the door, and keep everyone posted.”
“Okay.” May sighed. “Jazz and I can take shifts. She can take over after the sun rises.”
“That works,” I said, and took a gulp of coffee. “I’m going to call Walther, and then Quentin and I will head for Chelsea’s house and see whether we can find her high school. Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be a nice big sign. ‘Chelsea Ames was abducted by…’”
“Wouldn’t that be a pleasant change from the norm?” asked Tybalt dryly.
“I’ll get my coat,” said Quentin, and trotted out of the room, heading for the stairs.
“Okay.” I waited until I heard his footsteps on the stairs before looking from May to Tybalt. “You know how this is going to end.”
“I do,” said Tybalt softly. Even if Chelsea died, Etienne could be accused of treason for betraying the truth of Faerie’s existence. And if she lived…if she lived, life as she knew it was going to be over, one way or the other.
Nothing is ever simple or easy when Faerie meets the mortal world. There are just times when I find myself wishing it didn’t have to be quite so hard.
FIVE
I WENT INTO THE KITCHEN to call Walther. I carry a cell phone these days—May and Quentin’s nagging wore me down—but I use landlines when I can. It feels more secure. April O’Leary insists the opposite is true, but April isn’t objective, since no one’s ever going to listen to one of her calls when she doesn’t want them to. Being able to control the phone lines has made her a little cocky.
Tybalt followed me. “As we are once again in a state of emergency, I assume we will not be discussing this evening’s events,” he said, without preamble. His tone was stiff, a sure sign that he was unhappy.
When did I start caring about his moods? “I don’t see what there is to talk about,” I said, taking the phone off the hook. “I appreciate you helping us look for Chelsea. I know Etienne isn’t a friend of yours, but we really need the help.”
“I have no quarrel with him,” said Tybalt, stiffness becoming sharpness. “October—”
“I need to call Walther.” I focused on the phone, dialing Walther’s office. Tybalt sighed, making no effort to conceal his irritation. I ignored him. Not the most mature approach to the problem, but it had been working so far. Why mess with a good thing?
Most members of the UC Berkeley faculty ended their office hours around six or seven, when the bulk of the student body was heading off-campus for dinner or back to their dorm rooms to pretend they remembered how to study. Not Walther. His on-duty hours started when everyone else was ending theirs, and he could usually be found in his lab late into the night, mixing chemicals with names I couldn’t pronounce for the pleasure of seeing whether or not the result would explode. Explosions seemed to occur more often than not.
“Professor Davies’ lab, Professor Davies’ mortally endangered graduate student speaking.” Jack sounded harried. That was nothing new. Jack usually sounded harried when Walther was playing with hazardous materials. The rest of the time, Jack sounded like someone had slipped sedatives into his mocha. To be honest, I suspected Walther of doing just that.
“Hi, Jack, it’s Toby. Is Walther in? I need to ask him something.”
“Toby!” Jack’s delight was unfeigned. “Are you calling because you’re going to take the Professor away for a little while? Because you would not be inconveniencing me in the least. In fact, I would probably be willing to pay you. Actually, take out the ‘probably.’ I’m supposed to have these papers graded by tomorrow, and he keeps making the lab smell like rotten eggs.”
“So why are you doing the grading in the lab at two o’clock in the morning?” I asked, curious despite my own better judgment.
“I share an apartment with three other grad students,” said Jack matter-of-factly. “It smells worse than the lab does. Would you like me to get the Professor for you?”
“Please,” I said.
“Just a second.” There was a scuffling sound as he put the phone down and moved away. I glanced up to find Tybalt watching me with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.
“Walther’s graduate student, Jack,” I explained. “He’s getting Walther for me.”
“How charming. Tell me, is he also in a position to get you a measure of common sense? I would gladly reimburse him.”
I glowered and was about to demand to know what his problem was when Walther asked, “Toby?”
“Walther, hey.” I turned away from Tybalt. “Are you alone?”
“From any other woman, I would assume that question was connected to my social life. From you…” Walther laughed. “Yes, I’m alone. I’ve sent Jack to get us something to drink.”
“What are you going to do when he graduates?”
“Find someone new to get my coffee. What do you need?”
I took a deep breath, unsure how to begin. Finally, I took the chicken’s route and asked, “Do you know Bridget Ames in the Folklore Department?”
“Sure,” said Walther. “She’s a nice lady. Single mother. Her students like her. Never yells at me for accidentally triggering the fire alarm.”
“How often does that happen?” I asked.
“Often enough that I may never get tenure.”
“Right.” I took another deep breath. This wasn’t going to get easier. “Have you met Bridget’s daughter, Chelsea?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Walther’s tone turned suspicious. “Why are you asking?”
“She disappeared on her way home from school this afternoon. Quentin and I are about to go walk her route, see if we can find something that might tell us where she is.”
“I didn’t know you knew Bridget.”
“I don’t. I’ve never met her.”
“Then who hired you?”
“Chelsea’s father.”
There was a moment of silence as Walther thought about that. Finally, he asked, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Her father is Etienne from Shadowed Hills. She’s a changeling, Walther. Bridget knows, and she’s managed to keep her hidden from us. And now she’s missing.”
Walther swore loudly in Welsh before demanding, “How did this happen? How was this
“Etienne likes smart girls who know how to hide their kids from the faeries, I guess. Walther, she’s missing, and we need to find her. Is there any way you can talk to Bridget, one faculty member to another, and see if you can get us a picture of Chelsea?”
“Chelsea’s disappearance—you don’t think it was a normal kidnapping, do you?”
“When a teenage Tuatha changeling disappears in broad daylight? No, I don’t. Her friends told Bridget that’s what happened—Chelsea just disappeared. If we’re lucky, she finally hit the epiphany that unlocked her magic, and she teleported somewhere without knowing how to get back.”
“If we’re not lucky?”
“Then Etienne’s teenage daughter has been stolen by persons unknown, and I have no idea why. You’ll talk to Bridget?”
“I will.”
“Good. Call me if you learn anything. Open roads, Walther.”
“Open roads,” he echoed, sounding far more subdued than he had at the beginning of the call, and hung up.
I replaced the receiver in the cradle and turned to find Tybalt watching me. “What?” I asked.
“Are you sure this isn’t a matter better left to your liege?”
