That disturbing train of thought pulled into the station as I turned the corner and found myself at Gordan’s cubicle. It was more devoid of personality than the others I’d passed, but I could tell who it belonged to: the fact that she was still sitting there was a pretty big clue. She raised her head and scowled as I approached, hitting a key at the top of her keyboard. Before the screen went dark, I caught a glimpse of a diagram as complex and snarled as one of Luna’s knitting projects. “What do you want?”
The evidence I had under my arm was enough to prove that her best friend had been working for the opposition before she died. Feeling oddly exposed, I said, “April told me you were here. You know you shouldn’t be alone.”
“You don’t know who the killer is. What makes me safer staying with them?”
Touché. “I’m trying to do my job.” I was going to be nice if it killed me. She was probably as scared as I was, if not more. After her, it was her company under siege.
“And it’s doing so much good.” She snorted. “I can see the improvements since you got here. What was I thinking?”
My good nature only goes so far. “That’s not fair. We’re doing our best.”
“It’s not? Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I guess it’s perfectly fair for you to suck face with Alex while my friends die?” I flinched. Gordan answered with a mocking smile, saying, “Honey, it’s obvious what you’ve been up to. Doesn’t it get cold out there on that hillside?”
If the sarcasm got any thicker, I was going to need a shovel. “Maybe if you’d try to help instead of attacking me all the time, we’d get better results. What’s this about a hill?”
“Maybe if you knew what you were doing, you wouldn’t need my help!” She glared at me. I glared back. Maybe she’d just lost her best friend, but that didn’t excuse her behavior; trauma only works as an excuse for so long. There’s a point when you have to take back the responsibility for your own actions.
“You’re riding us pretty hard for someone that doesn’t have any answers. It’s a little suspicious that the things that keep going wrong are all Coblynau technology.”
“You got a reason I shouldn’t ride you hard? You come here with your little pretty boy, sucking up to Jan, acting like it’s going to be okay now that your precious liege is involved—weren’t we good enough to save before he cared?”
“We didn’t know you were in trouble. No one told us what was happening here.”
“That’s not good enough!”
“It’s going to have to be good enough, because it’s the truth. I’m sick of you treating me like crap, and Quentin even worse, just because you’re scared.”
“You should have known something was wrong. Your precious purebloods should have figured it out.” Her eyes were bright with past hurts and anger. “Isn’t that what they’re for?”
“You don’t like the purebloods much, do you?”
“What was your first clue?” She turned her face away. “I’m just returning the favor.”
It’s not unusual for changelings to be resentful. Hell, I’m resentful. Our immortal parents get the best of Faerie and take what they want from the mortal world, and we get the things they let us have. Even so, the level of her resentment was unusual. She almost burned with it. “Mind if I ask why?”
“Yes,” she said, curtly. Then, in a quieter voice, she said, “Mom was pureblooded Coblynau. Dad was a changeling, and I was an accident. I’m just mortal enough that the mines won’t have me, and I’m not mortal enough for the mongrel workshops. You want to spend your life getting screwed? Try mine on for size.”
I winced. “You’re right. That sucks.”
The Coblynau make their homes in deep mines, deeper even than the Dwarves and the Gremlins. Being a changeling made Gordan unsuited for a life lived entirely at those depths. Being more fae than human, on the other hand, would make her too sensitive to iron to deal with the changeling workshops, and get her eyed with suspicion in the border communities. It was a tough break, no matter how you wanted to slice it.
“You have no idea.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I felt sorry for her. That wasn’t stopping me from getting annoyed. “I’m Amandine’s daughter. You knew that, didn’t you?” When she nodded, I continued, “Well, everyone knows that. I’m just a changeling. I’m not even as fae as you are. But her reputation precedes me everywhere I go, and I spend every damn day failing to live up to it. So don’t tell me I don’t know how hard it is to deal with the hand your parents dealt you. My cards may be different, but they’re just as bad.”
Gordan glared at me. I glared back, and she was the first one to look away.
I relaxed marginally. Victories, even small ones, are good things. I’m petty enough that they matter to me, and as long as that’s the case, I’m still human enough to stand a chance. “It’s okay to be mad,” I said, as gently as I could.
She shrugged. “Is it?” she asked. I took that to be her way of getting choked up. The Coblynau have never been very visual with their feelings.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “I’ve been mad since I got here. People don’t help when they say they will, they keep wandering around on their own . . . I’m pissed.”
“So why are you here?”
“Why?” I shrugged, settling on the truth. “Sylvester asked me to come, and you need me.”
“You don’t care if we die,” she said, tone turning bitter. She looked back at me, eyes narrowed. “You’re just here because your liege ordered you to be.”
“He didn’t order, he asked. And you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do care if you all die, because Faerie cares. I care because no one needs to die, and,” I raised one hand in mock melodrama, “Sylvester will kick my ass if I don’t care.”
It worked. She bit back a smile, half-turning to keep me from noticing. Ha; too late. I can be pretentious sometimes, but I know it, and knowing your flaws means you can exploit them. “This would work better if we weren’t fighting,” I said.
She looked back. “You’re right,” she conceded, “it probably would.”
“You don’t have to like me. I mean, April doesn’t.”
Gordan grinned. “April doesn’t like a lot of things.”
“I noticed. Why is that?”
“She’s distanced.”
“Distanced?” I asked. I wanted Gordan to relax, but I had a job to do, and part of it was learning everything I could about the remaining inhabitants of Tamed Lightning. Most of them were probably nice folks, but one of them was a killer.
“She used to be a tree. She did tree things—she drank water, absorbed nutrients from the soil, photosynthesized—the good stuff.” She leaned back in her chair, now on familiar ground. “You want to talk ‘cycle of nature,’ trees have it down. Everything nature does is in a tree.”
“True enough.”
“So she’s a tree. Only suddenly she’s not a tree, she’s a network server. It’s cold there. It does server things, not living things. Instead of sunlight, she has electricity. Instead of roots, she has cables. It’s stuff she didn’t need before. So she starts to learn these new things—how to be a good machine—and she forgets about sunlight, and water in her roots, and photosynthesis.”
“Oh,” I said, realization dawning. “The Dryad is the tree.”
“Right. The more she knows about being a machine, the less she knows about being anything else.”
“But she still likes some people.”
“No, she likes Jan. The rest of us are tolerated as functions her ‘mother’ needs to remain operational.” Gordan shrugged. “It’s no big deal. We’re used to her.”
“Doesn’t it seem a bit . . . strange?”
“Have you ever met anyone with a cat they’d adopted from the pound?”
I blinked, a little thrown by the conversational shift. “Yes.”
“Let me guess: the cat was devoted to them and hated everyone else. Am I close?”