Ashes of Honor
Page 17
I glanced over my shoulder at Quentin. He met my eyes and nodded. He knew what I was about to do. I couldn’t say whether he approved, but he knew, and that was enough for me. If I was going to blow his cover as well as my own, I wanted him to know that it was coming.
“We don’t have your daughter, and neither does Etienne,” I said, turning back to Bridget. She stiffened. “He called me because finding lost children is a specialty of mine. I don’t take them. I bring them home. Please, believe me. We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help.”
“Then why didn’t you come to my doorbell and tell me this without being forced?” she demanded.
“Because we’re not used to telling humans ‘oh, hey, we exist,’” I said. Quentin stepped up next to me as I continued, “And because you thought—maybe you still think, I don’t know—Etienne took Chelsea. He didn’t, Bridget, I swear it on my father’s grave. Etienne isn’t that kind of man. He didn’t even know she existed before you called him.”
A car roared past on the street, abruptly reminding me that there was more to the world than the three of us standing in the dark and discussing things that were never intended to be discussed at all—not with humans anyway. I sighed.
“My name is October,” I said. “This is my squire, Quentin. We want to help. We want to make sure that Chelsea is safe. You don’t have to believe me, although it would probably be good if you did. I just want you to ask yourself something.”
“What’s that?” asked Bridget warily.
“If Etienne had your daughter, would he have sent us here? And if he didn’t send us, would we have come at all?” Sometimes I think the real tragedy of the intersection between humanity and the fae is how much both sides get wrong. Bridget thought she knew everything about us, and she’d lived in fear when she didn’t have to. She would always have lost Chelsea—that’s the unfortunate reality of being a human and having a child with the fae—but she could have been with Etienne all that time. She didn’t have to spend those years looking over her shoulder, waiting for the ax to fall.
There was a pause as she considered my words. Finally, she lowered the frying pan. “I don’t trust you.”
“That’s fine.”
“I won’t trust you.”
“That’s fine, too; we’re not asking you to trust us. We’re just asking you to let us help. Please. For Chelsea’s sake, if not yours.” I hesitated, and then added, “I mean, technically, I guess we’re family.”
Bridget barked another of those short, sharp laughs, lowering the frying pan. “Some family you are. You owe sixteen years of birthday presents.”
“I’ll be sure to let Etienne know.” I breathed out a little, relaxing now that the frying pan wasn’t being brandished in my direction. “We were planning to walk Chelsea’s route to school. Does she go to Colusa High?”
“Yes,” said Bridget, wariness returning. “How did you know?”
“I have a daughter, too. She lives with her human father.” Saying the words made the tiny wounded place inside me ache even more. Gillian lived with her human father, because Gillian was human. Thanks to me, she would never be anything else. “I know there’s no way she’d be walking to school if she had to go more than a mile. Etienne said Chelsea was walking home from school when she disappeared. Colusa High was the only school that fit the profile.”
“You have a daughter? With a human man?” Bridget’s tone thawed a little; perhaps she was finally allowing herself to believe we might be here for the right reasons. “What’s her name?”
“Gillian. She’s a few years older than Chelsea. She was kidnapped last year, and I would have done anything to get her back. Anything. Even if it meant trusting people I wasn’t sure about.” I shook my head. “If a human kidnapper took Chelsea, you called Etienne for nothing. I don’t think you would have done that. Not after sixteen years of being careful. That means you really think it was one of us. If you’re right, don’t you need our help?”
For a moment, I thought I might have pushed too hard. Then, reluctantly, Bridget nodded. “What can I do?”
“Well, first, can we get off the street? I’m feeling a little exposed, and I’d like to see Chelsea’s room.” If the smell of smoke and calla lilies was this strong on the open street, I wanted to see how strong it was in an enclosed space.
Bridget hesitated before nodding again. “Follow me,” she said, turning to march up the walk to her house.
Quentin and I followed at a more sedate pace, neither of us all that anxious to go where the woman with the anti-fae frying pan led. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said calmly. “I just don’t have any better ideas, and I really want to get a look at that room.”
“Tybalt’s going to kill me,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
The door was locked, even though Bridget had gone no farther than the sidewalk. She looked back over her shoulder at us as she unlocked it, saying, “You can’t be too careful.”
A lock wouldn’t stop a truly determined Tuatha de Dannan or Cait Sidhe. For once, I thought before I spoke and didn’t say that out loud. “It’s a scary world out there,” I said.
Bridget nodded and opened the door. The smell of sycamore smoke and calla lilies poured out, a hundred times stronger than it had been on the street. Schooling my expression to keep from giving away just how thick the smell of Chelsea’s magic was, I followed Bridget inside. Quentin was right behind me.
It only took one look at the living room walls for me to realize there was no need to ask for a picture of Chelsea. There were pictures of Chelsea everywhere. She was a sweet-faced little girl who grew into a beautiful teenager over the course of dozens of images. Her delicate bone structure might have tipped me off to the presence of some fae blood in her lineage, but I would never have pegged her as a full changeling. I frowned, studying the pictures more closely.
“Oh,” I said, finally. “I see.”
Bridget looked at me. “Do you?”
In every picture, Chelsea’s brown-black hair—something she inherited from her father—was styled to cover her ears. The lenses of her glasses were tinted, making it hard to tell what color her eyes were. “Does she need glasses?” I asked.
“We don’t have your daughter, and neither does Etienne,” I said, turning back to Bridget. She stiffened. “He called me because finding lost children is a specialty of mine. I don’t take them. I bring them home. Please, believe me. We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help.”
“Then why didn’t you come to my doorbell and tell me this without being forced?” she demanded.
“Because we’re not used to telling humans ‘oh, hey, we exist,’” I said. Quentin stepped up next to me as I continued, “And because you thought—maybe you still think, I don’t know—Etienne took Chelsea. He didn’t, Bridget, I swear it on my father’s grave. Etienne isn’t that kind of man. He didn’t even know she existed before you called him.”
A car roared past on the street, abruptly reminding me that there was more to the world than the three of us standing in the dark and discussing things that were never intended to be discussed at all—not with humans anyway. I sighed.
“My name is October,” I said. “This is my squire, Quentin. We want to help. We want to make sure that Chelsea is safe. You don’t have to believe me, although it would probably be good if you did. I just want you to ask yourself something.”
“What’s that?” asked Bridget warily.
“If Etienne had your daughter, would he have sent us here? And if he didn’t send us, would we have come at all?” Sometimes I think the real tragedy of the intersection between humanity and the fae is how much both sides get wrong. Bridget thought she knew everything about us, and she’d lived in fear when she didn’t have to. She would always have lost Chelsea—that’s the unfortunate reality of being a human and having a child with the fae—but she could have been with Etienne all that time. She didn’t have to spend those years looking over her shoulder, waiting for the ax to fall.
There was a pause as she considered my words. Finally, she lowered the frying pan. “I don’t trust you.”
“That’s fine.”
“I won’t trust you.”
“That’s fine, too; we’re not asking you to trust us. We’re just asking you to let us help. Please. For Chelsea’s sake, if not yours.” I hesitated, and then added, “I mean, technically, I guess we’re family.”
Bridget barked another of those short, sharp laughs, lowering the frying pan. “Some family you are. You owe sixteen years of birthday presents.”
“I’ll be sure to let Etienne know.” I breathed out a little, relaxing now that the frying pan wasn’t being brandished in my direction. “We were planning to walk Chelsea’s route to school. Does she go to Colusa High?”
“Yes,” said Bridget, wariness returning. “How did you know?”
“I have a daughter, too. She lives with her human father.” Saying the words made the tiny wounded place inside me ache even more. Gillian lived with her human father, because Gillian was human. Thanks to me, she would never be anything else. “I know there’s no way she’d be walking to school if she had to go more than a mile. Etienne said Chelsea was walking home from school when she disappeared. Colusa High was the only school that fit the profile.”
“You have a daughter? With a human man?” Bridget’s tone thawed a little; perhaps she was finally allowing herself to believe we might be here for the right reasons. “What’s her name?”
“Gillian. She’s a few years older than Chelsea. She was kidnapped last year, and I would have done anything to get her back. Anything. Even if it meant trusting people I wasn’t sure about.” I shook my head. “If a human kidnapper took Chelsea, you called Etienne for nothing. I don’t think you would have done that. Not after sixteen years of being careful. That means you really think it was one of us. If you’re right, don’t you need our help?”
For a moment, I thought I might have pushed too hard. Then, reluctantly, Bridget nodded. “What can I do?”
“Well, first, can we get off the street? I’m feeling a little exposed, and I’d like to see Chelsea’s room.” If the smell of smoke and calla lilies was this strong on the open street, I wanted to see how strong it was in an enclosed space.
Bridget hesitated before nodding again. “Follow me,” she said, turning to march up the walk to her house.
Quentin and I followed at a more sedate pace, neither of us all that anxious to go where the woman with the anti-fae frying pan led. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said calmly. “I just don’t have any better ideas, and I really want to get a look at that room.”
“Tybalt’s going to kill me,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
The door was locked, even though Bridget had gone no farther than the sidewalk. She looked back over her shoulder at us as she unlocked it, saying, “You can’t be too careful.”
A lock wouldn’t stop a truly determined Tuatha de Dannan or Cait Sidhe. For once, I thought before I spoke and didn’t say that out loud. “It’s a scary world out there,” I said.
Bridget nodded and opened the door. The smell of sycamore smoke and calla lilies poured out, a hundred times stronger than it had been on the street. Schooling my expression to keep from giving away just how thick the smell of Chelsea’s magic was, I followed Bridget inside. Quentin was right behind me.
It only took one look at the living room walls for me to realize there was no need to ask for a picture of Chelsea. There were pictures of Chelsea everywhere. She was a sweet-faced little girl who grew into a beautiful teenager over the course of dozens of images. Her delicate bone structure might have tipped me off to the presence of some fae blood in her lineage, but I would never have pegged her as a full changeling. I frowned, studying the pictures more closely.
“Oh,” I said, finally. “I see.”
Bridget looked at me. “Do you?”
In every picture, Chelsea’s brown-black hair—something she inherited from her father—was styled to cover her ears. The lenses of her glasses were tinted, making it hard to tell what color her eyes were. “Does she need glasses?” I asked.
