Page 26 of Night and Silence

The purebloods have always liked to think they had the monopoly on magic. Quentin had spent enough time with me to figure out that not only did the purebloods not run as much of the world as they thought they did, thinking otherwise was likely to get him seriously injured, if not killed. In my line of work—and by extension, his, at least for the moment—underestimating an opponent because of old stereotypes is a good way to wind up dead.

Madden, though . . . for all that he was seneschal to a woman that some people called, sneeringly, “the Changeling Queen,” for all that he worked in the mortal world and counted humans as friends, he was a pureblood raised by purebloods, with nothing to force him to see or sympathize with the changeling way of doing things. This was probably very confusing for him.

Tough. “Gillian doesn’t know anything about marshwater charms, or at least not anything she could have learned from me. You’re the folklore professor, Bridget. Does this look like something one of your students would have put together?”

“I won’t say no, because I have students who come from all sorts of traditions. Some are religious people who happen to adore fairy tales, or theology majors picking up a bit of a grounding in what they call ‘pagan nonsense,’ or actual pagans.” Bridget spoke slowly, picking her words with care. “The pagans, especially the Wiccans, do a great deal of herbal, ah, ‘witchcraft,’ although I’ve been careful never to form too firm an opinion on it.”

“Better to stay neutral than to risk upsetting your students,” said May.

“Exactly so,” said Bridget. “There might be a few who’d managed to stumble on something that actually works, but if this is what you say it is . . . ”

“This is the crafting of someone who knows the fae are real—and knows they can be kept away if you only weave the right combination of herbs and simples and rituals. I don’t know how. I never wanted to learn. But it wouldn’t be impossible knowledge to collect.”

“Jocelyn?” asked Quentin. “She knew more than she should have, for someone too thin-blooded to see without ointment. Um. No offense, ma’am.”

“None taken,” said Bridget. “I know my place in Faerie is predicated on loopholes and bends in the rules, and I try to tread lightly, to avoid giving offense.”

“Jocelyn wouldn’t be attempting to keep the fae away, though, not when she’s wearing fairy ointment and trying to get Gilly to talk about her famous family.” I touched my pocket gingerly, feeling the piece of glass I had concealed there. “Not Jocelyn.”

“She definitely wouldn’t have put iron at the thresholds, not if her mother’s a changeling,” said May. “This wasn’t her.”

“Why didn’t the iron harm any of you?” asked Bridget. “I always thought . . .” She stopped, shrugging. “When I was trying to protect Chelsea from her father, iron seemed the easiest way.”

“It wasn’t pure iron, for one, and none of us touched it, for two,” I said. “If there had been more, or if we’d come directly into contact with it, things might be different.”

“I see,” said Bridget.

“It’s been a fun day.” I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to sort everything we knew so far into orderly categories, or at least into something that would be a little bit less confusing. It wasn’t working. I opened my eyes again and pulled the glass out of my pocket. “I’m going to try to find a blood memory now.”

May nodded, concern blossoming in her expression like a terrible flower. She knew the risks I was taking better than anyone, because she remembered taking them when she was me. Blood is where magic and memory live: blood is the key to a lot of questions that might otherwise go entirely unanswered. That’s the good part. I’m not even taking much of a risk when I ride the blood these days, because I’m strong enough now that I can pull myself free before it can pull me down.

The bad part is that whatever the blood wants to tell me, I’ll have to hear. That’s the trade-off. If I taste someone’s blood, I learn what they have to share. And, sometimes, that learning hurts.

I sighed, unwrapped the piece of glass, and turned it between my fingers, looking for the biggest stretch of stain. This would have been easier with more blood. It always was. Unfortunately, waiting until I could get unfettered access to the car—probably in some police impound lot, possibly after it had been photographed and sampled and disinfected—might mean waiting long enough for whoever had Gillian to get tired of holding her.

Assuming they hadn’t already. And that, right there, was why I was hesitating. Some of my frantic forward momentum had bled off when I was sitting on the creek bank, waiting for my ankle to heal, and what had replaced it was a numb, resigned dread. I had freed my daughter from Faerie and walked away, trusting her father to keep her safe. I had given up any claim to the family I’d tried to make with the two of them, and moved on to making a new family, a new life, with Tybalt. Now Tybalt was gone, and I was facing the possible loss of my child. If she was dead, the blood would tell me. If she was alive, the blood would tell me that, too. I had to find out. I had to know which way I was running.

I didn’t want to.

Quentin touched my arm. I looked at him, nodded, and placed the glass on my tongue. It cut me almost instantly, but I had been counting on that: while my blood would have confused the crime scene, all it would do here was make my magic stronger and make it easier for me to find the things I needed to know.

Blood—both mine and Gillian’s—flooded my mouth.

Holding the glass shard between my teeth, I swallowed.

SIX

THE PARKING LOT IS dark around me, lit only by the distant glow of streetlights aimed to illuminate other things, other places. It’s not safe to walk across campus alone at night—not fair, never fair, do they tell the boys it’s not safe to go where they want, to be who they want to be? But this is the world we live in, and we can’t trade it for a better one—but it’s safe to drive, as long as I’m in my car. The dark can’t take the safety away. The car means freedom. The car means I’m as good as anyone.

Gillian’s love for her car was an ache so deep it almost knocked me out of the memory. She was my daughter, and I was pretty sure she hadn’t felt love like that for me in a very long time. I groped until I found Quentin’s hand. He tightened his fingers around mine, grounding me. There wasn’t time to acknowledge him: there wasn’t enough blood on the glass for that. I bit down harder, slicing my tongue again, adding my own blood and strength to the working.

The blood memories reasserted themselves, veiling the world in red. Check engine light is on. I pause to make a note for myself. Freedom only lasts if you take care of it, that’s what Mel always says. I’m going to take care of it. I’m going to continue earning my freedom.

Someone passes in front of the car. The lights are in the wrong place to let me see their face, but they pause and wave, and so I wave back, choosing to be friendly, safe behind my closed, locked doors. I can afford friendliness when there’s no way they can get to me. I even feel a little smug about it. I’m safe. I’m free. Nothing can touch me—

Something hits the window. It shatters under the impact, there’s glass flying everywhere, and it hurts, it hurts, there’s glass in the air and my eyes are closed so the glass doesn’t get in them and I can’t see anything, and it hurts why does it—

An object harder and more substantial than shards of glass hit Gillian in the side of the head. There was a sound like bending bone, and the faint, inexplicable scent of cinnamon. That was where the memory cut off, extinguished along with her consciousness.