An Artificial Night - BK 3 (8 page)

“Sorry I didn’t call,” I said, rising. “Things have been a little hectic.” Tybalt snorted at the understatement.

Lily looked at Karen and frowned, the scales around her mouth tightening. “You have a sleeping child. Have I missed something?”

“She won’t wake up,” I said. “Her mother called me, and she—”

Lily raised a hand, cutting me off. “What have you done to your hands?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Tybalt.

“I burned them,” I said, grimacing.

“And how did you do this immensely clever thing to yourself?”

“I touched a window.”

Lily sat, gesturing for us to do the same. “Now, explain. When you’re done, I may ask you to explain again, this time using actual words, but we’ll see. Perhaps you’ll surprise me.”

“Gee, that’s sweet.” I sat, all too aware of Tybalt sitting beside me and began the story. He interjected from time to time, providing the information on his Court’s missing children. Lily sat at attention throughout, hands folded in her lap.

When we were done, I asked, “Is that clear enough?”

“Quite,” she said. “Give me your hands.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Come now; you’re occasionally oblivious, but I’ve rarely seen you stupid.” Tybalt snorted. Lily merely shook her head. “Those burns need tending.”

“Oh.” Shooting a sharp look toward Tybalt, I scooted forward and offered her my hands. She took them gently.

Pulling the bandages back hurt more than I thought it would, probably because the burns were worse than I’d assumed. Tybalt went stiff when he saw them, swearing under his breath. I shared the urge. The skin was blistered and cracked, revealing the raw flesh underneath. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought my hands had been thrust into an open fire and held there for several minutes. Unfortunately, I
did
know better. I would’ve been happier with a fire. Fires are supposed to burn. Windows aren’t.

Lily shook her head, sighing. “I think I may wear myself out repeating this, but I still feel compelled to try: stop hurting yourself.”

“Please,” said Tybalt.

I cast a startled look in his direction, feeling my ears go red. “Trust me,” I said, scrambling to regain my composure. “I really don’t mean to.”

“This time, I believe you. Judging by your story, you had little choice.” My attention returned to Lily in time to see her pulling a chunk of moss from the ground. “What you have encountered, I cannot say. But I will say this: what the waters cannot tell you, you should perhaps ask of the moon.”

I blinked at her. “What?”

She looked at me, eyes unreadable. “There are things I may not speak of. You know this, yes?”

“Of course,” I said, frowning. Undine are even more easily bound by chains of protocol and politeness than most fae races. I’d tripped over a few topics she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—discuss over the years.

“This is such a thing. Where children go, why glass burns, how far you can get by the light of a candle—these are not topics for me to discuss. But if you were to ask the moon, well, the moon might give you answers.” She began kneading the moss, her other hand holding mine.

“And Karen?” My attention was on Lily’s hands. There was a good chance that moss would be in close contact with some rather tender skin in the near future. I wanted all the warning I could get.

“Why a child would sleep without signs of waking, I do not know.”

“Right.” I paused. “What do you mean, ‘ask the moon’?”

Lily shook her head. “If you can’t answer that, you haven’t been listening to anyone for years.”

“I guess.” I watched her fingers. I was sure whatever she was planning would hurt, and I’m not fond of pain. Ironic, considering how often I put myself through the meat grinder.

Tension puts you off-balance. I was so busy watching what she was doing that I wasn’t prepared when she dropped the moss, grabbed my wrists, and yanked me forward. There was time to yelp and catch my breath, then I was falling through a curtain of water, with Tybalt shouting in the distance. After that, I was just falling.

I
HIT THE GROUND HIP-FIRST, rolling to a stop before I sat up. I was dry despite my fall through the water, and my hands didn’t hurt anymore. I looked at them and laughed as I saw that the skin was whole and smooth again. Well, I guess that’s one way to heal someone, assuming you go in for slapstick. “Lily, that wasn’t—” I stopped, blinking. “—funny?”

The knowe stretched out around me in an array of ponds and flatlands, all connected by narrow bridges. Lily, Tybalt, and Karen were gone. “Tybalt?” No one answered. I stood, automatically reaching up to shove my hair back, and stopped as my fingers encountered a tight interweave of knots and hairpins. I pulled one of the hairpins free and glared at it before shoving it back into place. Jade and dragonflies. Cute.

My frown deepened as I looked down at myself and took in the whole picture. Lily apparently extended her services to healing my fashion sense as well as my hands: my T-shirt and jeans were gone, replaced by a steel-gray gown cut in a vaguely traditional Japanese style and embroidered with black and silver dragonflies. A black velvet obi was tied around my waist, my knife concealed underneath a fold of fabric. It wouldn’t be easy to draw, but at least she hadn’t left me unarmed. Pulling up the hem of the gown exposed one battered brown sneaker—she’d left my shoes alone.

“Not funny,” I muttered and started down the nearest path. We were going to have words if she’d vaporized my clothes.

Finding your way out of Lily’s knowe is easy, as long as you don’t mind walking. The boundaries of her lands are flexible—sometimes there are miles between landmarks, at others it’s only a few feet—but all paths eventually lead to the moon bridge. I’d gone about a quarter of a mile, grumbling all the way, when a throat was discreetly cleared behind me.

“Yes?” I said, turning.

A silver-skinned man was standing on the water, the gills at the bottom of his jaw fluttering with barely concealed anxiety. He was wearing Lily’s livery, with slits cut down the sleeves and in the legs of his pants to allow the fins running down his calves and forearms the freedom to move. “My lady has . . . sent me?” he said, uncertainly.

“I can see that. What did she send you to say?”

“She wishes me to tell you she is . . . waiting in the pavilion? With . . . the King of Cats and . . . your niece?”

“Good to know,” I said, bobbing my head. “Which way to the pavilion?”

“Go as you are and turn . . . left . . . at the . . . sundial?”

That seemed to be the end of his instructions. I was turning when he spoke again, asking, “Lady?”

I glanced back over my shoulder. “Yes?”

“May I . . . go?”

“Yes, you may,” I said. He smiled and dissolved into mist, drifting away across the water. I shook my head and resumed walking. Naiads. If there’s a way to make them smarter than your average rock, nobody’s found it yet.

The rest of the walk was uneventful. A flock of pixies crossed my path at one point, laughing as they tried to knock each other out of the air. I stopped to let them pass. Pixies are small, but they can be vicious when provoked. Several flocks inhabit the park and are currently at war with the flock in the Safeway where I used to work. I’ve been known to supply the store pixies with weaponry—usually in the form of toothpicks or broken pencils—and I didn’t need a flock of park pixies descending on me seeking retribution. I started again after they passed, crossing several more small islands and mossy outcroppings before I reached a sundial in the middle of an otherwise featureless patch of ground. It cast no shadow. I rolled my eyes, wondering why Lily bothered, and turned left.

There was no pavilion before I turned. As soon as I finished turning, it was there: a huge white silk pavilion decorated with a dozen coats of arms I didn’t recognize and anchored to a raised hardwood platform by golden ropes. Its banners and pennants drifted in a breeze I couldn’t feel. Apparently, “turn left” didn’t mean “keep walking.”

Lily was kneeling on a cushion, pouring tea into rose-colored china cups that rested on a table so low to the ground that kneeling was the only option—not that she’d provided chairs. Lily can be a bit of a traditionalist when she wants to be, and that’s most of the time. Tybalt sat across from her on a similar cushion, looking entirely at ease with his surroundings. That’s another infuriating thing about him. He’s so damned self-confident that he could probably have dinner with Oberon himself and not feel like he was outclassed.

Karen was asleep against the pavilion wall, pillowed on a pile of cushions with Spike curled up on her stomach. It looked like she’d taken her own trip through the amazing Undine car wash and healing salon. She was wearing a white robe embroidered with cherry blossoms and her hair was combed into a corona around her head. She was just as pale as she’d been before Lily pulled her little stunt and, somehow, I didn’t think she’d woken up. Her original clothes were folded on the floor next to her, along with mine.

“I see you’ve found us,” said Lily. She waved a hand toward the other side of the table, indicating the place next to Tybalt. “Please. Sit.”

“You could have warned me, you know,” I said, walking over to settle as directed. My knees complained when I tried to kneel, so I sat instead, sticking my legs straight out in front of me. Tybalt appeared to be kneeling as comfortably as Lily. I shot him a dirty look. Show-off. “Was there a reason you needed to shunt me halfway across the damn knowe?”

“Yes,” she said, continuing to pour. That was really no surprise. I rarely get out of the Tea Gardens without stopping for a cup of tea with Lily, no matter how urgent my business seems to be. Still . . .

“I’m not sure we have time for this, Lily,” I said. “We should be looking for the kids.”

“There’s always time for tea,” chided Lily, placing a cup in front of me. “I ‘shunted you,’ as you so charmingly put it, because you needed to be healed. The damage was magically done, which made it fixable, if I was willing to be firm with it. As for why I didn’t warn you, your dislike of water is difficult to miss. I thought you might resist if you knew what was intended.” A small smile creased her lips. “A certain resistance to getting wet is a trait you share with our royal friend here.”

Tybalt made a face. “I don’t consider avoiding pneumonia to be a bad thing.”

“If you can contract pneumonia in the waters of my land, you have more troubles than a touch of moistness,” said Lily. Sobering, she looked toward me. “I am sorry, October, but I can’t wake the child. I tried. I can keep body and spirit together for the time being, but I fear that may be the extent of my capabilities.”

“But what’s
wrong
with her?”

Lily raised her teacup, using the habitual gesture to try to conceal the worry flickering in her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Should I take her to Jin?” Jin was the Court healer at Shadowed Hills. She wasn’t in Lily’s league—almost no one who isn’t an Undine even comes close—but she was good, and her skills were somewhat different. The Ellyllon aren’t environmental healers, like the Undine; they work with charms and potions, and that can make them try harder. They aren’t limited by what the water can do.

“I don’t think so,” said Lily. “Moving her before we know the source of her condition may do more harm than good. You did well to bring her here. I can watch over her until more is known.”

“So we don’t know why Karen won’t wake up, we don’t know what happened to the missing kids—I don’t even know where I should start with this one.”

“Ask the moon,” said Lily.

“You keep saying that,” Tybalt said, with a frown. “Perhaps you’d like to translate it.”

“I can’t,” said Lily, calmly meeting his eyes. “If you wish to find your answers, you’ll need to begin thinking, not merely reacting.”

“Thinking,” I said, and turned toward him. “Tybalt, when you went looking for the missing kids, did you notice anything unusual about the places where they normally slept?”

“Beyond their absence?” His frown deepened. “The air was sour. It smelled wrong, like things that shouldn’t have been there.”

“Things like what?” I asked, a grim certainty growing inside me.

“Blood and ash. And candle wax.”

There was a crash from the other side of the table. We turned to find Lily picking up the pieces of her teacup with shaking hands. I stared. I’d never seen Lily drop anything before.

“I’m so very sorry,” she stammered, rising. “Please move away from the table . . . I’ll clean the mess directly . . . I am so sorry . . .”

I started to scoot back, but froze, staring at the tea leaves smeared across the table. There were shapes in the mess, almost clear enough to understand. Three loops, like arched gateways; a wilted rose; a tall, slim column tipped with a triangular smear. A candle . . . ?