The Winter Long

“I’d like to see him try.”


“You know, it’s a funny thing, but after everything that’s changed . . . so would I.” I hit the gas a little harder, and we left Pleasant Hill behind us.





SEVEN


CALIFORNIA HAS LAWS about motorists using their phones while they’re driving, and so I left it up to Quentin to call home while I focused on navigating San Francisco’s daytime traffic. I’ve been nocturnal long enough that driving during the day stresses me out. The streets were filled with homicidal drivers and suicidal pedestrians: cars turned the wrong way up one-way streets, while people crossed against the light, seemingly unaware of the giant metal death machines bearing down on them. I found myself swearing steadily, hands locked around the wheel.

Quentin got off the phone shortly after our third narrowly missed collision. He grimaced. “How do people do this every day?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “What’s the news from home?”

“May says they’re both fine, and Jasmine is awake and showing no ill effects from Simon’s spell. Danny’s there in case they need to move. He brought soup and orange juice. Apparently the right way to deal with the aftermath of a magical assault is by treating it like the flu.”

He sounded so puzzled that I had to laugh. “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. What did she say when you told her we were heading for the Luidaeg’s?”

“That it was a damn good idea, and that as soon as Jazz is up for it, she’s going to have Danny take them to Muir Woods.”

I nodded. “Good plan. Arden will take care of them.” The traffic died as I turned onto a side street that was little more than a glorified alley, replaced by empty sidewalks and a deep, abiding silence. I forced my hands to relax, cutting my speed until we were gliding along, fast enough that it still felt like we were getting somewhere, slow enough that we weren’t going to mow down any unsuspecting bicyclists or tourists who had wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

And this was very much the wrong neighborhood for tourists. San Francisco is a city of many faces, with financial districts, slums, and upscale retail neighborhoods existing side-by-side. Maybe it’s the hills the city was built on, creating a series of minute geographical divides, but there are parts of San Francisco that feel like they should belong to some other city entirely.

Then there’s the Luidaeg’s neighborhood.

I knew we were getting close when first the cars and then the pedestrians dwindled to nothing, leaving us to drive alone down deserted, dangerous-looking streets. Everything around us seemed to fall into disrepair as we drove, and even the sky grew darker, dimmed by an omnipresent fog of the sort that the city is justly famous for. Broken glass glittered in the gutters, and crows perched on the telephone wires, croaking to themselves as we passed. This was the territory of the sea witch. All others had best beware.

Tybalt was waiting for us on the corner near her apartment, his hands jammed into his pockets and an impatient look on his face. I pulled up to the curb and killed the engine, smiling as I got out of the car.

“Been waiting long?” I asked.

“Not so long as you might think.”

“Good.” I started walking toward the Luidaeg’s apartment. Tybalt fell into step beside me, and Quentin brought up the rear as the three of us turned into the alley that housed her door. Then I stopped, blinking.

The Luidaeg was sitting on her front step, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in her hand. She looked up as we approached. “Ah,” she said, sticking her spoon back into the ice cream and standing. “There you are. You’re late.”

“I didn’t know we had an appointment,” I said.

“You never do. Come on.” With that, she turned and walked through her open apartment door into the hallway beyond.