Seanan McGuire - An Artificial Night

Danny started carrying boxed Barghests to his taxi while I tracked down Dame Altair to sound the all-clear and collect my fee. He was shoving the last box into the passenger seat when I emerged from the knowe, money safely tucked into my pocket.

I eyed the cab. It was completely filled with boxes, making it look like he’d decided to start moonlighting as a professional mover. “I hope you weren’t planning on picking up any fares tonight.”

“Nope.” He grinned, dusting his hands together. “I’m gonna take the babies home and see about setting ’em up a kennel. She say anything about wanting the boxes back?”

“They’re all yours.” Dame Altair’s knowe was tucked into an elegant Victorian house in a neighborhood nice enough that our cars stuck out like sore thumbs. “I’m gonna get going before I miss the party entirely. Call me if you need any help with the Barghests, okay?”

“Got it. And you think about what I said. Getting out more couldn’t hurt.”

“With who? Mitch and Stacy have kids, Kerry’s always busy, Julie hates me, and you have a cab to drive.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. How about you call that King of Cats guy I used to see you with? Take him out, get him drunk, and see if you can make him sing karaoke.”

“No.” My tone didn’t leave any room for argument.

Danny blinked, looking startled. “Just think about it, all right? Open roads, Toby.”

“Good night, Danny.”

He was just trying to help, and I shouldn’t be cranky about it. I told myself that half a dozen times as I got into my car and pulled out of Dame Altair’s neighborhood, going more than a bit above the speed limit as I tried to make it to Andy’s party on time. I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes to midnight. I could just make it, if I managed to avoid getting pulled over.

Human kids live their lives in sunlight. Staying up late is usually a treat reserved for special occasions. Fae kids live by a different clock. Almost all fae are nocturnal creatures, from Daoine Sidhe like my mother all the way down to the hearth-spirits and pixies. We don’t like the sun; the sun returns the favor. Of Mitch and Stacy’s five kids, only the oldest, Cassandra, was keeping anything like a human schedule. She was a freshman at UC Berkeley, and unfortunately, most of the required courses for a physics degree were held during the day.

The fae disdain for daylight made shopping for Andy’s birthday present an adventure in and of itself. I’d finally managed to make it to a toy store downtown just before closing, where the clerk assured me that no four-year-old boy could ever have enough plastic dinosaurs. Since I’d been out of bed for less than half an hour, I was groggy enough that I would have agreed to buy the kid a box of plastic forks if it meant I could get out of there and go for coffee. The dinosaurs were in the back, in a bag covered with gamboling cartoon clowns. I hate clowns.

I was lucky: it was late enough that the roads between San Francisco and Colma were basically clear, and I pulled up in front of Mitch and Stacy’s house with almost five minutes to spare. From the sidewalk, the house looked dark, silent, and totally deserted. Living in Faerie has taught me a lot about how deceptive appearances can be.

The edges of the lawn glittered as I walked toward the house, betraying the presence of an illusion spell. I stepped across the boundaries, and the house was suddenly blazing with lights, the air sharp with the smells of sugar and finger paint. Braziers were mounted on stakes all around the lot, with pixies fanning the tiny flames that kept the spell alive. Shouts and peals of happy laughter filled the air. The party, it seemed, was still in full force. I grinned and walked on, Barghests and Danny’s attempt to meddle in my social life forgotten.

The side gate was open, invitingly decorated with a bouquet of bright balloons. I veered that way, ducking under a crepe paper streamer and into the backyard where chaos reigned.

At least ten kids of varying ages and species were racing around like they were jet-propelled. Most of their attention was on the jungle gym, where there was some sort of pirate game going on. It seemed to involve chasing each other up and down the slide while shouting, “Shiver me timbers!” A dun-colored Centaur cantered around the structure, crying, “Avast ye!” and trying to grab the others whenever they came into range. Jessica was directing the action, too absorbed by her six year old’s autocracy to do more than wave distractedly at my arrival.

Cassandra was on the porch, struggling to read while children shrieked and zoomed around her. It seemed like a battle she was doomed to lose.

I walked over to sit down next to her, one eye on the wild rumpus. “Hey, puss.”

She brightened. “Aunt Birdie!” Being nineteen and highly aware of her own dignity, she took great care in putting her book down before she hugged me. “You came! Andy’s going to be thrilled.”

“Couldn’t miss the fun,” I said, returning the hug.

Cassandra was the only one of Mitch and Stacy’s kids born before my disappearance. She’s the one who originally decided my name should be “Aunt Birdie,” since she couldn’t pronounce “October.” She’s short, plump, and pretty, and has her mother’s gently pointed ears, tipped with tufts of black fur. She gets her coloring from her dad’s side of the family, though, with Mitch’s blue-gray eyes and unremarkable brown-blond hair.

It’s hard to look at her and not see my own little girl, the one I lost when Simon cast his spell on me. I’ve been working on it. Cassandra deserves better than to be judged by who Gillian might have grown up to be.

Not that Gillian’s been willing to let me see who she actually is. My daughter isn’t dead. She just refuses to let me be a part of her life.

“Well, it’s really good to see you,” said Cassandra as she let me go.

I settled back in my seat. “Good to see you, t—”

My statement was cut short as Andrew slammed into me from the side and flung his arms around my neck. “Auntie Birdie!”

Cassandra laughed. “Aren’t you glad I outgrew that?”

“You have no idea,” I said, and ruffled Andrew’s hair. “How’s our birthday boy?”

“I’m four!” he said, showing me the appropriate number of grimy fingers. Towheaded, freckled, and filthy: all the ingredients needed for “ridiculously cute.” Children shouldn’t be allowed to be that adorable. There ought to be a law. “We’re having a party!”

“I noticed.”

Cassandra groaned, muttering, “People in Oregon noticed.”

“We’re gonna have cake, and ice cream, and presents, and—”

A rising shriek was coming from the direction of the swings. I shifted Andrew to my lap as I looked up. Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Incoming.”

“Aunt Birdeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Karen raced toward us. I braced for impact. At eleven, Karen never seemed to be able to make up her mind about whether or not she was too grown-up to tackle me. I got off lucky this time; she skidded to a halt and declared, “You came!”

“I did,” I agreed. “You look like you’ve been wallowing in the mud.”

She looked down at herself. She was coated with filth from the waist down, and muck caked her hair. “Wow. You’re right.”

“So what have you been doing?”

Gleefully, she crowed, “Wallowing in the mud!”

I sighed. “Right.” Andrew was snuggling into my lap, getting dirt all over my jeans. I thought about moving him and decided not to bother. It was his birthday. He could get me dirty if he wanted to. “What’s up?”

“We’re playing pirates,” she said. “I’m the first mate! Jessica gives orders and then I make bad people walk the plank.”