A Local Habitation
Page 40
I took a deep breath, letting it rush out before I said, “Hey. Did you get my message?”
“What message?” He sounded honestly perplexed. “I’ve been waiting for you to call. Is everything all right? What’s going on?”
“No. Everything’s not all right. Everything’s not even a little bit all right. Listen.” And I told him what was going on. There was a lot of ground to cover, especially since he kept breaking in with questions. I did my best to answer them. In the end, there was a moment’s silence, both of us waiting to hear what the other would say.
Finally, subdued, Sylvester said, “I want to call you home more than anything. You know that, don’t you?”
“But you can’t. I know that, too.”
“No, I can’t. Toby . . .”
“I want to send Quentin back to Shadowed Hills. It’s not safe.”
He hesitated. “If this is some sort of political attack, as you say January fears, it isn’t safe to send him back alone. I’ll have to find someone who can come and collect him without angering Riordan. Can you make sure he stays alive until then?”
I laughed bitterly. “I’m not sure I can keep myself alive until then, but I’ll try.”
“Do what you can,” he said. “Just do me the favor of being careful?”
“I will. Check your phones, okay? I don’t know why our messages aren’t getting through, but it’s freaking me out.”
“I’ll keep someone by the phone night and day. Call every six hours.”
“Or what?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, flatly, he said, “I’ll think of something.”
There was nothing to be said after that. I made my good-byes and hung up, shoving Colin’s skin into the bag before leaving the room. Quentin was waiting in the lobby with his backpack over one shoulder, leaning against the wall by the elevators.
“What took you so long?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Come on. We need to find you something to hit people with.”
“What, we’re going to go steal me a brick?”
“It’s an idea.” I started for the door. The desk clerk winced as we passed; apparently, our appearance wasn’t improved by the addition of an aluminum baseball bat. I was just glad my knife was covered—he’d have had an aneurysm. I offered a genial nod, and he smiled tremulously. I was suddenly glad that we weren’t checking out. His nerves weren’t up to the strain of actually talking to us.
Getting to the car meant going through the garage, where the flickering overhead lights made too many shadows. I hurried us to the car. Quentin moved to the passenger side, and I caught his eyes as we peered through our respective rear-door windows. We shared a brief, wry smile. There are worse things I could do than infect the kid with a healthy sense of paranoia—for one thing, I could leave him thinking nothing in the world was ever going to hurt him.
The car was clean. I unlocked my door, leaning over to open the passenger side before tossing my things into the back. Quentin clambered in, settling his backpack between his knees.
“Any idea where we can get you a meat cleaver or something?”
“Grocery store?” he offered.
“You’re on.”
We pulled out and headed for the city’s main drag. If anything was open, it would be there. I glanced at Quentin as I drove; he was staring pensively out the window. Shaking my head, I turned back to the road.
The hero’s journey has suffered in modern years. Once we could’ve gotten a knight in shining armor riding to the rescue, pennants flying. These days you’re lucky to get a battered changeling and her underage, half-trained assistant, and the princesses are confused technological wizards in towers of silicon and steel. Standards aren’t what they used to be.
THIRTEEN
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when we reached ALH. Quentin slid his bargain-bin carving knife back into its cardboard sheath, watching the streets scrolling by outside the window. I hadn’t told him I was sending him back to Shadowed Hills. I couldn’t figure out how.
“It’s so dark,” he said.
“Everyone’s gone home.”
This time, the gate didn’t open at our approach. I rolled down the window and leaned out, calling, “It’s Toby and Quentin. Come on, let us in.” There was no answer. I was about to get out of the car and try enchanting the controls again when the gate began cranking upward.
“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 funny, but they never mention the incredibly offensive design of the portcullis in those old movies about knights and castles and kings. That suddenly seemed like a glaring omission, because those spikes were sharp, heavy, and headed straight for us.
“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 pinned.
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.
“What message?” He sounded honestly perplexed. “I’ve been waiting for you to call. Is everything all right? What’s going on?”
“No. Everything’s not all right. Everything’s not even a little bit all right. Listen.” And I told him what was going on. There was a lot of ground to cover, especially since he kept breaking in with questions. I did my best to answer them. In the end, there was a moment’s silence, both of us waiting to hear what the other would say.
Finally, subdued, Sylvester said, “I want to call you home more than anything. You know that, don’t you?”
“But you can’t. I know that, too.”
“No, I can’t. Toby . . .”
“I want to send Quentin back to Shadowed Hills. It’s not safe.”
He hesitated. “If this is some sort of political attack, as you say January fears, it isn’t safe to send him back alone. I’ll have to find someone who can come and collect him without angering Riordan. Can you make sure he stays alive until then?”
I laughed bitterly. “I’m not sure I can keep myself alive until then, but I’ll try.”
“Do what you can,” he said. “Just do me the favor of being careful?”
“I will. Check your phones, okay? I don’t know why our messages aren’t getting through, but it’s freaking me out.”
“I’ll keep someone by the phone night and day. Call every six hours.”
“Or what?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, flatly, he said, “I’ll think of something.”
There was nothing to be said after that. I made my good-byes and hung up, shoving Colin’s skin into the bag before leaving the room. Quentin was waiting in the lobby with his backpack over one shoulder, leaning against the wall by the elevators.
“What took you so long?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Come on. We need to find you something to hit people with.”
“What, we’re going to go steal me a brick?”
“It’s an idea.” I started for the door. The desk clerk winced as we passed; apparently, our appearance wasn’t improved by the addition of an aluminum baseball bat. I was just glad my knife was covered—he’d have had an aneurysm. I offered a genial nod, and he smiled tremulously. I was suddenly glad that we weren’t checking out. His nerves weren’t up to the strain of actually talking to us.
Getting to the car meant going through the garage, where the flickering overhead lights made too many shadows. I hurried us to the car. Quentin moved to the passenger side, and I caught his eyes as we peered through our respective rear-door windows. We shared a brief, wry smile. There are worse things I could do than infect the kid with a healthy sense of paranoia—for one thing, I could leave him thinking nothing in the world was ever going to hurt him.
The car was clean. I unlocked my door, leaning over to open the passenger side before tossing my things into the back. Quentin clambered in, settling his backpack between his knees.
“Any idea where we can get you a meat cleaver or something?”
“Grocery store?” he offered.
“You’re on.”
We pulled out and headed for the city’s main drag. If anything was open, it would be there. I glanced at Quentin as I drove; he was staring pensively out the window. Shaking my head, I turned back to the road.
The hero’s journey has suffered in modern years. Once we could’ve gotten a knight in shining armor riding to the rescue, pennants flying. These days you’re lucky to get a battered changeling and her underage, half-trained assistant, and the princesses are confused technological wizards in towers of silicon and steel. Standards aren’t what they used to be.
THIRTEEN
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when we reached ALH. Quentin slid his bargain-bin carving knife back into its cardboard sheath, watching the streets scrolling by outside the window. I hadn’t told him I was sending him back to Shadowed Hills. I couldn’t figure out how.
“It’s so dark,” he said.
“Everyone’s gone home.”
This time, the gate didn’t open at our approach. I rolled down the window and leaned out, calling, “It’s Toby and Quentin. Come on, let us in.” There was no answer. I was about to get out of the car and try enchanting the controls again when the gate began cranking upward.
“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 funny, but they never mention the incredibly offensive design of the portcullis in those old movies about knights and castles and kings. That suddenly seemed like a glaring omission, because those spikes were sharp, heavy, and headed straight for us.
“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 pinned.
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.
