A Local Habitation
Page 7
“Are we allergic today?” I asked. It rattled its thorns again, and I laughed. “Right. You guys be good. No wild parties. Stacy will be over to feed you, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I closed the door quickly, shutting out the reproachful looks from my pets, and started down the path toward the parking garage.
My apartment is what’s considered “a lucky find” in the San Francisco housing market: not only is it rent-controlled and relatively spacious, but it comes with parking—an unheard-of luxury in a city where fistfights have been known to break out for a decent spot. According to my lease, covered parking is a deterrent to theft and vandalism, and justifies my increased rent. Given the kind of cars I tend to drive, I view it as a deterrent to public mockery.
My last car was the victim of a one-person car chase through downtown San Francisco that left the shocks destroyed and the brakes beyond repair. After I managed to find it—which wasn’t easy, since I’d abandoned it on the street with the keys still inside—it was clear that the only decent thing to do was put it out of its misery. I sold the parts that still worked, scrapped the rest, and bought myself a lemon yellow 1974 VW Bug. I like Bugs.
As I let myself into the garage, it became apparent that my car had acquired a new hood ornament, since last time I checked it hadn’t come with a blond teenage boy. He was sitting cross- legged on the hood with a pair of headphones on, leaning back on his hands and studying the cracks in the ceiling.
“Quentin, get off there! You’re going to scratch the paint.”
“With what?” he asked, pulling off the headphones as he turned toward me. “I didn’t bring any sandpaper.”
“Jerk,” I said, and grinned.
Quentin and I didn’t exactly get off to a good start: Sylvester sent him to bring me back to Shadowed Hills, and I slammed a door in his face. We’ve managed to smooth things out since then, and he’s one of my favorite people these days. He’s pureblooded Daoine Sidhe and too arrogant by half, but he’s got a lot of potential. He just needs to figure out what to do with it.
I’ve never met his parents, although I’d bet good money that they’re a long way from California. The nobles have an elaborate system of blind fostering, shuttling their kids from place to place to keep anyone from noticing that things around them tend to be a little odd, or that some of them don’t age at the normal rate. Quentin was fostered at Shadowed Hills about a year before I officially came back to Sylvester’s service. He spends his days at one of the local high schools, learning how the humans live, and spends his nights serving as a page, learning how to be a Faerie noble. One day he’ll be a squire, then a knight, and finally, his parents’ heir. A pretty tall order for a kid his age, but I think he can handle it.
He slid off the hood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and giving me an expectant look. “So where are we going?”
“Tamed Lightning,” I said, peering into the backseat before opening the car doors. “You all packed?”
“His Grace had me pack before we left home.”
“Of course he did. Get in.”
One thing I had to give him; he was definitely eager to get started. He was in his seat and buckled in before I had my door closed. I gave him a sidelong look, raising a brow.
“Little anxious, aren’t you?”
Quentin squirmed. “It’s summer break. I had plans.”
“Right.” I started the engine. “And what’s her name?”
“Katie.” A slight lilt on the word betrayed the depth of his infatuation.
“Katie?” I frowned, reviewing my internal list of the fosters at Shadowed Hills. “What Court is she with?”
“She’s not. I go to high school with her.”
“So she’s . . . ?”
“Uh-huh.” He paused before adding, with a besotted grin, “And she’s beautiful.”
I didn’t bother hiding my answering smile. “Well, that’s cool. Are you being careful?” The question would have had a sexual meaning for a human teenager. For a fae kid, it meant exactly what it sounded like. We always have to be careful when we let the humans get close to us. The burning times are in the past, and mankind has almost forgotten, but we never will. Not forgetting is what’s going to keep us alive through the years ahead.
Quentin nodded, utterly self-assured. I remember being that confident—when did I stop? Oh, yeah. When I grew up. “She has no idea what I am.”
“Good. Keep it that way. I don’t want to have to rescue you from the conspiracy nuts.”
“Oh, yeah, because they really stress about the existence of elves.”
“Do the words ‘alien autopsy’ mean anything to you?”
“Ew.”
“Exactly.” I pulled out of the parking garage and onto the street, heading for the freeway. It was a beautiful day, I had an easy—if unwanted—job to do, and I had decent company to do it with. Maybe things were going to work out after all.
FOUR
“SO WHERE ARE WE GOING?” asked Quentin, for the fifth time.
We’d been driving in circles through the Fremont business district for the better part of an hour and had finally stopped in front of a park so that I could review the directions. A group of joggers made its way dutifully past on the sidewalk. I grimaced, eyeing them. I’ve always thought of joggers as being sort of like Blind Michael and his crew: deserving of respect, but slightly psychotic. Who in their right minds would want to get out of bed and run around in their underwear before noon?
“Place called ALH Computing.” Finding Fremont hadn’t been the problem. It’s hard to misplace an entire city, no matter how bad your directions are. Unfortunately, Sylvester’s directions were a lot more interested in defining fae territories than, say, providing me with street names. I knew exactly whose fiefdom we were in, when we’d entered it, and how far we could go before we left. I just didn’t know where we were.
“We’re going to ALH?” Quentin perked up. “They do Summerlands-compatible computer and wiring systems. I’m pretty sure they did the phones at Shadowed Hills. I have one of their MP3 players.” He held up a little white box about the size of a pack of cards, adding proudly, “It works no matter how deep you go.”
“Works to do what?”
My apartment is what’s considered “a lucky find” in the San Francisco housing market: not only is it rent-controlled and relatively spacious, but it comes with parking—an unheard-of luxury in a city where fistfights have been known to break out for a decent spot. According to my lease, covered parking is a deterrent to theft and vandalism, and justifies my increased rent. Given the kind of cars I tend to drive, I view it as a deterrent to public mockery.
My last car was the victim of a one-person car chase through downtown San Francisco that left the shocks destroyed and the brakes beyond repair. After I managed to find it—which wasn’t easy, since I’d abandoned it on the street with the keys still inside—it was clear that the only decent thing to do was put it out of its misery. I sold the parts that still worked, scrapped the rest, and bought myself a lemon yellow 1974 VW Bug. I like Bugs.
As I let myself into the garage, it became apparent that my car had acquired a new hood ornament, since last time I checked it hadn’t come with a blond teenage boy. He was sitting cross- legged on the hood with a pair of headphones on, leaning back on his hands and studying the cracks in the ceiling.
“Quentin, get off there! You’re going to scratch the paint.”
“With what?” he asked, pulling off the headphones as he turned toward me. “I didn’t bring any sandpaper.”
“Jerk,” I said, and grinned.
Quentin and I didn’t exactly get off to a good start: Sylvester sent him to bring me back to Shadowed Hills, and I slammed a door in his face. We’ve managed to smooth things out since then, and he’s one of my favorite people these days. He’s pureblooded Daoine Sidhe and too arrogant by half, but he’s got a lot of potential. He just needs to figure out what to do with it.
I’ve never met his parents, although I’d bet good money that they’re a long way from California. The nobles have an elaborate system of blind fostering, shuttling their kids from place to place to keep anyone from noticing that things around them tend to be a little odd, or that some of them don’t age at the normal rate. Quentin was fostered at Shadowed Hills about a year before I officially came back to Sylvester’s service. He spends his days at one of the local high schools, learning how the humans live, and spends his nights serving as a page, learning how to be a Faerie noble. One day he’ll be a squire, then a knight, and finally, his parents’ heir. A pretty tall order for a kid his age, but I think he can handle it.
He slid off the hood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and giving me an expectant look. “So where are we going?”
“Tamed Lightning,” I said, peering into the backseat before opening the car doors. “You all packed?”
“His Grace had me pack before we left home.”
“Of course he did. Get in.”
One thing I had to give him; he was definitely eager to get started. He was in his seat and buckled in before I had my door closed. I gave him a sidelong look, raising a brow.
“Little anxious, aren’t you?”
Quentin squirmed. “It’s summer break. I had plans.”
“Right.” I started the engine. “And what’s her name?”
“Katie.” A slight lilt on the word betrayed the depth of his infatuation.
“Katie?” I frowned, reviewing my internal list of the fosters at Shadowed Hills. “What Court is she with?”
“She’s not. I go to high school with her.”
“So she’s . . . ?”
“Uh-huh.” He paused before adding, with a besotted grin, “And she’s beautiful.”
I didn’t bother hiding my answering smile. “Well, that’s cool. Are you being careful?” The question would have had a sexual meaning for a human teenager. For a fae kid, it meant exactly what it sounded like. We always have to be careful when we let the humans get close to us. The burning times are in the past, and mankind has almost forgotten, but we never will. Not forgetting is what’s going to keep us alive through the years ahead.
Quentin nodded, utterly self-assured. I remember being that confident—when did I stop? Oh, yeah. When I grew up. “She has no idea what I am.”
“Good. Keep it that way. I don’t want to have to rescue you from the conspiracy nuts.”
“Oh, yeah, because they really stress about the existence of elves.”
“Do the words ‘alien autopsy’ mean anything to you?”
“Ew.”
“Exactly.” I pulled out of the parking garage and onto the street, heading for the freeway. It was a beautiful day, I had an easy—if unwanted—job to do, and I had decent company to do it with. Maybe things were going to work out after all.
FOUR
“SO WHERE ARE WE GOING?” asked Quentin, for the fifth time.
We’d been driving in circles through the Fremont business district for the better part of an hour and had finally stopped in front of a park so that I could review the directions. A group of joggers made its way dutifully past on the sidewalk. I grimaced, eyeing them. I’ve always thought of joggers as being sort of like Blind Michael and his crew: deserving of respect, but slightly psychotic. Who in their right minds would want to get out of bed and run around in their underwear before noon?
“Place called ALH Computing.” Finding Fremont hadn’t been the problem. It’s hard to misplace an entire city, no matter how bad your directions are. Unfortunately, Sylvester’s directions were a lot more interested in defining fae territories than, say, providing me with street names. I knew exactly whose fiefdom we were in, when we’d entered it, and how far we could go before we left. I just didn’t know where we were.
“We’re going to ALH?” Quentin perked up. “They do Summerlands-compatible computer and wiring systems. I’m pretty sure they did the phones at Shadowed Hills. I have one of their MP3 players.” He held up a little white box about the size of a pack of cards, adding proudly, “It works no matter how deep you go.”
“Works to do what?”
