“So this is about our magic?”
“Yeah, it is.”
He blew out a breath and shook his head. “So my defense may come down to this.”
“Are you hedging because you think I’m crazy or because it’s all a big secret and you can’t say anythi—”
“No, no. I’m not like the hoary old guard, always protecting our ancestral secrets. I don’t give a crap about all this secret woo woo shit, and I don’t know much about it. The really big stuff takes years of study, and frankly, why would you bother in the modern era? So you can light a candle with magic. Big fucking deal. Why not snap on a light switch? The easy stuff we can all do. The whole throwing a glamour is easy. We can do that practically without thinking.”
“Well, all rightee, then. Looks like that question is answered.” He gave me a blank look. I explained. “You’d make a hell of a witness for LeBlanc if you weren’t an accused murderer.”
“Oh, the lawsuit.” He shook his head. “Not really my biggest worry right now.”
I spent another moment thinking how Gabaldon would refute the charge. Swear that the Álfar didn’t do that? But the statistical evidence proved otherwise. I pulled myself back to Kerrinan and the current problem.
“So what … magic can you do?” I asked.
“We all learn how to move between Fey and Dirt. That’s harder than the glamour and the tricks, and I think even that’s breaking down. My feeling is, pick a spot to live. I made my choice twenty years ago. LA is my home. I haven’t been back to Fey in—”
“Not true. When you were on the run you went into Fey.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly and sadly. He gave me a sidewise glance. “Except I don’t remember doing that either.”
“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word. “What part of it?”
“Any of it. Making the decision. Driving. I was at my house and then I was in Fey.”
“Just like you don’t remember the events the night of the murder.”
Fear and despair left the muscles in his face sagging. “Am I crazy?” His voice was a thread of sound.
“I don’t know, Kerrinan.” A new question came floating up. “So why did you come back? You were completely out of reach of human justice.”
“The Council. They thought it would inflame the humans against us if I could just duck out. And I didn’t want to stay. I wanted justice for Michelle. I wanted to know what had happened. There were a few people on the Council who thought it was wrong for humans to judge an Álfar, but they lost the vote.”
I considered Human First’s campaign to vilify the Álfar and decided that the Council had shown a lot of wisdom.
“Is Qwendar on the Council?”
“No. He was, but a long time ago. Now he’s more of a gray eminence.”
I stood. “So you can’t tell me if there’s anything about Álfar magic that could make you … well, kill?”
“Not that I know of.” He stared at me with growing horror. “And who would do something like that?”
“I don’t know. I may just be grasping at straws here.”
“A gray beard might know.”
“And he’s working to get an answer.” I stood. “Hang in there.”
He stared down at his clasped hands. “I hope they reinstate the death penalty.”
“God, Kerri, why?”
“Because if I killed her I don’t deserve to live.” He watched a wall sliding past. “And I couldn’t take decades living in this. I’d find a way to end it.”
“We’ll figure this out.”
“That’s the problem. There isn’t a we; there’s just you.”
“And my crazy ideas,” I finished the unspoken thought. “Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked turning the question back on him.
I got a wan smile in return. “No more than me.”
Headlights wove patterns, electric plaid, all around me. Nerves and anticipation had left my hands slick with sweat. I took a firmer grip on the steering wheel. I’m going to see John. I’m going to see John. He was not going to love these sweaty palms. I removed first one hand, then the other, and wiped them on my jeans.
The call from Qwendar had come at ten p.m. the day after my conversation with Kerrinan. I had just settled down to watch a movie on Stars, wrapped up in a bathrobe and with a pint of Cherry Garcia for company when the shrilling phone had me bolting off the sofa.
“If you can be at the Chateau Marmont by eleven I’ll have John there. Room 323.”
“Okay. Yes. I’ll be there. Wait. What’s the Chateau Marmont? Wait, it’s probably a hotel ’cause you gave me a room number. Okay, where is it?” I stammered and yammered.
“I don’t know the location in this world.”
“Right, I’ll get directions,” but I was talking to a broken connection.
So, now I was making my way down Cahuenga Boulevard, which suddenly turned into North Highland Avenue. I nearly panicked but managed to glance at my MapQuest printout by the glare from the headlights of a farting truck that rumbled past. The gates of the Hollywood Bowl bulked on my right. The traffic slowed to a crawl, and I wondered why all these people didn’t go the hell home? Up ahead was a stop light. Mercifully it turned red. Franklin Avenue. I rolled to a stop, switched on the interior light, and checked my MapQuest printout. The next light would be Hollywood Boulevard, where I would turn right. Then a few more twists and turns until I was on West Sunset Boulevard.
I realized I should have called Big Red and Meg to tell them I was going to see their son. No, I shouldn’t. It was nearly two a.m. on the East Coast, and a call this late would just panic them. I’d give them a report in the morning.
The hotel should be on my right. It shouldn’t be hard to spot. From the pictures on my computer it looked like a French castle. I checked the clock on the dash. 10:43. Oh God, why didn’t this traffic move? I checked my watch, hoping it showed a more favorable time. It didn’t. In fact it read 10:47. I decided to trust the car. I feared what would happen if I was late. Finally the car in front of me moved.
I made the turn onto Sunset and said aloud, “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up,” then decided that talking to myself didn’t say much for my stability, and damn if it wasn’t a movie reference again. I had to get out of this town. I switched on the radio, flicked through the dial, but the music felt like it was etching my skin. I switched it off.
An extremely garish orange, red, pink, and blue neon sign shaped like a shield with an arrow through it glared against the fronds of a palm tree. ENTRANCE CHATEAU MARMONT, it read. This was the place. I turned into the almost hidden driveway. Even at 10:55 a valet was on duty. He leaped forward as I bolted out of the car. I felt bad, but I literally threw my keys at him.
“I’m going to be in room 323,” I called back over my shoulder.
“Miss,” he was frantically waving the claim check at me. I didn’t slow down, but raced through the front doors. I had a brief impression of gray stone walls and cloister-walk-shaped windows.
There was an elegant staircase in front of me. Not wanting to wait for an elevator (I figured they would be slow in an old hotel like this), I bounded up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. I found the stairs at the end of the hall and continued up to the third floor. Room 323. I was there. I reflexively checked my watch. 11:02. Not bad. I gave a quick fluff to my hair, straightened my tweed jacket, and knocked. An instant later the door opened.
I quickly scanned the room. Mercifully John’s terrifying mother wasn’t present. Qwendar was there, and I was relieved to see his lined face. There were also a number of Álfar men in the room. I recognized some of them: they had been present in the Dakota when John’s mother had taken him prisoner. Whether they were guards or advisers I really couldn’t say, and I wondered why the hell they were here? I stood on tiptoe, craning to see, but John was hidden from me. Qwendar stepped forward and took my hand.