A Local Habitation
Page 9
“That’s a ‘no.’ ” I squinted at the place where she’d been. There are several races in Faerie who can disappear like that. I couldn’t for the life of me guess which one she’d been.
Quentin was giving me a funny look. “What’re you staring at?”
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on.” I locked the car and turned, heading for the smaller building with Quentin close behind. Half a dozen cats followed us, stopping to spread out in a wide semicircle on the grass when we had almost reached the door. They didn’t move any closer to the building, and their eyes never left us.
A brass plaque was bolted to the wall, out of place in its simplicity. “ ‘And gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name—William Shakespeare.’ Huh.” I reached out to touch the lettering, and a jolt of static stung my hand. “Ow!”
“What was that?” Quentin demanded, sounding alarmed.
“Low-level warding spell. It’s not supposed to hurt people . . . at least, not the ones who don’t mean any harm.” I stuck my finger into my mouth, studying the plaque.
“How does it know?”
“See this line, here?” I indicated one of the streaks of silver, careful not to touch the metal a second time. “This is Coblynau work. It’s probably the real security system.”
“How so?”
“Even if someone manages to break through the gate, they won’t be able to get in with this on the door. It’s only a low- level ward for us because we’re supposed to be here. If we were here to hurt things, it’d be a lot worse.” And that “little spark” would have been enough to do some serious damage.
“Oh,” said Quentin. “Is it safe to go in?”
“Let’s find out.” There was a piece of cardboard taped to the door, the words “please take deliveries to the back” scrawled across it in black marker. An arrow under the words pointed toward the corner of the building. I ignored it, pushing the door open only to be hit by the dual indignities of arctic air-conditioning and a truly tasteless pea-green carpet.
Most reception areas are meant to make people feel at home; this one combined the worst features of a seventies color scheme with plastic art-deco furniture. It seemed to be designed to make people leave as quickly as possible. The plants were also plastic, and the magazines on the glass end tables were all at least three years old.
“Ew,” said Quentin, looking at the carpet.
“Agreed.” I frowned. No one used this room for business; they didn’t maintain it because they didn’t have to. There was a door at the back. I started toward it. “Come on.”
“Shouldn’t we try to call someone or something?”
“The sign said deliveries go to the back, and this looks like the back to me.” I shrugged. “We’ve just become a delivery.” What we lacked in postage, I was sure we’d make up for in destructive potential. The knob was unlocked. That was all the invitation I needed.
“I’m not comfortable just barging in,” said Quentin.
“And I’m not comfortable just standing around. Follow me or don’t; it’s up to you.” I pushed the door open and walked through. I was halfway down the hall before I heard the door close, and Quentin came running to catch up. I smiled and kept going.
ALH Computing obviously started life as a warehouse: there were no interior walls, just a labyrinthine succession of shoulder- high cubicles stretching into the distance. The floors were concrete softened by industrial-sized throw rugs. A ladder on one wall led up to the catwalks crisscrossing the ceiling. They extended far higher than the room’s evident ceiling, going up at least three tiers, maybe more, and only the bottom two were lit. It was impossible to tell what might be up there—and after a moment’s thought, I decided I probably didn’t want to know.
This was the smaller building, and it was huge. How were we supposed to find Sylvester’s niece?
“Toby . . .”
“Shhh. Listen.” Someone was shouting near the center of the room, dimly audible through the twisting maze of cubicles. It was the only sound breaking the buzz of the lights—as large as the space was, it was practically deserted.
“Whoever that is sounds pissed.”
“Right. So we go that way.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Probably not,” I said, starting into the shoulder-high labyrinth. The cubicle walls looked like they were made from loosely connected panels, like a series of giant corkboards. If I got lost, I could just knock things down until I found the way out.
The path ended at a wide spot that seemed to be the meeting point for all the trails through the maze. Several people were gathered there, staring down one of the narrow pathways with obvious interest. All of them were fae, but only one was cloaked in the flicker of a human disguise. Interesting. The shouting was coming from somewhere down that path; the voice was female without being feminine, and swearing a blue streak in at least four different languages. Whoever it was, she seemed to have been designated as the afternoon’s entertainment.
“How many is that so far?” asked one of them, a tall blond man who could probably have made the cover of Surf Weekly without really trying. Though you don’t see many surfers with poppy-orange eyes and pointed ears.
The woman next to him frowned, looking at her clipboard. “Six, if you count Klingon. Are we counting Klingon?” Her hair was brown with streaks of red, making her look like the victim of a bad dye job. The combination of that hair with her china-pale skin tagged her as Daoine Sidhe; she had the right sort of artful graceless-ness, like she wore the world instead of letting it wear her.
“No,” said another man. “Nothing fictional.” He was the one wearing the human disguise; if I squinted, I could almost see the outline of his wings.
“Peter, that’s not fair,” protested the first man. “We allowed Elvish.”
“Elvish is a language!”
“Only if you’re living in a Tolkien novel,” said the brunette, shoving her glasses back up her nose. I’d never seen a Daoine Sidhe wearing glasses before.
“Oh, come on,” protested Peter. “Hey, Colin?”
The man next to the water cooler looked up. “Yeah?” His hair was shaggy and green, and henna tattoos covered most of his visible skin. A sealskin was looped around his waist, the ends tied in a granny knot. A Selkie? That was unusual this far inland.
Quentin was giving me a funny look. “What’re you staring at?”
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on.” I locked the car and turned, heading for the smaller building with Quentin close behind. Half a dozen cats followed us, stopping to spread out in a wide semicircle on the grass when we had almost reached the door. They didn’t move any closer to the building, and their eyes never left us.
A brass plaque was bolted to the wall, out of place in its simplicity. “ ‘And gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name—William Shakespeare.’ Huh.” I reached out to touch the lettering, and a jolt of static stung my hand. “Ow!”
“What was that?” Quentin demanded, sounding alarmed.
“Low-level warding spell. It’s not supposed to hurt people . . . at least, not the ones who don’t mean any harm.” I stuck my finger into my mouth, studying the plaque.
“How does it know?”
“See this line, here?” I indicated one of the streaks of silver, careful not to touch the metal a second time. “This is Coblynau work. It’s probably the real security system.”
“How so?”
“Even if someone manages to break through the gate, they won’t be able to get in with this on the door. It’s only a low- level ward for us because we’re supposed to be here. If we were here to hurt things, it’d be a lot worse.” And that “little spark” would have been enough to do some serious damage.
“Oh,” said Quentin. “Is it safe to go in?”
“Let’s find out.” There was a piece of cardboard taped to the door, the words “please take deliveries to the back” scrawled across it in black marker. An arrow under the words pointed toward the corner of the building. I ignored it, pushing the door open only to be hit by the dual indignities of arctic air-conditioning and a truly tasteless pea-green carpet.
Most reception areas are meant to make people feel at home; this one combined the worst features of a seventies color scheme with plastic art-deco furniture. It seemed to be designed to make people leave as quickly as possible. The plants were also plastic, and the magazines on the glass end tables were all at least three years old.
“Ew,” said Quentin, looking at the carpet.
“Agreed.” I frowned. No one used this room for business; they didn’t maintain it because they didn’t have to. There was a door at the back. I started toward it. “Come on.”
“Shouldn’t we try to call someone or something?”
“The sign said deliveries go to the back, and this looks like the back to me.” I shrugged. “We’ve just become a delivery.” What we lacked in postage, I was sure we’d make up for in destructive potential. The knob was unlocked. That was all the invitation I needed.
“I’m not comfortable just barging in,” said Quentin.
“And I’m not comfortable just standing around. Follow me or don’t; it’s up to you.” I pushed the door open and walked through. I was halfway down the hall before I heard the door close, and Quentin came running to catch up. I smiled and kept going.
ALH Computing obviously started life as a warehouse: there were no interior walls, just a labyrinthine succession of shoulder- high cubicles stretching into the distance. The floors were concrete softened by industrial-sized throw rugs. A ladder on one wall led up to the catwalks crisscrossing the ceiling. They extended far higher than the room’s evident ceiling, going up at least three tiers, maybe more, and only the bottom two were lit. It was impossible to tell what might be up there—and after a moment’s thought, I decided I probably didn’t want to know.
This was the smaller building, and it was huge. How were we supposed to find Sylvester’s niece?
“Toby . . .”
“Shhh. Listen.” Someone was shouting near the center of the room, dimly audible through the twisting maze of cubicles. It was the only sound breaking the buzz of the lights—as large as the space was, it was practically deserted.
“Whoever that is sounds pissed.”
“Right. So we go that way.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Probably not,” I said, starting into the shoulder-high labyrinth. The cubicle walls looked like they were made from loosely connected panels, like a series of giant corkboards. If I got lost, I could just knock things down until I found the way out.
The path ended at a wide spot that seemed to be the meeting point for all the trails through the maze. Several people were gathered there, staring down one of the narrow pathways with obvious interest. All of them were fae, but only one was cloaked in the flicker of a human disguise. Interesting. The shouting was coming from somewhere down that path; the voice was female without being feminine, and swearing a blue streak in at least four different languages. Whoever it was, she seemed to have been designated as the afternoon’s entertainment.
“How many is that so far?” asked one of them, a tall blond man who could probably have made the cover of Surf Weekly without really trying. Though you don’t see many surfers with poppy-orange eyes and pointed ears.
The woman next to him frowned, looking at her clipboard. “Six, if you count Klingon. Are we counting Klingon?” Her hair was brown with streaks of red, making her look like the victim of a bad dye job. The combination of that hair with her china-pale skin tagged her as Daoine Sidhe; she had the right sort of artful graceless-ness, like she wore the world instead of letting it wear her.
“No,” said another man. “Nothing fictional.” He was the one wearing the human disguise; if I squinted, I could almost see the outline of his wings.
“Peter, that’s not fair,” protested the first man. “We allowed Elvish.”
“Elvish is a language!”
“Only if you’re living in a Tolkien novel,” said the brunette, shoving her glasses back up her nose. I’d never seen a Daoine Sidhe wearing glasses before.
“Oh, come on,” protested Peter. “Hey, Colin?”
The man next to the water cooler looked up. “Yeah?” His hair was shaggy and green, and henna tattoos covered most of his visible skin. A sealskin was looped around his waist, the ends tied in a granny knot. A Selkie? That was unusual this far inland.
