A Local Habitation
Page 3
“Nursery rhymes?” He sounded amused.
I shrugged. “They work.”
“Even so. The key?”
“Oh.” I freed a hand to dig into my tiny purse, finding my house key by feel. Tybalt plucked it from my fingers, juggling me effortlessly as he unlocked the door and carried me inside.
I fell asleep somewhere between the living room and the hall.
TWO
WAKING UP WAS COMPLICATED by the fact that I had absolutely no idea where I was. I opened my eyes, blinking at the ceiling. The air tasted like ashes. It wasn’t long past dawn; that was probably what woke me.
The ceiling looked familiar. There was a water stain roughly the shape of Iowa in one corner, and that was enough to convince me that I was at home, in my own bedroom and—I glanced down at myself—still dressed for clubbing, in skimpy lace-trimmed tank top and miniskirt. Only the battered brown leather jacket seemed out of place. Maybe if I’d been trying out as the ingenue in an Indiana Jones movie . . .
I groaned, dropping my head back onto the pillow with a thump. “Oh, oak and ash.” My memories of the previous night were fuzzy, but not fuzzy enough. As drunken mistakes go, letting Tybalt carry me home ranked high on the list. And he was never, ever going to let me forget it.
Pushing myself into a sitting position, I swung my feet around to the floor, kicking one of the shoes I’d been wearing the night before in the process. The remaining shoe was sitting atop my purse with my house key tucked into the heel.
“At least he’s a considerate source of aggravation,” I muttered, and stood, walking gingerly toward the kitchen.
Three heads of roughly the same size and shape poked over the back of the couch as I approached. Two were brown and cream, belonging to my half- Siamese cats, Cagney and Lacey. The third was gray-green and thorny, and belonged to Spike, the resident rose goblin.
“Morning,” I said. The cats withdrew while Spike scrabbled fully into view, rattling its thorns in enthusiastic greeting. Adorable, if weird.
The concept of “name it and it’s yours” has always been part of Faerie. Unfortunately, I didn’t think about that until after I gave Spike a name, effectively binding it to me. Luna was too busy being glad I wasn’t dead to mind my taking her rose goblin—she has more—and the cats stopped sulking as soon as they realized it didn’t eat cat food. I don’t mind having it around. It’s pretty easy to take care of; all it really needs is mulch, potting soil, and sunlight.
My illusions had faded when the sun rose, leaving me looking like nothing but my half- Daoine Sidhe, half-human self, pointy ears and all. I’m no more suited to the human world than Spike is, thanks to some genetic gifts from my darling, clinically insane mother. At least I can fake it when I need to, which makes grocery shopping a lot easier.
Most breeds of fae are nocturnal, and that includes the Daoine Sidhe. Circumstance arranges for me to be awake in the morning more often than I like, and that’s why coffee has always been an important part of my balanced breakfast. After three cups, I wasn’t feeling quite ready to face Tybalt again, but it was enough of a start to leave me willing to face the day. Mug in hand, I walked out of the kitchen and back toward my room. The first order of business: getting out of my club clothes, which smelled like alcohol and sweat. The second order of business: shower. After that, the day could start.
There was a note taped to the bedroom door.
I stopped, blinking. It didn’t surprise me that I’d missed it in my pre-coffee stagger toward the kitchen; it surprised me that it existed at all. Wary of further surprises, I tugged it loose of the masking tape and unfolded it.
October—
You were sleeping so peacefully that I was loath to wake you. Duke Torquill, after demanding to know what I was doing in your apartment, has requested that I inform you of his intent to visit after “tending to some business at the Queen’s Court.” I recommend wearing something clingy, as that may distract him from whatever he wishes to lecture you about this time. Hopefully, it’s your manners. You are truly endearing when you sleep. I attribute this to the exotic nature of seeing you in a state of silence.
—Tybalt
The thought of Sylvester calling my apartment only to find himself talking to Tybalt was strangely fascinating. I stood there for a moment, contemplating its sheer unlikelihood. The idea that Tybalt stayed in my apartment long enough to take a message was more worrisome, but since I didn’t think he’d want to steal my silver—if I had any silver worth stealing—I decided to let it go. Letting go of the thought didn’t do anything to resolve my more immediate problem: Sylvester was coming to visit. I scanned the front of the apartment, taking note of the dishes on the table, the unfolded laundry piled on the couch and the heaps of junk mail threatening to cascade off the coffee table and conquer the floor. I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. Combine that with the fact that I’d been regularly pulling eighteen-hour days since getting my PI license reinstated, and it was no wonder my apartment was a disaster zone. I just wasn’t sure I wanted my liege to see it that way.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say “sorry, come back later.” For all that my fourteen-year absence means I’m currently somewhat outside the social order at Shadowed Hills, I’m still a knight errant in Sylvester’s service. If he wants to drop by my apartment, he has every right to do so. Of course, his impending visit almost certainly meant he had a job for me. Swell. Nothing says “hangover recovery” like being called to active duty.
Spike was twining around my ankles. I knelt to pick it up, wincing as it settled to the serious business of kneading my forearms with needle-sharp claws.
“Come on, Spike. Let’s get dressed.” It kept purring as I carried it to the bedroom, calling over my shoulder, “Cagney, Lacey, watch the door.” The cats ignored me. Cats are like that.
One advantage to being a changeling: my hangovers are a lot milder than they should be. Thanks to the coffee, my head was almost clear by the time I finished my dramatically shortened shower. I got dressed at double-speed, choosing practical clothing for what was bound to be a long day. I had just finished tying my shoelaces when someone knocked on the front door, the sound punctuated by the rattle of Spike’s thorns.
“At least I’m not naked,” I muttered, and rose.
Sylvester had his hand raised to knock again when I swept the door open in front of him. He stood there for a moment, looking almost comically startled. Then he smiled, offering me his hands. “October. Did Tybalt give you my message?”
I shrugged. “They work.”
“Even so. The key?”
“Oh.” I freed a hand to dig into my tiny purse, finding my house key by feel. Tybalt plucked it from my fingers, juggling me effortlessly as he unlocked the door and carried me inside.
I fell asleep somewhere between the living room and the hall.
TWO
WAKING UP WAS COMPLICATED by the fact that I had absolutely no idea where I was. I opened my eyes, blinking at the ceiling. The air tasted like ashes. It wasn’t long past dawn; that was probably what woke me.
The ceiling looked familiar. There was a water stain roughly the shape of Iowa in one corner, and that was enough to convince me that I was at home, in my own bedroom and—I glanced down at myself—still dressed for clubbing, in skimpy lace-trimmed tank top and miniskirt. Only the battered brown leather jacket seemed out of place. Maybe if I’d been trying out as the ingenue in an Indiana Jones movie . . .
I groaned, dropping my head back onto the pillow with a thump. “Oh, oak and ash.” My memories of the previous night were fuzzy, but not fuzzy enough. As drunken mistakes go, letting Tybalt carry me home ranked high on the list. And he was never, ever going to let me forget it.
Pushing myself into a sitting position, I swung my feet around to the floor, kicking one of the shoes I’d been wearing the night before in the process. The remaining shoe was sitting atop my purse with my house key tucked into the heel.
“At least he’s a considerate source of aggravation,” I muttered, and stood, walking gingerly toward the kitchen.
Three heads of roughly the same size and shape poked over the back of the couch as I approached. Two were brown and cream, belonging to my half- Siamese cats, Cagney and Lacey. The third was gray-green and thorny, and belonged to Spike, the resident rose goblin.
“Morning,” I said. The cats withdrew while Spike scrabbled fully into view, rattling its thorns in enthusiastic greeting. Adorable, if weird.
The concept of “name it and it’s yours” has always been part of Faerie. Unfortunately, I didn’t think about that until after I gave Spike a name, effectively binding it to me. Luna was too busy being glad I wasn’t dead to mind my taking her rose goblin—she has more—and the cats stopped sulking as soon as they realized it didn’t eat cat food. I don’t mind having it around. It’s pretty easy to take care of; all it really needs is mulch, potting soil, and sunlight.
My illusions had faded when the sun rose, leaving me looking like nothing but my half- Daoine Sidhe, half-human self, pointy ears and all. I’m no more suited to the human world than Spike is, thanks to some genetic gifts from my darling, clinically insane mother. At least I can fake it when I need to, which makes grocery shopping a lot easier.
Most breeds of fae are nocturnal, and that includes the Daoine Sidhe. Circumstance arranges for me to be awake in the morning more often than I like, and that’s why coffee has always been an important part of my balanced breakfast. After three cups, I wasn’t feeling quite ready to face Tybalt again, but it was enough of a start to leave me willing to face the day. Mug in hand, I walked out of the kitchen and back toward my room. The first order of business: getting out of my club clothes, which smelled like alcohol and sweat. The second order of business: shower. After that, the day could start.
There was a note taped to the bedroom door.
I stopped, blinking. It didn’t surprise me that I’d missed it in my pre-coffee stagger toward the kitchen; it surprised me that it existed at all. Wary of further surprises, I tugged it loose of the masking tape and unfolded it.
October—
You were sleeping so peacefully that I was loath to wake you. Duke Torquill, after demanding to know what I was doing in your apartment, has requested that I inform you of his intent to visit after “tending to some business at the Queen’s Court.” I recommend wearing something clingy, as that may distract him from whatever he wishes to lecture you about this time. Hopefully, it’s your manners. You are truly endearing when you sleep. I attribute this to the exotic nature of seeing you in a state of silence.
—Tybalt
The thought of Sylvester calling my apartment only to find himself talking to Tybalt was strangely fascinating. I stood there for a moment, contemplating its sheer unlikelihood. The idea that Tybalt stayed in my apartment long enough to take a message was more worrisome, but since I didn’t think he’d want to steal my silver—if I had any silver worth stealing—I decided to let it go. Letting go of the thought didn’t do anything to resolve my more immediate problem: Sylvester was coming to visit. I scanned the front of the apartment, taking note of the dishes on the table, the unfolded laundry piled on the couch and the heaps of junk mail threatening to cascade off the coffee table and conquer the floor. I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. Combine that with the fact that I’d been regularly pulling eighteen-hour days since getting my PI license reinstated, and it was no wonder my apartment was a disaster zone. I just wasn’t sure I wanted my liege to see it that way.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say “sorry, come back later.” For all that my fourteen-year absence means I’m currently somewhat outside the social order at Shadowed Hills, I’m still a knight errant in Sylvester’s service. If he wants to drop by my apartment, he has every right to do so. Of course, his impending visit almost certainly meant he had a job for me. Swell. Nothing says “hangover recovery” like being called to active duty.
Spike was twining around my ankles. I knelt to pick it up, wincing as it settled to the serious business of kneading my forearms with needle-sharp claws.
“Come on, Spike. Let’s get dressed.” It kept purring as I carried it to the bedroom, calling over my shoulder, “Cagney, Lacey, watch the door.” The cats ignored me. Cats are like that.
One advantage to being a changeling: my hangovers are a lot milder than they should be. Thanks to the coffee, my head was almost clear by the time I finished my dramatically shortened shower. I got dressed at double-speed, choosing practical clothing for what was bound to be a long day. I had just finished tying my shoelaces when someone knocked on the front door, the sound punctuated by the rattle of Spike’s thorns.
“At least I’m not naked,” I muttered, and rose.
Sylvester had his hand raised to knock again when I swept the door open in front of him. He stood there for a moment, looking almost comically startled. Then he smiled, offering me his hands. “October. Did Tybalt give you my message?”
