A local habitation

“No, I didn’t know,” I said slowly, thinking, Just like last time?“Where’s the body?”

“Inside, through the glass doors, at the center point of the cubicle maze. Everyone is there. You should go there as well. Then you can worry about it for them, and they will all go back to work.” There was a sharp snapping sound, like an electrical cable breaking, and April vanished. Ozone-scented air rushed into the space where she’d been standing.

That’s not something you see every day. I stared at the empty air.

“Toby . . .”

“I know,” I said, shaking myself out of it. “Come on.” Turning, I ran for the door.

This time, I was expecting the transition into the Summerlands, and I took note of the moment when it happened, already wondering how many other ways there were to move between the two sides of the building. Quentin pulled ahead and opened the door into the hall, pausing as he waited for me.

I could smell blood mixing with the processed air as soon as the door was open. Strange as April was, she’d been right about at least one thing: something was very wrong.

“Behind me, Quentin,” I said, stepping past him.

“But—”

“No buts. If things look dangerous, you run.”

Quentin hesitated before falling in close behind me. Being a page teaches you how to shadow people without being underfoot; that’s part of being a good servant. Now he was getting the chance to see how it also prepared you for combat. If anything attacked us, his position meant he was already balanced to fight back.

Elliot, Alex, and Peter were standing at the center of the cubicle maze, arranged in an unconscious parody of the way we’d first seen them. Their fear was so strong it was almost something I could reach out and grab hold of. Peter’s human disguise shimmered around him, casting off sparks as his almost-hidden wings sent up a panicky vibration that made my teeth itch. I moved closer, close enough to see what they were staring at.

Colin was sprawled on the floor, eyes open and staring, unseeing, up into the darkness of the catwalks. I didn’t need to check for a pulse or ask if they’d tried CPR. I know dead when I see it.

The ground around the body was clear, with no signs of a struggle. Discreet punctures marked his wrists and throat; there were no other injuries. I glanced back at Quentin. He was standing a few feet behind me, wide-eyed and pale as he stared at the body. I couldn’t blame him. The first time you see real death is hard.

“Out of my way,” I said, stepping between Peter and Elliot. There are times when I have a lot of patience, but there are things that don’t get better, or easier, when you let them wait.

“Toby . . .” Alex began.

“Now,” I snapped. “And stay here. I need to talk to you.” They moved without any further protest. Elliot, at least, looked somewhat relieved. I’m half-Daoine Sidhe; that means people assume I know how to deal with the dead. After all, of all Titania’s children, only the Daoine Sidhe can “talk” to the dead, using their blood to access their memories—often including the memory of how they died. We’re like the fae equivalent of CSI. Some races got shapeshifting or talking to flowers, and we? We got borrowed memories and the taste of blood, and people washing their hands after we touch them. Not exactly what I’d call a fair trade.

I’m half-Daoine Sidhe; I’m also half- human. That does a lot to damage my credibility, but being the daughter of the greatest blood-worker alive in Faerie makes up for my mortal heritage. Lucky me. I’ve been trying to live up to my mother for my entire life. Because a crazy, lying idiot is the perfect role model.

The Daoine Sidhe didn’t sign up for the position of “most likely to handle your corpses,” but we didn’t have to. Most fae don’t have much exposure to death, and they’re grateful when someone—anyone—is willing to play intermediary. Death doesn’t really bother me anymore; somewhere along the line, it just became a part of who I am. Coffee and corpses, that’s my life. Sometimes I hate being me.

I dropped to my knees next to the body. “Quentin, come over here.”

“Do I have to?”

I paused, almost reconsidering. Sylvester asked me to let him follow me around for a while; he didn’t ask me to start teaching him the gruesome realities of blood magic. Then again, I don’t believe in hiding the truth from our children. It always backfires.

“Yes, you do,” I said.

Anger and fear warred for ownership of his expression before he sighed, moving to join me. The habit of obedience was stronger than his desire to rebel. Faerie trains her courtiers well.

“Good,” I said, and turned my attention to Colin. Maybe it’s a sign of how many bodies I’ve seen over the past year, but I felt no disgust: only pity and regret. I sighed. “Oh, you poor bastard.”

I was aware of the men behind us, but they didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the body and what it had to tell me.

Colin’s coloring was normal under the lines of his he

“Toby . . .”

“Yeah?” I lifted Colin’s hand, frowning at the ease with which his elbow bent. He was cold enough that rigor mortis should have set in already, but his joints were still pliant. That wasn’t right. There’s a point at which rigor mortis fades, replaced by limpness, but he wasn’t suffering from that, either; his body had normal muscle resistance. He just wasn’t in it.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know yet. Hush a minute, and let me work.” The punctures on Colin’s wrists were nasty, but not enough to be the cause of death. The skin around them was only slightly bruised; the trauma of whatever killed him wasn’t enough to rupture many of the blood vessels. There’s a lot of blood in the average body, but most of Colin’s was still inside where it belonged.

The third puncture was nestled below the curve of his jaw on the left side of his head, surrounded by a ring of jellied blood. There were no other visible injuries. There was something else wrong with the body, but my eyes seemed to slide off it when I tried to look more closely.

I frowned. “Quentin, look at the body. What’s wrong with it?”

“You mean besides being dead?” he asked, with an odd half-stutter in his voice.

“I know it’s hard. It was hard for me the first time, too. But I need you to look closely, and tell me what you see.”

The first time—ha. My first time was one of Devin’s kids, back when I still worked there. He overdosed in the bathroom an hour before his shift in the front was supposed to start, and he wasn’t even cold when we found him. I helped three older boys carry him behind the bar and leave him for the night- haunts, and I was sick three times before morning. Devin still made me stand my watch, because duty was duty. I’ve never been that cruel a taskmaster . . . but Devin was my teacher, and I learned a lot from him. One of his most important lessons was that the hard things are best done quickly: face what you’re afraid of and get it over with, if you can. It hurts less in the long run.

Quentin swallowed and looked down, sca

I looked down. Colin’s hands were webbed, like a Selkie’s should be, curled at his—

Oh, no. Oh, root and branch, no. Stiffening, I said, “Yes, Quentin. I think there is.”

The fae don’t leave bodies. That’s a lot of how we’ve stayed hidden all these years. When we die, the night-haunts carry us away, leaving behind illusion-forged ma