The blade pulls free. I scream—so angry, so helpless—and the ax hits again and again, and it’s getting hard to breathe. Can’t see. Can’t taste anything but blood. Force the air through the lungs, out the lips, “Why?”
No answers. The ax hits again, and there’s a new feeling, a cold new feeling . . .
That was when the memories in the blood ended; my best guess was that she fell and died after that, while that “cold new feeling” drained the vitality from the blood still in her body. I shook myself, gasping, back to the present. “She fought,” I said, aware of how dazed I sounded.
“Toby?”
“It’s okay, Quentin. I’m okay. I just . . .” I looked at my bloody fingers, and shuddered. “I found part of what we’ve been looking for.”
“Did she see the killer?”
“No. Jan wore glasses, remember?” I allowed myself a bitter chuckle. “She had no night vision.”
Quentin deflated, saying, “Oh.”
“At least she had a chance to fight. That’s more than the rest of these poor slobs got.” I wiped my hand on my jeans—a little more blood wouldn’t make a difference one way or the other—and started for the door. “Come on. We need to get moving.”
“What are we going to do now?” Quentin asked, following me.
“First we’re going to move her down to the basement. I want all the bodies in one place.”
“And then?”
“Well, then, we’re going to find the others, and I’m going to call Sylvester.” I offered him a small, grim smile. “I think I’m done avoiding a diplomatic incident, don’t you?”
TWENTY-THREE
THIS TIME, THE PHONE RANG five times before it was answered: Sylvester again, out of breath and anxious, sounding almost terrified. “Hello? Who’s there?”
I paused. “Sylvester?”
“Toby! Oak and ash, October, why didn’t you call before? We’ve been waiting. Your hotel says you haven’t been checking messages there, either. What’s going on? Where are you?”
“What . . . what are you talking about? You know where I am! You told us to stay here.”
Now he sounded wounded; more than that, he sounded scared. “I did no such thing! Tybalt came to tell us you were worried about tampering with the phone systems, and I’ve been waiting here ever since. When it wasn’t me, it’s been Etienne, or Garm. Even Luna’s taken her turn. You haven’t called.”
Oh, Oberon’s blessed balls. Gritting my teeth, I said, “The problems with the phones may go a little bit past tampering.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I called you right after Connor got here, and you said we should all stay put.”
He paused. “Do you mean . . . ?”
“Uh-huh. Connor and Quentin are still with me.”
“Oh. Oh, October. That’s not good.”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the boys. Quentin was leaning against one of the soda machines, while Connor was making himself a cup of tea. I’ve always been wary of men who don’t drink coffee. Tea’s just such an inefficient way of getting your caffeine on. “No,” I agreed. “No, it’s almost certainly not.”
Something in my tone must have telegraphed how serious things had become, because there was a pause before he asked, “Are you hurt?”
“A little bit. Nothing I can’t handle.” My head was pounding, my hand felt like hamburger, and the cuts on my face had barely started to scab. Oh, yeah. I was in top condition.
“What about Quentin?”
“He’s scraped up, but he’s fine. We had a minor accident with the car.” It was technically true. We were already out of the car when it exploded. “Connor got here after that; he’s fine, too.”
There was another pause before he said, more quietly now, “Not everyone’s fine, though, are they? I can hear it in your voice.”
“January,” closing my eyes and letting my forehead rest against the cool metal of the pay phone. “She’s dead.”
“Ah.” There was a world of pain in that single tiny syllable; a world of mourning that he didn’t have time to give in to. “How?”
“We’re still not sure. She didn’t die like the others, though. Her death was more . . .” I hesitated. Somehow, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say “violent.” Not when I could already hear Sylvester crying. Lamely, I finished, “. . . disorganized. Either she wasn’t the intended victim, or it was more personal than the others were. I don’t know yet.”
“I see.” He was silent for a long time. I held the line, waiting until he said, “If she’s dead, I suppose Riordan’s wishes don’t matter as much anymore. Can you stay alive until I can get there?”
Before Luna, before peace and Shadowed Hills and developing a reputation as a sweet, slightly bewildered man who just happened to run the largest Duchy in the Bay Area, Sylvester was a hero. A real one. He was one of the lucky ones—he survived long enough to quit—but that didn’t change where he’d started out.
Almost crying from relief, I nodded. “We can. How long will it take you?”
“Not long. Tybalt’s already on the way.”
I jerked upright, eyes snapping open. “What?”
“You didn’t really think he’d sit out this fight, did you?” A flicker of dark amusement crept into his tone. “Not once you told him a Queen of Cats had died.”
“Oh, Maeve’s tits.” I glanced back at Quentin and Connor again. This was going to make things even harder to deal with. Just what I needed. “Any clue when he’ll get here?”
“Not a one. I’ll see you soon. Stay safe.”
“Always do,” I said, voice bright with artificial cheer.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I know. Just get here.”
“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.