Seanan McGuire - A Local Habitation

“Come on, Toby. Sit down.” Connor took my arm and led me to a chair, with Quentin following close behind. I didn’t fight. Judging by the looks they were giving me, I looked worse than I felt, and that was worrisome.

I collapsed into a sitting position, sticking my head between my knees. Connor began rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles, fingers shaking. The room was starting to spin. That’s never pleasant. My headache wasn’t helping. My magic isn’t strong to begin with, and I’d just performed the largest blood-ritual of my life. In a way, it was a miracle that I was still coherent enough to hurt.

“Toby?”

He sounded worried enough that I forced myself to look up. “Yes, Quentin?”

“Did they come?”

I sighed. “Yeah. They came.”

“Wow.” Quentin sat down in the chair next to mine, shaking his head. “I . . . wow. Did you talk to them?”

“As much as I could, yes.”

“Oh.” We were silent for a while, Connor still rubbing my back, Quentin watching worriedly. Finally, voice meek, Quentin asked, “Are you going to die?”

“What?” The question was unexpected enough to get my full attention.

Swallowing, he said, “You’ve seen the night-haunts. Are you going to die?”

“I don’t think it works that way. They don’t cause death. They come after death happens. I’m not going to die because I saw them.” I might die for other reasons, but I was fairly sure the night- haunts wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

“Oh,” Quentin said, relaxing. “Good.”

We sat quietly after that. I was glad to have the company; even knowing the night-haunts weren’t coming back, I didn’t want to be alone. Both of them were clearly bursting with questions, but they kept their peace, letting me rest. I needed the chance to breathe.

Elliot came back after fifteen minutes. “Gordan and Jan are on their way.”

“Peachy,” I said, sitting up as Connor stepped back. “Got any painkillers?”

“Gordan doesn’t want me to give you anything until she’s seen your hand.”

I decided to hate her. “Why not? It’s my head that’s killing me.”

“Because we don’t know how much damage you’ve done to yourself.” He gestured toward the remains of my protective circle. “It looks like you held a war in here.”

“I almost did,” I said.

“Care to explain?”

“Give me the painkillers and I will.” Connor almost managed to hide his smirk—almost. He knew Elliot was fighting a losing battle; if stubbornness were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist.

“Right.” Elliot sighed. “We wait.”

I glared. “That was supposed to make you give me the pills.”

“I know.” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin. “I’d just rather have you mad at me than Gordan.”

“Why?” Quentin asked.

“I’m pretty sure I could outrun you at the moment, but Gordan knows where I sleep.”

“You sleep?” I said dubiously. “When?”

Elliot shrugged. “Popular opinion holds that’s the reason I have a house.”

“Right,” I said, fighting back a wave of dizziness. I let myself lean backward, into Connor. Sleep sounded like an excellent idea. I would have liked it better if I was certain I’d wake up. “I guess that’s understandable.”

“Did they . . .” Elliot glanced at the circle again. “. . . come?”

“The night-haunts?”

Elliot nodded, expression telling me he didn’t really want to know.

I answered anyway. “Yes.” In retrospect, I hadn’t wanted them to. There’s that damn hindsight again.

“This can wait until everyone else gets here,” said Connor firmly.

I offered a wan smile, sending a silent thanks to whoever might be listening. “Good idea. I don’t want to go through all this more than once, anyway.”

“Fine,” Elliot said disgruntledly and turned to watch the door. I sighed. I was too tired to deal with clashing personalities and sulking locals. All I wanted to do was curl into a ball and sleep until the pain went away.

“Elliot . . .” I began, only to be saved from further discussion by the door swinging open. Gordan stepped into the room, first aid kit in her hand and a scowl on her face, closely followed by an anxious-eyed Jan. Oh, root and branch. How could I tell her what was going on when I still didn’t understand myself?

Gordan gaped at the bloody mess that was my left hand, planted her own hand on her hip, and demanded, “What have you done to yourself now ?” The cafeteria’s acoustics caught her voice, bouncing it off the walls until it became an invasive presence. My headache announced its displeasure, leaving me even dizzier.

“Please stop shouting,” I moaned. I wanted to yell, but I didn’t dare. My head might explode.

Quentin stood, moving to stand a half step in front of me. Even through the pain, I was amused; he was learning how to be protective. “Shut up!”

“Oh, the pretty boy thinks he’s gonna be a big man now, does he?” Gordan said. “If you’re so tough, why is it her blood I keep having to mop up? You too good to bleed?”

“You little—”

“Stop it! Both of you!” Jan snapped. Quentin stopped mid-word, while Gordan snorted and looked away. Glaring, Jan shook her head. “You should be ashamed. Did you stop to think for a second that you weren’t helping her recover by fighting? Huh?” Neither answered. Jan sighed and knelt in front of me, lifting my chin with one hand. I didn’t fight. Connor tightened his hands on my shoulder, and waited.

Jan tilted my head to one side, then the other, studying my eyes. Whatever she saw there didn’t please her, because she frowned as she let go and stood. “The next person who yells is going to regret it. I don’t know whether whatever she did worked, but it’s left her with a pretty vicious case of magic-burn.”

Gordan turned to glare at her. “She’s the idiot that pushed her limits. Why do we have to be nice?”

“She was trying to help you !” Quentin snapped.

Jan sighed. “I know, Quentin. Gordan, can you please take a look at her wounds without being snotty about it?”

“I’ll try,” she muttered, and sat down in front of me, ignoring the dirty water covering the floor. “Give me your hand.” I did as she asked; it was easier than fighting her.

Gordan grabbed my wrist, twisting my palm toward the ceiling. The cut looked even worse in direct light. Jan gasped, while Quentin made a small gagging noise. Gordan just frowned, asking, “What did you do, argue with a lawnmower?”

I swallowed, vowing not to faint until she was done hurting me. “Silver knife. Summoning ritual. I didn’t mean to cut so deep.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “You’ll be lucky if you missed the major muscles. What were you summoning again? Godzilla?”

Hands tightening on my shoulders, Connor said, “She was summoning the night-haunts.”

“Oh, right, she’s a fucking moron,” said Gordan, sounding entirely too cheerful about it.

“Gordan . . .” said Jan warningly. Gordan subsided, grumbling under her breath as she resumed her inspection of my hand. Jan waited for me to relax before asking, “Did it work?” Elliot turned toward me and Gordan glanced up, both waiting for my answer.

“Yes,” I said. “They came. Sorry about the floor.”

“No big deal,” Jan said, waving it away. “Did they . . . did they tell you anything?”

“Some, yes. We were wrong when we thought they weren’t coming. It’s just that the bodies aren’t any good to them, so they’ve been leaving them behind.”

“Why aren’t they any good?”

“For the same reason Quentin and I can’t get anything out of the blood. Whatever’s been killing your friends has been somehow stealing the . . . vitality that should be left in their bodies.”