One Salt Sea
Page 23
A brief silence fell when I finished speaking. Finally, Jazz asked, “Do you really think Walther can figure out who made the elf-shot?”
“It’s worth a try.” I glanced to Connor. “The Luidaeg’s sidelined for this fight, except for whatever she can accomplish through me. So we’re basically on our own.”
“Super fun,” said May.
“I can take the arrow to Walther,” volunteered Jazz. We all looked at her. She shrugged. “I don’t need a car, remember?”
“Fair enough,” I allowed. “Just make sure you don’t scratch yourself. The best case scenario with elf-shot involves sleeping for a hundred years.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Jazz. She kissed May on the cheek, grabbed the arrow from the umbrella stand—only touching the leather, I noted approvingly—opened the door, and was gone. Mortal ravens don’t like to fly after dark. Fae ravens are more adaptable. They’re also a hell of a lot more resilient. Jazz could probably fly a hundred miles in a night, if she had to.
I took a breath. “Okay, that’s one problem down. Now for the big one: we have three days to find the Lorden boys before things get ugly.”
“Is finding the Lorden boys going to stop things from getting any worse, or is it just going to make them a little less worse?” May paused. “I’m not sure that was a sentence. Anyway, what I’m saying is if they’re at the stage of, like, shooting at people, are they going to back down just because we find the kids?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “But at that point, at least we’d only be dealing with people who want to start a war, rather than dealing with them and an actual war. That has to be an improvement over what we have now, right?”
“It’s worth a try,” said Connor. He turned his head slightly, meeting my eyes. I almost flinched away. Selkie eyes are always dark, but the darkness in Connor’s expression wasn’t just a matter of biology; not tonight. He was a man looking at a choice he didn’t know how to make, and this time, he was the one who looked like he was in danger of drowning. Me or the Undersea? If he had to choose, who was going to win?
“Connor—” I began, and stopped as someone knocked on the front door. We all turned to cast wary looks in that direction. “May, did you order a pizza?”
“Good idea, but no,” she said.
“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.” I put my coffee cup on the nearest bookshelf and walked to the door, calling, “Who is it?” I wasn’t going to waste the energy on a human disguise if I didn’t have to.
“We wouldn’t have to go through this little charade if you’d simply acknowledge me as an honored guest and agree that I can enter any time I like,” Tybalt replied, managing to sound amused and tired at the same time.
I opened the door.
Tybalt was standing on my doorstep, only the barest veil of human illusion between him and the mortal night. Raj—his nephew and titular heir to the Court of Cats, assuming he can live that long—stood next to him, looking near-terminally embarrassed. I barely even noticed he was there. I was too busy blinking at his uncle.
Tybalt blinked back.
San Francisco’s King of Cats is difficult to describe. Too much of his appeal is in the way he moves, the way he smiles, the subtle tilt of his head when he gives someone his full attention. Not that he’s not good-looking—he is—but he’s more than that. He has fewer feline traits than some of the other Cait Sidhe; cat-slit pupils, black tabby stripes in his dark brown hair. The rest of him could pass for Daoine Sidhe in the right lighting. Appearances can be deceiving. Tybalt’s a cat, through and through, and it’s best to keep that in mind.
I hadn’t seen him since I left the Court of Cats before my second “trial” in the Queen’s Court. He’s always been prone to disappearing, but he’d never been gone for so long before. The last thing he said to me before I left was: “Come back to me.” When I tried to do just that, I couldn’t find him. The Court of Cats is open only to those the King allows to enter, and he’d locked the doors without telling me why. Now here he was on my doorstep, staring at me with an expression that bordered on amazement.
Connor stepped up behind me, bringing the sharp smell of the sea in his wake—and, more importantly, reminding me that he was there. I drew myself up, realizing as I did that I was still dressed for the Queen’s Court. Well, that explained the staring. Tybalt had never seen me voluntarily wearing a dress before, and all the involuntary dresses had been of the Disney princess variety.
“Tybalt,” I said, as neutrally as I could. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“What, really?” May shoved her way past Connor to the door. “Whoa. Hey, Tybalt, long time no see. Come on in, Raj. They’re probably going to stare at each other for a while before they get anything done.” She offered her hand to the younger Cait Sidhe. He took it, letting himself be tugged into the apartment.
True to May’s prediction, Tybalt was still staring at me. Finally, awkwardly, he said, “Toby . . .”
Was I happy to see Tybalt after a month of being avoided? Well, that depends. Could he possibly have picked a worse time than right after I’d failed to prevent a declaration of war? Knowing him, the answer was probably “yes.” He has an amazing talent for showing up when I don’t want him to.
He also has an amazing talent for saving my ass. No matter what we thought about each other, the fact remained that he was a King of Cats, and if I was going to stop the war, I could do worse than having him on my side.
“Forget it.” I stepped back, opening the door wide enough to let him pass. “Come in if you’re coming.”
A look of momentary discomfiture flickered across his face, there and gone almost before I could blink. “As you like,” he said, inclining his head, and stepped inside.
EIGHT
TYBALT HAUGHTILY SURVEYED the living room, arms crossed in an attitude of nonchalant disregard. It was a bit too regal; Tybalt doesn’t normally feel the need to act like that. He allowed his attention to fall on Connor, who was standing beside me and glaring.
“Ah,” said Tybalt. “I see that you have company.”
He managed to infuse the statement with an almost believable note of surprise. Only almost; the timing of his visit was too convenient to be coincidental, and if he didn’t have spies at the Queen’s Court, I’m a Leprechaun. “You know Connor and May,” I said. “I believe you worked together on a prison break not long ago.”
“It’s worth a try.” I glanced to Connor. “The Luidaeg’s sidelined for this fight, except for whatever she can accomplish through me. So we’re basically on our own.”
“Super fun,” said May.
“I can take the arrow to Walther,” volunteered Jazz. We all looked at her. She shrugged. “I don’t need a car, remember?”
“Fair enough,” I allowed. “Just make sure you don’t scratch yourself. The best case scenario with elf-shot involves sleeping for a hundred years.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Jazz. She kissed May on the cheek, grabbed the arrow from the umbrella stand—only touching the leather, I noted approvingly—opened the door, and was gone. Mortal ravens don’t like to fly after dark. Fae ravens are more adaptable. They’re also a hell of a lot more resilient. Jazz could probably fly a hundred miles in a night, if she had to.
I took a breath. “Okay, that’s one problem down. Now for the big one: we have three days to find the Lorden boys before things get ugly.”
“Is finding the Lorden boys going to stop things from getting any worse, or is it just going to make them a little less worse?” May paused. “I’m not sure that was a sentence. Anyway, what I’m saying is if they’re at the stage of, like, shooting at people, are they going to back down just because we find the kids?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “But at that point, at least we’d only be dealing with people who want to start a war, rather than dealing with them and an actual war. That has to be an improvement over what we have now, right?”
“It’s worth a try,” said Connor. He turned his head slightly, meeting my eyes. I almost flinched away. Selkie eyes are always dark, but the darkness in Connor’s expression wasn’t just a matter of biology; not tonight. He was a man looking at a choice he didn’t know how to make, and this time, he was the one who looked like he was in danger of drowning. Me or the Undersea? If he had to choose, who was going to win?
“Connor—” I began, and stopped as someone knocked on the front door. We all turned to cast wary looks in that direction. “May, did you order a pizza?”
“Good idea, but no,” she said.
“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.” I put my coffee cup on the nearest bookshelf and walked to the door, calling, “Who is it?” I wasn’t going to waste the energy on a human disguise if I didn’t have to.
“We wouldn’t have to go through this little charade if you’d simply acknowledge me as an honored guest and agree that I can enter any time I like,” Tybalt replied, managing to sound amused and tired at the same time.
I opened the door.
Tybalt was standing on my doorstep, only the barest veil of human illusion between him and the mortal night. Raj—his nephew and titular heir to the Court of Cats, assuming he can live that long—stood next to him, looking near-terminally embarrassed. I barely even noticed he was there. I was too busy blinking at his uncle.
Tybalt blinked back.
San Francisco’s King of Cats is difficult to describe. Too much of his appeal is in the way he moves, the way he smiles, the subtle tilt of his head when he gives someone his full attention. Not that he’s not good-looking—he is—but he’s more than that. He has fewer feline traits than some of the other Cait Sidhe; cat-slit pupils, black tabby stripes in his dark brown hair. The rest of him could pass for Daoine Sidhe in the right lighting. Appearances can be deceiving. Tybalt’s a cat, through and through, and it’s best to keep that in mind.
I hadn’t seen him since I left the Court of Cats before my second “trial” in the Queen’s Court. He’s always been prone to disappearing, but he’d never been gone for so long before. The last thing he said to me before I left was: “Come back to me.” When I tried to do just that, I couldn’t find him. The Court of Cats is open only to those the King allows to enter, and he’d locked the doors without telling me why. Now here he was on my doorstep, staring at me with an expression that bordered on amazement.
Connor stepped up behind me, bringing the sharp smell of the sea in his wake—and, more importantly, reminding me that he was there. I drew myself up, realizing as I did that I was still dressed for the Queen’s Court. Well, that explained the staring. Tybalt had never seen me voluntarily wearing a dress before, and all the involuntary dresses had been of the Disney princess variety.
“Tybalt,” I said, as neutrally as I could. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“What, really?” May shoved her way past Connor to the door. “Whoa. Hey, Tybalt, long time no see. Come on in, Raj. They’re probably going to stare at each other for a while before they get anything done.” She offered her hand to the younger Cait Sidhe. He took it, letting himself be tugged into the apartment.
True to May’s prediction, Tybalt was still staring at me. Finally, awkwardly, he said, “Toby . . .”
Was I happy to see Tybalt after a month of being avoided? Well, that depends. Could he possibly have picked a worse time than right after I’d failed to prevent a declaration of war? Knowing him, the answer was probably “yes.” He has an amazing talent for showing up when I don’t want him to.
He also has an amazing talent for saving my ass. No matter what we thought about each other, the fact remained that he was a King of Cats, and if I was going to stop the war, I could do worse than having him on my side.
“Forget it.” I stepped back, opening the door wide enough to let him pass. “Come in if you’re coming.”
A look of momentary discomfiture flickered across his face, there and gone almost before I could blink. “As you like,” he said, inclining his head, and stepped inside.
EIGHT
TYBALT HAUGHTILY SURVEYED the living room, arms crossed in an attitude of nonchalant disregard. It was a bit too regal; Tybalt doesn’t normally feel the need to act like that. He allowed his attention to fall on Connor, who was standing beside me and glaring.
“Ah,” said Tybalt. “I see that you have company.”
He managed to infuse the statement with an almost believable note of surprise. Only almost; the timing of his visit was too convenient to be coincidental, and if he didn’t have spies at the Queen’s Court, I’m a Leprechaun. “You know Connor and May,” I said. “I believe you worked together on a prison break not long ago.”
