The Winter Long

“Don’t try to leave without me,” he said, and ran off to do as he’d been told.

I watched him go, managing to keep my expression mostly composed until he was out of sight. Then I turned back to May, allowing my fear to show. “He’s not going to let me leave him behind.”

“No, he’s not.” She muttered a line from what sounded like a They Might Be Giants song, waggling her fingers at the window as she spoke. The smell of cotton candy and ashes filled the room, layering on top of the traces of her magic that had already been present. She turned back to me. “That’s good. You’d worry about him just as much if you let him out of your sight, and you’re not exactly rational where Simon is concerned.”

“He tried to turn your girlfriend into a fish!”

“I’m not exactly rational where Simon is concerned, either,” she said wearily. She walked back across the living room and perched on the arm of the couch, reaching down to stroke Jazz’s hair. “I’d be the worst kind of backup possible right now—the kind who just wants to go home and take care of someone she loves. But that doesn’t mean I want you going out alone.”

“I told the cats to find Tybalt,” I said, feeling somehow ashamed of myself for wanting to run before any of my allies could put themselves in the line of fire for me. I couldn’t handle it if they got hurt. Not by this. Not by him.

“That’s a start.” May looked up, meeting my eyes. There was nothing soft in her face, not now; in that moment, she looked like an avenging angel. “Find him. Hurt him. Please.”

“I’ll do my best.” Footsteps in the hall behind me signaled Quentin’s return. I turned as he skidded into view. “Ready?”

Relief suffused his features. “I thought you’d try to sneak out while I was distracted.”

“Nah. What kind of knight would I be if I didn’t endanger your life for no good reason?”

He smiled—a brief, forced expression that died as soon as he looked past me to Jazz’s sleeping form. “A bad one,” he said.

“I guess that’s true. May? Call if there’s any change.”

“I will,” she said. “Open roads. Kick his ass.”

“You got it,” I said, and went.

Quentin and I paused by the back door long enough to spin human disguises and drape them over ourselves like shrouds. Fear and anger made the casting faster than usual, even though the spell itself made my head throb. Strong emotions have always fueled my illusions that way, even back when I believed I was Daoine Sidhe, when illusions were supposed to be part of my birthright.

“How many traffic laws are you planning to break?” Quentin asked, as we walked out to the car, checked the backseat for unwanted passengers, and got inside.

I fastened my belt, stuck the key in the ignition, and bared my teeth in the semblance of a smile. “All of them,” I said, and hit the gas.