Ashes of Honor: An October Daye Novel

We drove away from campus and down Shattuck Avenue in that same frozen silence. Quentin didn’t even turn the radio on—something that was practically unheard of in my experience. I stole a few glances in his direction, but decided not to push the matter. He’d talk when he was ready, and we were both going to need our strength for what was ahead of us.

Possibly sooner than I’d thought. I hit the brakes when I saw the police cars parked outside Bridget’s house. Quentin yelped as he was thrown forward against his seat belt. “Ow! Hey!”

“Sorry. Sorry.” I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and drove on until I saw an open space about halfway down the block, sandwiched between a red sports car and a silver-gray VW station wagon. I eased the Luidaeg’s car up to the sidewalk and killed the engine, not bothering with a don’t-look-here.

Quentin checked the cooler to be sure its contents were intact before twisting in his seat and staring, wide-eyed, at the police cars behind us. “Toby…”

“I saw them.”

“What are they doing here?”

“I think we’re about to find out. Leave the cooler.” I undid my belt, leaning over to open the cooler and pull out one dose of the power-dampener goo. I tucked it into my jacket pocket, ignoring Quentin’s puzzled look, and climbed out of the car. Quentin followed, and together we walked along the sidewalk to Bridget’s house.

The door was standing open. I heard voices as we came up the walkway—Bridget’s and two others, both unfamiliar. The owner of one of those voices appeared as we walked up the porch steps: a frowning, brown-haired man in a Berkeley Police Department uniform.

“Can I help you?”

I forced myself to smile. “Hi—I’m a friend of Bridget’s. She asked me to come over?” Hopefully, the fact that I looked faintly worried despite my smile would work in my favor. Anyone who was actually a friend of Bridget’s would look worried if they found the police in her house. Quentin didn’t say anything, but he stepped closer to me, letting his obvious youth speak for him. He was the right age to be one of Chelsea’s friends from school.

We must not have looked too suspicious, because the officer didn’t reach for his handcuffs. He just shook his head, and said, “Ms. Ames is not prepared for company at the moment. Perhaps you should come back later.”

“Who’s there?” Bridget appeared behind the officer, blinking when she saw me. “October. I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

“I thought you could use a little help.” My eyes flicked to the officer and then back to her. “What’s going on?”

“It’s been long enough since Chelsea disappeared that I can file a credible missing persons report,” said Bridget.

There are times when I think I’ll never understand the human world. Maybe if I’d grown up as a part of it, but now…there’s no way. In Faerie, if a child disappears, you don’t wait forty-eight hours before you move. You go out and you get them back, unless they’ve been taken by something too powerful for you to defeat. And that doesn’t happen often these days.

“What?” asked Quentin, sounding honestly confused.

“Oh,” I said, surreptitiously nudging him with my elbow. He stopped talking. Good squire. “So she’s not sleeping over at Brittany’s house?”

Bridget shook her head. “No, she’s not.”

The officer didn’t ask who Brittany was. It’s a common enough name that it was safe to assume every girl in America knew at least one “Brittany” well enough to sleep over at her house.

“Damn,” I said.

“My thoughts exactly.” She placed a hand on the officer’s arm. “Can we finish taking my statement, Officer Daugherty? October’s been a great comfort to me.” Bridget didn’t blink or hesitate as she lied to the policeman; she kept her eyes on his the whole time, and her tone was steady. She must have been thinking of her excuse since they showed up on her doorstep.

“We can wait on the porch,” I offered.

Bridget shot me a relieved look. Officer Daugherty slowly nodded.

“If your friends don’t mind waiting, I believe we’re just about done.”

“Thank you.” Bridget took her hand off the officer’s arm, turning to me. “I won’t be a minute,” she said.