Then the night-haunts rose as one body, dragging the mandrake into the air with them. It shrieked, voicing its terror. I clapped my hands over my ears, sagging forward in the circle as a shallower, more natural darkness filled the cafeteria. The sound of the fire slowly returned. The night-haunts were gone.
The emergency sprinklers finally registered the smoldering remains of my circle and switched on, dousing the room. I tilted my head back, cradling my wounded hand against my chest as the water poured across my face.
I didn’t save Dare, but she’d managed to save me twice. I wasn’t a very good hero, but I was the only one she had, and there’s power in that. There’s power in information, too, and I had all the information I could have wanted. I’d never wanted to know what the night-haunts really were, and I knew I’d never be able to forget. That could wait. For the moment, I sat in the falling water, surrounded by the cloying smell of burnt flowers, and cried.
TWENTY-ONE
“TOBY?” THE DOOR OPENED, sending a shaft of light into my damp, comfortable darkness. I wasn’t sure when the sprinklers had stopped; I also wasn’t sure I cared. Connor called again, more loudly this time: “Toby, can you hear me?”
I tilted my face forward, wincing as my head started throbbing in earnest. Connor was in the doorway, with Quentin casting a dark silhouette on the wall behind him. At least they weren’t wandering around alone. “Hey, guys.”
“It smells like smoke in here,” Quentin said, tone radiating relief. He probably hadn’t been sure they’d find me alive. That was all right; I hadn’t been sure, either.
“Can we turn the lights on?” Connor asked.
“If they’ll work. They shorted out when the flowers caught fire.” I forced myself to stand. It wasn’t easy. My legs were threatening to abdicate from the rest of the body, and I wasn’t coming up with any good reasons why they shouldn’t.
Elliot spoke from behind Quentin. “I’ll turn on the backups.”
Backups. They had backups for the backups in this place. It was amazing anything had been able to go wrong: they should’ve had backups for the people, too. “You do that,” I said.
Elliot leaned past Quentin, flipping a switch, and a set of yellow-tinted lights came on overhead. All three of them turned toward me and gasped, almost in unison. It would have been funny if I hadn’t been so damned tired.
“Toby?” Connor whispered.
“That would be me,” I said, wiping the water off my cheek. “In the flesh, as it were.”
“You look . . .”
“I know.” My hair was plastered to my head. My hands were black with ash. “But I’m still here.”
Elliot glanced at the mess covering the floor. “I’m not going to ask.”
“Probably for the best,” I said. Quentin had pushed past the other two and was approaching, almost timidly. I turned to him, mustering a faint smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied. “Are you okay?”
“I’m alive. That’s all I hoped for.” He still looked profoundly uncomfortable. I sighed. “Look, I’d hug you, but I’d get blood all over you.”
“I don’t care,” he said, and threw his arms around my neck. I slung my right arm around him, letting my unwounded hand rest on his shoulder. Connor followed his lead, hugging me from the other side, and for a moment, the three of us just stood there, holding on to one another.
It was Elliot who broke the silence, saying uncomfortably, “This is . . . rather untidy. May I clean you?”
I pulled away from Quentin and Connor enough to look down at myself. Blood, ash, and streaks of muck stained my clothes and Tybalt’s jacket. I was sure my hair looked like a dead animal stapled to my head. Still. Holding up my hand, I asked, “Is it safe when I’m still bleeding?”
“. . . no,” Elliot said, looking displeased. “We’ll have to get Gordan to look at that.” He crossed to the kitchen area, opening a cabinet and pulling out a clean towel, which he tossed toward us.
Connor caught it, pressing it into my uninjured hand. “Find her fast, please,” he said, expression worried. “I don’t like the way her hand looks.”
“The way it . . . right.” I hadn’t really looked at my hand since cutting it. I’d been a little busy. “Guys, let go.”
They stepped back, and I looked down, assessing the damage. I had all my fingers, and I could move them, if I was willing to cope with the pain: that was where the good stuff ended. My palm was split from the wrist to the base of the index finger, and when my fingers flexed, I thought I saw bone. Changelings heal fast and thoroughly when the wounds aren’t made with iron; my hand would recover if I had it taken care of. It still looked pretty bad.
Starting to feel faintly nauseated, I said, “Getting Gordan in here might be a good idea.”
Elliot nodded. “I’ll fetch her. You wait here.” Then he was out the door, hurrying away from the mess and from the questions he wasn’t asking yet. That was fine. I wasn’t ready to start answering them, and I didn’t trust his self-control to last. I really didn’t need him to start cleaning the room while we were still in it.
“Come on, Toby. Sit down.” Connor took my arm and led me to a chair, with Quentin following close behind. I didn’t fight. Judging by the looks they were giving me, I looked worse than I felt, and that was worrisome.
I collapsed into a sitting position, sticking my head between my knees. Connor began rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles, fingers shaking. The room was starting to spin. That’s never pleasant. My headache wasn’t helping. My magic isn’t strong to begin with, and I’d just performed the largest blood-ritual of my life. In a way, it was a miracle that I was still coherent enough to hurt.
“Toby?”
He sounded worried enough that I forced myself to look up. “Yes, Quentin?”
“Did they come?”
I sighed. “Yeah. They came.”
“Wow.” Quentin sat down in the chair next to mine, shaking his head. “I . . . wow. Did you talk to them?”
“As much as I could, yes.”
“Oh.” We were silent for a while, Connor still rubbing my back, Quentin watching worriedly. Finally, voice meek, Quentin asked, “Are you going to die?”
“What?” The question was unexpected enough to get my full attention.
Swallowing, he said, “You’ve seen the night-haunts. Are you going to die?”
“I don’t think it works that way. They don’t cause death. They come after death happens. I’m not going to die because I saw them.” I might die for other reasons, but I was fairly sure the night- haunts wouldn’t have anything to do with it.
“Oh,” Quentin said, relaxing. “Good.”
We sat quietly after that. I was glad to have the company; even knowing the night-haunts weren’t coming back, I didn’t want to be alone. Both of them were clearly bursting with questions, but they kept their peace, letting me rest. I needed the chance to breathe.
Elliot came back after fifteen minutes. “Gordan and Jan are on their way.”
“Peachy,” I said, sitting up as Connor stepped back. “Got any painkillers?”
“Gordan doesn’t want me to give you anything until she’s seen your hand.”
I decided to hate her. “Why not? It’s my headthat’s killing me.”
“Because we don’t know how much damage you’ve done to yourself.” He gestured toward the remains of my protective circle. “It looks like you held a war in here.”
“I almost did,” I said.
“Care to explain?”
“Give me the painkillers and I will.” Connor almost managed to hide his smirk—almost. He knew Elliot was fighting a losing battle; if stubbornness were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist.
“Right.” Elliot sighed. “We wait.”
I glared. “That was supposed to make you give me the pills.”
“I know.” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin. “I’d just rather have youmad at me than Gordan.”
“Why?” Quentin asked.