The Winter Long
Page 25
“We’ll figure this out,” he said. “One way or another. I mean, what’s the worst he can do? Be spooky at you until Tybalt kicks his ass?”
“There’s the fish thing,” I said.
“I’d like to see him try.”
“You know, it’s a funny thing, but after everything that’s changed . . . so would I.” I hit the gas a little harder, and we left Pleasant Hill behind us.
SEVEN
CALIFORNIA HAS LAWS about motorists using their phones while they’re driving, and so I left it up to Quentin to call home while I focused on navigating San Francisco’s daytime traffic. I’ve been nocturnal long enough that driving during the day stresses me out. The streets were filled with homicidal drivers and suicidal pedestrians: cars turned the wrong way up one-way streets, while people crossed against the light, seemingly unaware of the giant metal death machines bearing down on them. I found myself swearing steadily, hands locked around the wheel.
Quentin got off the phone shortly after our third narrowly missed collision. He grimaced. “How do people do this every day?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “What’s the news from home?”
“May says they’re both fine, and Jasmine is awake and showing no ill effects from Simon’s spell. Danny’s there in case they need to move. He brought soup and orange juice. Apparently the right way to deal with the aftermath of a magical assault is by treating it like the flu.”
He sounded so puzzled that I had to laugh. “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. What did she say when you told her we were heading for the Luidaeg’s?”
“That it was a damn good idea, and that as soon as Jazz is up for it, she’s going to have Danny take them to Muir Woods.”
I nodded. “Good plan. Arden will take care of them.” The traffic died as I turned onto a side street that was little more than a glorified alley, replaced by empty sidewalks and a deep, abiding silence. I forced my hands to relax, cutting my speed until we were gliding along, fast enough that it still felt like we were getting somewhere, slow enough that we weren’t going to mow down any unsuspecting bicyclists or tourists who had wandered into the wrong neighborhood.
And this was very much the wrong neighborhood for tourists. San Francisco is a city of many faces, with financial districts, slums, and upscale retail neighborhoods existing side-by-side. Maybe it’s the hills the city was built on, creating a series of minute geographical divides, but there are parts of San Francisco that feel like they should belong to some other city entirely.
Then there’s the Luidaeg’s neighborhood.
I knew we were getting close when first the cars and then the pedestrians dwindled to nothing, leaving us to drive alone down deserted, dangerous-looking streets. Everything around us seemed to fall into disrepair as we drove, and even the sky grew darker, dimmed by an omnipresent fog of the sort that the city is justly famous for. Broken glass glittered in the gutters, and crows perched on the telephone wires, croaking to themselves as we passed. This was the territory of the sea witch. All others had best beware.
Tybalt was waiting for us on the corner near her apartment, his hands jammed into his pockets and an impatient look on his face. I pulled up to the curb and killed the engine, smiling as I got out of the car.
“Been waiting long?” I asked.
“Not so long as you might think.”
“Good.” I started walking toward the Luidaeg’s apartment. Tybalt fell into step beside me, and Quentin brought up the rear as the three of us turned into the alley that housed her door. Then I stopped, blinking.
The Luidaeg was sitting on her front step, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in her hand. She looked up as we approached. “Ah,” she said, sticking her spoon back into the ice cream and standing. “There you are. You’re late.”
“I didn’t know we had an appointment,” I said.
“You never do. Come on.” With that, she turned and walked through her open apartment door into the hallway beyond.
Tybalt and I exchanged a look. I shrugged, and we followed her inside. The door slammed behind us of its own accord. Apparently, we were going to be staying for a while.
It was hard to say how large the Luidaeg’s apartment was, since I’d only ever seen the hallway, living room, kitchen, and bedroom. Several other doors led off the hall. One of them was presumably a bathroom, but the rest were anybody’s guess. When you’re an undying daughter of Oberon and Maeve, normal physical laws apply only as much as you want them to.
She hadn’t bothered putting up her illusions before we came in. The place was spotless, with kelp-colored carpet and cream-colored walls. The air smelled of fresh seawater. If Yankee Candle could have figured out how to bottle that scent, they could have cornered the home fragrance market and put all their competitors out of business in a season. When we reached the living room, we found her sitting in an overstuffed easy chair, stirring her ice cream into an unrecognizable slurry.
“This is going to suck,” she said, without preamble. “You’re here because Simon Torquill is back in town, and you want answers. I get that. The problem is, those answers are like a crunchy candy shell surrounding a chewy center of shit I can’t talk about. Not won’t, can’t. As in, ‘I am physically unable to tell you what you came here hoping to find out, and there’s no way you can word the questions that will get us around that little glitch.’” She sounded genuinely sorry.
I paused, studying her. The Luidaeg didn’t just sound sorry; she looked sorry. Her shoulders were slumped, and her eyes were fixed on her ice cream, like she couldn’t bear to look at us. She seemed perfectly human, with her dark, curly hair hanging loose around her face, which still bore the ghosts of old acne scars. There wasn’t even the faint glitter of an illusion to mark her as fae, but that was a reflection of how powerful she really was. Only one of the Firstborn could mask their nature that completely.
“Is this because of a geas?” I ventured.
“Ten points for Amandine’s daughter,” said the Luidaeg, and licked half-melted ice cream off her spoon before jabbing it viciously back into the container. She raised her head and looked at me. Her eyes were the pale green of sea-tumbled glass, and full of fathomless desperation. “I can’t, Toby. You know I can’t.”
“There’s the fish thing,” I said.
“I’d like to see him try.”
“You know, it’s a funny thing, but after everything that’s changed . . . so would I.” I hit the gas a little harder, and we left Pleasant Hill behind us.
SEVEN
CALIFORNIA HAS LAWS about motorists using their phones while they’re driving, and so I left it up to Quentin to call home while I focused on navigating San Francisco’s daytime traffic. I’ve been nocturnal long enough that driving during the day stresses me out. The streets were filled with homicidal drivers and suicidal pedestrians: cars turned the wrong way up one-way streets, while people crossed against the light, seemingly unaware of the giant metal death machines bearing down on them. I found myself swearing steadily, hands locked around the wheel.
Quentin got off the phone shortly after our third narrowly missed collision. He grimaced. “How do people do this every day?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “What’s the news from home?”
“May says they’re both fine, and Jasmine is awake and showing no ill effects from Simon’s spell. Danny’s there in case they need to move. He brought soup and orange juice. Apparently the right way to deal with the aftermath of a magical assault is by treating it like the flu.”
He sounded so puzzled that I had to laugh. “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. What did she say when you told her we were heading for the Luidaeg’s?”
“That it was a damn good idea, and that as soon as Jazz is up for it, she’s going to have Danny take them to Muir Woods.”
I nodded. “Good plan. Arden will take care of them.” The traffic died as I turned onto a side street that was little more than a glorified alley, replaced by empty sidewalks and a deep, abiding silence. I forced my hands to relax, cutting my speed until we were gliding along, fast enough that it still felt like we were getting somewhere, slow enough that we weren’t going to mow down any unsuspecting bicyclists or tourists who had wandered into the wrong neighborhood.
And this was very much the wrong neighborhood for tourists. San Francisco is a city of many faces, with financial districts, slums, and upscale retail neighborhoods existing side-by-side. Maybe it’s the hills the city was built on, creating a series of minute geographical divides, but there are parts of San Francisco that feel like they should belong to some other city entirely.
Then there’s the Luidaeg’s neighborhood.
I knew we were getting close when first the cars and then the pedestrians dwindled to nothing, leaving us to drive alone down deserted, dangerous-looking streets. Everything around us seemed to fall into disrepair as we drove, and even the sky grew darker, dimmed by an omnipresent fog of the sort that the city is justly famous for. Broken glass glittered in the gutters, and crows perched on the telephone wires, croaking to themselves as we passed. This was the territory of the sea witch. All others had best beware.
Tybalt was waiting for us on the corner near her apartment, his hands jammed into his pockets and an impatient look on his face. I pulled up to the curb and killed the engine, smiling as I got out of the car.
“Been waiting long?” I asked.
“Not so long as you might think.”
“Good.” I started walking toward the Luidaeg’s apartment. Tybalt fell into step beside me, and Quentin brought up the rear as the three of us turned into the alley that housed her door. Then I stopped, blinking.
The Luidaeg was sitting on her front step, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in her hand. She looked up as we approached. “Ah,” she said, sticking her spoon back into the ice cream and standing. “There you are. You’re late.”
“I didn’t know we had an appointment,” I said.
“You never do. Come on.” With that, she turned and walked through her open apartment door into the hallway beyond.
Tybalt and I exchanged a look. I shrugged, and we followed her inside. The door slammed behind us of its own accord. Apparently, we were going to be staying for a while.
It was hard to say how large the Luidaeg’s apartment was, since I’d only ever seen the hallway, living room, kitchen, and bedroom. Several other doors led off the hall. One of them was presumably a bathroom, but the rest were anybody’s guess. When you’re an undying daughter of Oberon and Maeve, normal physical laws apply only as much as you want them to.
She hadn’t bothered putting up her illusions before we came in. The place was spotless, with kelp-colored carpet and cream-colored walls. The air smelled of fresh seawater. If Yankee Candle could have figured out how to bottle that scent, they could have cornered the home fragrance market and put all their competitors out of business in a season. When we reached the living room, we found her sitting in an overstuffed easy chair, stirring her ice cream into an unrecognizable slurry.
“This is going to suck,” she said, without preamble. “You’re here because Simon Torquill is back in town, and you want answers. I get that. The problem is, those answers are like a crunchy candy shell surrounding a chewy center of shit I can’t talk about. Not won’t, can’t. As in, ‘I am physically unable to tell you what you came here hoping to find out, and there’s no way you can word the questions that will get us around that little glitch.’” She sounded genuinely sorry.
I paused, studying her. The Luidaeg didn’t just sound sorry; she looked sorry. Her shoulders were slumped, and her eyes were fixed on her ice cream, like she couldn’t bear to look at us. She seemed perfectly human, with her dark, curly hair hanging loose around her face, which still bore the ghosts of old acne scars. There wasn’t even the faint glitter of an illusion to mark her as fae, but that was a reflection of how powerful she really was. Only one of the Firstborn could mask their nature that completely.
“Is this because of a geas?” I ventured.
“Ten points for Amandine’s daughter,” said the Luidaeg, and licked half-melted ice cream off her spoon before jabbing it viciously back into the container. She raised her head and looked at me. Her eyes were the pale green of sea-tumbled glass, and full of fathomless desperation. “I can’t, Toby. You know I can’t.”
