The Winter Long

THE WORLD SEEMED to slow down, turning crystalline around me. I automatically flipped the deadbolt as I finished closing the door, moving carefully and deliberately, like I was in a dream. Shutting myself in with my personal bogeyman wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done, but I didn’t think it would make a difference in the grand scheme of things. We weren’t both going to walk away from this. I was unarmed and effectively alone as long as the others were asleep—and I prayed they’d stay asleep. There was a chance Simon didn’t even know I had roommates. They’d be safe. Whatever he did to me, I just hoped it would be quick, and quiet enough that he wouldn’t wake anyone else before he left. I had no illusions about being able to defeat him. There was no way in the world Simon Torquill would have appeared on my doorstep if he didn’t feel like he somehow had the upper hand.

I turned to find him studying the hallway walls, his hands folded politely behind his back. His face was visible only in profile, still softened and humanized by the illusion plastered over it. I guess he didn’t dare release it. Most people couldn’t catch the taste of his magic just by walking past him, but any child of Faerie, however weak, would be able to smell the rot lurking inside him if they were standing nearby when he dropped the spell.

I’m not most people. I’ve always been incredibly sensitive to the scent of magic, and I knew exactly who he was.

He really did look exactly like Sylvester, even down to the design of his human disguise. It made sense: they were identical twins, after all. They had the same sharp jaw, the same fox-red hair and golden eyes. But where Sylvester’s eyes were kind, always ready to smile or forgive, this man’s eyes were hard. He’d seen things, done things that even a hero of Faerie should never be called upon to witness.

“You’ve done an excellent job with the place,” he said. “It’s more untidy than I would have expected, given your upbringing, but it’s still good to see someone living here. I assume you haven’t moved the kitchen?” He took off down the hall, moving with the proprietary speed of someone who knew exactly where he was and believed he had every right to be there. I followed him, trying to swallow the dust-dry feeling in my throat as I scanned everything around me, looking for things I could use as a weapon if necessary.

If necessary. Ha. As if there was any chance weapons weren’t going to be necessary. I was alone in my hall with Simon Torquill, the man who’d turned me into a fish for fourteen years. I’d been lucky to survive our last encounter. Here and now, even changed as I was by the things I had experienced since then . . .

I couldn’t win this. I didn’t have the power.

Simon stepped through the swinging door to the kitchen, which swung shut behind him, briefly blocking his view of the hall. That was my chance to run, either for the front door or for the stairs, where I could grab my phone and call for help. But that would put May, Jazz, and Quentin in more danger. Even if I screamed for them to get out of the house now, they’d never go if they thought I was in trouble, and they’d be risking themselves for nothing. Simon could cast a spell before anyone would be able to reach me. I knew that from bitter experience, even if I didn’t know why he was there.

I stepped into the kitchen.

“Ah, good,” said Simon, who was putting a kettle on the stove. “I found your tea, but is there honey? I wasn’t sure.”

“Look in the basket next to the toaster,” I said. It was too domestic and peaceful to be real. I glanced around, hoping for a second that I’d see Karen, the oneiromancer daughter of my friend Stacy, come to help me through my nightmare. There was no one there but Simon and me. I was awake, Oberon save and keep me.

“There it is. Very good.” Simon held up two mugs. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, that’s okay.” I dug my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to grab a knife from the dish drainer and start screaming for him to get out of my house. “I’m not a tea drinker. I keep it around for company.”

“Oh, yes. You’re more of a coffee girl, if I remember correctly.”

I opened my mouth to say that no, I wasn’t even drinking much coffee these days, and paused, eyeing him. “You’re not even trying, are you?”

“Excuse me?” Simon turned to face me. He had a squeeze bottle of honey in one hand. It was shaped like a bear. Somehow, that struck me as unutterably hysterical.

“I said, you’re not even trying. You haven’t done anything to make me believe that you’re Sylvester. You can drop the illusion, Simon. I know who you are.”