Seanan McGuire - A Local Habitation

“Did you want me to get Lily?” she asked.

“No, actually, I was calling for you. I wanted to ask a favor.”

Now her tone turned wary. “What kind of favor?”

“I know the Court of Cats doesn’t have a phone. Can you go find Tybalt and tell him I need him to call me at ALH Computing? I have the main number, and I need to talk to him.”

“Go find Tybalt? How are you expecting me to do that ?”

“I don’t know. Get a can of tuna and go around the Park calling ‘Here, kitty, kitty’?” I sighed. “Look, you know I wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t important. Please?”

“All right,” she said, dubiously. “But if he guts me . . .”

“If he threatens you, tell him to take it out on me instead.”

“I will.”

“Good.” We talked for a few minutes, Marcia chattering about the latest gossip while I sipped my coffee and made interested noises at the right places. When she started winding down, I said good-bye and hung up, immediately dialing again. Shadowed Hills, this time; I wanted to keep Sylvester posted.

My call rang straight to voice mail. I frowned, recorded a quick, curt message, and hung up again, turning to look for Quentin and Alex.

Quentin was buying bags of chips from a vending machine, while Alex was loading a plate with donuts from the counter. Ah, the eating habits of the young and healthy. Alex had to be an exercise junkie: there was no other way he could maintain his figure, which definitely didn’t betray the fact that he appeared to live on starch and sugar.

Pulling my attention away from Alex, I surveyed the rest of the cafeteria. There was only one more person present, head bowed over a heap of disorganized-looking notes. I frowned thoughtfully and moved to fill a tray before starting in her direction.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Gordan grunted assent, not looking up. Putting down my tray, I sat, taking the opportunity to study her more carefully. I still couldn’t identify her bloodline; her eyes were throwing me. They were dark gray speckled with flecks of muddy red, like rusty iron. There’s no race in Faerie with those eyes. I’d already pegged her as a changeling—more fae than human, but human enough to be mortal—and those eyes confirmed it. The only question was what her bloodline was .

She looked up, scowling. “Coblynau.”

I lowered my coffee mug. “What?”

“You were going to ask—I saw you staring. My mother was Coblynau; my father wasn’t.” Her brows knotted together. “And yes, he was half- human. Happy now?”

“Oh. Sorry.” I felt the blush run up the back of my neck. I hadn’t realized how obvious I was being.

“Yeah, you better be. You corpse- lickers having any luck with the dead?”

“Better than you would, metal-whore,” I replied, genially.

There are derogatory terms for every race in Faerie; it would be more surprising if there weren’t. What is surprising is how rarely most of them are used—but then, the fae usually get insulting with spears and siege engines. “Corpse-licker” is one of the more pleasant insults. The less civil ones delve into the nature of the night-haunts and exactly where we spend our nights. Those are fighting words. “Corpse-licker” is just casual profanity.

The Coblynau are the best smiths in Faerie. They can trap enchantment in living metal, creating spells that last for years; they’re artists in a world with little art that it doesn’t steal, creating beauty for the joy of it. They’re also tiny, twisted, ugly people, scarred by the iron that stains their blood. Some spend their lives in darkness, pretending they don’t care what goes on above, while others come to the faerie markets and barter their masterworks for the types of favor only Faerie’s more beautiful children can provide. They’re metal’s whores. Supposedly, it’s a fair trade on both sides. Sometimes, anyway.

Gordan’s scowl vanished, replaced by a grin that transformed her face into a mask of cheerful wrinkles. I couldn’t help wondering what her mother paid for the pleasure of bearing a mixed-blood child. “All right, you can stay,” she said.

“How nice of you,” I said. Quentin walked up, expression curious, and I nodded to the seat next to me. He put down his tray and sat, moving with an almost exaggerated care.

“I thought so.” Gordan’s smile faded when Quentin sat, hardening into something less pleasant. “Who’s the pretty boy? We have sheltered jerks in town already—you didn’t have to bring your own.”

I looked at her impassively, not rising to the bait. “Quentin, meet Gordan. Gordan, this is my assistant, Quentin. He’s a foster at Shadowed Hills.”

“Ooh, a courtly pretty boy.” Her lips pursed in a moue of distaste. “How much did they pay you to baby-sit? Because it wasn’t enough.”

Quentin bristled. I put a hand on his shoulder. “They’re not paying me. He’s here because Duke Torquill thought he might be able to learn something from working with me for a while.” I nodded toward his tray, and he started picking at his lunch, still glowering.

“Huh,” said Gordan. “Looks like you got screwed on that deal.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said, shrugging. “What are you working on?”

She held up her notebook, shooting a sour look at Quentin as she displayed a snarl of notes interspersed with thumbnail sketches of machine parts. It looked like an illustration from Alice in Wonderland interpreted by Picasso. “I’m rebuilding one of the routers.”

“Okay . . .”

She sighed, recognizing my feeble reply as an admission of ignorance. “Look. Routers move information—data—around. I think I can change the hardware, and make that data move twice as fast.”

“Right,” I said, nodding. “I think that makes sense.”

“Good.” Her tone shifted. “Do you two morons have any clue what you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?” said Quentin.

Gordan leaned back in her chair, splitting her attention between us. Her eyes were cold. “Either Jan’s uncle sent you, like you say, or you’re here for Riordan and lying about it. I don’t care. What I want to know is whether you’re going to make people stop dying. Do you know what you’re doing, or are you going to string us along until you can run?”

An interrogation over lunch—just what I always wanted. “We’re here by order of Duke Sylvester Torquill, and yes, we’re staying until it’s over.”

“Brave souls. Stupid, but brave. How long before your little boy runs back to the nursery? We probably don’t meet his lofty standards.”

“At least I have standards,” Quentin snapped.

“Quentin, be quiet. I don’t see you going anywhere, Gordan. Why should we?”

She smiled again, bitterly this time. “Where would I go? This is my home.” She had a point. That didn’t explain why she was being so nasty to Quentin.

“You’re right,” I said. “So, since you’re a native, care to share any ideas you might have on who could have done this?”

“What?” She laughed. “Not one. I’d blame Yui if she hadn’t been the second one down—the little fox always had a vicious turn of mind. But no. We’re down to the dregs, and none of the chumps we have left would have the brains to start killing people.”

“Not one of them?”

“No.” She put her notebook down, looking disgusted. “Let’s guess. You’re expecting me to think for a minute and then go ‘Hmmm, Alex is very quiet except for his collection of ice picks and hammers,’ aren’t you? You hoping to get this wrapped up before the commercials?”

“Actually, no. I just wanted your opinion.”

“My opinion? Fine: you’re wasting your time if you’re looking for a killer in this company. We’re a family.”