One Salt Sea
Page 57
We fell out of the shadows and into the narrow alley between two tall brownstone houses. The flashing lights of the police cars across the street told me where we were before I recognized our surroundings: Cliff and Gillian’s. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the house, not pausing to see whether Tybalt was following. Dragging a person through the shadows can hurt the Cait Sidhe. I knew that, and in that moment, I couldn’t care. Only Gillian mattered.
I vaulted up the porch steps and pounded on the door until it opened. A human woman stared out at me, eyes wide behind the yellow fringe of her hair. Miranda. My replacement, Gillian’s stepmother, and—since we were never married—Cliff’s first wife. Miranda and I don’t get along, maybe because I view her as a usurper, while she views me as an irresponsible bitch who thinks it’s okay to walk out for fourteen years and then stroll back in like nothing happened. In our own ways, we’re both right.
“October,” she said, sounding as surprised as she looked. “How did you—”
“A friend saw the police cars and called me,” I said, trying to see past her into the house. “What’s going on? Is Cliff here?”
“October, this isn’t a good time—”
“She’s my daughter, too, Miranda. If something’s happened, I need to know.”
“She’s gone,” said a gruff voice. I looked up, meeting the eyes of the man behind her. Clifford Marks, my ex-fiancé. It was the first time I’d seen him in over a year. I was surprised to realize I hadn’t missed him. I missed our daughter, but not her father. Not anymore.
“Cliff,” I said. “What happened?”
“Someone broke her bedroom window,” he said, gaze steady on mine. “Miranda went up to wake her for school, and she was gone.”
“Can I—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Toby. The police will handle things.”
“Cliff . . .” Tybalt stepped onto the porch behind me. Cliff’s attention flicked briefly to him before returning to me. I raked my fingers through my tangled hair, looking pleadingly at my ex-lover. “Please.”
He hesitated before shaking his head. “No. My daughter is missing. I’m not going to risk you interfering with finding her.”
Something inside me snapped. “She’s my daughter too, damn you!”
“Maybe you should have thought of that sixteen years ago.”
That stopped me cold. How could I tell him that he and Gillian were all I’d been thinking of back then? What words were there to make him understand? I realized I was shaking just as I felt the solid, comforting weight of Tybalt’s hand on my shoulder.
“The mother has a right to help,” he said.
Cliff looked past me to Tybalt for the second time, and I found myself considering how the King of Cats must look to him. Even covered by a human disguise, Tybalt is impressive. “Who are you?” asked Cliff.
“A friend of October’s,” was Tybalt’s imperturbable reply.
“Please,” I repeated. “I have to help.”
“What if I don’t want you to?” Miranda asked abruptly. I blinked. I’d almost forgotten she was there. “How do we know you didn’t have some of your freak friends grab her so you could play detective and ride in to save the day? You were never a mother to her. You threw her away. Why should I trust you to bring her home?”
“That’s enough.” Cliff put a hand on her shoulder in an almost ironic mirror of the way Tybalt’s hand rested on mine. “If you can find her, Toby, do it. Bring her home. But if you come here again, I’ll tell the police they should be questioning you.”
I studied him for a long moment before nodding. He was giving me what his pride and panic allowed: he was giving me a chance. “Can I see where she was taken? Just to see if there’s anything that might give me a clue?”
“The police are handling that,” said Cliff.
“Mr. and Mrs. Marks?” called a voice from inside. “Is everything all right?”
Cliff’s look didn’t waver. I sighed. “We’ll be going now,” I said.
“Good,” he said, and closed the door. He didn’t say good-bye.
I stared at the doorframe, trying to calm the frantic hammering of my heart. Gilly was missing. Gilly was gone. She hadn’t been part of my life for a long time, but when she was in danger I reacted like any other mother—with fury and with fear. I looked up at Tybalt once I was finally calm enough to speak, asking, “What did you find?”
He shook his head, pulling his hand away as he stepped off the porch. I followed. Once we were on the sidewalk, too far away for the inhabitants of the house to hear us, he said, “I walked the bounds and spoke to my subjects. They say the girl was in her room when the window exploded. They led me there. There was blood on the carpet.” He paused, looking away. “It was hers.”
“How can you tell?”
“I know your scent, and her father’s. That’s enough to tell me whose she is.”
“Is she alive?” He didn’t answer. I grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. “Tybalt, is my daughter alive?”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly, looking back to me. “That may not be for the best.”
I stared at him. “What in Oberon’s name do you mean by that?”
“I smelled more than blood in her room. The air smelled of mustard flowers, and of wax.”
“Rayseline,” I said numbly.
He nodded.
“Can you follow the trail?” Normally, I would have demanded to see the room myself, so Gilly’s blood could tell me her story itself, but there wasn’t time. Cliff would never let us in, and Tybalt knew the scent of Rayseline’s magic. His cats had been there; if there were any other clues, they would have given them to their King. All I could do by trying to get inside was waste time that we didn’t have.
Tybalt looked mildly surprised by the question. “I can.”
“Do it. Please.”
He nodded again and closed his eyes, nostrils flaring. The Cait Sidhe are some of the best trackers in Faerie, no matter what shape they’re in. The cat never entirely leaves them. A moment later, he opened his eyes, and pointed west. “There,” he said, and started trotting toward the corner. I followed, pacing half a step behind and scanning the street for signs that Rayseline had been here.
I vaulted up the porch steps and pounded on the door until it opened. A human woman stared out at me, eyes wide behind the yellow fringe of her hair. Miranda. My replacement, Gillian’s stepmother, and—since we were never married—Cliff’s first wife. Miranda and I don’t get along, maybe because I view her as a usurper, while she views me as an irresponsible bitch who thinks it’s okay to walk out for fourteen years and then stroll back in like nothing happened. In our own ways, we’re both right.
“October,” she said, sounding as surprised as she looked. “How did you—”
“A friend saw the police cars and called me,” I said, trying to see past her into the house. “What’s going on? Is Cliff here?”
“October, this isn’t a good time—”
“She’s my daughter, too, Miranda. If something’s happened, I need to know.”
“She’s gone,” said a gruff voice. I looked up, meeting the eyes of the man behind her. Clifford Marks, my ex-fiancé. It was the first time I’d seen him in over a year. I was surprised to realize I hadn’t missed him. I missed our daughter, but not her father. Not anymore.
“Cliff,” I said. “What happened?”
“Someone broke her bedroom window,” he said, gaze steady on mine. “Miranda went up to wake her for school, and she was gone.”
“Can I—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Toby. The police will handle things.”
“Cliff . . .” Tybalt stepped onto the porch behind me. Cliff’s attention flicked briefly to him before returning to me. I raked my fingers through my tangled hair, looking pleadingly at my ex-lover. “Please.”
He hesitated before shaking his head. “No. My daughter is missing. I’m not going to risk you interfering with finding her.”
Something inside me snapped. “She’s my daughter too, damn you!”
“Maybe you should have thought of that sixteen years ago.”
That stopped me cold. How could I tell him that he and Gillian were all I’d been thinking of back then? What words were there to make him understand? I realized I was shaking just as I felt the solid, comforting weight of Tybalt’s hand on my shoulder.
“The mother has a right to help,” he said.
Cliff looked past me to Tybalt for the second time, and I found myself considering how the King of Cats must look to him. Even covered by a human disguise, Tybalt is impressive. “Who are you?” asked Cliff.
“A friend of October’s,” was Tybalt’s imperturbable reply.
“Please,” I repeated. “I have to help.”
“What if I don’t want you to?” Miranda asked abruptly. I blinked. I’d almost forgotten she was there. “How do we know you didn’t have some of your freak friends grab her so you could play detective and ride in to save the day? You were never a mother to her. You threw her away. Why should I trust you to bring her home?”
“That’s enough.” Cliff put a hand on her shoulder in an almost ironic mirror of the way Tybalt’s hand rested on mine. “If you can find her, Toby, do it. Bring her home. But if you come here again, I’ll tell the police they should be questioning you.”
I studied him for a long moment before nodding. He was giving me what his pride and panic allowed: he was giving me a chance. “Can I see where she was taken? Just to see if there’s anything that might give me a clue?”
“The police are handling that,” said Cliff.
“Mr. and Mrs. Marks?” called a voice from inside. “Is everything all right?”
Cliff’s look didn’t waver. I sighed. “We’ll be going now,” I said.
“Good,” he said, and closed the door. He didn’t say good-bye.
I stared at the doorframe, trying to calm the frantic hammering of my heart. Gilly was missing. Gilly was gone. She hadn’t been part of my life for a long time, but when she was in danger I reacted like any other mother—with fury and with fear. I looked up at Tybalt once I was finally calm enough to speak, asking, “What did you find?”
He shook his head, pulling his hand away as he stepped off the porch. I followed. Once we were on the sidewalk, too far away for the inhabitants of the house to hear us, he said, “I walked the bounds and spoke to my subjects. They say the girl was in her room when the window exploded. They led me there. There was blood on the carpet.” He paused, looking away. “It was hers.”
“How can you tell?”
“I know your scent, and her father’s. That’s enough to tell me whose she is.”
“Is she alive?” He didn’t answer. I grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. “Tybalt, is my daughter alive?”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly, looking back to me. “That may not be for the best.”
I stared at him. “What in Oberon’s name do you mean by that?”
“I smelled more than blood in her room. The air smelled of mustard flowers, and of wax.”
“Rayseline,” I said numbly.
He nodded.
“Can you follow the trail?” Normally, I would have demanded to see the room myself, so Gilly’s blood could tell me her story itself, but there wasn’t time. Cliff would never let us in, and Tybalt knew the scent of Rayseline’s magic. His cats had been there; if there were any other clues, they would have given them to their King. All I could do by trying to get inside was waste time that we didn’t have.
Tybalt looked mildly surprised by the question. “I can.”
“Do it. Please.”
He nodded again and closed his eyes, nostrils flaring. The Cait Sidhe are some of the best trackers in Faerie, no matter what shape they’re in. The cat never entirely leaves them. A moment later, he opened his eyes, and pointed west. “There,” he said, and started trotting toward the corner. I followed, pacing half a step behind and scanning the street for signs that Rayseline had been here.
