than he could jump, he’d find a way to take me, for her.

“No. She said she couldn’t control where she was going anymore. People took her!”

“From the phone in Seattle?”

“No! On her way home! Are you listening to me?!”

I took a breath, counting to five before I said, “Yes, Bridget, I’m listening. I just need to know exactly what’s going on. Did she say anything about the people who took her?”

“That they want to open a door! A door where? What’s going on?” Her voice, never calm, was beginning to take on an edge of genuine hysteria. “Where is my daughter?!”

“I don’t know. But we’re going to find her. We—”

“Why aren’t you finding her?!”

“We’re doing the best that we can. Bridget, I just need you to stay calm, and—” I was talking to the air. Bridget had hung up.

I snapped the phone closed, looking toward Quentin. “We have to go.”

“Yes, you do,” said the Luidaeg. “And Toby?”

“Yeah?”

She looked at me grimly, her pupils expanding until her eyes were black from side to side. “Hurry.”





NINE


THE LUIDAEG’S DON’T-LOOK-HERE POPPED as we approached the car, leaving the scent of brackish water hanging in the air. We were short on time. I knew that; Quentin knew that; we still took a moment to stand there and look at the car, trying to wrap our minds around it.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected the Luidaeg to drive; it was a toss-up between something battered and semi-destroyed or something utterly classic, Christine as driven by a badass water demon from the dawn of human history. I was sure of one thing: I wasn’t expecting a green Honda Civic. It looked like something a soccer mom would drive. It looked like something I would have been driving, if I’d stayed part of Gillian’s life long enough to wind up taking her to dance recitals and school plays.

“Do you know how to drive this?” Quentin asked. “It looks, you know. Antique.”

“Quentin, you didn’t own a pair of pants with a zipper until you were fifteen. You didn’t have reliable access to cable television until you moved in with me. Your wardrobe consists mostly of tunics.” I unlocked the car as I spoke. Giving Quentin a hard time might be good for both of us, emotionally, but it wasn’t going to get us to Berkeley any faster. That was where we were most likely to find the doors we needed to attune the Luidaeg’s charms.

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t call other people’s cars antique?”

“I’m saying that no one who grew up in a live-action Tolkien novel gets to call cars from 1998 antiques.”

Quentin smirked and got into the car. “Yes, sir.”

“Damn straight.”

Some of the influence of the Luidaeg’s don’t-look-here spell must have been clinging to the car; there was plenty of traffic, but it got out of our way with an ease that was frankly eerie. Quentin played with the radio while I drove. For some reason, it didn’t get anything but a Canadian folk music channel and three stations playing hits from the 1940s and 1950s. I expected him to complain. Instead, he announced, “I love this song!” as the band on the Canadian station started singing enthusiastically about boats, and proceeded to sing along.

“Weirdo,” I said.