A local habitation

Knowes shape themselves to fit the subconscious desires of their keepers. That’s why Shadowed Hills has so many gardens; that’s why my mother’s hall never had any mirrors or locks on the doors. I was counting on that to take us to the body. I would never have tried it with a moving target or with anyone less tied to the County than Jan . . . but the King is literally the land in Faerie, and if she were dead, the knowe would want us to find her.

We didn’t pass anyone as we walked. I was following the patterns in the tile and the directions indicated by careless arrows on bulletin boards, trusting anything that looked like it could be a sign. It seemed to be working. Our route was leading us through more and more places that I recognized, taking us onto familiar ground.

Quentin looked at me as we walked, asking, “Is she dead?”

“Probably.” I studied our surroundings, finally starting for the door that seemed most aligned with the scuff marks on the floor.

“Why didn’t they wake us sooner?”

“Because that would have made it real,” said Co

The door led to the cafeteria kitchen, revealing a second entrance previously concealed by the cupboards on that wall. The cafeteria was spotless, all traces of my ritual circle and its messy results wiped away by Elliot’s magic. I wondered how long we’d been asleep before he gave in to the urge to clean.

“Come on,” I said. “We’re getting closer.”

“But what are we doing?” Quentin was looking increasingly frustrated.

“We’re letting the knowe lead us. Jan was Countess, and the land will be in mourning if she’s dead. It’ll want us to find her.” I stepped into the hall, noting without surprise that we were only a few doors down from Jan’s office. There wasn’t much chance of finding her there—they’d almost certainly looked there first—but it was a start. Even endings begin somewhere.

“How can that even work?” Now Quentin looked perplexed. From his expression, Co

“The King is the land, Quentin. That’s all. That’s how it’s always worked in Faerie.” The door to Jan’s office was standing ajar. Someone inside was crying. I pulled my hand out of Co

The office lights were off and the shades were drawn, casting the room into an artificial twilight. I squinted. “Hello? Jan?” The sobbing continued, bitter and brokenhearted. “Jan?”

“That’s not her,” said Quentin, as he and Co

I paused, listening. He was right. The voice was too high to be Jan’s. “No,” I said, and started toward the desk, stepping carefully. Heaps of paper had fallen to cover the walkway, creating minor avalanches that would probably never be cleaned up. That hurt. The difference between clutter and chaos is control, and Jan’s control had been broken.

Her notes on Barbara’s co

“April?” I put my hand on her shoulder, or tried to; it passed through and hit the back of the desk. It was like reaching into a fogbank. I withdrew my hand. “Can you hear me?”

She shuddered, sobs fading as she chanted, “She’s gone she’s gone she’s gone . . .”

“Who’s gone? April, where’s Jan?” I kept my tone calm. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her more.

“Mommy’s off-line. No more reboots.” She raised her head. Tears were falling in straight lines down her cheeks, like they’d been drawn on. It would have been u

I blanched. I knew what “off- line” meant to April. Carefully, I asked, “Where’s your mother, April?”

“Like the others now. Gone.” She shuddered and began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around her knees. “Off- line. Out of service. Yanked from the router.”

“Gone,” confirmed a voice. I looked up. Alex was in the doorway next to Co

“Where’s the body?” I asked, suddenly, crushingly weary. How could I have lost her? How could I have been stupid enough to believe that we had time?

What was Sylvester going to say when he found out I’d failed him again?

“She’s in one of the server rooms. It looks like she went to check on a glitch in router four, and whoever it was . . .” He stopped, looking away. “Maybe you’d better come see for yourself.”

“You’re right. We should. April . . .” I reached for her and she whimpered, disappearing in a crackle of static. I stood. I could find her later; for the moment, her mother needed me more. Oberon help us all.

None of us spoke as Alex led us through the empty halls. He didn’t need to say anything; his posture was accusation enough, and in the face of that accusation, the rest of us had nothing to say. Co

Alex stopped at an unmarked door. “She’s inside.”

Either his glamour was more voluntary than he wanted to admit, or I was too sick with failure to be affected. “So we go in.”

He didn’t say another word. He just opened the door.

The server room lights were on, and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t had any breakfast. Quentin made a muffled choking sound, clapping his hands over his mouth. Co

Oh, Jan,I thought. I am so sorry.

She was crumpled like a discarded rag doll, head bent at an impossible angle, with a series of uneven gashes splitting her torso from waist to shoulder. Another gash cut across her throat. Her eyes were open behind her glasses, staring at nothing. Blood pooled on the floor around her, dried brown and ugly; she could never have lived after losing that much blood. Bloody handprints climbed halfway up a rack of stacked machines and trailed down the wall beside it.

The others died without fighting, but not Jan. Several cables had been yanked loose in the struggle, and the machines they co

“Toby . . .” Quentin said unsteadily.

“If you need to be sick, do it in the hall.” I moved toward the body, studying the blood splatters on the floor. The footprints were all hers—wait. No, not all. There were smaller prints around the body, made by doll-sized feet. The night-haunts had been and gone, and they’re not normally clumsy enough to leave signs of their passing behind; this was a message. There is nothing for us here.Jan’s body was still fae, her u

Quentin’s retreat was followed by the sound of retching. I ignored it, kneeling next to the body. The wounds on her chest and throat were the most obvious, but they weren’t the only ones; she’d been hamstrung, probably while she was still moving. Whoever cornered her took no chances. I turned her head to the side, exposing her neck. The expected puncture was there, on the other side of the larger, more garish wound, and similar punctures marked her wrists. This wasn’t a second killer; Jan had surprised our original murderer into breaking his pattern.