A Local Habitation (37 page)

Read A Local Habitation Online

Authors: Seanan McGuire

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fiction - Fantasy, #Science Fiction And Fantasy, #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Fantasy - General, #Fairies, #Women private investigators

BOOK: A Local Habitation
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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.
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 Connor.
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. “Connor, get him out of here. We need to concentrate.”
“I’m not leaving!”
“Yeah, dude, you are.” Connor hooked his arm around Alex’s throat, catching the taller man by surprise. While Alex was coughing, Connor continued, conversationally, “Now, we can stand here until you stop breathing and I drag you out, or we can go out to the hall. You’ll like the hall. It comes with oxygen.”
Alex managed to gasp, “Hall,” and Connor smiled.
“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
were
the 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 pain
pain
, 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
—
how
dare
they hurt my friends, my family, my world
—
I catch the blade and they gasp, it’s a person, a
person
, 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
T
HIS 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.”
Now he sounded wounded; more than that, he sounded scared. “I did no such thing! Tybalt came to tell us you were worried about tampering with the phone systems, and I’ve been waiting here ever since. When it wasn’t me, it’s been Etienne, or Garm. Even Luna’s taken her turn. You haven’t called.”
Oh, Oberon’s blessed balls. Gritting my teeth, I said, “The problems with the phones may go a little bit past tampering.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I called you right after Connor got here, and you said we should all stay put.”
He paused. “Do you mean . . . ?”
“Uh-huh. Connor and Quentin are still with me.”
“Oh. Oh, October. That’s not good.”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the boys. Quentin was leaning against one of the soda machines, while Connor was making himself a cup of tea. I’ve always been wary of men who don’t drink coffee. Tea’s just such an inefficient way of getting your caffeine on. “No,” I agreed. “No, it’s almost certainly not.”
Something in my tone must have telegraphed how serious things had become, because there was a pause before he asked, “Are you hurt?”
“A little bit. Nothing I can’t handle.” My head was pounding, my hand felt like hamburger, and the cuts on my face had barely started to scab. Oh, yeah. I was in top condition.
“What about Quentin?”
“He’s scraped up, but he’s fine. We had a minor accident with the car.” It was technically true. We were already out of the car when it exploded. “Connor got here after that; he’s fine, too.”
There was another pause before he said, more quietly now, “Not everyone’s fine, though, are they? I can hear it in your voice.”
“January,” closing my eyes and letting my forehead rest against the cool metal of the pay phone. “She’s dead.”
“Ah.” There was a world of pain in that single tiny syllable; a world of mourning that he didn’t have time to give in to. “How?”
“We’re still not sure. She didn’t die like the others, though. Her death was more . . .” I hesitated. Somehow, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say “violent.” Not when I could already hear Sylvester crying. Lamely, I finished, “. . . disorganized. Either she wasn’t the intended victim, or it was more personal than the others were. I don’t know yet.”
“I see.” He was silent for a long time. I held the line, waiting until he said, “If she’s dead, I suppose Riordan’s wishes don’t matter as much anymore. Can you stay alive until I can get there?”
Before Luna, before peace and Shadowed Hills and developing a reputation as a sweet, slightly bewildered man who just happened to run the largest Duchy in the Bay Area, Sylvester was a hero. A real one. He was one of the lucky ones—he survived long enough to quit—but that didn’t change where he’d started out.
Almost crying from relief, I nodded. “We can. How long will it take you?”
“Not long. Tybalt’s already on the way.”
I jerked upright, eyes snapping open.
“What?”
“You didn’t really think he’d sit out this fight, did you?” A flicker of dark amusement crept into his tone. “Not once you told him a Queen of Cats had died.”
“Oh, Maeve’s
tits
.” I glanced back at Quentin and Connor again. This was going to make things even harder to deal with. Just what I needed. “Any clue when he’ll get here?”
“Not a one. I’ll see you soon. Stay safe.”

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