The Winter Long

Then I ran out of a plain hallway that could have been ripped from my first apartment building and into a large, stone-walled room with fireplaces on three of its four walls. It felt old, like it predated the world I lived in. Two long wooden tables were set up in the center of the room, big enough to seat thirty people between them. Only two people were actually there. I stumbled to a stop, barely noticing when Raj leaped down from my arms and went padding toward the nearest fireplace. My knees wobbled. I reached out and caught myself against the doorway.

That was what finally caught their attention: the small, mundane sound of my hand slapping against the stone. Even a Cait Sidhe could make noise running, but no Cait Sidhe would be so gauche as to slam their hand against the door. Cats only make noise when they want to.

Tybalt heard me first. His head snapped up, exhaustion written clearly in the lines of his face as he turned. There was a moment when that was all that happened: apart from that one small thing, he might as well have been a statue. Then, slowly, his eyes widened, exhaustion replaced by relief. It didn’t happen all at once; in fact, it was still happening when he stood—the movement attracting Quentin’s attention, causing him to finally turn as well—and walked toward me, moving with a frozen stiffness that spoke of both caution and minor injury.

He stopped a foot or so in front of me, gathering himself, before reaching out to stroke my hair away from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. His hand was trembling. I reached up to catch it with my own, and realized I was shaking, too.

“I thought . . .” he whispered.

“I know,” I replied, and flung myself into his arms.

Up until that moment—up until he drew me close and his mouth closed over mine, and I could feel the hot reality of his skin through my still-damp, ice-cold clothes—part of me had been unwilling to believe that this was happening. I’d seen my share of dream realities, from Blind Michael’s dangerous homeland to my adopted niece, Karen, and her ability to pull me out of sleep and into whatever fantasy she wanted me to witness. I knew how real unreality could be. But this . . .

No dream I had ever experienced had been realistic enough to recreate the feeling of Tybalt’s hands around my waist, or detailed enough to show me the small scratches on his left cheek, abrasions that would have healed in seconds on my own skin. His lips tasted like salt. I pulled away, startled. He was crying. I raised my hand to touch my cheek.

So was I.

When we broke the kiss, I leaned my forehead against his shoulder and directed my next words toward the floor, which wouldn’t blame me for anything that I might have to say. “I tried so hard to hold onto your hands, I really did, but the wind pulled you away, and I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t find either one of you . . .”

“Toby?”

Quentin’s voice came from my left. I raised my head and found him standing there in his torn, salt-stained shirt, a pleading expression on his face and his hands twisted together in front of him. I put my hand on Tybalt’s chest, pushing him gently away as I tried to step free of his embrace, and to his credit, he let me go.

“I’m sorry,” said Quentin miserably. “I tried to hold onto you, and I tried to fall where you were falling, but it happened so fast, and then I hit the water and everything went away and I woke up here and I’m sorry, Toby, I’m so sorry, can you forgive me? Please?”

“Oh, honey,” I said, moving to put my arms around him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You did the best you could, but there was no reason to think the wards were going to slap us off the Shadow Roads. Do you hear me? We were all surprised by something that shouldn’t have been able to happen. It’s not your fault you couldn’t predict the unpredictable. You did amazing. You lived.”

Now it was Quentin’s turn to bury his face in my shoulder and sob, with no trace of teenage self-consciousness or dignity. He clung to the front of my shirt with both hands, and I just held him. What else was I supposed to do? I knew how it had felt for me to think that he’d been lost. I couldn’t imagine it had been any easier for him.

Tybalt put his hand on my shoulder, not trying to pull me away from Quentin. I tilted my head back to look at him.