A local habitation

Three of her fingernails were torn, and one sleeve of her sweater was ripped nearly off. Whatever she did, it was almost enough. “Good for you,” I whispered, and pressed my fingers to her cheek, pulling them away slick with blood. It was cold; she’d been dead since shortly after she disappeared. That’s when she’d have been easiest to catch—morning, when people would be most distracted by exhaustion and the dawn. I brought my fingers to my lips, licking them, and scowled. The blood was empty, just like all the others.

Alex shifted his weight, saying, “Well?”

“Let her work,” snapped Co

I ignored them, looking over my shoulder toward the door. “Quentin, come over here.”

Still pale, he stepped back into the room, walking over to stand next to me. He avoided the blood on the floor. Good boy.

“Now what are you going to do?” said Alex.

“Look, can you just give us a minute? We need to work.”

“Haven’t you had enough minutes?”

I looked at him calmly, too exhausted and heartbroken to be angry. “Co

“I’m not leaving!”

“Yeah, dude, you are.” Co

Alex managed to gasp, “Hall,” and Co

“Clever. Toby, shout when you need us.”

I offered a half-salute. “Got it. Now get out.” I bent forward, concentrating on the body until I heard the door close. Without looking up, I asked, “They gone?”

“Yes,” said Quentin. I looked up.

“I know this is hard, but we don’t have a choice. I need your help. Can you do that?” When he nodded, I forced myself to smile. “Good. What’s wrong with this picture?”

He frowned. “Her wounds are different. She had time to struggle?”

“Right.” I removed Jan’s glasses, sliding them into my pocket before gently closing her eyes. I didn’t need to worry about tampering with the evidence: in a very real sense, Quentin and I werethe forensics team. “Can you tell me what that means?”

“Um. Is the blood still . . . like the others?”

“The blood in her body is.” Straightening, I walked over to the server rack, studying the smeared blood for patches that hadn’t quite dried.

Quentin’s eyes widened. “You think her killers didn’t get it all?”

“It would make sense if they hadn’t, wouldn’t it?” I glanced back at him. “You think there was more than one killer. Why?”

“She’s . . . well, she’s split open. I don’t think one person could do that.”

“I’d agree with you, but remember, some races are stronger than others.” I’ve seen Tybalt kill an adult Red-cap with no weapons but his own claws. “I’m a lot more interested in the fact that all the footprints are Jan’s, or from the night-haunts.”

“I’ve never heard of the night-haunts leaving footprints,” said Quentin.

“I think they did it on purpose, so I’d know they’d been here.” I’d have to consider what that meant, later; if I had a personal relationship with the ghouls of Faerie now, I wanted to know about it.

“Why?”

“So I’d know they came, and they chose not to take her.”

“Oh.” Quentin dipped the first fingers of his left hand into the blood on Jan’s neck, studying them. He was starting to learn; adult Daoine Sidhe usually go for the blood before anything else, because a solid answer can prevent years of debate. I didn’t stop him. He’d have to learn sometime, and now was as good a time as any.

Something glittered on the lower shelves. I ran my fingers across the spot, pulling them back gooey with congealed blood. I glanced back to Quentin and saw him put his blood-covered fingers into his mouth, tasting the blood I already knew was empty. I waited for his grimace, and then asked, “Anything?”

“Nothing,” he said, spitting into his hand.

“We’ll get some water in a minute. Hang on.” I raised my hand, sucking the blood from my fingers.

I knew the blood was vital as soon as I tasted it. Then Jan’s memories overwhelmed my vision, and I didn’t know anything beyond what the blood was telling me.

Warning bells in the server room; need to make sure everything’s okay, we have enough problems already. The lights are out. That’s no good. Can’t see in the dark, never could, stupid eyesight, stupid glasses. Feel around, find the switch, where’s the switch—

Pain painpain , pain like burning, pain everywhere, why’s my shirt wet? Reach down, feel the blade where it meets my chest— the fire ax from down the hall? Why is the fire ax in my chest? I . . . oh. Oh, I see. Shouldn’t I be upset? Shouldn’t I be crying? It hurts. It hurts so bad. But all I feel is confused. Why is this happening . . .

“Toby?” Quentin’s voice cut through Jan’s memories.

“Be quiet,” I said, and swallowed again, screwing my eyes closed. I’d already learned something vital: we were right when we assumed it was a “who,” not a “what.” Monsters don’t generally use fire axes. The magic stuttered, trying to catch hold, and started again. . . . here? I grab the ax handle, and pull, trying to free myself. I don’t want to die like this, I don’t want to die without answers . . .

Something’s behind me, it’s too fast to see (the room’s too dark too dark to see), grabs the ax out of my hands. Turn to run, run run run, too late, steel hits flesh, shoulder hits the wall, look for purchase, grab hold, flailing, losing blood so fast. It hurts, but I’m angry, so angry— howdare they hurt my friends, my family, my world— I catch the blade and they gasp, it’s a person, aperson , not a monster, can’t see who, I can’t see . . .

The blade pulls free. I scream— so angry, so helpless— and the ax hits again and again, and it’s getting hard to breathe. Can’t see. Can’t taste anything but blood. Force the air through the lungs, out the lips, “Why?”

No answers. The ax hits again, and there’s a new feeling, a cold new feeling . . .

That was when the memories in the blood ended; my best guess was that she fell and died after that, while that “cold new feeling” drained the vitality from the blood still in her body. I shook myself, gasping, back to the present. “She fought,” I said, aware of how dazed I sounded.

“Toby?”

“It’s okay, Quentin. I’m okay. I just . . .” I looked at my bloody fingers, and shuddered. “I found part of what we’ve been looking for.”

“Did she see the killer?”

“No. Jan wore glasses, remember?” I allowed myself a bitter chuckle. “She had no night vision.”

Quentin deflated, saying, “Oh.”

“At least she had a chance to fight. That’s more than the rest of these poor slobs got.” I wiped my hand on my jeans—a little more blood wouldn’t make a difference one way or the other—and started for the door. “Come on. We need to get moving.”

“What are we going to do now?” Quentin asked, following me.

“First we’re going to move her down to the basement. I want all the bodies in one place.”

“And then?”

“Well, then, we’re going to find the others, and I’m going to call Sylvester.” I offered him a small, grim smile. “I think I’m done avoiding a diplomatic incident, don’t you?”

TWENTY-THREE

THIS TIME, THE PHONE RANG five times before it was answered: Sylvester again, out of breath and anxious, sounding almost terrified. “Hello? Who’s there?”

I paused. “Sylvester?”

“Toby! Oak and ash,October, why didn’t you call before? We’ve been waiting. Your hotel says you haven’t been checking messages there, either. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“What . . . what are you talking about? You know where I am! You told us to stay here.”