Chimes at Midnight
Page 11
“It’s not just about that, although it’s part of it. Goblin fruit is too dangerous. It kills changelings. It endangers the secrecy of Faerie. The more it infects the streets, the more likely it becomes that someone will slip and hand a jar to a human. What happens then? And yeah, I also don’t like that it’s one more ‘we can have this because we’re so pure and awesome, and you can’t, because your blood is all tainted and gross’ reminder that we can’t ever be on equal footing.”
Quentin paused before he said, “You sound like my dad. He hates goblin fruit. He says it’s a divisive element and that it drains resources that should be going toward preserving unity.”
“Sounds like a smart guy.” I tried to keep my tone light. Quentin didn’t mention his parents often. No matter how curious I was, some rules aren’t meant to be broken, and that includes the rules that protect the blind fosters. I wouldn’t push. Which didn’t mean I didn’t want to.
“Yeah,” said Quentin. “I guess I understand why you hate goblin fruit. I mean, it makes sense, especially with . . . you know, everything.”
“You mean me being the only changeling knight in the Kingdom, and constantly dealing with a Queen who hates me?” I asked dryly. “Oh, and now? Banished. Because exile was so what I needed this week.”
“Yeah.” Quentin sighed. “I wish this didn’t have to be your problem.”
“Any chance of that just died.”
“I know. But I . . .” He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I said. Then it was my turn to grimace. “Wow. That sounded about as sincere as a used car salesman, huh?”
“I was thinking you sounded as sincere as someone in a horror movie saying, ‘I’ll be right back.’ You won’t be right back, unless it’s as a head in a bag.”
“I’ve got to talk to May about the stuff you’re watching on television.”
“Who do you think keeps showing it to me?”
Tybalt chuckled. “He has a point.”
“Don’t help. I don’t think I could handle it if the two of you ganged up on me right now.” I pulled up in front of an all-night taqueria, glancing down at my distinctly nonstandard attire before digging my wallet out of the front pocket of my jacket and handling a twenty dollar bill to Quentin. “Go inside. Get as many burritos as this will buy, and get me a large coffee.”
“Yes, sir!” He snatched the bill from my hand and was out of the car like a shot, all anxiety forgotten at the sound of the dinner bell. I smiled a little, turning toward Tybalt.
“The Luidaeg likes it when we bring—” I began. His kiss cut off the rest of my sentence. While I was turned away, he had unfastened his seatbelt and closed the distance between us, and now he was pressed to me like a teenage boy after the prom. I fumbled with my own seatbelt until I found the latch and was able to squirm free, wrapping myself around him in turn. His fingers found the back of my neck, tangling in the small wisps of hair not contained by the net of ribbons. I splayed my fingers against his chest, bracing myself without pushing him away, and kissed him like I thought the world was going to end.
We were still like that when the rear door opened and Quentin said, sounding both amazed and a little disgusted, “Don’t you need to breathe?”
“Ah, you see.” Tybalt pulled his mouth away from my throat, turning a lazy, smug-eyed smile on Quentin. “I am a King of Cats, and she was a fish for quite some time. We are both very, very good at holding our breath.”
“Off.” I pushed him away, shaking my head. “You just had to go to the fish place, didn’t you? Quentin, did you get my coffee?”
“I like being alive,” he said, and passed me the cup.
“Good.” I took it, refastened my belt, and started the car, trying to pretend that Tybalt wasn’t grinning wickedly at me from the passenger seat. It wasn’t easy. “Buckle up.”
I let Tybalt hold my coffee as we drove the last mile or so to the Luidaeg’s neighborhood. The area where she lived wasn’t exactly what you’d call “upscale.” Or “nice.” Hell, even “livable” was pushing it, although the definition is different when you’re a functionally immortal sea witch who likes to be left alone. San Francisco grew up around the Luidaeg. She could live wherever she damn well wanted to.
The streets changed around us as we drove, careful maintenance giving way to benign neglect, then wanton vandalism, and finally the sort of disrepair that implied the residents had abandoned all hope. It was just another facade. The people living in the Luidaeg’s shadow enjoyed some of the lowest crime rates in the city. When we had earthquakes, their foundations didn’t crack; when it rained for a week, their roofs didn’t leak. The residents of the blocks surrounding the Luidaeg’s dockside home were her last passive line of defense against strangers, and she took care of them.
No one lived on the Luidaeg’s block. There was maintaining a neighborhood, and then there was putting up with neighbors. One was good sense. The other was likely to get someone killed.
I parked on the street, reclaiming my coffee from Tybalt and letting Quentin carry the burritos as we walked down the alleyway to the Luidaeg’s door. It was old, faintly bloated wood, set into a frame that looked so water-damaged it might fall apart at any moment. Appearances can be deceiving, especially where the Luidaeg is concerned. I knocked lightly. Then I stepped back, sipped my coffee, and waited.
“Think she’s up?” asked Quentin, rummaging through the bag of burritos.
“If she’s not, we’re probably all about to be torn limb from limb. Get ready to run.” I peered into my cup. “Maeve’s tits, I think they pumped this stuff up from the center of the Earth. It’s not coffee. It’s fermented dinosaur blood.”
“Cool.” Quentin pulled a foil-wrapped burrito out of the bag and began unpeeling it.
I raised an eyebrow. “‘Cool’? That’s all you have to say?”
“Be glad he’s not grilling you about the comet that killed them all,” said a dry voice. We turned, almost in unison, to see the Luidaeg standing in the alley behind us, two paper grocery bags in her arms. She looked faintly puzzled, but not annoyed. I’d take it. “What the fuck are you three doing here?”
Quentin paused before he said, “You sound like my dad. He hates goblin fruit. He says it’s a divisive element and that it drains resources that should be going toward preserving unity.”
“Sounds like a smart guy.” I tried to keep my tone light. Quentin didn’t mention his parents often. No matter how curious I was, some rules aren’t meant to be broken, and that includes the rules that protect the blind fosters. I wouldn’t push. Which didn’t mean I didn’t want to.
“Yeah,” said Quentin. “I guess I understand why you hate goblin fruit. I mean, it makes sense, especially with . . . you know, everything.”
“You mean me being the only changeling knight in the Kingdom, and constantly dealing with a Queen who hates me?” I asked dryly. “Oh, and now? Banished. Because exile was so what I needed this week.”
“Yeah.” Quentin sighed. “I wish this didn’t have to be your problem.”
“Any chance of that just died.”
“I know. But I . . .” He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I said. Then it was my turn to grimace. “Wow. That sounded about as sincere as a used car salesman, huh?”
“I was thinking you sounded as sincere as someone in a horror movie saying, ‘I’ll be right back.’ You won’t be right back, unless it’s as a head in a bag.”
“I’ve got to talk to May about the stuff you’re watching on television.”
“Who do you think keeps showing it to me?”
Tybalt chuckled. “He has a point.”
“Don’t help. I don’t think I could handle it if the two of you ganged up on me right now.” I pulled up in front of an all-night taqueria, glancing down at my distinctly nonstandard attire before digging my wallet out of the front pocket of my jacket and handling a twenty dollar bill to Quentin. “Go inside. Get as many burritos as this will buy, and get me a large coffee.”
“Yes, sir!” He snatched the bill from my hand and was out of the car like a shot, all anxiety forgotten at the sound of the dinner bell. I smiled a little, turning toward Tybalt.
“The Luidaeg likes it when we bring—” I began. His kiss cut off the rest of my sentence. While I was turned away, he had unfastened his seatbelt and closed the distance between us, and now he was pressed to me like a teenage boy after the prom. I fumbled with my own seatbelt until I found the latch and was able to squirm free, wrapping myself around him in turn. His fingers found the back of my neck, tangling in the small wisps of hair not contained by the net of ribbons. I splayed my fingers against his chest, bracing myself without pushing him away, and kissed him like I thought the world was going to end.
We were still like that when the rear door opened and Quentin said, sounding both amazed and a little disgusted, “Don’t you need to breathe?”
“Ah, you see.” Tybalt pulled his mouth away from my throat, turning a lazy, smug-eyed smile on Quentin. “I am a King of Cats, and she was a fish for quite some time. We are both very, very good at holding our breath.”
“Off.” I pushed him away, shaking my head. “You just had to go to the fish place, didn’t you? Quentin, did you get my coffee?”
“I like being alive,” he said, and passed me the cup.
“Good.” I took it, refastened my belt, and started the car, trying to pretend that Tybalt wasn’t grinning wickedly at me from the passenger seat. It wasn’t easy. “Buckle up.”
I let Tybalt hold my coffee as we drove the last mile or so to the Luidaeg’s neighborhood. The area where she lived wasn’t exactly what you’d call “upscale.” Or “nice.” Hell, even “livable” was pushing it, although the definition is different when you’re a functionally immortal sea witch who likes to be left alone. San Francisco grew up around the Luidaeg. She could live wherever she damn well wanted to.
The streets changed around us as we drove, careful maintenance giving way to benign neglect, then wanton vandalism, and finally the sort of disrepair that implied the residents had abandoned all hope. It was just another facade. The people living in the Luidaeg’s shadow enjoyed some of the lowest crime rates in the city. When we had earthquakes, their foundations didn’t crack; when it rained for a week, their roofs didn’t leak. The residents of the blocks surrounding the Luidaeg’s dockside home were her last passive line of defense against strangers, and she took care of them.
No one lived on the Luidaeg’s block. There was maintaining a neighborhood, and then there was putting up with neighbors. One was good sense. The other was likely to get someone killed.
I parked on the street, reclaiming my coffee from Tybalt and letting Quentin carry the burritos as we walked down the alleyway to the Luidaeg’s door. It was old, faintly bloated wood, set into a frame that looked so water-damaged it might fall apart at any moment. Appearances can be deceiving, especially where the Luidaeg is concerned. I knocked lightly. Then I stepped back, sipped my coffee, and waited.
“Think she’s up?” asked Quentin, rummaging through the bag of burritos.
“If she’s not, we’re probably all about to be torn limb from limb. Get ready to run.” I peered into my cup. “Maeve’s tits, I think they pumped this stuff up from the center of the Earth. It’s not coffee. It’s fermented dinosaur blood.”
“Cool.” Quentin pulled a foil-wrapped burrito out of the bag and began unpeeling it.
I raised an eyebrow. “‘Cool’? That’s all you have to say?”
“Be glad he’s not grilling you about the comet that killed them all,” said a dry voice. We turned, almost in unison, to see the Luidaeg standing in the alley behind us, two paper grocery bags in her arms. She looked faintly puzzled, but not annoyed. I’d take it. “What the fuck are you three doing here?”
