A Local Habitation
Page 73
“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.”
“Always do,” I said, voice bright with artificial cheer.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I know. Just get here.”
“As quickly as I can. Open roads, all of you. And Toby . . . thank you for trying.” He hung up before I could say anything about his thanks—and more, before I could say good-bye. I understood that all too well. He didn’t want to hear it when it might just be forever.
“You, too,” I whispered, and set the phone back in its cradle.
“What did he say?” asked Quentin.
“He’s on his way, and he’s bringing in the cavalry. We just need to keep ourselves alive until he gets here.” I looked at him, seeing how much of the calm, arrogant facade he tried to project had collapsed since our arrival. He was pale and drawn, and the only reason I couldn’t say he’d gone white was that the bandages on his forehead were still whiter. My company wasn’t doing him any favors. “If it looks like I can’t do that, we’ll hot-wire a goddamn car and go meet him at the Interstate.”
Connor walked over, his tea in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He handed me the mug, smiling at my grateful expression, and asked, “So now what?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed, sipping my coffee. “If the killer had a political agenda, I think they’ve accomplished it. Jan doesn’t have any kids but April, and I don’t think April knows what an heir is, much less how to be one. Dreamer’s Glass will swallow Tamed Lightning. In a decade or two, nobody’s even going to remember that this was a County. That’s how it works.”
“That doesn’t work,” said Connor, now frowning deeply.
I turned toward him. “All right: tell me why.”
“Because from a political standpoint, there was no need for the other deaths. They just made Jan paranoid and harder to kill. Once she’s dead, the game is over. So why draw it out so long? Why risk that many violations of Oberon’s law?”
“Huh.” I sipped my coffee again, considering what he’d said. Maybe he was right. Maybe we’d been looking at things the wrong way. “Okay. Assume it wasn’t political. The politics are a red herring, they don’t matter. Where does that leave us?”
“And what about Barbara?” asked Quentin.
I paused. Barbara was spying for Duchess Riordan . . . and she was the first one to die. “Barbara’s what proves that it wasn’t political,” I said finally. “Her cover was never compromised. So why kill her?”
“Someone who was loyal to the County found out, and . . .” Quentin dragged a finger across his throat, making a disturbingly suggestive sucking noise.
“You have been watching way too much television, dude,” said Connor.
“Besides, it still doesn’t work,” I said. “You kill Barbara out of County loyalty—why kill the others? You’ve stopped your spy. No, I think the politics were a factor in the paranoia, but not in the deaths. What does that leave?”
“Power?” suggested Connor. “Maybe somebody here wanted to be in charge.”
“That feeds back into politics. Without Jan, they lose the County. It doesn’t work.”
“All right, revenge, then.”
“On who, the company? Maybe.” I paused. “And there’s the way Jan died.”
Quentin blanched. “You mean the mess?”
“The other killings were quick, but Jan had time to fight back. Why?”
“Well, didn’t you tell Sylvester that Jan might not have been the target?” asked Connor.
“Maybe . . .” I stopped, frowning. The reflections on the soda machine next to Quentin were moving. Whatever was casting those shadows was behind me—and there were no windows on that side of the room. We weren’t alone. “Guys?”
“What?” asked Quentin. Connor sipped his tea, giving me a puzzled look.
“Hang on.” Whatever was moving had to be mostly hidden or he’d have seen it; judging by the reflection, Quentin had a clean line of sight. It very well might have been invisible, using an illusion spell that wasn’t properly set up to include mirrors. Never trust anything that skulks around invisible in a building where people keep dying. “Actually, Quentin, come over here a second.” It had too clear of a line on him. I didn’t like it.
“Why? I’m already right here.” He stepped forward, saying, “I don’t—”
The reflection started moving again. “Get down!” I shoved him as hard as I could, grabbing a handful of Connor’s shirt and diving for the floor as the gun went off.
Two shots echoed through the room, almost drowning out the sound of Quentin shouting.
The first hit the wall where I’d been standing a moment before, flinging bits of tile in all directions. I didn’t see where the second hit. I was too busy flattening myself against Connor and trying to see behind me, searching for our invisible assailant or assailants.
There was no one there.
The kitchen door we’d discovered during the search for Jan’s body was standing slightly open. It swung shut as I watched. There would be no more shots, but I’d missed the shooter. As the rush of adrenaline faded, I realized that a chip of flying tile had opened a cut along my left cheek. I’d landed on my wounded hand, and blood was soaking the gauze. Just what I needed: more pain. I don’t like being shot at—it makes me cranky—but I liked what the shots implied even less. None of the victims were shot. This was either someone new trying to get revenge for our failure, or the original killer was trying to scare us away. Neither option was good.
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.”
“Always do,” I said, voice bright with artificial cheer.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I know. Just get here.”
“As quickly as I can. Open roads, all of you. And Toby . . . thank you for trying.” He hung up before I could say anything about his thanks—and more, before I could say good-bye. I understood that all too well. He didn’t want to hear it when it might just be forever.
“You, too,” I whispered, and set the phone back in its cradle.
“What did he say?” asked Quentin.
“He’s on his way, and he’s bringing in the cavalry. We just need to keep ourselves alive until he gets here.” I looked at him, seeing how much of the calm, arrogant facade he tried to project had collapsed since our arrival. He was pale and drawn, and the only reason I couldn’t say he’d gone white was that the bandages on his forehead were still whiter. My company wasn’t doing him any favors. “If it looks like I can’t do that, we’ll hot-wire a goddamn car and go meet him at the Interstate.”
Connor walked over, his tea in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He handed me the mug, smiling at my grateful expression, and asked, “So now what?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed, sipping my coffee. “If the killer had a political agenda, I think they’ve accomplished it. Jan doesn’t have any kids but April, and I don’t think April knows what an heir is, much less how to be one. Dreamer’s Glass will swallow Tamed Lightning. In a decade or two, nobody’s even going to remember that this was a County. That’s how it works.”
“That doesn’t work,” said Connor, now frowning deeply.
I turned toward him. “All right: tell me why.”
“Because from a political standpoint, there was no need for the other deaths. They just made Jan paranoid and harder to kill. Once she’s dead, the game is over. So why draw it out so long? Why risk that many violations of Oberon’s law?”
“Huh.” I sipped my coffee again, considering what he’d said. Maybe he was right. Maybe we’d been looking at things the wrong way. “Okay. Assume it wasn’t political. The politics are a red herring, they don’t matter. Where does that leave us?”
“And what about Barbara?” asked Quentin.
I paused. Barbara was spying for Duchess Riordan . . . and she was the first one to die. “Barbara’s what proves that it wasn’t political,” I said finally. “Her cover was never compromised. So why kill her?”
“Someone who was loyal to the County found out, and . . .” Quentin dragged a finger across his throat, making a disturbingly suggestive sucking noise.
“You have been watching way too much television, dude,” said Connor.
“Besides, it still doesn’t work,” I said. “You kill Barbara out of County loyalty—why kill the others? You’ve stopped your spy. No, I think the politics were a factor in the paranoia, but not in the deaths. What does that leave?”
“Power?” suggested Connor. “Maybe somebody here wanted to be in charge.”
“That feeds back into politics. Without Jan, they lose the County. It doesn’t work.”
“All right, revenge, then.”
“On who, the company? Maybe.” I paused. “And there’s the way Jan died.”
Quentin blanched. “You mean the mess?”
“The other killings were quick, but Jan had time to fight back. Why?”
“Well, didn’t you tell Sylvester that Jan might not have been the target?” asked Connor.
“Maybe . . .” I stopped, frowning. The reflections on the soda machine next to Quentin were moving. Whatever was casting those shadows was behind me—and there were no windows on that side of the room. We weren’t alone. “Guys?”
“What?” asked Quentin. Connor sipped his tea, giving me a puzzled look.
“Hang on.” Whatever was moving had to be mostly hidden or he’d have seen it; judging by the reflection, Quentin had a clean line of sight. It very well might have been invisible, using an illusion spell that wasn’t properly set up to include mirrors. Never trust anything that skulks around invisible in a building where people keep dying. “Actually, Quentin, come over here a second.” It had too clear of a line on him. I didn’t like it.
“Why? I’m already right here.” He stepped forward, saying, “I don’t—”
The reflection started moving again. “Get down!” I shoved him as hard as I could, grabbing a handful of Connor’s shirt and diving for the floor as the gun went off.
Two shots echoed through the room, almost drowning out the sound of Quentin shouting.
The first hit the wall where I’d been standing a moment before, flinging bits of tile in all directions. I didn’t see where the second hit. I was too busy flattening myself against Connor and trying to see behind me, searching for our invisible assailant or assailants.
There was no one there.
The kitchen door we’d discovered during the search for Jan’s body was standing slightly open. It swung shut as I watched. There would be no more shots, but I’d missed the shooter. As the rush of adrenaline faded, I realized that a chip of flying tile had opened a cut along my left cheek. I’d landed on my wounded hand, and blood was soaking the gauze. Just what I needed: more pain. I don’t like being shot at—it makes me cranky—but I liked what the shots implied even less. None of the victims were shot. This was either someone new trying to get revenge for our failure, or the original killer was trying to scare us away. Neither option was good.
