Chimes at Midnight

“You want me to keep the news of my wife’s arrest from the Undersea,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, meeting his cold gaze with my own pleading one. “For now. Just long enough for us to find Arden. If we can give her the throne . . .”

“You understand that this could get me banished.”

“You understand that a war, right now, serves no one’s interests but the Queen’s.”

Patrick took a breath, as if to object. Then he stopped and slowly nodded. “I will talk to the soldiers we brought with us. They’re still in the cove, waiting for instructions. If I can convince them, I will do so. But I make no promises.”

“That’s all I can ask for.” I turned to Dean. “The next part is yours. I’m asking your father to help me avoid a war. I’m asking you to plan for one. The Queen will take Goldengreen if she has to. Don’t let her.”

Dean frowned. “What are you going to do?”

“Me? I’m going to find Arden and convince her there’s only one way this can end well for any of us. We’re going to find her brother. We’re going to get him back. And then we’re going to take the throne of the Kingdom of the Mists and give it back to the Windermere family, because it’s pretty damn clear that the current government isn’t working out.”

“But you’re human,” said Dean.

I looked at him, trying to project a calm I didn’t feel. “Only mostly,” I said. “I guess the universe decided it was time the Queen had a fighting chance. Now if you’re with me, it’s time to kick her ass out of this Kingdom.” I extended my hand. After a moment’s pause, he took it.

Dianda was the only one who’d been arrested; she was the only one viewed as a threat. The Queen should have thought bigger. Because as long as any of us were free, she was finished.

Hopefully. Assuming we could all stay alive that long.





NINETEEN


“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” asked Danny. He didn’t slow down the car; he just kept going, rocketing out of the parking lot at a speed that made his previous unsafe driving seem like child’s play. I clung to the oh-shit handle above the door, trying to keep my ass in contact with the seat. Quentin was rattling around in the backseat like a bouncy ball.

Oh, well. He was a teenage boy. A few bruises were good for him. “Valencia,” I said. “We want a bookstore you’ve probably never noticed before, across the street from an Irish pub that you probably have.”

“Dog Eared Books isn’t across the street,” protested Danny, taking a corner sharply enough that I would have sworn the back tires actually lifted off the pavement. “It’s down the block a ways.”

“Yes, but we’re not going to Dog Eared Books,” I said. “We’re going to a place called Borderlands.”

“No such place.”

I gave him a sidelong look, or as much of one as I dared when we were moving that fast. “Danny. You’re a Troll, driving a cab. Yesterday, I was a superhero, and today I’m addicted to jam. Jam. Do you really think we get to pass judgment on what does and does not get to exist? There’s a bookstore on Valencia that you’ve never seen. I promise.”

“If you say so,” he muttered, and eased off the gas.

“I do,” I said, breathing a near-silent sigh of relief. Finding Arden wasn’t going to do us any good if we got pancaked in the process.

Silence from the backseat reminded me that Danny wasn’t the only one who’d never been to Borderlands. I twisted to see Quentin looking at me dubiously.

“You want to say something?”