“Next time you misplace one of your kids for a century, I’m not helping you,” I snapped, voice barely above a whisper, and walked faster.
August’s trail led us out of the stairwell and down a hall, the walls lined with closed doors that looked solid enough to stand up to a legion of ax-wielding Jack Nicholsons. That was a terrifying thought in and of itself. I slowed, testing the air again and again, before I finally stopped in front of one of the doors and thrust the candle at Quentin.
“Hold this,” I said.
Quentin has been my squire long enough to know better than to argue with me. He took the candle, staying close as I dropped to my knees and pulled the set of lock picks from inside my jacket.
Simon raised an eyebrow. “Are you a common thief, then?”
“I like to think of myself as a rare and exceptional thief, but sure,” I said. The last time I’d been here, I’d picked these locks with bits of twig and bracken. Real lock picks were a major step up. It made the job seem almost trivial. That was nice. Difficult things should always seem trivial, when they can.
Moving as quickly as I dared, I pulled the appropriate lock picks from my set and slipped them into place, breathing slow and deep as I worked at the tumblers. These were old locks, preindustrial, tooled by hand instead of by machines. That meant that each of them was unique, with its own weights and balances. It also meant they were remarkably primitive compared to some of the locks I’d encountered in the mortal world. After only a few seconds, the latch clicked.
I stood, tucking my lock picks back into my pocket, and took the candle back from Quentin before I opened the door.
The cell on the other side was small and plain. Riordan hadn’t bothered casting any illusions here, maybe because she hadn’t seen the need: it wasn’t like the occupant was ever going to tell anyone how terrible her hospitality had been. The air reeked of piss and stale sweat. Heaps of straw and rough bracken lined the walls, providing bedding and a latrine at the same time. Quentin’s nose wrinkled. Simon hung back, clearly unwilling to enter the room.
One of the heaps of bracken moved.
I jumped, unable to help myself, putting out my free hand to keep Quentin where he was. Then, cautiously, I crept forward. Riordan would be here soon enough. Anyone she had felt the need to lock up was probably going to need our help . . . and August’s trail led here. She had been in this room. She had left from this room.
“Hello?” I said cautiously.
The heap of bracken moved again, pulsing almost, like something beneath it was trying to sit up. Then it shattered, resolving itself into a thin, wild-eyed man sitting in a pile of sticks and soiled grasses. I gasped.
“Officer Thornton?” I asked.
His eyes fixed on me. “You!” He lunged onto his knees, grabbing my forearms with bony hands. All the excess weight seemed to have been melted off of him by his time in Annwn—and there hadn’t been that much to spare in the first place. “You came back! You came back! Did I finally prove that I wouldn’t tell? I won’t tell! I’ll never tell!” He began to laugh unsteadily.
As he slumped forward, head against my shoulder, I realized that his laughter had become indistinguishable from tears.
Dammit.
“Is that a human?” asked Simon, sounding disgusted and fascinated at the same time, like he couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. “How is there a human here? This is Annwn!”
“This is Officer Michael Thornton of the San Francisco Police Department,” I said, patting Officer Thornton awkwardly on the back. He was wearing the soiled, tattered remains of the clothes he’d had on when he had first tumbled through one of Chelsea’s portals and into Annwn, a place where a human had no business being. He was here because of me. When we’d saved our own, we hadn’t been able to save him. I’d told the Luidaeg where he was and washed my hands of the problem.
Riordan must have been feeding him. Humans aren’t like fae. Humans won’t suffer endlessly, never quite giving in to nature’s laws and dying: humans will eventually be released. It can take a long time, especially in the lands of Faerie, where time and causality aren’t always logical. But she still must have been feeding him. Not much. Just enough to keep body and soul together.
“Sweet Maeve,” whispered Quentin. “What did she do?”
Officer Thornton was still collapsed against me, still crying. I shook my head and replied grimly, “She kept him.” She could have killed him. That wouldn’t normally have been my go-to, especially not where a member of the police was concerned. Devin had drilled it into my head often and early that messing with the mortal cops was always more trouble than it was worth. At the same time . . .
This wasn’t the Summerlands, where signs of humanity could be found everywhere, from pieces of their tech to stolen mortal servants working in the larger noble households. This was Annwn. This was a land that had never been intended for humanity’s use. Being here must have hurt him, every day, as the very land tried to reject his reality. Killing him would have been kinder.
Which was exactly why Riordan hadn’t done it.
“Put him down and follow the trail,” said Simon, a thin line of impatience slithering through his words. “We need to move before Treasa returns.”
“I’m not putting him down,” I snapped. “We can’t leave him here again.”
“He’s not worth our lives.”
“That’s not your decision.” There were voices in the distance now, voices on the stairs. They were going to catch us soon. “This is where August’s trail ends. We need to move.”
“The human—”
“Is coming!” I raised my candle. “Now get over here, or get your ass left behind. Quite honestly, I’m good with either right now.”
Simon scowled as he walked across the room to stand beside me. Quentin stepped closer. Fog began to rise from the candle, and with Officer Michael Thornton—lost to Faerie, now found—sobbing against my shoulder, the soft, misty gray closed in, and we were gone.
SEVENTEEN
WHEN THE FOG CLEARED, we were standing against the wall of a graffiti-festooned alley. Leaning forward gave me a perfect view of Valencia Street. Time had continued marching on in the mortal world while we were running around the various layers of Faerie: the sun was hanging low in the sky, and the ashy, charred scent of torn-down magic still lingered in the air. We had arrived in San Francisco immediately after dawn.