An Artificial Night

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking at me with renewed interest. “Did you go all pureblooded and death-proof when I wasn’t looking?”

“Yes! I mean, no! I mean, yes, I’m sure!”

“I wouldn’t be. I mean, you’re not exactly Little Miss Caution. Look at this.” She pulled down the collar of her sweatshirt, displaying a knot of scar tissue on her left shoulder. “Iron bullets? Yeah, those are a sign of good survival prospects. Or this?” This time she raised the bottom of the shirt, showing the curved claw-marks that crossed her stomach. I’d never seen those scars from the outside: they looked a lot worse from this angle. Some of those wounds should have been fatal.

May tugged her shirt back into place. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not exactly on the universe’s ‘ten longest projected life spans’ list. I wish you were, because when you die, I die with you.” She shrugged. “But fate doesn’t have a suggestion box.”

“Why are you trying so hard to make me believe that I haven’t got much time before I—”

“—shuffle off this mortal coil? Because you don’t, hon. I’m sorry, but it’s true. And what’s with the Shakespeare fixation? Didn’t your mother know about Nora Roberts?”

“Well, first, my mother doesn’t care about mortal authors,” I said, slowly. Her rapid subject changes were confusing me. “Second, I was born in 1952. How was I supposed to find Nora Roberts? Borrow a time machine? And if you have issues with my Shakespeare fixation, why are you wearing that shirt?”

She glanced down at herself. “It’s what they had in the Goodwill donations box. I didn’t manifest with clothes on. Do you have any idea how hard it is for naked people to go shopping?”

“I’ve never shopped naked,” I said.“I thought you were my Fetch. Aren’t you supposed to know these things?”

“Of course. I know everything there is to know about you, right up until the universe decided you were destined to die and created me to be your guide.”

“Everything?” I didn’t like the sound of that. There are some things I don’t want anyone to know.

“Everything. From what you got on your sixth birthday to what kind of flowers you leave on Dare’s grave. I even know what you were thinking about Tybalt after you saw him in those red leather pants—”

I held up my hand. “Stop. I believe you.”

“I thought you might.” She smirked, adding, “I didn’t even need to get detailed.”

“Trust me, I don’t want you to.” Raking my hair back with one hand, I gave her a long, hard look. It was like looking into a strange, hyperactive mirror. Your reflection doesn’t usually start to fidget and study its nails while you’re standing still.

“Why now?” I asked, finally.

May sobered, giving me the first serious look I’d seen from her. “I guess someone feels you’ve earned yourself some time to settle your affairs before you go. I’m your wake-up call. Don’t put anything off, because you may not be around that long.”

“I’m not ready to die!” I protested. My mind was racing. What was it going to be? Simon and Oleander coming back to finish what they’d started? Or something simpler, like a drunk driver who didn’t hit the brakes in time? There are a lot of ways to die, and I’d never really thought about them before. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be thinking about them now.

Death omens aren’t a blessing, no matter what people say; they make you nervous, and that can get you killed. Maybe it’s just me, but I dislike self-fulfilling prophecies. They’re too much like cheating.

“I don’t know much about how people really think, since all my memories are borrowed from you, but I’m pretty sure no one’s ever ready to die.” May rose from the couch, moving with an easy, artless grace that finally confirmed she wasn’t a Doppelganger playing tricks.

When shapeshifters copy a person, they copy them exactly, body language and all. I’ve seen Fetches before. I would have known what she was the moment I saw her if I’d been willing to believe it. Fetches don’t have time to learn little things like motor control, so they come complete with the knowledge of how to move and comport themselves. May was created from fragments of me, but she moved like a pureblood: all fire and air and unconditional grace. She moved like something I’d never been and never would be.

“Anyway, I’m just here to do my job,” May said, and then grinned, solemnity abandoned. “I just want you to know what’s coming down the pike, so to speak. Now that you do, I’m going to go try that twenty-four-hour Chinese place down the block. I remember that you like kung pao chicken. I wanna see if I do, too.”

Dazedly, I said the first thing that popped into my head: “If you had to steal clothes from the Goodwill, how are you planning to afford Chinese food?”

May laughed as she crossed to the door. “Don’t worry about it.” Putting her hand on the knob, she paused. “I’ll be around, and when the time comes, I’ll be waiting.” Then she stepped out the door, whistling. I can’t carry a tune; neither could she, and that made it all real. I’d believed her, but I hadn’t really understood what she meant until I heard her mimicking my utter inability to whistle. I was going to die. I couldn’t stop it.

I was going to die.

She paused to wave. I grabbed a plate off the coffee table, flinging it in her direction. Her eyes went wide before she slammed the door. The plate hit it and shattered.

“No!” I shrieked, regardless of whether or not she could hear me. I was screaming at the universe as much as I was screaming at her, too angry to think straight. “I will not lie down and die because you say it’s time! Do you understand me? I refuse!”

There was no answer but the sound of my own breathing. The cats crept out of the hall with their ears pressed flat, growling in the backs of their throats. Spike slid out from behind the couch, stalking stiff-legged to sniff at the doorjamb. The threat was over from their point of view; it was safe for them to come out and make a show of being brave.

I really wished that I could say the same. I’ve never been the most safety-oriented person in the world. I know I take too many risks. But I’ve always been able to promise myself that I’d stop, that tomorrow I’d settle down and stop playing with fire. Only now it looked like there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow. And it wasn’t fair.

Spike was pacing in front of the door, making an angry keening noise. “Aren’t you a little late to play protector?” I asked. It rattled its thorns. With a sigh, I moved to lock the door. Fragments of plate crunched underfoot, cutting my feet. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. When you’re waiting to die, you have bigger things to worry about than a little bit of blood.

I clicked the lock home, shuddering, and turned away. Dawn was coming; it was time to get ready for breakfast with Connor. If there’s one thing I know about destiny, it’s this: it doesn’t give second chances, and it doesn’t believe in waiting for you to be ready. If it was coming for me, it was already too late. All I could do was try to make sure it didn’t catch me sitting still.

THREE

“EARTH TO TOBY.You in there?”

“What?” I stopped mashing my eggs into my home fries to blink across the table at Connor. He was leaning on his elbows, watching me. It’s always hard to adjust to seeing him with a human disguise—I deal with him mostly at Shadowed Hills, and he has no reason to hide himself there. His hair was supposed to be speckled with gray, like his pelt in seal-form, not a standard shade of brown. His hands look weird without webbing, and I’m not used to seeing whites or definite pupils in his eyes.

Those eyes were fixed on me now, and his expression was one of earnest concern. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” I put down my fork and brushed my hair back, trying to look casual. It wasn’t working.

“You’ve barely touched your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Your coffee cup’s been empty for five minutes, and you haven’t threatened to track down and gut our