Late Eclipses

Walther nodded. “Deal. Open roads. If you have an accident, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Open roads,” I echoed. It was time to get moving. Oberon protect us all.

TWENTY

I TOOK THE ROADS BETWEEN BERKELEY and Pleasant Hill at a speed that would’ve made me public enemy number one in the eyes of most traffic cops, if they’d been able to see through my don’t- look-here spell. Walther’s little concoction did something right: my headache was almost gone, and performing minor magic was no longer an insurmountable problem.

Walther put a name to what was wrong with me: I’d been poisoned. Fine. I couldn’t fix it, but I could understand it, and it fit with Oleander’s way of operating. I needed to figure out how she’d been able to get to me during the Ball, but until then, I needed to keep moving and trust Walther to fix things as quickly as possible. I hadn’t known him long enough for the trust to come easily.

If I was being honest, I’ve never trusted anyone easily. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, especially considering that Walther wasn’t the first: by putting my life in Tybalt’s hands, I’d declared my trust for him. That was unsettling. I trusted Tybalt enough to let him decide whether or not I should be allowed to live?

“When the hell did that happen?” I asked, and jumped, startled by the sound of my own voice. I started to laugh, relaxing even more. Did it matter when I started trusting Tybalt? It was too late to change it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Either he’d betray me, or he wouldn’t. I needed to believe he wouldn’t.

I needed that to be enough.

I turned on the radio, scrolling through stations until I found one that promised “all eighties and nineties, all the time.” Those stations always play songs written after I disappeared, but I don’t mind the way I used to. It’s nice to hear bands I recognize, even if the songs are strange. If it weren’t for the DJs, with their modern phrasing and to-the-minute slang, I could pretend I was listening to radio transmissions from my own time.

The Paso Nogal parking lot was empty, and the afternoon air was cold, making me draw my jacket a little tighter. It wasn’t winter by a long shot, but the air felt colder than it should have, like it was promising worse things to come. The hillside was marshy, the ground softened by recent, unseasonable rain. It still took me less than ten minutes to race through the complicated approach to the knowe. Stress, anger, and mild panic will do that for a girl.

The door didn’t open when I knocked. I frowned, knocking again. The door usually swings open on its own if there’s not a page close enough to answer it, and even that almost never happens. The Torquills pride themselves on their hospitality. Unless the entire knowe was in mourning, someone should have answered.

The door opened when I knocked for the third time. I stepped through—and stopped dead.

Heavy curtains covered the entry hall windows, giving the room a haunted, funereal air. Flickering candles illuminated the room, their flames sending dancing shadows up and down the walls. I shuddered. Fear of the dark is a human phobia—or so I thought, before I got myself lost in Blind Michael’s lands. Now my heart tries to stop every time I see shadows dancing by candlelight.

Blind Michael is dead. I killed him myself. And when the lights are low and the shadows dance, it doesn’t matter, because I’ll be waiting for him to come back for the rest of my life.

I won’t be waiting alone. A small figure was curled in one of the entrance hall chairs, eyes closed, head tucked forward until his chin rested against his chest. I walked over and put a hand on his knee. “Hey. Wake up.”

His eyes opened immediately, betraying the shallowness of his slumber. He offered me a small smile that was fueled almost entirely by relief. “Toby.”

“In the too, too solid flesh.” I stepped away. “Come on. Let’s go see how Sylvester’s doing.”

“Okay.” Quentin scrambled out of the chair, sticking close to me as we started down the hall. He wasn’t looking at the candles either.

I glanced at him. “They’re bugging you, too?”

“They give me the creeps. It’s like … ”

“I know.” Admitting it seemed to help. “Can you take me to Sylvester?”

Quentin nodded. “He’s in the Duchess’ chambers. I can take you there.”

“Good. Has there been any change?”

“Rayseline’s been ranting a lot. It’s impressive. She seems to think she’s in charge because her parents aren’t coming out of their rooms. And we had to cancel the post-Beltane Court,” Quentin said. “I’m scared. What’s going to happen if Luna dies?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.” I sighed, raking my hair away from my face. “It depends on whether Sylvester steps down, and whether Rayseline inherits, first off. If she becomes Duchess, things are going to change. How long are you fostered for?”

“I’m sworn to Shadowed Hills until I turn twenty-five or my liege finds me a suitable knight.” He glanced away. “I’ll probably still be here. Most of the knights I know are sworn to Shadowed Hills. But there’s a chance my oaths will be transferred when he finds someone appropriate.”

I blinked. That was a long term of service. Daoine Sidhe are considered immature until they reach their early hundreds, but fostering normally ends when they reach physical adulthood. Given the rate he was maturing, Quentin should have been released when he turned eighteen, or thereabouts. “Well, I guess we’d better hope Raysel doesn’t inherit.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in my fingers.

“Yeah, I guess.” He paused. “What did you do to your hands, again?”

“I didn’t say,” I said. He gave me a wounded look. I shrugged. “I had a fight with a hawthorn bush. The hawthorn won.”

Quentin eyed me for a moment before he sighed, shaking his head, and offered me his arm. “Okay, I give up. You hurt yourself in the weirdest ways.”

“It’s a talent.” I took his arm, letting him lead me deeper into the knowe. We made it halfway down the hall in companionable silence before the footsteps started behind us.

Quentin tensed. “Toby—”

“Shhh.” I counted to ten, listening. I knew who it was before I reached five. I stopped walking. Quentin did the same, every inch of him vibrating with stress. Neither of us turned. “Hello, Etienne.”

“You came back,” said Etienne. There was a hint of reproach in his voice.

“Not expecting me?” I looked over my shoulder. He was carrying a spear. That worried me; the guards at Shadowed Hills don’t normally go around the knowe armed with more than ceremonial swords.

“I thought you had more sense than that.” He leveled a narrow-eyed gaze on Quentin’s back.

“Don’t blame Quentin for my being here; he didn’t do it. I have news, and I have proof, and that means I need to see the Duke.”

“You know that isn’t a good idea.”

“Lily’s dead.”

Quentin made a small sound of protest. I hadn’t told him. Damn.

Etienne’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“Lily, the Lady of the Tea Gardens, has stopped her dancing,” I said, tension adding a clipped cadence to the traditional announcement of a pureblood’s death. I kept my eyes locked on Etienne’s. “She dissolved in my hands, Etienne. Now, are you going to let me tell Sylvester what I’ve learned before the same thing happens to Luna, or are you going to keep standing there?”

“Oberon’s balls, October, you—” He hesitated, stepping closer and dropping his voice before he said, “It’s not safe here. You, of all people, should know that.”

I raked one bandaged hand through my hair. “She’s gunning for me?” He nodded marginally. “How badly?”

“Badly enough to make this a terrible idea.” He sighed. “Don’t even think about trying to slip me. Rayseline will take it as an excuse to have you arrested, and I won’t be able to stop her.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”