We took a number and retreated to a table in the window, far enough from the counter for me to drop my voice and whisper, “What the hell was that?”
“Hmm?” Simon gave me another surprised look. I was starting to think his face was going to stick that way. “Oh, Miguel and I were just talking about how much this neighborhood has changed. If you wonder why he was smiling at you so much, it’s because I told him you were my daughter when he asked what we were doing wandering around the streets this early. Forgive me for presuming, but you’re not dressed for work, and neither am I, and I genuinely didn’t want him to decide that you were a prostitute.”
“I’m not dressed for sex work either,” I said. It was difficult to hold onto my annoyance with my confusion getting in the way. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”
“There was a time when Spanish was the lingua franca of California. America bought this land from the Spaniards, you know, after they had invaded and conquered it. Really, I find it strange that anyone could live here and not speak Spanish. Language is an invasive species. Let it take root in new soil, and you’ll never beat it out, no matter how hard you try.”
Simon fell silent as the man from the counter—Miguel—brought over a tray containing two large breakfast burritos, fried potatoes, and glasses of horchata, thick and creamy and frothy at the top. The two of them exchanged a few bright, amiable words, and I wished I could understand them. It would have made things so much easier.
Miguel was smiling when he walked away. I returned my attention to Simon.
“You don’t know what a breakfast burrito is, and yet you can order them perfectly. Got any more surprises?”
“Putting eggs and—is this sausage? Fascinating—in a tortilla shell is a relatively new idea. It speaks to a shortness of time. People never roll an entire meal up into something portable when they have time to linger. But once you introduced the concept, it was relatively easy to understand.” He picked up his burrito and took an inquisitive bite. His eyes widened. He swallowed. “Mortal genius never fails to delight.”
“Yeah, well, we do have a shortness of time here. We’re only stopping to eat so we don’t fall down.” I was still jittery. We needed to move. We needed to find August.
We needed to eat. I picked up my own burrito and took a bite, only half-listening as Simon resumed chattering amiably about how much the city had changed and how much it had stayed the same; how familiar these streets would always be, all the way down to his bones. There was so much work left to do. There was so little time left to do it.
Tybalt, I’m coming, I thought, and ate, and tried not to think about the future.
EIGHTEEN
WE FINISHED EATING as the breakfast rush was rolling in, busing our trays and waving to Miguel on our way out the door. He waved back, grinning. Whatever Simon said to him, he must have really liked it.
Simon caught the expression on my face and smiled. “Difficult as it may be for you to believe, given our history, there was a time when I was the better liked among my siblings. I have a gregarious nature. September was more critical. She had standards. Whereas Sylvester, well, he was always haring off on some grand adventure and coming back with mud on his boots, bumbling around the place like a disaster waiting to happen. Sometimes I think he wound up landed because Gilad wanted him to stay in one place, rather than visiting every household in the kingdom and breaking all their dishes.”
“He doesn’t talk about September much,” I said carefully.
“No, he wouldn’t,” said Simon. “She died. I know that may not seem like such a betrayal to you—you’ve seen so much death already, and you’re barely more than a child—but we grew up believing we would live forever. Losing her was like losing the moon. Absolutely incomprehensible. The moon can’t simply vanish. It’s easier to forget that it was there in the first place than it is to live with the reality of its absence.”
“Mmm,” I said.
Valencia Street was springing to life around us: businesses were opening, shutters were being rolled up and doors were being unlocked. The street traffic had more than doubled since we’d gone to get breakfast. Locals mingled with tourists, all of them hurrying to get to where they needed to go. Up ahead, a familiar mural looked out over a small urban park. I nodded to myself.
“We’re going to make a stop,” I said, and indicated the building.
Simon followed my finger. “What is it?”
“A bookstore and coffee shop. Arden’s seneschal works there. He’s Cu Sidhe. Even if I can’t find August’s trail, he might be able to.” And if not, he could let us duck into the office long enough to cast a don’t-look-here and hide us from any prying eyes out on the street. Finding August’s trail again might require the use of my candle.
San Francisco is a city of weird layered on weird, but even here, people will notice a woman carrying a burning taper down the middle of the street in broad daylight. We needed to find a way to disappear. A don’t-look-here would do the trick nicely.
Borderlands Books and the Borderlands Café are owned by the same man. Conveniently, there’s a door between them. Less conveniently, the bookstore—which offers substantially more privacy, even when open—opens at noon, while the café’s doors were already unlocked, and the usual assortment of weary students, people with nowhere better to go, and commuters was scattered around the reclaimed hardwood tables, sucking down caffeine as fast as they could.
I relaxed as we stepped inside and I saw the big blond man behind the counter, dishing out lattes and black coffees as fast as his hands could move. He was wearing a shirt for a band called “Cats Laughing,” which I’d never heard of, although I had no doubt Tybalt would approve.
Madden looked up when the door swung closed, and grinned, the wide, honest smile of a man who honestly felt he had nothing to hide, and didn’t see why anyone else would either. Mercifully, he waited until we approached the counter before booming happily, “Toby! And . . . Sylvester? Whoa, I haven’t seen you here in ages!”
He looked so happy that I hated to contradict him. Sadly, I had to. Even if I’d been willing to lie to one of my allies right before I asked for help, there was no way to guarantee that Simon wouldn’t immediately spill the beans. The only thing worse than lying is being caught doing it.
“Simon, actually,” I said. “Sylvester’s brother.”
“We’re catching up,” said Simon, in a voice that was desert-dry with a combination of amusement and caution. It was a rare blend. He wore it well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”