An Artificial Night - BK 3 (4 page)

“Meet you in an hour?”

“Better make it two.” I stood, grabbing my robe off the floor. “I need a shower, and the sun isn’t up yet. I can’t go outside safely until it is.”

“Oh, right. You’re a wimp.”

“And you’re a skinshifting bastard.”

“I love you, too. See you at Mel’s!” The line went dead. Connor and I have been competing for the last word for a long time, and he’s finally starting to catch up. I need to work on my phone-slamming skills.

I tied my robe and started for the hall, rubbing at my eyes. There was no way I was getting back to sleep. Spike and the cats followed me to the kitchen, where the astronomical calendar on the fridge informed me that dawn was scheduled for 6:13 A.M. I’d had to go to the Science Museum bookstore to find a calendar that listed times for sunrise and sunset, and it was worth the effort. Knowing exactly when the sun would rise meant I could have a cup of coffee without worrying about timing things wrong and scalding myself. I’d get through sunrise, take a shower, and meet Connor for a plate of something bad for me. It was starting to look like it might be a decent morning.

There was a knock at the door.

I turned, frowning. No one knocks on my door before dawn. Most of my clients are fae and wouldn’t risk being caught out so close to sunrise, and I don’t take human clients who seem likely to show up after midnight. “The hell?”

I started for the door, stopping as I caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye. The cats were huddled under the coffee table, tails bushed out and ears slicked flat. Spike had vanished completely. “Okay. That’s weird.”

There are certain basic rules of survival in my world. One of them is that you don’t live to a ripe old age by ignoring the warnings you get from your pets. Cats who live with the fae tend to get a little touched by strangeness, and the things that get that kind of reaction from them are usually looking for worse reactions from me. Reactions such as screaming, running, or going for a weapon. Whoever or whatever was out there probably didn’t intend anything good.

Feeling increasingly paranoid, I looked back toward the door as my visitor knocked again. I didn’t want to deal with a potential threat before my morning coffee, but whatever it was wasn’t going away. Just swell. I reached into the umbrella stand and pulled out my baseball bat as I approached the door. A girl can’t be too careful if she’s addicted to breathing, and I’ve found that being hit in the head with a stick of aluminum is enough to daunt most monsters, at least for a moment.

“Who is it?” I called. My mother’s blood taught me about monsters, but both sides of the family taught me that I’d get smacked if I forgot my manners.

“Candygram.”

I eyed the door. Whoever it was didn’t just scare my cats, they also quoted bad comedy routines: truly the stuff of terror. Something about the voice made the back of my neck itch. I ran through a quick catalog of options in my head but couldn’t connect it to anyone I knew. Shifting the bat behind my back in case it was one of my neighbors, I opened the door. And froze.

Considering some of the things—and people—I’ve found on my doorstep in the past, I didn’t think I could be surprised anymore. I was wrong.

She stood about five foot eight, with long, almost gangly limbs and the sort of curves that get lost in anything shapeless. Her stick-straight brown hair fell to her shoulders, failing to conceal her dully pointed ears. She had the sort of pointed face that doesn’t get called pretty, even on a kid. Striking maybe, or dramatic, but never pretty. Her eyes were beautiful, though, large and bright, with gray irises so pale they seemed to echo the colors around them. I knew those features pretty well. After all, I saw them in the mirror every morning. It was like looking at a photograph, only this photograph was answering my openmouthed shock with a smirk and a tip of an imaginary hat.

The only major difference between us was the clothes. She was wearing a long green skirt and a cream-colored sweatshirt that proclaimed, “Shakespeare in the Park: What Fools These Mortals Be” in faux-Gothic lettering. I was underdressed in bare feet and bathrobe.

“What the—”

“The name’s May Daye,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Not even shock can dim my eternally inappropriate sense of humor. “How cute,” I said. Then I froze again, wondering what I’d just insulted. I’m normally pretty good at spotting the bloodlines of anyone—or any
thing
—I deal with, but painful past experience has taught me that I’m not always accurate. Especially when I’m dealing with shapeshifters.

“Really? I thought it was sort of trite myself, but what can you do? Post a complaint against the universe? Anyway.” She brushed past me and took a slow look around the living room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Hey, it’s the cats!” She held out a hand toward Cagney and Lacey, who were still doing their best to disappear under the coffee table. “Here Cagney, here Lacey—” The cats bolted, vanishing down the hall.

May shook her head and dropped onto the couch in an easy sprawl. “Silly cats. Anyway, you’d better put that bat down before you hurt someone, like me. I’m allergic to physical pain. I’m pretty sure it gives me hives.”

I closed the door without letting go of the bat, unwilling to take my eyes off her. She looked like me, she sounded like me; she could have fooled an uninformed observer. If she’d been willing to hold still and keep her mouth shut, she could have fooled my best friends. Even Devin’s hired Doppelganger hadn’t done its job
that
well.

May shook her head again. “Close your mouth. You look like a goldfish.” The barb hit home. Anyone who knew me well enough to steal my face should have known better than to make cracks about the time I spent as a fish.

My notoriously short-lived patience was running out. I glared, demanding, “What the hell are you?”

“A Fetch. Your Fetch, to be exact,” she said. “You know, the spirits that wear your face when they come to escort you to the lands of—”

“—the dead,” I finished. “Little problem:
I’m not dead.
” A Fetch is a duplicate of a living person created when it’s time for them to die. They’re incredibly rare, and most people don’t get one. I certainly never requested the honor.

May shrugged. “Mortality’s a constant. I have time; I can wait.”

“You can’t be my Fetch! I’m not going to die!”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking at me with renewed interest. “Did you go all pureblooded and death-proof when I wasn’t looking?”

“Yes! I mean, no! I mean, yes, I’m sure!”

“I wouldn’t be. I mean, you’re not exactly Little Miss Caution. Look at this.” She pulled down the collar of her sweatshirt, displaying a knot of scar tissue on her left shoulder. “Iron bullets? Yeah,
those
are a sign of good survival prospects. Or this?” This time she raised the bottom of the shirt, showing the curved claw-marks that crossed her stomach. I’d never seen those scars from the outside: they looked a lot worse from this angle. Some of those wounds should have been fatal.

May tugged her shirt back into place. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not exactly on the universe’s ‘ten longest projected life spans’ list. I wish you were, because when you die, I die with you.” She shrugged. “But fate doesn’t have a suggestion box.”

“Why are you trying so hard to make me believe that I haven’t got much time before I—”

“—shuffle off this mortal coil? Because you don’t, hon. I’m sorry, but it’s true. And what’s with the Shakespeare fixation? Didn’t your mother know about Nora Roberts?”

“Well, first, my mother doesn’t care about mortal authors,” I said, slowly. Her rapid subject changes were confusing me. “Second, I was born in 1952. How was I supposed to find Nora Roberts? Borrow a time machine? And if you have issues with my Shakespeare fixation, why are you wearing that shirt?”

She glanced down at herself. “It’s what they had in the Goodwill donations box. I didn’t manifest with clothes on. Do you have any idea how hard it is for naked people to go shopping?”

“I’ve never shopped naked,” I said.“I thought you were my Fetch. Aren’t you supposed to know these things?”

“Of course. I know everything there is to know about you, right up until the universe decided you were destined to die and created me to be your guide.”

“Everything?” I didn’t like the sound of that. There are some things I don’t want
anyone
to know.

“Everything. From what you got on your sixth birthday to what kind of flowers you leave on Dare’s grave. I even know what you were thinking about Tybalt after you saw him in those red leather pants—”

I held up my hand. “Stop. I believe you.”

“I thought you might.” She smirked, adding, “I didn’t even need to get
detailed
.”

“Trust me, I don’t want you to.” Raking my hair back with one hand, I gave her a long, hard look. It was like looking into a strange, hyperactive mirror. Your reflection doesn’t usually start to fidget and study its nails while you’re standing still.

“Why now?” I asked, finally.

May sobered, giving me the first serious look I’d seen from her. “I guess someone feels you’ve earned yourself some time to settle your affairs before you go. I’m your wake-up call. Don’t put anything off, because you may not be around that long.”

“I’m not ready to die!” I protested. My mind was racing. What was it going to be? Simon and Oleander coming back to finish what they’d started? Or something simpler, like a drunk driver who didn’t hit the brakes in time? There are a lot of ways to die, and I’d never really thought about them before. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be thinking about them now.

Death omens aren’t a blessing, no matter what people say; they make you nervous, and that can get you killed. Maybe it’s just me, but I dislike self-fulfilling prophecies. They’re too much like cheating.

“I don’t know much about how people really think, since all my memories are borrowed from you, but I’m pretty sure no one’s ever ready to die.” May rose from the couch, moving with an easy, artless grace that finally confirmed she wasn’t a Doppelganger playing tricks.

When shapeshifters copy a person, they copy them exactly, body language and all. I’ve seen Fetches before. I would have known what she was the moment I saw her if I’d been willing to believe it. Fetches don’t have time to learn little things like motor control, so they come complete with the knowledge of how to move and comport themselves. May was created from fragments of me, but she moved like a pureblood: all fire and air and unconditional grace. She moved like something I’d never been and never would be.

“Anyway, I’m just here to do my job,” May said, and then grinned, solemnity abandoned. “I just want you to know what’s coming down the pike, so to speak. Now that you do, I’m going to go try that twenty-four-hour Chinese place down the block. I remember that you like kung pao chicken. I wanna see if I do, too.”

Dazedly, I said the first thing that popped into my head: “If you had to steal clothes from the Goodwill, how are you planning to afford Chinese food?”

May laughed as she crossed to the door. “Don’t worry about it.” Putting her hand on the knob, she paused. “I’ll be around, and when the time comes, I’ll be waiting.” Then she stepped out the door, whistling. I can’t carry a tune; neither could she, and that made it all real. I’d believed her, but I hadn’t really understood what she meant until I heard her mimicking my utter inability to whistle. I was going to die. I couldn’t stop it.

I was going to die.

She paused to wave. I grabbed a plate off the coffee table, flinging it in her direction. Her eyes went wide before she slammed the door. The plate hit it and shattered.

“No!”
I shrieked, regardless of whether or not she could hear me. I was screaming at the universe as much as I was screaming at her, too angry to think straight. “I will
not
lie down and die because you say it’s time! Do you understand me? I
refuse!
”

There was no answer but the sound of my own breathing. The cats crept out of the hall with their ears pressed flat, growling in the backs of their throats. Spike slid out from behind the couch, stalking stiff-legged to sniff at the doorjamb. The threat was over from their point of view; it was safe for them to come out and make a show of being brave.

I really wished that I could say the same. I’ve never been the most safety-oriented person in the world. I know I take too many risks. But I’ve always been able to promise myself that I’d stop, that tomorrow I’d settle down and stop playing with fire. Only now it looked like there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow. And it wasn’t fair.

Spike was pacing in front of the door, making an angry keening noise. “Aren’t you a little late to play protector?” I asked. It rattled its thorns. With a sigh, I moved to lock the door. Fragments of plate crunched underfoot, cutting my feet. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. When you’re waiting to die, you have bigger things to worry about than a little bit of blood.

I clicked the lock home, shuddering, and turned away. Dawn was coming; it was time to get ready for breakfast with Connor. If there’s one thing I know about destiny, it’s this: it doesn’t give second chances, and it doesn’t believe in waiting for you to be ready. If it was coming for me, it was already too late. All I could do was try to make sure it didn’t catch me sitting still.