Seanan McGuire - A Local Habitation

“We’re not starting anywhere,” I said. “We’re going to let the knowe show us the way.”

“What?” asked Quentin.

“Just follow me.” This wouldn’t have worked earlier, while Jan was alive and controlling the knowe with her expectations. It might not work now. It was the best idea I had. Turning the first corner we came to, I walked.

Knowes shape themselves to fit the subconscious desires of their keepers. That’s why Shadowed Hills has so many gardens; that’s why my mother’s hall never had any mirrors or locks on the doors. I was counting on that to take us to the body. I would never have tried it with a moving target or with anyone less tied to the County than Jan . . . but the King is literally the land in Faerie, and if she were dead, the knowe would want us to find her.

We didn’t pass anyone as we walked. I was following the patterns in the tile and the directions indicated by careless arrows on bulletin boards, trusting anything that looked like it could be a sign. It seemed to be working. Our route was leading us through more and more places that I recognized, taking us onto familiar ground.

Quentin looked at me as we walked, asking, “Is she dead?”

“Probably.” I studied our surroundings, finally starting for the door that seemed most aligned with the scuff marks on the floor.

“Why didn’t they wake us sooner?”

“Because that would have made it real,” said Connor. We both looked toward him, and he shrugged. “As long as they were looking on their own, it wasn’t happening.”

The door led to the cafeteria kitchen, revealing a second entrance previously concealed by the cupboards on that wall. The cafeteria was spotless, all traces of my ritual circle and its messy results wiped away by Elliot’s magic. I wondered how long we’d been asleep before he gave in to the urge to clean.

“Come on,” I said. “We’re getting closer.”

“But what are we doing?” Quentin was looking increasingly frustrated.

“We’re letting the knowe lead us. Jan was Countess, and the land will be in mourning if she’s dead. It’ll want us to find her.” I stepped into the hall, noting without surprise that we were only a few doors down from Jan’s office. There wasn’t much chance of finding her there—they’d almost certainly looked there first—but it was a start. Even endings begin somewhere.

“How can that even work ?” Now Quentin looked perplexed. From his expression, Connor got it, but was willing to let me be the one to explain.

“The King is the land, Quentin. That’s all. That’s how it’s always worked in Faerie.” The door to Jan’s office was standing ajar. Someone inside was crying. I pulled my hand out of Connor’s, signaling him and Quentin to stay where they were. When the sound didn’t change, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The office lights were off and the shades were drawn, casting the room into an artificial twilight. I squinted. “Hello? Jan?” The sobbing continued, bitter and brokenhearted. “Jan?”

“That’s not her,” said Quentin, as he and Connor stepped into the room.

I paused, listening. He was right. The voice was too high to be Jan’s. “No,” I said, and started toward the desk, stepping carefully. Heaps of paper had fallen to cover the walkway, creating minor avalanches that would probably never be cleaned up. That hurt. The difference between clutter and chaos is control, and Jan’s control had been broken.

Her notes on Barbara’s connection to Dreamer’s Glass were stacked on the desk chair. I knelt, pushing it aside to reveal April, compacted into a ball with her hands over her face, weeping.

“April?” I put my hand on her shoulder, or tried to; it passed through and hit the back of the desk. It was like reaching into a fogbank. I withdrew my hand. “Can you hear me?”

She shuddered, sobs fading as she chanted, “She’s gone she’s gone she’s gone . . .”

“Who’s gone? April, where’s Jan?” I kept my tone calm. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her more.

“Mommy’s off-line. No more reboots.” She raised her head. Tears were falling in straight lines down her cheeks, like they’d been drawn on. It would have been unnerving under normal circumstances, but her distress made it even worse. “She’s not supposed to go off-line. She’s supposed to take care of me.”

I blanched. I knew what “off- line” meant to April. Carefully, I asked, “Where’s your mother, April?”

“Like the others now. Gone.” She shuddered and began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around her knees. “Off- line. Out of service. Yanked from the router.”

“Gone,” confirmed a voice. I looked up. Alex was in the doorway next to Connor, hands limp by his sides. It was the first time I’d seen him so still. “Gordan found her. She’s gone.”

“Where’s the body?” I asked, suddenly, crushingly weary. How could I have lost her? How could I have been stupid enough to believe that we had time?

What was Sylvester going to say when he found out I’d failed him again?

“She’s in one of the server rooms. It looks like she went to check on a glitch in router four, and whoever it was . . .” He stopped, looking away. “Maybe you’d better come see for yourself.”

“You’re right. We should. April . . .” I reached for her and she whimpered, disappearing in a crackle of static. I stood. I could find her later; for the moment, her mother needed me more. Oberon help us all.

None of us spoke as Alex led us through the empty halls. He didn’t need to say anything; his posture was accusation enough, and in the face of that accusation, the rest of us had nothing to say. Connor took my hand, and clung, both of us trying to take strength from the contact. We failed. After everything we did or tried to do, we couldn’t keep Jan safe. What was the point, if we couldn’t save the people we were trying to defend?

Alex stopped at an unmarked door. “She’s inside.”

Either his glamour was more voluntary than he wanted to admit, or I was too sick with failure to be affected. “So we go in.”

He didn’t say another word. He just opened the door.

The server room lights were on, and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t had any breakfast. Quentin made a muffled choking sound, clapping his hands over his mouth. Connor went pale. My own nausea was easier to swallow, replaced by a crushing sense of loss.

Oh, Jan, I thought. I am so sorry.

She was crumpled like a discarded rag doll, head bent at an impossible angle, with a series of uneven gashes splitting her torso from waist to shoulder. Another gash cut across her throat. Her eyes were open behind her glasses, staring at nothing. Blood pooled on the floor around her, dried brown and ugly; she could never have lived after losing that much blood. Bloody handprints climbed halfway up a rack of stacked machines and trailed down the wall beside it.

The others died without fighting, but not Jan. Several cables had been yanked loose in the struggle, and the machines they connected to were beeping, telling us that power had been compromised. That wasn’t all that had been compromised. She had time to try to get away. That meant she also had time to suffer.

“Toby . . .” Quentin said unsteadily.

“If you need to be sick, do it in the hall.” I moved toward the body, studying the blood splatters on the floor. The footprints were all hers—wait. No, not all. There were smaller prints around the body, made by doll-sized feet. The night-haunts had been and gone, and they’re not normally clumsy enough to leave signs of their passing behind; this was a message. There is nothing for us here. Jan’s body was still fae, her unnatural beauty left intact. Whatever hunted the dead at ALH, it took her, too.