Ashes of Honor: An October Daye Novel

We stepped out of the shadows and into the high-walled alley I used to think of as the Court itself before I was granted access to the true Court of Cats. Cats—both mortal and Cait Sidhe in feline form—lounged on crates and garbage cans against the alley walls, although there was no stink of trash or decay in the air. A pile of mattresses was pushed up against one end of the alley. The other was shrouded in darkness, hiding this temporary gathering place from the mortal world.

I shoved the Luidaeg’s charm back into my pocket as I wiped the cold from my eyes. “Hop on down, Raj,” I said. “We’re home.”

He meowed piteously.

“Right.” I sighed, and freed my hand from Tybalt’s in order to scoop Raj from my shoulder and place him, carefully, on the ground. He stretched. Then he stood up, returning to his human form in a swirl of pepper and burning paper. “Feeling better?” I asked.

“No,” he said glumly. “But I’m home.”

“Yeah, well. We’re a full service operation.”

Raj looked at me, glass-green eyes solemn. “I thought I was going to die there.”

“You didn’t. But you should get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot, and—”

I didn’t get to finish that sentence. Raj’s father, Samson, came stalking from the shadows of the alley. His hands were balled into fists, and his pupils were narrowed to hairline slits, making him look alien and strange. “You,” he spat, angling toward me. “What are you doing here, whore? You have no right to passage in these lands.”

“You really don’t like me, do you?” I asked, trying not to let my irritation show. “What have I ever done to you? I saved your son. Twice now. Doesn’t that at least warrant not calling me a whore every time you get the chance?”

“Consider your answer carefully, Samson,” said Tybalt, in a mild tone. “I find myself awaiting your reply with great interest.”

Samson glared. Then he turned to Raj, dismissing us. “Are you injured?”

“No, Father, I—”

Samson’s backhand caught Raj across the cheek, snapping his head to the side. He made a startled mewling noise. I started forward before I realized I was going to move and stopped as Tybalt’s hand closed around my upper arm, holding me in place.

“No,” he said, very softly. “You cannot intervene.”

“I hate your rules,” I muttered, but stayed where I was. Raj was a teenage boy. He was my unofficial squire. And he was also a Prince of Cats, and that meant some battles, he had to fight on his own.

“Sometimes,” said Tybalt, “so do I.”

Raj turned back to his father, eyes wide. Then he straightened, gathering himself with a visible effort. He was tired. He’d been through a lot. Coming home and getting challenged by his father probably hadn’t been included in his plans for the day. “You do not strike me,” he said, practically spitting out his words. “I am not yours to strike.”

“You are my son.”

“I am a Prince of Cats.”

Samson sneered. “What Prince needs a changeling whore to rescue him? You should have called the shadows. You should have brought yourself home triumphant and unaided, rather than begging like a kitten in the night for rescue.”

“I did the best I could,” said Raj.

“You didn’t do enough.”

There was a moment where things could have gone very, very badly—even worse than they already were, and they weren’t going all that well. Raj looked at his father, measuring him, clearly assessing his chances of winning. Samson glared back.

And finally, Raj smiled. “I can beat you,” he said. “I’ve been able to beat you for a long time. You know that too, or you wouldn’t be goading me. I love you, Father. I don’t like you very much. I think maybe you shouldn’t come around me for a little while.” He turned to Tybalt. “May I be excused? I want a bath and a nap and a meal, not necessarily in that order.”

Tybalt inclined his head. “Rest,” he said. “I will be away; the Court is yours until my return.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Raj’s eyes remained on Tybalt. He seemed to be paying no attention to anything else. Yet when Samson’s hand lashed toward his face again, he grabbed his father’s wrist without hesitation. Raj wasn’t a big kid, maybe five foot six and thin as a rail despite the amount I knew he ate. Samson still struggled against his grip like it was iron.