A Local Habitation

“As quickly as I can. Open roads, all of you. And Toby . . . thank you for trying.” He hung up before I could say anything about his thanks—and more, before I could say good-bye. I understood that all too well. He didn’t want to hear it when it might just be forever.

“You, too,” I whispered, and set the phone back in its cradle.

“What did he say?” asked Quentin.

“He’s on his way, and he’s bringing in the cavalry. We just need to keep ourselves alive until he gets here.” I looked at him, seeing how much of the calm, arrogant facade he tried to project had collapsed since our arrival. He was pale and drawn, and the only reason I couldn’t say he’d gone white was that the bandages on his forehead were still whiter. My company wasn’t doing him any favors. “If it looks like I can’t do that, we’ll hot-wire a goddamn car and go meet him at the Interstate.”

Connor walked over, his tea in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He handed me the mug, smiling at my grateful expression, and asked, “So now what?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed, sipping my coffee. “If the killer had a political agenda, I think they’ve accomplished it. Jan doesn’t have any kids but April, and I don’t think April knows what an heir is, much less how to be one. Dreamer’s Glass will swallow Tamed Lightning. In a decade or two, nobody’s even going to remember that this was a County. That’s how it works.”

“That doesn’t work,” said Connor, now frowning deeply.

I turned toward him. “All right: tell me why.”

“Because from a political standpoint, there was no need for the other deaths. They just made Jan paranoid and harder to kill. Once she’s dead, the game is over. So why draw it out so long? Why risk that many violations of Oberon’s law?”

“Huh.” I sipped my coffee again, considering what he’d said. Maybe he was right. Maybe we’d been looking at things the wrong way. “Okay. Assume it wasn’t political. The politics are a red herring, they don’t matter. Where does that leave us?”

“And what about Barbara?” asked Quentin.

I paused. Barbara was spying for Duchess Riordan . . . and she was the first one to die. “Barbara’s what proves that it wasn’t political,” I said finally. “Her cover was never compromised. So why kill her?”

“Someone who was loyal to the County found out, and . . .” Quentin dragged a finger across his throat, making a disturbingly suggestive sucking noise.

“You have been watching way too much television, dude,” said Connor.

“Besides, it still doesn’t work,” I said. “You kill Barbara out of County loyalty—why kill the others? You’ve stopped your spy. No, I think the politics were a factor in the paranoia, but not in the deaths. What does that leave?”

“Power?” suggested Connor. “Maybe somebody here wanted to be in charge.”

“That feeds back into politics. Without Jan, they lose the County. It doesn’t work.”

“All right, revenge, then.”

“On who, the company? Maybe.” I paused. “And there’s the way Jan died.”

Quentin blanched. “You mean the mess?”

“The other killings were quick, but Jan had time to fight back. Why?”

“Well, didn’t you tell Sylvester that Jan might not have been the target?” asked Connor.

“Maybe . . .” I stopped, frowning. The reflections on the soda machine next to Quentin were moving. Whatever was casting those shadows was behind me—and there were no windows on that side of the room. We weren’t alone. “Guys?”

“What?” asked Quentin. Connor sipped his tea, giving me a puzzled look.

“Hang on.” Whatever was moving had to be mostly hidden or he’d have seen it; judging by the reflection, Quentin had a clean line of sight. It very well might have been invisible, using an illusion spell that wasn’t properly set up to include mirrors. Never trust anything that skulks around invisible in a building where people keep dying. “Actually, Quentin, come over here a second.” It had too clear of a line on him. I didn’t like it.

“Why? I’m already right here.” He stepped forward, saying, “I don’t—”

The reflection started moving again. “Get down!” I shoved him as hard as I could, grabbing a handful of Connor’s shirt and diving for the floor as the gun went off.

Two shots echoed through the room, almost drowning out the sound of Quentin shouting.

The first hit the wall where I’d been standing a moment before, flinging bits of tile in all directions. I didn’t see where the second hit. I was too busy flattening myself against Connor and trying to see behind me, searching for our invisible assailant or assailants.

There was no one there.

The kitchen door we’d discovered during the search for Jan’s body was standing slightly open. It swung shut as I watched. There would be no more shots, but I’d missed the shooter. As the rush of adrenaline faded, I realized that a chip of flying tile had opened a cut along my left cheek. I’d landed on my wounded hand, and blood was soaking the gauze. Just what I needed: more pain. I don’t like being shot at—it makes me cranky—but I liked what the shots implied even less. None of the victims were shot. This was either someone new trying to get revenge for our failure, or the original killer was trying to scare us away. Neither option was good.

“Connor?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He laughed unsteadily as I pushed myself off of him. The color was high in his cheeks. “I forgot how exciting hanging out with you can get.”

“Yeah, well. Quentin? You okay over there?”

He didn’t answer.

I turned to face him, and froze. “Oh, oak and ash.”

He was sitting with his back against the soda machine, left hand clamped high on his right arm. Blood ran between his fingers, coming way too fast. His face had gone whey-white, bleached by shock. “Not really,” he mumbled.

“Oh, crap,” whispered Connor.

I scrambled over to Quentin, reaching for his arm. “Let me see.”

“See what?” he asked, eyes wide and glossy.

“Your arm. Move your hand and let me see.” Gunshot wounds require medical attention, no matter how minor they seem. The shock waves a bullet sends through the body are nothing to screw around with.

“Oh.” Still dazed, Quentin let go. I grabbed his arm just above where he’d been holding, squeezing hard. Blood loss was my first concern. If he lost too much, we’d lose him, no matter how bad the wound was.

“Toby—”

“I know, Connor. Quentin? This may hurt a bit, okay?”

He frowned and closed his eyes, saying, “It already does. Never been shot before. Don’t like it.”

“You’re being very brave. Now hang on.” Keeping the pressure on his arm firm, I pulled the gauze from his forehead and used it to start wiping away the blood. The bullet had passed straight through, which was good. It appeared to have broken his arm in the process, which wasn’t.

“Hurts . . .” he mumbled. His head was starting to loll forward, and the blood wasn’t slowing down.

“Hey. Stay awake, you. Stay awake, and stay with me.”

“Don’t want to,” he said, in a reflective tone. “Tired now.”

“I know you don’t want to. I don’t care. I’m ordering you to stay awake!”

“Are you pulling rank on me?” he asked, sounding oddly amused.

“If that’s what it takes, yes.” I leaned harder, putting more pressure on his arm. “Connor, get over here. I can’t hold this tight enough.”

Connor was almost as pale as Quentin by that point, but he nodded, scooting over to slide his hands under mine. The blood slowed when he clamped down, and I helped him slide Quentin over until he was flat on the floor.

“Connor, get his arm up above his heart.”

“Got it,” he said, keeping his hands tight on Quentin’s arm as he lifted.

“Okay, good. Quentin? Come on, kiddo,” I touched his cheek. “Don’t you leave me.”

“’M not going anywhere,” Quentin whispered.