One Salt Sea
Page 80
“I swear to Oberon, I will turn this car around and nobody will get to talk to the creepy underworld jerk,” I said, turning off the nice, ostensibly well-maintained main road and starting to make my way into one of the city’s less reputable neighborhoods.
“You can’t do that,” said Quentin, reasonably. “You need to talk to Bucer, remember?”
I muttered something nasty under my breath, and tried again: “Don’t make me duct tape your wrists and ankles together and shove you in the trunk while I deal with Bucer on my own.”
The silence that followed my statement lasted twice as long as the one that followed Raj’s joke about melting eardrums. Finally, Raj said, “I honestly believe she’d do that.” His voice was hushed, like he thought I’d courteously fail to hear if I thought he was whispering.
“So do I,” said Quentin.
My teenage passengers were silent for the rest of the drive. Quentin didn’t question my taste in music even when the DJ announced a thirty-minute block of Bruce Spring-steen songs without commercials. Connor was also silent, but for different reasons; anyone who looked at him could see that he was as tired as I was, and he wasn’t nearly as accustomed to running on empty.
Bucer’s neighborhood was on the line where “shabby” gave way to “slum.” Perfectly reasonable single-family homes that needed nothing but a coat of paint and some new windows sat side by side with decrepit apartment buildings whose inhabitants might well view fire as a viable means of home improvement. I parked between a rusted Volvo and a pickup truck that seemed held together with bungee cords.
“The ground rules,” I announced, twisting to eye my passengers sternly. “First, whatever I say goes. If I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving, and you’re not arguing with me. Got it?”
Quentin and Raj nodded enthusiastically. Connor frowned.
“I’m taking silence to mean ‘yes’ right now. Second, none of you raises a hand unless it’s in self-defense—with the stress here on self. The odds are pretty good that he’ll swing at me if he’s holding something back. I need to deal with him myself.”
Connor’s frown became a scowl. “Are you saying I’m supposed to sit back and let you get beaten up by a thug?” he asked.
“No, you’re supposed to sit back and let me mop the floor with a thug stupid enough to throw down with me. I can take Bucer O’Malley. What I can’t take is the hit my reputation will take if it looks like someone else is fighting my battles for me.” I smiled, trying to look comforting. “I know it’s hard, but trust me; I didn’t learn to fight from people like Sylvester and Etienne. They fight fair. I learned to fight from Devin and his lieutenants, and none of them ever started a fair fight in their lives.”
Devin’s biggest advice about fighting always involved the proverbial “bringing a gun to a knife fight.” That was sort of what I was doing. Bucer remembered me as an untried changeling with a lot of dumb luck that she could use to maneuver herself into the positions she needed to be in. I’m not quite that girl anymore. Oh, I still do my share of relying on luck—why mess with a good thing?—but these days, I back it up with a lot more actual skill.
And I still don’t fight fair.
Connor didn’t look happy. Quentin seemed confused but willing to go along with it. Raj, on the other hand, looked delighted.
“Is that all?” he asked. “Because if it is, can we get on to the part where you kick this guy’s butt all the way back to Market Street?”
“There’s one more thing.” I unbuckled my seat belt, reaching for the door. “Dealing with Bucer isn’t like dealing with the Luidaeg. He doesn’t just cheat when he fights. So don’t make any bets with him, don’t take anything he offers you, and for the love of Maeve, don’t eat or drink until we’re out of his apartment.”
“He enchants the food he serves his guests?” Quentin sounded mortally affronted.
“No. I just don’t want you getting salmonella.”
My ragged little parade made its way up the walkway to a gate that was probably state-of-the-art, once upon a time. These days, it offered no more than the illusion of security. Someone had long since broken off a key in the keyhole lock, and the deadbolt was open. The only thing the gate did right was creak when I pushed it open, rusty hinges wailing our arrival to anyone and everyone in earshot.
No one came to investigate as we stepped into the narrow, cabbage-scented entry hall. There was barely room for the four of us, and there wouldn’t have been any room at all if one of us had been bigger. According to Bucer, he was living in Apartment #4 on the second floor. I looked at the rickety stairs, frowned, and turned to push my way past Raj and Connor as I moved back toward the door.
“What now?” asked Connor.
“Hang on a second.”
The names of all the current occupants were written in faded, painfully neat ballpoint pen on little slips of off-white paper that had been taped next to their respective doorbells. According to this primitive directory, the person in Apartment 4 was actually named “K. Lyons.” Apartment 7, on the other hand . . .
“B. O’Malley,” I said, mostly to myself. I turned around again, facing my confused escorts. “We go up.”
“Up?” echoed Quentin.
“The stairs. We’re heading for the fourth floor.”
He groaned. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
The stairs creaked with every step, and the banister was basically a haven for wayward splinters that would just love to go home lodged in our flesh. The original color of the threadbare runner was obscured by decades of ground-in mud, and the wallpaper wasn’t much better off. “I don’t think even the Luidaeg would willingly live here,” I muttered.
“What?” asked Connor.
“Nothing.” I grabbed the banister, getting two splinters in my palm for my troubles, and kept climbing.
Rickety and filthy as the stairs were, they didn’t collapse under our feet. That was about all I felt I had the right to ask, given the overall condition of the building. We reached the fourth floor without encountering anything nastier than a few exposed nails at the base of the banister.
Half the lights were out, casting the whole hallway into a deep shadow. “Follow me, and watch your step,” I said, mostly for Connor’s benefit. Out of the four of us, he had the worst night vision. He muttered something under his breath. I didn’t ask him to repeat it, and he didn’t volunteer.
“You can’t do that,” said Quentin, reasonably. “You need to talk to Bucer, remember?”
I muttered something nasty under my breath, and tried again: “Don’t make me duct tape your wrists and ankles together and shove you in the trunk while I deal with Bucer on my own.”
The silence that followed my statement lasted twice as long as the one that followed Raj’s joke about melting eardrums. Finally, Raj said, “I honestly believe she’d do that.” His voice was hushed, like he thought I’d courteously fail to hear if I thought he was whispering.
“So do I,” said Quentin.
My teenage passengers were silent for the rest of the drive. Quentin didn’t question my taste in music even when the DJ announced a thirty-minute block of Bruce Spring-steen songs without commercials. Connor was also silent, but for different reasons; anyone who looked at him could see that he was as tired as I was, and he wasn’t nearly as accustomed to running on empty.
Bucer’s neighborhood was on the line where “shabby” gave way to “slum.” Perfectly reasonable single-family homes that needed nothing but a coat of paint and some new windows sat side by side with decrepit apartment buildings whose inhabitants might well view fire as a viable means of home improvement. I parked between a rusted Volvo and a pickup truck that seemed held together with bungee cords.
“The ground rules,” I announced, twisting to eye my passengers sternly. “First, whatever I say goes. If I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving, and you’re not arguing with me. Got it?”
Quentin and Raj nodded enthusiastically. Connor frowned.
“I’m taking silence to mean ‘yes’ right now. Second, none of you raises a hand unless it’s in self-defense—with the stress here on self. The odds are pretty good that he’ll swing at me if he’s holding something back. I need to deal with him myself.”
Connor’s frown became a scowl. “Are you saying I’m supposed to sit back and let you get beaten up by a thug?” he asked.
“No, you’re supposed to sit back and let me mop the floor with a thug stupid enough to throw down with me. I can take Bucer O’Malley. What I can’t take is the hit my reputation will take if it looks like someone else is fighting my battles for me.” I smiled, trying to look comforting. “I know it’s hard, but trust me; I didn’t learn to fight from people like Sylvester and Etienne. They fight fair. I learned to fight from Devin and his lieutenants, and none of them ever started a fair fight in their lives.”
Devin’s biggest advice about fighting always involved the proverbial “bringing a gun to a knife fight.” That was sort of what I was doing. Bucer remembered me as an untried changeling with a lot of dumb luck that she could use to maneuver herself into the positions she needed to be in. I’m not quite that girl anymore. Oh, I still do my share of relying on luck—why mess with a good thing?—but these days, I back it up with a lot more actual skill.
And I still don’t fight fair.
Connor didn’t look happy. Quentin seemed confused but willing to go along with it. Raj, on the other hand, looked delighted.
“Is that all?” he asked. “Because if it is, can we get on to the part where you kick this guy’s butt all the way back to Market Street?”
“There’s one more thing.” I unbuckled my seat belt, reaching for the door. “Dealing with Bucer isn’t like dealing with the Luidaeg. He doesn’t just cheat when he fights. So don’t make any bets with him, don’t take anything he offers you, and for the love of Maeve, don’t eat or drink until we’re out of his apartment.”
“He enchants the food he serves his guests?” Quentin sounded mortally affronted.
“No. I just don’t want you getting salmonella.”
My ragged little parade made its way up the walkway to a gate that was probably state-of-the-art, once upon a time. These days, it offered no more than the illusion of security. Someone had long since broken off a key in the keyhole lock, and the deadbolt was open. The only thing the gate did right was creak when I pushed it open, rusty hinges wailing our arrival to anyone and everyone in earshot.
No one came to investigate as we stepped into the narrow, cabbage-scented entry hall. There was barely room for the four of us, and there wouldn’t have been any room at all if one of us had been bigger. According to Bucer, he was living in Apartment #4 on the second floor. I looked at the rickety stairs, frowned, and turned to push my way past Raj and Connor as I moved back toward the door.
“What now?” asked Connor.
“Hang on a second.”
The names of all the current occupants were written in faded, painfully neat ballpoint pen on little slips of off-white paper that had been taped next to their respective doorbells. According to this primitive directory, the person in Apartment 4 was actually named “K. Lyons.” Apartment 7, on the other hand . . .
“B. O’Malley,” I said, mostly to myself. I turned around again, facing my confused escorts. “We go up.”
“Up?” echoed Quentin.
“The stairs. We’re heading for the fourth floor.”
He groaned. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
The stairs creaked with every step, and the banister was basically a haven for wayward splinters that would just love to go home lodged in our flesh. The original color of the threadbare runner was obscured by decades of ground-in mud, and the wallpaper wasn’t much better off. “I don’t think even the Luidaeg would willingly live here,” I muttered.
“What?” asked Connor.
“Nothing.” I grabbed the banister, getting two splinters in my palm for my troubles, and kept climbing.
Rickety and filthy as the stairs were, they didn’t collapse under our feet. That was about all I felt I had the right to ask, given the overall condition of the building. We reached the fourth floor without encountering anything nastier than a few exposed nails at the base of the banister.
Half the lights were out, casting the whole hallway into a deep shadow. “Follow me, and watch your step,” I said, mostly for Connor’s benefit. Out of the four of us, he had the worst night vision. He muttered something under his breath. I didn’t ask him to repeat it, and he didn’t volunteer.
