A local habitation

“Maybe it’s still confused from the power outage?” said Quentin.

“I guess so.” I started the car again.

We were halfway through the gate when the portcullis froze above us, making a horrible grinding sound.

“Toby, what’s it . . . ?”

It creaked. And then it fell.

It’s fu

“Toby!”

“Hang on!”

Too much of the car was through the gate for me to back up; we’d get impaled if I tried. I took the only option left, slamming my foot down on the gas so hard that something snapped. There wasn’t time to find out whether it was my ankle or the car. My little car did its best, the engine screaming a mechanical battle cry as it leaped forward. On a good day, it could have raced the wind.

The portcullis was faster.

The spikes at the bottom pierced the roof behind our heads, slowing us to a crawl. Quentin screamed. The portcullis was still descending, peeling back the roof as it went. It was going to lodge in the back seat, slamming up against the rear end, and we were going to wind up pi

The rear end. “Unfasten your belt,” I snapped, taking my hands off the wheel.

“But—”

“Do it!”The gas tank of the old-style Volkswagen Bug is in the back of the car, not the front. I’m not a mechanic, but I’m not stupid; I know rupturing your gas tank isn’t a good idea.

Quentin’s eyes widened as he fumbled with his belt. I pulled mine off and tried the door—jammed.

I reached back and grabbed my baseball bat, shouting, “Duck!” Quentin ducked. I swung the bat, hitting the windshield as hard as I could. It cracked but didn’t break. Safety glass. It’s a great idea, until it’s keeping you in a car that’s about to get shish- kabobbed by the world’s biggest cooking fork. Swearing, I fumbled the glove compartment open, pulling out a spray bottle of marsh water mixed with antifreeze. I’d used it for a case two weeks earlier that required a little breaking and entering, along with the usual assortment of small misdemeanors. Fortunately for me, Barrow Wights aren’t really in much of a position to press charges.

“Toby, what are you—”

“Quiet!” I squinted my eyes closed, chanting, “Apples-oranges-pudding-and-pie! Can’t find the door and nobody knows why!” I pulled the top off the spray bottle, flinging the liquid across the glass. The smell of antifreeze filled the car, overwhelming the sudden copper and cut grass flare of my magic. The windshield trembled, going milky with fractures before it imploded and showered us with shards. I threw the bat out the window, twisting around to face Quentin.

He was straightening, wide-eyed, fragments of glass glittering in his hair. “What—” he began, words dissolving in a startled squawk as I grabbed his shirt and tossed him onto the hood of the car. He landed on his shoulder, rolling out of sight. I braced my hands against the steering wheel, boosting myself up and diving after him.

Hitting the ground hurt more than I thought possible. I rolled with it, trying to ignore the glass shards cutting my back and sides. The hilt of my knife was digging into my waist, but at least the blade was staying in place—bruises would be much easier to deal with than accidentally gutting myself.

Dimly, I hoped someone had taught Quentin how to fall.

Inertia pulled me to a stop. I raised my head, tensing to run. The car was pi

That wasn’t the worst of my problems. Quentin was sprawled on the ground a full body length back, facedown, not moving. His newly purchased knife was next to him, blade bent nearly double from the force of the fall. It hadn’t defended him after all.

There’s nothing wrong with my reflexes. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the glass cutting my hands, and sprinted toward him. “Quentin!” When he didn’t react, I grabbed his upper arms, dragging him upright and slinging him over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry. My back and knees screamed with pain, but I didn’t slow down. I needed to get some distance between us and the car.

Cars don’t catch fire easily: that’s a device used for dramatic effect in the movies and on television. I know that. But I also know that security systems, even ones built using the “medieval wonderland” blueprints, don’t usually attack visitors. Knowing something is or isn’t true doesn’t change what actually happens.

I made it about ten yards before the ticking stopped. They say that when the music stops the rest is silence. That’s true. What they don’ttell you is that the silence is probably going to be painful. I kept ru

The car exploded.

The wave of heat came first, racing ahead of the shrapnel and knocking us both to the ground. Quentin was jolted out of my hold, landing about four feet away. I let forward momentum carry me into a roll, ignoring the pain reawakening in my shoulders, back, and knees. I had more pressing problems, like the question of whether or not my hair was on fire. A chunk of the hood embedded itself in the ground a foot from my head, and I amended that idea; burning hair wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as being decapitated by the flying remains of my car.

Momentum gave out and I rolled to a stop, tucking my head under my body and listening to the debris raining down around me. There were a few soft thuds, then silence. The air stank of gasoline, smoke, and melted tar, but no one was screaming; I decided to take that as a good sign. Even so, it was several minutes before I raised my head.

The remains of my car were smoldering in the gate, pi

“If this was part of the alarm system, I’m going to kill them,” I muttered.

Quentin was where I’d dropped him, head resting on his arm. None of the debris seemed to have hit him; that was a small blessing. I walked over and bent to check his pulse, noting the scrapes scoring his arms and neck. He looked like he’d taken less damage than I had. His pulse was fast, pushed up by panic and adrenaline, but it was there, and it was strong.

“You’re lucky as hell, kid,” I said, brushing the glass away and rolling him onto his back. My hands left bloody prints on his shoulders and upper arms. I straightened, despite the protests from my back and knees, and turned to face the parking lot. And I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. People are pulled to explosions by an instinctive desire to see something forbidden, and that goes double for the fae. Only a few minutes passed before I heard ru

“Well, it was,” I said, even though none of them were close enough to hear me. My hands were starting to seriously hurt. That would have to wait. There’d be time to worry about how badly I was or wasn’t injured later, if I was lucky—time was turning into a limited commodity, and if Quentin and I were targets, it was ru

Jan crested the rise separating us from the parking lot, Terrie ru