The Winter Long (12 page)

“They're not very useful,” said Quentin. “They omit changelings as transitory, and it's really easy to lose track of people.”

Given how easily we'd lost track of Arden and Nolan—the children of our rightful King—I could believe that without trouble. I shook my head, saying nothing as I started across the floor toward Simon.

To his credit, Simon didn't move. He remained exactly where he was, hands visible, no weapons drawn, unless you counted the large, leather-bound book that he'd been reading from. I stopped in front of him, cocking my head to the side in order to read the title.

Geasa and Bindings
, it read. I raised an eyebrow and looked at Simon, waiting.

There's an art to staring someone down. It takes practice to find the right combination of bravado and unconcern, that line where “screw you” becomes “whatever.” Once you find it, though, you can stay there forever. I maintained eye contact with Simon until his cheeks flushed slightly and he looked away, eyes dipping to the book in his lap.

“I thought there might be a method for dispensing with the trouble I currently find myself grappling with,” he said. “As it turns out, bindings of this magnitude are surprisingly difficult to undo, unless you were the original caster.” He looked up again, his veneer of superior calm settling over him like a cloak as he turned his head to study Tybalt and Quentin. It was too late. I'd already seen the man beneath the charade, and as I watched him, I realized something that stunned me.

Simon Torquill was afraid.

“I know the King of Cats of old, although he was a Prince when last we had any discourse,” he said after a moment, inclining his head respectfully to Tybalt. I glanced to the side in time to see Tybalt bare his teeth in answer. “Your Majesty. I was unaware the Library of Stars had opened their doors to the Third Court. A pleasant surprise.”

“I have always been an exception,” said Tybalt tersely.

“Indeed, you have proven yourself an exemplary breaker of rules time and time again.” Simon turned a smirk in my direction and said, “He may be too shy to tell you this himself, but there was a time when my parents were quite concerned about my sister's honor, all on account of this lovesick tomcat. Dear Rand and I were acquainted in Londinium, long before any of us dreamt we'd meet again in the Americas.”

This time, Tybalt's snarl was audible. “Do not speak of your sister in my presence,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Interesting as it is to watch you try to needle my boyfriend, you sort of sound like a soap opera villain right now. ‘Gosh and golly, October, why don't you stand there while I reveal a bunch of dirty secrets that stopped mattering centuries ago.' His name is Tybalt now, as I'm sure you're aware, and whatever may have happened with him and your sister happened in another time.”

Tybalt shot me a grateful look. Oh, he knew I'd ask him about it later—I didn't go into detective work because I was content to let questions go unasked, or unanswered—but this was neither the time nor the place.

Simon contrived to look offended. “I merely thought—”

“Either you're here to hurt me or you're here to help me,” I said. Something about my tone seemed to get through; he fell silent and sank back a bit on the couch, watching me warily. “I have plenty of evidence that you're here to hurt me. You put me in a stasis spell and you tried to transform one of my housemates into a fish, which, I don't know if that's your go-to spell or what, but you should know that that one
really
bothers me, so I'd avoid it if I were you. Just to be sure that I don't accidentally hit you over the head with a lead pipe and bury you in a shallow grave in Muir Woods.”

“Queen Windermere probably wouldn't mind too much,” said Quentin.

“I assure you, I am not here to hurt you,” said Simon gravely. “I acted in haste before. I did not expect . . . any of what happened in that kitchen, I swear. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

“Kinda doubt that, since you came to me, and that was the first surprise of the day,” I said, unable to keep a note of sour impatience from my tone. “It's been a day just
full
of surprises.”

“I would agree,” said Simon. “You are much more your mother's daughter than I had been led to believe.”

“No thanks to her,” I said.

Simon didn't comment on that. I guess having his stepdaughter insult his wife wasn't something he felt he needed to get involved in. Instead, he looked past me to Quentin, and said, “Since you are only known to keep company with two teenage boys, and this one lacks fangs, he must be your squire. Hello.” He shifted his position slightly, making it somehow clear that I was no longer the focus of his attention. “I understand you were originally fostered in Shadowed Hills, in the care of my brother. That must have been a great change for you.”

“Didn't you used to date Oleander de Merelands?” asked Quentin. He sounded every inch the sullen teenage delinquent, his usual courtly—and yes, princely—graces abandoned. I could have hugged him in that moment. If Simon didn't already know who he was, there was no need to give him reason to suspect.

As for Simon, he hesitated, stiffening, before finally nodding and saying, “I kept company with the lady you have named many times over the centuries. It was generally at the behest of our mutual . . . employer.” He choked on the final word, as if even saying that much was difficult for him. After a pause that lasted only a few seconds, he managed to continue, “Our relationship was perhaps more intimate than my lady wife would have preferred, but as Amandine and I were unavoidably separated at the time, she and I have never been forced to discuss the matter. I was very sorry to hear of Oleander's death.”

“Oh?” asked Quentin. “Why, because she didn't manage to take any of us with her?”

“No,” said Simon. “Because I wanted to kill her myself, and hadn't had the opportunity to do so yet. You want me to be a villain: things are always easier when there's a clear villain, and I can fill the role admirably. I have before, and I probably will again. Please don't mistake villainy for evil. The two can exist side by side while remaining quite distinct. And Oleander, for all her good points—and she did have some, although they were regrettably few and far between—was evil.”

For a moment, we all just stared at him. Finally, I blurted, “Why didn't Mom ever tell me about you?”

“I'm sure she had her reasons,” said Simon, looking away. “Your mother and I . . . we didn't part cleanly. We both had our ideas of what needed to be done in order to resolve things we had left unresolved. Mine involved some choices she was not comfortable making. Hers involved, for me, too much safety and reliance on other people. She thought that just because she was Firstborn, the world would eventually realize she should get her way.”

“Sort of hard for the world to realize that when she didn't tell anybody.”

Simon smiled slightly, the expression tinged with clear regret. “Amy has always been fond of secrets,” he admitted.

“Yeah, well, I'm pretty much done with secrets, so let me make myself perfectly clear,” I said. “Tybalt and Quentin are mine. So is your brother. So is my Fetch and her girlfriend, and anyone else you look at and think ‘gosh, Toby would be upset if I hurt this person.' You follow? Because I won't just be upset. I'll be angry. And you'll be sorry.”

“Is everything all right over here?” Mags' voice broke in, and I turned almost guiltily to find her emerging from the stacks with the thickest book I'd ever seen clasped in her arms. Her wings were vibrating rapidly, sending sprays of pixie-sweat in all directions as she eyed the four of us. “Remember what I said about fighting in the Library.”

“No one's fighting,” I said. “Some threatening, yes, and maybe a little glaring, but there's been no fighting, I swear.”

“Count Torquill?” said Mags.

Simon rose. He moved stiffly, like his left leg didn't bend right. “It's quite all right, Miss Brooke. My stepdaughter and her friends were simply reminding me that I am not one of their favorite people, but as they did so in a calm and nonviolent manner, I can't really take offense. I think I'm done with my research for today, however, so if you'll excuse me, I'll be going.”

“Wait!” The word escaped before I could prevent myself from speaking. Simon stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at me. Everyone else did something similar. Cheeks burning, I swallowed, and said, “Wait, please. I have to ask you something.”

“Am I the villain, or am I the person you ask when you need information?” Simon asked. He didn't sound annoyed, quite, but he sounded like he very easily could be. “What do you want to know, October?”

“You came to my house.”

“Yes.”

“You said . . . you said you were there to help me.”

“Yes, I did,” said Simon, looking briefly frustrated. “But there are so many barriers on what I can say that I don't see how I can do that, unless you're willing to let me turn you into a tree and plant you someplace where you won't be found for a hundred years.”

I stared at him. “The spell I threw back at you this morning. Is
that
what it was supposed to do?”

“I said I was going to help you, October,” he said. “I didn't say you were going to appreciate it.”

Tybalt started to growl again, low and deep in his chest. I glanced toward Quentin. If he'd been Cait Sidhe, he would have been making the same sound. As it was, he was glaring at Simon with such intensity that I was half afraid the other man was going to spontaneously combust. I put my arms out slightly, just enough that I'd be able to grab them if they tried to lunge. The last thing we needed was to get kicked out of the Library before we'd learned anything useful.

“The Luidaeg is under a geas, too,” I said. “Did you know that?”

“I am aware,” said Simon. “It is a surprise to hear you went to her. I expected you to be rather more timid, or at least smarter.”

“She's my aunt,” I said, like that explained everything. “She was able to get around the binding enough to tell me that the person who bound her was someone I know. Do you know who bound the Luidaeg?”

“I do,” he said.

“Did the same person bind you?”

Simon looked at me for a moment, mouth moving as he tried to force words out past a tongue that no longer seemed to want to cooperate with him. Finally, he made a choking sound, and said, “I have to leave.” Then he turned, still stiff, left leg barely bending, and made his way quickly into the stacks.

I stayed where I was, looking after him.

“Was there a point to that?” asked Mags. She sounded annoyed.

“We pretty much knew from the Luidaeg that they were bound by the same person, but I wanted it confirmed. And I wanted to see whether Simon would tell me the truth.”

“But he didn't tell you anything,” Mags protested.

“Sure he did,” I said. “If he'd been lying to me, a ‘no' would have cost him nothing.” I turned back to Tybalt and Quentin. “Put on your studying shoes, boys. We've got work to do.”

I
T WAS DIFFICULT TO
focus on research with the ghost of Simon Torquill hanging over us, an unwanted presence we could neither dispel nor deny. Worrying about the Luidaeg made it even harder, until focus seemed like a beautiful dream. I sat on the Library's antique couch with the bulky census open on my knees, running my finger down columns of names and trying to associate them with faces dredged from the dusty recesses of my mind. Quentin was settled next to me, going through a box of dusty sheets of loose-leaf paper that Mags had fetched from wherever it was that historical records went to die. He had refused to split the burden, insisting that his knowledge of the political divides within the Mists would be more useful than Tybalt's actual observation of the Court. I had refused to get involved, and in the end, Tybalt had ceded the point.

I sort of wished he hadn't, since in the absence of anything else that needed to be reviewed, Tybalt was pacing around the edges of the room-sized square where we were working. It was getting on my nerves, quite honestly, but my attempts to convince him he should maybe go elsewhere had met with disdain.

“Do you honestly believe that, after you have encountered Count Torquill not once but twice in a single day, I'll allow you to ask me to leave your side?” he had asked, eyes blazing. “I'm not sure how relationships are commonly conducted in this modern age, but I am absolutely certain that a proper suitor does not leave his lady to be turned into a fish because she would feel more ‘comfortable' were he elsewhere.”

That had settled the matter. Tybalt only got that formal with me when he was really unhappy. I was a little uncomfortable with his pacing, but as he would clearly have been
extremely
uncomfortable leaving me—even in the Library, where I was supposed to be safe—I didn't press the issue.

Mags came and went, mostly to make sure we hadn't started eating the books while she was taking care of her filing. I was still a little pissed about her not having warned us that Simon was there, so I didn't have much to say to her. Maybe it was unfair of me, but hey. I'm part of Faerie, and Faerie isn't fair.

“I've never heard of half these people,” said Quentin glumly, picking up another stack of loose pages. The motion dislodged a patch of pixie-sweat, and for a moment, we were both distracted by sneezing.

When the air finally cleared, I wiped my nose and said, “If your records are anything like mine, I've got a partial reason for that: like you said, the census doesn't count changelings, and we're not
that
transitory. Devin isn't in here, and he was in the Kingdom before the 1906 earthquake. I'm not in here either, but Mom is, and she's listed as ‘bride of Simon, mother of August.'” I shook my head, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice as I said, “All these thrice-cursed years of people withholding information from me, and all I had to do was drop by my local Library and ask for the phone book.”

“Ah, but first you had to find someone with a Library card and earn their trust enough that they would share its graces with you,” said Tybalt, as his pacing brought him close enough for conversation. “Sadly, ‘all those years' were vital parts of your unintentional master plan. The Court of Cats will not be listed on those rolls either. We do not take part in the petty schemes of the Divided Courts.”

“Like the census?” I shot him a venomous look. “Did I tell you recently just how good you are at not being even remotely helpful?”

“Ah, but you see, I am
exceedingly
helpful.” He leaned in to kiss the top of my head. “As long as your aggravation has a safe target, you'll keep focusing on your work, and not become too frustrated to continue. I am the most helpful thing in this room.”

“I resent that,” said Quentin.

“Many men have resented me in their days, young prince,” said Tybalt. “Be proud of the legacy you have joined.”

“Tybalt, don't taunt my squire,” I said. “Quentin, don't kill my boyfriend. Both of you, shut up and let me work.”

Tybalt laughed and resumed pacing. I shook my head, sinking deeper into the couch. At least one of us was happy.

I'd managed to make it through the census of Golden Gate and halfway through the census of Dreamer's Glass before Quentin spoke again. “There are too many names,” he said. “We're going to be here forever, and since we don't know for sure who Simon and the Luidaeg both know, we can't really eliminate anyone.”

“And since there are no changelings on the list, we're missing a whole swath of potential candidates.” I leaned forward, pinching the bridge of my nose. “We don't have time for this. We're not going to be able to figure it out this way, but I don't know what else to do.”

“Do you really think it could be a changeling?” asked Mags. I looked up to find her standing at the edge of the workspace, another pile of books in her arms. “I mean . . . I'm not trying to sound dismissive or anything, but most changelings couldn't power a geas as strong as the one you described. It would burn their hearts to ashes in their chests.”

“Chelsea Ames,” I said. “She was a changeling strong enough to rip a door to Annwn in the walls of the world. You can't write changelings off just because most of us aren't that powerful. Some of us break all the rules, and that means there's no universally right answer.”

“Maybe Mags is on to something, though,” said Quentin. “We're looking at the census of the Kingdom's fae, right? Minus the changelings and the Cait Sidhe and I guess anyone who didn't feel like being counted.”

“Right,” I said.

“Yes,” Mags said.

“Blind Michael isn't on here,” Quentin said.

It was enough of a curveball that I paused for a moment, trying to adjust to this new information. It wasn't happening. Frowning, I said, “That doesn't surprise me—he didn't technically live in this Kingdom since he had his own skerry. What are you getting at?”

“I guess just that there are people who have contact with this Kingdom all the time, but manage to stay outside of it. What if Dianda cast the geas? Patrick is listed, but she's not. It could be almost anyone from the Undersea.”

“No, kidnapping isn't their style.” I didn't have to think about the words before I said them. The denizens of the Undersea might slit your throat or invade your lands, but they wouldn't kidnap your children. That simply wasn't how business was done down there. “Also, if Simon's employer had been someone from the Undersea, turning me into a fish wouldn't have saved me. It would have put me on the menu.”

“It can't have been Blind Michael,” said Quentin. “He doesn't fit the ‘living' part of the description.”

“Well, I don't think Acacia would have arranged to have her own daughter and grandchild kidnapped and imprisoned,” I said. “She was too happy to see Luna again when we broke Michael's Ride.”

Mags was staring at us, open-mouthed. I shot her a curious look. She recovered her composure enough to say, “I just—you people talk of the First as if they were commonplace, as if we should all be seeing them on a regular basis and having them over for tea. It's so strange. Even in my youth, the First were rare creatures, better left to someone else's story than drawn into your own.”

“Mom's Firstborn,” I said, with a shrug. “It makes me harder to impress.” Now that Mags had pointed it out, the strangeness of the situation was visible to me, too. There was a time when meeting
any
of the Firstborn would have been a terrifying notion. Now it was basically Tuesday.

“Your mother,” said Tybalt thoughtfully.

“Yeah?” I frowned at him. “What about her?”

“She knows the Luidaeg, obviously, in the same way Acacia does; they are all of them sisters. She knows Simon. She must have, to have married him.”

My eyes narrowed. “I don't like where this is going.”

“I did not expect you to. That doesn't mean you can refuse to come along for the journey.” Tybalt shook his head, expression turning grim. “She knows everyone we know to have been bound, and she has never kept any counsel save her own.”

“I'll be the first to admit that I have issues with my mother, but she's still my
mother
, and you may want to back off on the whole ‘your mother may have ruined your life' song that you're starting to sing,” I said, a dangerous note in my tone. “I don't like it, it doesn't suit you, and you're beginning to piss me off.”

“That doesn't mean you don't need to hear it,” said Tybalt flatly. “Amandine is as strong a candidate to have spun this geas as any other. We cannot rule her out just because you do not want her to have done it, my little fish. If the world were that kind a place, it would be so different as to have never made us.”

“Fine.
Fine
. I can deal with this in one phone call.” I'd been looking for an excuse to pick up the phone anyway, although I couldn't bring myself to say that part out loud. I dug my phone out of my pocket and began pressing the keys in a spiral, moving outward from the center. When I reached the end, I spiraled back in, and chanted, “One's for sorrow, two's for joy, three's a girl, four's a boy.” The smell of copper and freshly cut grass rose in the air around me.

“What's she doing?” asked Mags, sounding concerned.

“Calling the Luidaeg,” said Quentin. I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye. “Toby usually does that when she wants to ask questions that could get her dismembered. You get used to it. I'm surprised she hasn't done it already, since worrying about the Luidaeg is part of why we're here.”

“I'm not sure I'd want to get used to it,” said Mags.

I rolled my eyes as I raised the phone to my ear. There was no ringing: instead, there was the distant sound of waves, beating themselves endlessly against some unseen rocky shore. That was normal. The Luidaeg's phone isn't connected to any official “service,” either mundane or fae, and it reacts differently every time I call it. I think the creepiest thing it could do at this point is actually behave like a normal phone.

There was a click. The sound of waves stopped, replaced by empty air. That, at least, was unusual. I frowned. Normally the Luidaeg answered her phone by yelling at me. “Luidaeg?” I said.

There was no response. I thought I heard someone breathing, but it was a thin, distant sound, and it could have just been air running over the receiver.

I tried again: “Luidaeg? Are you there? Is something wrong with the connection?” I could always hang up and recast the spell, if that was the case. The fragments of my magic were still hanging in the air around me, ready to be grabbed.

Still the silence, and the faint, distant sound of what could be breathing.

“Okay. I'm going to try again.” I hung up, raising my head to look at the others. “Something was wrong with the connection. I didn't get her.”

“That's weird,” said Quentin. “That's never happened before, has it?”

“No,” I said, barely keeping myself from snapping. Fear was beginning to rise in my throat, thick and cloying. I dialed again, this time in an X-shape. “Five's for silver, six for gold, seven for a little girl who dreams of getting old,” I chanted. The magic rose, burst, and fell into the air around me as I raised the phone back to my ear.

Again, there was the sound of waves, followed by a click and silence. This time, I held the phone out to Tybalt, motioning for him to come closer and listen. Cait Sidhe have exceptionally good hearing. It's a part of their feline nature.

He leaned in, bringing his ear to the phone. Then he frowned, and plucked the phone from my hand without saying a word as he straightened up. Seconds ticked by. He raised a hand, motioning for the rest of us to remain silent. Finally, he said, “If this is some form of punishment for October having asked you things she should not have asked, say so now. Failure to speak shall be taken as consent for what you know will follow.”

More seconds ticked by. He hung up the phone, tossing it back into my hands.

“Your squire has learned the necessary skills to drive in this mortal world, has he not?” he asked. There was a tight edge to his voice, like he was just this side of losing his composure. That was bad. When Tybalt loses his composure, things are always bad.

“I don't have my license, but I can drive,” said Quentin.

I set the census aside as I stood, shoving the phone back into my pocket. “Why are we making Quentin drive? How freaked out am I supposed to be right now?”

“Someone was there, but it was not the Luidaeg,” said Tybalt, stepping in close to me. I recognized this as preparation for towing me into the Shadow Roads, and zipped my jacket as he continued: “The tempo of the breaths was wrong. Someone else is answering her phone.”

There was no way in this or any other world that that could be a good thing. “We need to go back to her apartment.” I pulled the car keys out of my coat pocket and lobbed them underhand at Quentin, who plucked them from the air. “Get there as fast as you can. Call when you're at the alley.” Don't be dumb; don't walk into a potential ambush. In short, don't be like your mentor, since I was about to run headlong into yet another life-or-death situation.