Seanan McGuire - A Local Habitation

“Elliot? What time is it?”

“A little after eight.” He hesitated. “Why?”

I smiled, and he blanched. I could feel the blood drying on my lips. “Let’s move her to the basement. I want to check on Quentin, and then I’m going to sleep until Sylvester gets here. I need to be alert in the morning.”

“Why?” he asked. He didn’t sound like he really wanted to know.

Tough. Still smiling, I said, “Because at sunrise, I’m going to wake the dead.”

WE WAITED FOR TYBALT to return before moving the body. His mood had grown even worse while he was scouring the knowe for cats; someone, he reported, had driven them away with a high-pitched sound, leaving them skittish and miserable. Someone was going to pay for that if he had any say in the matter.

He and I carried Terrie’s body through the knowe together. Ignoring Elliot’s disturbed stare, we moved Colin’s body to the floor, settling Terrie in his place. I’d need easy access to her body, and Colin wasn’t in a position to object. The dead are usually pretty mellow about that sort of thing. The basement was getting crowded. Most of the bodies looked like movie models, too pristine to be real; the only body that seemed even halfway natural was Jan’s beneath its mottled sheet of red and brown. I still didn’t understand why Jan had been killed so differently from the others. What was I missing?

“You can go,” I said, glancing toward Elliot. “Call April, and stay with her. Make her take you to Gordan.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue. Then he nodded, heading up the stairs without another protest. I watched him, trying to ignore the pain in my head and hand. I was so tired. I needed to sleep before the morning’s work, or I wasn’t going to survive it. And there were still things I had to do.

Tybalt remained silent until Elliot was gone. Then he swung his head around to look at me, asking, “What do you intend to do?”

“Something really, really stupid.” He narrowed his eyes, and I shrugged. “Look: Terrie and Alex share a body, but they’re not the same person. If Terrie’s dead, and Alex isn’t, I might be able to jump-start him somehow. That could wake the blood back up.”

He paused. “I don’t know whether that’s brilliant or suicidal.”

“That’s all right.” I offered him the ghost of a smile. “Neither do I.”

“Charming.” He walked toward me, fingered the collar of the jacket I was wearing, and said, “It suits you, I think. You should keep it.”

“Tybalt, I—”

“Not that I would have it back, after the amount of blood you’ve doubtless shed on it.” He pulled his hand away. “You’re about to ask me for something. I recognize the look.”

“I am.” For a moment, I wanted to catch his hand, just to have something to hold onto. The moment passed. “I don’t know where Sylvester is, and he shouldn’t be taking this long. Can you go and try to find him?”

“Not until I’ve seen you safe.”

I shot him a sidelong look. He looked imperiously back.

Finally, I sighed. “Whatever.”

We walked the deserted halls in silence. At the futon room door, I knocked, and Connor let me in, only looking slightly askance at Tybalt. Quentin was asleep, his face pale in the gloom, while the Hippocampi frolicked in their tank, unaware of the dangers around them. Lucky things.

Tybalt nodded to Connor, then to me, before turning and melting away into the shadows of the hall. I closed the door, locking it, and looked at Connor. “Wake me half an hour before dawn or when Sylvester gets here, whichever comes first.”

“Do I want to ask?”

“Probably not,” I said, wearily. He nodded, hugging me briefly before letting me stretch out on the floor in front of the futon. I fell asleep almost as soon as my eyes were closed.

If I had any dreams, I don’t remember them.

“Toby, it’s time.” Connor’s voice, only inches from my ear. I jerked upright, nearly smacking my head into his, and stared at him.

“What?”

“It’s time.”

“Sylvester—”

“Tybalt can explain.” From the grim set of his lips, it wasn’t good.

I nodded. “All right. Just a second.” I stood, taking my time getting to my feet, and reached over to feel Quentin’s forehead. He wasn’t hot enough to worry me, and his breathing was even. Infection was a risk—it’s always a risk—but he wasn’t going to die in his sleep.

Tybalt was waiting in the hall, along with Elliot. Connor stepped out with me, keeping his hand on the doorknob. I looked between them.

“Well?”

“Your monarchs are such charming people,” said Tybalt, not bothering to hide his disdain.

I groaned. “Riordan.”

“She won’t believe Duke Torquill is here for valid reasons,” Elliot said. “I called her seneschal as soon as I heard, but . . .”

“But she’s stopping them at the border?”

“Indeed.” He nodded grimly.

“That’s just . . . damn.” I sighed. “All right, where’s Gordan?”

“In April’s room, with the door locked. Everyone’s accounted for.”

I knew where everyone was. So why didn’t I know where to point the finger? April was Jan’s daughter. Gordan lost her best friend and Elliot lost his fiancée—who was left? Unless there was somebody else in the building, I was almost out of people, and completely out of suspects.

“Fine. Connor, stay with Quentin. Eliot,Tybalt, come with me.” I started for the cafeteria before Connor could object. “I need coffee.”

“You’re so charmingly predictable,” said Tybalt, dryly, and followed.

Elliot looked between us, asking, “What are you intending to do?”

“Just what I said: wake the dead. Don’t ask for details. I don’t have any.”

He stopped, staring at us before managing to ask, in a hushed tone, “ All the dead?”

Oh, oak and ash. I hadn’t intended to make him think that . . . “No,” I said. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry. I don’t have it in me. But there’s still a chance for Alex.”

Elliot looked momentarily heartbroken, and I wanted to slap myself. I’d been mad at these people for being so damn vague, and now I was doing the same thing to them. “I see.”

The bloodstains had been cleaned off the cafeteria floor, and there was already a pot of coffee waiting on the counter. I headed straight for it, snagging a mug.

“I told you she was fond of her coffee,” commented Tybalt.

“Observant,” I said, approvingly. “Hey, Elliot, why’s Gordan in April’s room, anyway?”

“Maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” I echoed, filling my mug.

“Her server has to be checked every morning. Gordan’s the only hardware expert left.”

Tybalt frowned. I realized that he hadn’t been filled in as to April’s nature. “Why does this ‘server’ require checking?”

“If it breaks down or loses power, April goes off-line.” Elliot shrugged. “We have to perform regular maintenance to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

I paused, mug halfway to my lips. “Repeat the bit about the power.”

“If April’s server loses power, she’s off-line for the duration.”

“And off-line means what, exactly?”

“She disappears. She leaves the network and ‘dies’ until the power comes back.”

“And then what? She’s fine?”

“Well, yes. As soon as she’s been rebooted.”

I put my cup down. “Right.” No wonder April didn’t understand why Jan wouldn’t wake up; she didn’t understand death, because every time she “died,” she came right back to life. She would have been the perfect suspect, the innocent killer . . . if not for Peter, who died during a power outage. How could she kill him when she was “dead” herself? “Can she come here?”