Page 49 of Night and Silence

THE CAR WAS UNDISTURBED when we reached it. One small mercy for a day that didn’t contain many of them. Quentin started to open the right rear passenger door. I grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Do you feel better?” I asked.

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Sorry if I was sort of pushy before, but . . . yeah.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I need to think about other people.” I paused, wincing as I released him. “Including Cliff and Miranda. We need to stop by their place before we go wherever it is we’re going next.”

May frowned. “Why?”

“Because my phone is dead, and I was the only one with Cliff’s number. Even if we found something right now, we wouldn’t be able to call and tell them about it. I need to update them on what’s happened so far, and I need to get Cliff’s information again, so we can call them if we need to.”

“I’m going in with you,” said May flatly.

“I don’t think—”

“She is going in with you,” said Tybalt. I shot him a wounded look. He shook his head. “They consider me your shiftless swain, and while I would normally find accusations of roguishness charming at best and delightfully inaccurate at worst, they are parents in distress, and do not need the additional strain of having you walk in with a suitor in tow. As for Quentin, I ask, are they aware you have a teenage ward who has no blood relation to your house? Among humans, such arrangements are no longer common unless formalized under the law, and I am sure they’d be aware if you had done so. Our presence would raise too many questions. We will remain in the car. And yet, all that being true, I am not comfortable with the idea of you facing them alone.”

I sighed. “Remind me again why I missed you?”

“Because I am the only man who adores you as fully as you should be adored, covered in blood or no.”

It was a good line. I still rolled my eyes as I got into the car and started the engine.

Marcia’s cinnamon rolls were excellent, but they could have been made of paste and putty, as long as they contained calories. Every bite settled the roaring in my stomach and the aching in my head, which had become so status quo I had actually stopped noticing it. My neck itched, and I knew that it was finally healing.

“Dinner tonight needs to involve roughly ten pounds of steak,” I said.

Tybalt smirked. “That can be arranged.”

Quentin leaned forward, his own cinnamon roll in his hand, and eyed Tybalt. “So are you back?” he asked bluntly. “Or are you going to run away again as soon as we’re done with this? If you’re going to run, I’d like to know.”

I stiffened. Tybalt looked at Quentin solemnly.

“You are a prince, and you are my lady’s squire, and for both those reasons, you believe you are owed an answer,” he said. “Please understand I privilege the latter far above the former. Princes of the Divided Courts are owed nothing from the Court of Cats. Yes, I am back. October has requested I not leave her again, and after being reminded how much trouble she can get into in my absence, I believe it is best if I acquiesce. If you are asking if I am better, the answer is, sadly, a different one.” He turned to look out the window.

He didn’t stop talking. “I am afraid of small spaces. For a cat, that is a devastating thing. I cannot seek the comfort of my feline form without fear I will be trapped that way, unable to cry out for those I love, unable to protect them should they cry out for me. I cannot walk among my subjects as I should. Not all Cait Sidhe are capable of transformation. A King should meet those who are bound to four legs in the same fashion, that they may feel they are truly of his Court. I cannot do so. I fail my people, and I fail myself. I have unquiet dreams. I am not a well man, Quentin, and I would not blame October if she bid me not to darken her door until I had recovered. I only pray that she will not, for I think I could not bear to lose another piece of my heart before the last one has come home.”

Silence fell across the car, lasting only until Quentin punched Tybalt in the arm.

“That’s for being stupid,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with being hurt. We all get hurt. But you shouldn’t have been hiding from us. We’re your family, and you’re stupid if you think we would judge you for needing help. We help each other.”

“You are going to make a fascinating King when your time comes, with the people you have chosen to surround yourself with,” observed Tybalt mildly . . . but he sounded pleased.

I decided that was probably a good thing and drove on.

After my disappearance, Cliff had quit his feckless artist’s ways and gone into a career in finance. Something stable, dependable, that would allow him to take care of the daughter he was now struggling to raise alone. He’d done well for himself. The tiny apartment of Gillian’s infancy had been replaced by a large two-story brownstone in one of the nicer residential neighborhoods. Not as nice as my Victorian, maybe, but Cliff didn’t have an ancient fairy lord playing patron. It was more than nice enough, all things considered.

I pulled up and into their private driveway, parking so I blocked the garage. That’s normally a cardinal sin in San Francisco, city of hills and limited parking spaces, but under the circumstances, I didn’t think Cliff was going to mind. I twisted in my seat, so I could address the car.

“All right,” I said. “Tybalt and Quentin, you wait here. If anyone questions you, tell them you’re waiting for someone inside. You’re both pretty charming. I believe in your ability not to get arrested for lurking.”

“Your faith is staggering,” said Tybalt. “Go. We will be here.”

I blew him a kiss and grabbed for the shadows, intending to weave myself a fresh human disguise. They refused to come. I blinked.

“Um,” I said.

“Your blood has yet to return,” said Tybalt. He wove his own fingers through the air, and I felt the weight of illusion settle on my shoulders. He smiled, sweet and a little shy. “Much improved.”