The Winter Long (5 page)

The spell, which had been building with each word, burst around me like a soap bubble, accompanied by a brief spike of pain at my temples. I breathed out, my shoulders relaxing. It was a simple blur, but it would do the job; as long as I didn't get pulled over, we should be able to pass any cursory inspection by the other drivers on the road.

A “simple” blur. Two years ago, I wouldn't have been able to manage a blur spell at all, much less cast one on a carful of people, and I would have paid for the attempt with a lot more than a momentary pang of magic-burn. Then again, two years ago, I was more human than fae, and still trying to force my magic into a mold it was never designed to fit. It turns out that when someone isn't Daoine Sidhe, yet keeps trying to scale their workings to Daoine Sidhe specifications, things sometimes go wrong. Who knew? Now, I was more fae than human—it was hard to say how
much
more, it being a matter of reading the balance of my blood, and not something that could be resolved with a scale—and I was more confident in the magic I
did
possess than I'd ever been in my life.

I blamed my years of uncertainty and confusion on my mother. She raised me to think I was Daoine Sidhe like Quentin and Sylvester, a blood-working descendant of Titania. The joke was on me. I was Dóchas Sidhe the whole time, only two generations removed from Oberon himself, and my skill set, while similar, didn't follow the same rules.

Quentin started to snore for real. I grinned to myself and changed the radio station to 80s rock, letting the dulcet tones of Simple Minds fill the car as I hit the gas. Next stop, San Francisco.

Traffic was normally heavy at this hour of the morning, but we were saved by the season: everyone who could be off the road was off the road, using vacation time and sick days to stay home with their families or catch an early flight to Maui. I concentrated on the drive, and in what felt like no time at all, I was turning into the driveway of our two-story Victorian home.

Coming home to an actual house and not a rattrap of an apartment still felt like a gift every time it happened. Sylvester and Luna Torquill had been in the Bay Area for a long time, and they'd been investing in mortal-world real estate practically from day one. The house had originally been his. Technically it still was, since we'd never bothered to transfer the title, but in reality it was mine, and it would be mine for as long as I wanted it to be. It was
home
. I hadn't realized how much I'd wanted one until I had it.

“Wake up, sleepyheads,” I said, turning off the engine and releasing the blur spell at the same time. “I do door-to-door service, but I'm not carrying you to bed.”

Quentin mumbled something in sleepy French. I poked him in the arm.

“Wake up, go inside, and go to bed,” I commanded. “Come on, move it.”

“'M up.”

“You're lying.” I twisted to look into the back, where May was yawning and unfastening her belt. “Are you going to be able to coax Jazz back to human form?”

“She's pretty easy to coax. She doesn't like to sleep as a raven in the bed,” said May, cradling her still-sleeping girlfriend. “I'm always afraid of rolling over and squishing her, so I won't cuddle when she does that.”

“Firm but fair.” I jabbed Quentin again. “Up. Now.”

“I'm up.” He sat up, opening his eyes, and glowered at me petulantly before pushing open his door and shambling toward the house like something that had just crawled out of its grave. May followed at about the same pace, Jazz's head resting on her shoulder. I swallowed a laugh, yawned, and got out of the car.

The cats and Spike, my resident rose goblin, met me at the door, complaining in their individual ways about being left alone, neglected and unfed. By the time I finished scooping food into their respective dishes—Purina for the felines, fertilizer for the animate rosebush—everyone else was gone, vanishing into their respective rooms for the next several hours.

“You're on your own,” I informed the pets, and turned to head for the stairs.

Going up a flight of stairs in my dress was about as much fun as doing anything else in it had been. The downside of wearing real formal clothing to a ball, rather than spinning an illusion and calling it a night: I actually had to worry about taking care of the thing. Spider-silk is difficult to tear, stain, or even seriously wrinkle, but it needs to be treated properly if you want it to keep looking its best. I went into my room, closed the door, and began the unnecessarily complicated process of getting ready for bed.

Fifteen minutes later, my dress was hanging in the closet, my hair was in a ponytail, and I was stepping into a pair of sweatpants. A little rummaging in the laundry hamper produced a nightshirt that wasn't too filthy to wear.

“Bed,” I moaned, and pulled the blackout curtains over my windows, converting the room into a pleasantly artificial night. With this last chore accomplished and no demands on my attention scheduled until sunset at the earliest, I flopped full-length onto the mattress. I lay there starfished for about half a minute before I remembered how to control my limbs and started squirming under the covers. It would have been nicer to be going to bed with Tybalt, who always provided a pleasant source of warmth and a soothing purr, but sleeping alone had its advantages: for one thing, no one was trying to steal the covers. I nestled myself into a changeling burrito, sticking my head under the pillow for good measure.

The doorbell rang.

I pulled my head from under the pillow and turned to look at the clock, automatically assuming that I'd been asleep for hours and just hadn't noticed. According to the digital readout, it wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning. I'd been in bed for less than ten minutes.

The doorbell rang again.

“Oh, someone's getting murdered today,” I muttered, rolling out of the bed. My bathrobe was on the floor near the door. I grabbed it and tugged it on.

The doorbell rang a third time as I was going down the stairs. “I'm
coming
!” I shouted, draping a human disguise around myself with quick, irritated motions of my hands. I would normally have worried about waking everyone else. Under the circumstances, I was more concerned about the doorbell waking them up if I didn't get it to stop ringing.

I wrenched the door open and snarled, “
What
?” with a ferocity that would have made the Luidaeg proud.

Sylvester, who had been raising his hand to ring a fourth time, froze. I did the same, and for a long moment, we stared at each other.

He was wearing a human disguise, and had traded his party finery for a pair of tan slacks and a white cotton shirt with buttoned cuffs. He would have fit in with an amateur theater production of
The Great Gatsby
.

“What the . . . ?” I blinked, relaxing as confusion replaced my anger. “What are you doing here? Why were you ringing the doorbell? Don't you have a key?”

“October,” he said. There was something odd about the way he shaped my name, like he hadn't said it aloud in years. “You're here.”

“Yeah. Look, it's the start of the day. What's going on?” I stepped to the side, gesturing for him to come inside. “You want some tea, or coffee, or something?”

“You are inviting me in?” He looked so perplexed that I was starting to wonder if something was really wrong.

“Um, yeah.”

“Ah. Then, yes; tea would be a delight.” He stepped over the threshold. I moved to shut the door behind him and froze, the scent of his magic tickling the back of my throat.

He smelled like smoke and rotten oranges.

This man wasn't Sylvester Torquill.

T
HE WORLD SEEMED
to slow down, turning crystalline around me. I automatically flipped the deadbolt as I finished closing the door, moving carefully and deliberately, like I was in a dream. Shutting myself in with my personal bogeyman wasn't the smartest thing I'd ever done, but I didn't think it would make a difference in the grand scheme of things. We weren't both going to walk away from this. I was unarmed and effectively alone as long as the others were asleep—and I prayed they'd stay asleep. There was a chance Simon didn't even know I had roommates. They'd be safe. Whatever he did to me, I just hoped it would be quick, and quiet enough that he wouldn't wake anyone else before he left. I had no illusions about being able to defeat him. There was no way in the world Simon Torquill would have appeared on my doorstep if he didn't feel like he somehow had the upper hand.

I turned to find him studying the hallway walls, his hands folded politely behind his back. His face was visible only in profile, still softened and humanized by the illusion plastered over it. I guess he didn't dare release it. Most people couldn't catch the taste of his magic just by walking past him, but any child of Faerie, however weak, would be able to smell the rot lurking inside him if they were standing nearby when he dropped the spell.

I'm not most people. I've always been incredibly sensitive to the scent of magic, and I knew exactly who he was.

He really did look exactly like Sylvester, even down to the design of his human disguise. It made sense: they were identical twins, after all. They had the same sharp jaw, the same fox-red hair and golden eyes. But where Sylvester's eyes were kind, always ready to smile or forgive, this man's eyes were hard. He'd seen things,
done
things that even a hero of Faerie should never be called upon to witness.

“You've done an excellent job with the place,” he said. “It's more untidy than I would have expected, given your upbringing, but it's still good to see someone
living
here. I assume you haven't moved the kitchen?” He took off down the hall, moving with the proprietary speed of someone who knew exactly where he was and believed he had every right to be there. I followed him, trying to swallow the dust-dry feeling in my throat as I scanned everything around me, looking for things I could use as a weapon if necessary.

If necessary. Ha. As if there was any chance weapons
weren't
going to be necessary. I was alone in my hall with Simon Torquill, the man who'd turned me into a fish for fourteen years. I'd been lucky to survive our last encounter. Here and now, even changed as I was by the things I had experienced since then . . .

I couldn't win this. I didn't have the power.

Simon stepped through the swinging door to the kitchen, which swung shut behind him, briefly blocking his view of the hall. That was my chance to run, either for the front door or for the stairs, where I could grab my phone and call for help. But that would put May, Jazz, and Quentin in more danger. Even if I screamed for them to get out of the house now, they'd never go if they thought I was in trouble, and they'd be risking themselves for nothing. Simon could cast a spell before anyone would be able to reach me. I knew that from bitter experience, even if I didn't know why he was there.

I stepped into the kitchen.

“Ah, good,” said Simon, who was putting a kettle on the stove. “I found your tea, but is there honey? I wasn't sure.”

“Look in the basket next to the toaster,” I said. It was too domestic and peaceful to be real. I glanced around, hoping for a second that I'd see Karen, the oneiromancer daughter of my friend Stacy, come to help me through my nightmare. There was no one there but Simon and me. I was awake, Oberon save and keep me.

“There it is. Very good.” Simon held up two mugs. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, that's okay.” I dug my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to grab a knife from the dish drainer and start screaming for him to get out of my house. “I'm not a tea drinker. I keep it around for company.”

“Oh, yes. You're more of a coffee girl, if I remember correctly.”

I opened my mouth to say that no, I wasn't even drinking much coffee these days, and paused, eyeing him. “You're not even trying, are you?”

“Excuse me?” Simon turned to face me. He had a squeeze bottle of honey in one hand. It was shaped like a bear. Somehow, that struck me as unutterably hysterical.

“I said, you're not even trying. You haven't done
anything
to make me believe that you're Sylvester. You can drop the illusion,
Simon
. I know who you are.”

He blinked, disappointment flashing in his eyes. “I never claimed to be my brother, you know,” he said. “I actually thought you were inviting
me
inside.”

“I'd kiss the Luidaeg before I'd do that.”

“And she'd let you, assuming the stories are true.”

“What stories?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

“The ones that say you've finally decided to start finding allies, learn your place in this world, and grow into your potential.” Simon dropped a teabag into his cup before taking the kettle off the stove and pouring water over it. There hadn't been time for the water to boil—the stove wasn't even on—but it came out hot and steaming all the same. “It's been a great relief. I'd been worried that you were going to break your mother's heart.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Don't talk about my mother. You don't have any right to talk about her.”

“October, believe me. If anyone is allowed to talk about Amandine, it's me.” He added a generous amount of honey to his tea, releasing the illusion that had made him look human at the same time. The smell of smoke and rotten oranges filled the room. The change did nothing to make him look less like his brother. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Well? Will you do me the same courtesy?”

“I don't want to do anything for you,” I said, through gritted teeth. I released my illusion all the same. It was a small thing, and antagonizing him wasn't going to do me any good.

For a moment—less than a second, but long enough for me to see—his expression changed, arrogance and calculating coldness turning into something that looked almost like longing. The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and he nodded. “Yes, this is much more what you should have been from the start. I'm sorry, my dear, but Amy did you no favors when she spun the balance of your blood from gold into straw on the wheel of her powers. It seems you've done better for yourself, now that you've taken the spindle in your own two hands.”

“You know, as metaphors go, you probably couldn't have chosen a much creepier one.”

“Sometimes ‘accuracy' and ‘creepiness' go hand in hand.” Simon sipped his tea, made a face, and added more honey. “You're surprisingly calm. From the reports I'd heard, I expected you to attack me as soon as you realized who I was.”

“I've learned some self-control,” I said. “I can't beat you. I know that.”

“So you're giving up in the face of a greater adversary?”

When he put it like that, it stung. That didn't make it the wrong decision. “You haven't attacked me yet. I figured I'd wait for you to make the first move.”

Simon sighed. Then, slowly, he put his tea and the bear-shaped bottle of honey down on the counter, seeming to stretch the action out so that it took longer than was strictly necessary. Finally, he turned back to me, spread his hands, and said, “I am not the enemy you think I am.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“I know you've painted me as some great bogeyman, some terrible threat, but—”

“You kidnapped your brother's wife and daughter, you stranded them in a realm of eternal darkness that drove Rayseline out of her mind, and you turned me into a
fish
.” I didn't mean to argue with him. The words came out anyway, dragged forth by years of anger and fear. “You
laughed
. You turned me into a fish and you left me there to
die
. How dare you tell me that you're not the enemy I think you are? You are
exactly
the enemy that I think you are.”

“It's true. I did those things. But, October, if you'd just listen to me—”

“What do you want, Simon? What are you doing here? I didn't invite you here. I never wanted anything to do with you. Now tell me what you're trying to accomplish, or get out.”

“October.” His tone was chiding, the sort of voice you'd use for a wayward child or an unruly pet. “Is that any way to treat a guest?”

“You're not my guest!” My temper finally snapped. I lunged for the dish drainer, fumbling for the knives.

Simon's stasis spell caught me before I was halfway there. I froze, arm outstretched, one foot off the ground. Gravity no longer seemed to be a factor. The smell of smoke and rotten oranges was heavy in the confined kitchen air.

“I'd hoped we could do this in a more civilized manner,” said Simon. I heard the faint clink of his mug against the counter as he picked up his tea, followed by footsteps as he walked around me. He stopped where I could see him. “You are your mother's daughter. I mean that in the best way and the worst way at the same time. She always inspired contradictions.”

Held by his magic, all I could do was glare, and rage silently against the horrible symmetry of his intrusion. The last time my life had seemed to mean something, Simon Torquill had come and taken it all away from me. It made perfect, horrible sense that he would do it again.

“I never wanted you to hate me, October. Far from it. I wanted to be . . . I wanted to be a part of your life, but I was never given the chance. That's why I did what I did. That's why I saved you.”

Wait,
what
?

He must have seen the question in my eyes. Simon sighed, and said, “Forgive me. I didn't think about what fourteen years would do to your mortal life, because I never had a mortal life to lose. I honestly didn't think you'd remain enchanted so long, either. Amandine's work went deeper than I realized. But you won yourself free, in the end, and—” He stopped, mouth working wordlessly, like something was preventing whatever he wanted to say from getting through. The smell of smoke grew stronger.

For a second, it felt like the bonds holding me suspended in the air were slipping. I tried to move, and they snapped tight again. Simon raised a chiding finger.

“Please don't fight. I don't want either of us getting hurt.” He shook his head. “It seems my geas is still intact, despite its not having been renewed in years. I cannot speak the name of my employer. Let me say, instead, that I was paid to do what I did. I was promised something I could not resist, and I was instructed to steal my brother's wife and child. They were to be returned as soon as . . . my employer's . . . goals had been met. I didn't know those goals included your death. I swear, on the root and the branch, I didn't know. Even if I'd been willing to kill you, I wouldn't have been able to meet your mother's eyes after I had slain her child.”

He reached for my face, hesitating for only an instant before completing the motion. His fingertips caressed my cheek, and the spell that held me wouldn't even allow me to shudder.

Simon looked at me, eyes pleading, and said, “I transformed you to save you, and then I ran. I had no way of knowing I'd be branded a traitor by the one who had set all these things in motion or that, in my absence, Luna and Rayseline would remain captive. I swear. On your mother's name, on my sister's grave, I swear it.”

It was strange, but I almost believed him. He sounded so earnest, and so sad . . . and that did nothing to change the fact that I was held suspended in a stasis spell in my own kitchen, and that I couldn't stop him from touching me.

He took a deep breath. “October—” he began. He never had the opportunity to finish.

“Hey, fucko!”
Jasmine's shout was loud enough to wake the dead. It would almost certainly wake anyone else in the house who was still asleep. I guess there's something to be said for having someone naturally diurnal around. She charged into the kitchen and into my field of vision, my old friend the aluminum baseball bat clutched firmly in her hands. She had it raised like she was going to hit a home run, using Simon's skull as the ball.

Simon turned toward her, raking the fingers of his free hand through the air. The smell of smoke and rotting oranges rose around him in an instant, thick and cloying. Jazz made a sound that was half human, half challenging raven, and swung her bat. Simon swept his hand down, pointing at her, and said a word that was less language and more the sound of water on rocks.

Jazz screamed as she fell. I could live to be older than Oberon himself, and I would never be able to forget that sound.