One thing I've learned in my time working as a private investigator-slash-knight errant for the fae community of the San Francisco Bay Area: if something looks like it's going to be simple, it probably won't. Some people might consider that an easy lesson, but I must be a slow learner, because it's been anything but easy. I've been turned into a fish, cursed, nearly drowned, impersonated, slashed, shot at, and had my car blown up—thankfully not while I was inside it, although it was a close call—and now I was chasing Barghests around Dame Eloise Altair's feasting hall, trying not to get myself hurt. Also not easy.
"Toby! Duck!" Danny didn't sound particularly worried. Danny's also a pureblooded Bridge Troll, which means he has skin that's as hard as granite and twice as difficult to damage. As a half-breed Daoine Sidhe, I'm a lot easier to hurt.
I ducked.
A Barghest sailed overhead, impacting the wall with a pained “thump.” Barghests are nasty semi-canine monsters with horns, retractable claws, and venomous stings in their scorpion tales, but there’s one thing they don’t have: wings. I glanced over my shoulder long enough to confirm that the thing hadn’t been killed by impact—it was still twitching, which made death seem less likely—before turning to wrinkle my nose at Danny.
“Changeling, remember? Can you at least try not to hurl spiky critters at my head?”
“Sure thing,” said Danny blithely. Too blithely. In my experience, people who sound that calm about requests that they not throw things have no intention of changing their behavior.
My name is October Daye; my friends call me “Toby,” largely because it’s difficult to call a cranky brunette changeling with a knife “October” and get away with it. And this is not the way I usually prefer to spend my Saturday nights.
Every private investigator gets their share of weird calls, and the fact that I’m the only fae PI in the Kingdom means I wind up with more than most. Even worse, most of the weird calls come from the local nobility, which means I can’t turn them down. Lucky me. I shouldn’t complain. Work is work, and playing whack-a-mole with Barghests in Dame Altair’s feasting hall was better than going back to checking bags at the grocery store. Not that the grocery store was likely to rehire me, considering that I’d abandoned my job without warning when a friend of mine went and got herself murdered over ownership of a legendary fae artifact. Not the sort of thing I could explain to human resources. Stress on the “human.”
Changelings rarely do well in jobs with fixed, dependable hours. We get that from the fae side of the family, while the human side makes us too stubborn not to try.
Dame Altair called on Monday to report that “something” was trashing her pantry, frightening her staff, and generally making life more complicated than she wanted it to be. By Wednesday, I knew that we were dealing with a Barghest infestation. I could try to claim the discovery was solely due to my awesome investigative skills, but that wouldn’t be entirely accurate. The truth was, I stepped on one while I was searching the place.
The fact that it was “just” Barghests was a relief, for me, anyway; it could have been a lot worse. Dame Altair didn’t seem particularly relieved, but they were nesting on her property, and that probably made them a lot more annoying. I explained the situation, requested the necessary supplies, and called Danny.
Danny McReady possesses a lot of positive qualities if you ignore his tendency to chuck Barghests at my head, but when it comes to monster-hunting, “practically indestructible” is the one that counts. He’s also a San Francisco taxi driver, which leaves him with a lot of pent-up aggression. The chance to spend the night playing whack-a-mole with Barghests was too much to pass up.
Dame Altair had evacuated the knowe by the time Danny showed up. We grabbed the enchanted rowan-wood crates she’d provided for us to stuff them into, paused while I pulled on my gloves, and marched back inside to deal with things.
There were a lot of things to deal with. Barghests breed about once a century, and like many of Faerie’s more monstrous denizens, they balance a high mortality rate with a necessarily high birthrate. I’d counted at least eight before I gave up and asked the Dame for a bunch of boxes. She thought I was insane for not wanting to kill them on the spot, but even Barghests have a right to live. Just not in Dame Altair’s feasting hall.
Where we were actually going to put them was a problem for later; the problem for now was catching them without being seriously injured in the process. They were only pups, about the size of Corgis. They were still equipped with multiple ways of killing a person, and they were absolutely not interested in coming quietly.
“This is the sort of thing I mean.” One of the Barghests was chewing on Danny’s leg, probably hurting itself in the process. “I ask what you’re doing on a Saturday night, and you say “hunting Barghests.” Forgive me for nagging, but you should maybe try getting a social life.”
“I’m getting paid to be here, remember?” Another Barghest charged me with its tail raised in strike position. I parried with my butterfly net, almost managing to catch it before it popped its claws and ripped through half the mesh. Swearing, I tried to net the thing again before I added, “Besides, I have a birthday party to go to after this.”
“The Brown kid, right?”
“Yeah.” Mitch and Stacy’s youngest son, Andrew, was turning four. “I promised to make it in time for cake.”
“You’ll make it.”
“Starting to have my doubts,” I muttered. One of the Barghests was slinking on its belly to my right. I leaned over, whapped it on the head with my net, and swept it into the first box. “Get that closed!”
“Got it.” Danny plucked the Barghest off his leg, bowling it into the box after its sibling before slamming the lid. “That’s two. I’m just saying, you could benefit by going out sometimes. Live a little. In ways that don’t involve maybe making yourself dead.”
“But I’m so good at maybe making myself dead.” I whacked another Barghest. “I wouldn’t have taken this job if I’d known it was going to mean playing with poisonous things. Dame Altair thought the pantries were emptying due to theft.”
“Well, they kinda were.” Two more Barghests were industriously worrying Danny’s ankles. A wide smile split his craggy face. “Aw, look at the cute little guys.”
“They’re poisonous monstrosities, Danny. That’s not ‘cute.’” I swung at another Barghest. It scuttled backward, barking at me.
“You get to keep that spiky thing, I get to think Barghests are cute,” he replied philosophically, and scooped up both Barghests, cradling them. “You think her Ladyship would mind if I took one or two of ‘em home?”
“Spike’s a rose goblin,” I said, stung. “That’s different.”
“Maybe from where you’re sitting.”
I groaned, swatting another Barghest and sweeping it into a box before it could sting me. “There isn’t a Barghest rescue society. I don’t think Dame Altair is going to care what we do with them as long as they’re gone when we’re done here.”
“Good,” said Danny, dropping his two into a box and sealing it. “I’m taking them.”
“What?” I turned to stare at him, sidestepping a Barghest intent on mauling my shins. “How many?”
“All of them.” He grabbed another one. It twisted in his hands, ramming its stinger against his shoulder. He smiled indulgently. “I think he likes me.”
“Danny...”
“I’ll only keep a couple. If there’s no rescue group, somebody’s gotta look out for the little guys.” He dropped the Barghest he was holding into a box, ignoring its ongoing attempts to sting him. “How about this: instead of splittin’ the fee, you pay for my help by letting me take the Barghests.”
“And here I thought my money wasn’t any good with you.”
“Poisonous monstrosities aren’t money.”
I had to laugh at that. “You win.” We’d somehow managed to stun and capture the entire litter without serious injury. Putting my net down on the floor, I turned to peer at the boxes. “Looks like fourteen of them. They’re not happy.”
“You wouldn’t be either,” he said. “What do you think happened to their mama?” Barghests are notoriously protective of their young. A litter without a mother almost certainly meant something had gone wrong.
“Poison and claws don’t protect you from becoming road kill,” I said. Barghests had an unfortunate tendency to play in traffic. Thankfully the night-haunts were always there to clean up the mess before the humans saw. “She’s lucky she stowed them here, even if they did manage to cause a lot of damage before Dame Altair called me.”
“It’s a whole new world,” he said sadly. There was no way I could argue with that.
A few millennia ago, when Faerie was still in its ascendancy, creatures like the Barghests would have roamed the moors, not afraid of anything but hunting parties and bigger predators. Things have changed since then. With Faerie in hiding and more of her creatures becoming extinct every year, the Barghests were probably lucky to have been captured. At least with Danny looking out for them, they might stand a chance.
Not all Faerie’s denizens have fared as poorly as her monsters. Sure, the Barghests would have been free and happy to do as they pleased, but people like me and most of my friends would have been treated like lepers. Assuming we were allowed to live. As human civilization has taken over much of what used to belong to the fae, changelings have become more integrated into Faerie culture. Call it evolution in action. We’re half-human, but our loyalties are to Faerie; that makes us useful tools in a world that includes things like iron and the Internet. Not that I’ve been able to figure out the email account Countess April O’Leary set up for me, despite several telephone “tech support” sessions punctuated by April’s muffled laughter. Missing fourteen years of technological advancement has left me a little behind the times.
Fortunately, most of Faerie moves slowly enough to make something as small as being turned into a fish for a decade and a half look positively inconsequential. Certain skills never become outdated, and that includes disposing of infestations of small, inconvenient monsters.
Danny started carrying boxed Barghests to his taxi while I tracked down Dame Altair to sound the all-clear and collect my fee. He was shoving the last box into the passenger seat when I emerged from the knowe, money safely tucked into my pocket.
I eyed the cab. It was completely filled with boxes, making it look like he’d decided to start moonlighting as a professional mover. “I hope you weren’t planning on picking up any fares tonight.”
“Nope.” He grinned, dusting his hands together. “I’m gonna take the babies home and see about setting ‘em up a kennel. She say anything about wanting the boxes back?”
“They’re all yours.” Dame Altair’s knowe was tucked into an elegant Victorian house in a neighborhood nice enough that our cars stuck out like sore thumbs. “I’m gonna get going before I miss the party entirely. Call me if you need any help with the Barghests, okay?”
“Got it. And you think about what I said. Getting out more couldn’t hurt.”
“With who? Mitch and Stacy have kids, Kerry’s always busy, Julie hates me, and you have a cab to drive.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. How about you call that King of Cats guy I used to see you with? Take him out, get him drunk, and see if you can make him sing karaoke.”
“No.” My tone didn’t leave any room for argument.
Danny blinked, looking startled. “Just think about it, all right? Open roads, Toby.”
“Good night, Danny.”
He was just trying to help, and I shouldn’t be cranky about it. I told myself that half a dozen times as I got into my car and pulled out of Dame Altair’s neighborhood, going more than a bit above the speed limit as I tried to make it to Andy’s party on time. I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes to midnight. I could just make it, if I managed to avoid getting pulled over.
Human kids live their lives in sunlight. Staying up late is usually a treat reserved for special occasions. Fae kids live by a different clock. Almost all fae are nocturnal creatures, from Daoine Sidhe like my mother all the way down to the hearth-spirits and pixies. We don’t like the sun; the sun returns the favor. Of Mitch and Stacy’s five kids, only the oldest, Cassandra, was keeping anything like a human schedule. She was a freshman at UC Berkeley, and unfortunately, most of the required courses for a physics degree were held during the day.
The fae disdain for daylight made shopping for Andy’s birthday present an adventure in and of itself. I’d finally managed to make it to a toy store downtown just before closing, where the clerk assured me that no four-year-old boy could ever have enough plastic dinosaurs. Since I’d been out of bed for less than half an hour, I was groggy enough that I would have agreed to buy the kid a box of plastic forks if it meant I could get out of there and go for coffee. The dinosaurs were in the back, in a bag covered with gamboling cartoon clowns. I hate clowns.
I was lucky: it was late enough that the roads between San Francisco and Colma were basically clear, and I pulled up in front of Mitch and Stacy’s house with almost five minutes to spare. From the sidewalk, the house looked dark, silent, and totally deserted. Living in Faerie has taught me a lot about how deceptive appearances can be.
The edges of the lawn glittered as I walked toward the house, betraying the presence of an illusion spell. I stepped across the boundaries, and the house was suddenly blazing with lights, the air sharp with the smells of sugar and finger paint. Braziers were mounted on stakes all around the lot, with pixies fanning the tiny flames that kept the spell alive. Shouts and peals of happy laughter filled the air. The party, it seemed, was still in full force. I grinned, Barghests and Danny’s attempt to meddle in my social life forgotten, and walked on.
The side gate was open, invitingly decorated with a bouquet of bright balloons. I veered that way, ducking under a crepe paper streamer and into the backyard where chaos reigned.
At least ten kids of varying ages and species were racing around like they were jet-propelled. Most of their attention was on the jungle gym, where there was some sort of pirate game going on. It seemed to involve chasing each other up and down the slide while shouting “Shiver me timbers!” A dun-colored Centaur cantered around the structure, crying “Avast ye!” and trying to grab the others whenever they came into range. Jessica was directing the action, too absorbed by her six-year-old’s autocracy to do more than wave distractedly at my arrival.
Cassandra was on the porch, struggling to read while children shrieked and zoomed around her. It seemed like a battle she was doomed to lose.
I walked over to sit down next to her, one eye on the wild rumpus. “Hey, puss.”
She brightened. “Aunt Birdie!” Being nineteen and highly aware of her own dignity, she took great care in putting her book down before she hugged me. “You came! Andy’s going to be thrilled.”
“Couldn’t miss the fun,” I said, returning the hug.
Cassandra was the only one of Mitch and Stacy’s kids born before my disappearance. She’s the one who originally decided my name should be “Aunt Birdie,” since she couldn’t pronounce “October.” She’s short, plump, and pretty, and has her mother’s gently pointed ears, tipped with tufts of black fur. She gets her coloring from her dad’s side of the family, though, with Mitch’s blue-gray eyes and unremarkable brown-blonde hair.
It’s hard to look at her and not see my own little girl, the one I lost when Simon cast his spell on me. I’ve been working on it. Cassandra deserves better than to be judged by who Gillian might have grown up to be.
Not that Gillian’s been willing to let me see who she actually is. My daughter isn’t dead. She just refuses to let me be a part of her life.
“Well, it’s really good to see you,” said Cassandra as she let me go.
I settled back in my seat. “Good to see you, t—”
My statement was cut short as Andrew slammed into me from the side and flung his arms around my neck. “Auntie Birdie!”
Cassandra laughed. “Aren’t you glad I outgrew that?”
“You have no idea,” I said, and ruffled Andrew’s hair. “How’s our birthday boy?”
“I’m four!” he said, showing me the appropriate number of grimy fingers. Tow-headed, freckled, and filthy: all the ingredients needed for “ridiculously cute.” Children shouldn’t be allowed to be that adorable. There ought to be a law. “We’re having a party!”
“I noticed.”
Cassandra groaned, muttering, “People in Oregon noticed.”
“We’re gonna have cake, and ice cream, and presents, and—”
A rising shriek was coming from the direction of the swings. I shifted Andrew to my lap as I looked up. Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Incoming.”
“Aunt Birdeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Karen raced toward us. I braced for impact. At eleven, Karen never seemed to be able to make up her mind about whether or not she was too grown-up to tackle me. I got off lucky this time; she skidded to a halt and declared, “You came!”
“I did,” I agreed. “You look like you’ve been wallowing in the mud.”
She looked down at herself. She was coated with filth from the waist down, and muck caked her hair. “Wow. You’re right.”
“So what have you been doing?”
Gleefully, she crowed, “Wallowing in the mud!”
I sighed. “Right.” Andrew was snuggling into my lap, getting dirt all over my jeans. I thought about moving him and decided not to bother. It was his birthday. He could get me dirty if he wanted to. “What’s up?”
“We’re playing pirates,” she said. “I’m the first mate! Jessica gives orders and then I make bad people walk the plank.”
“Good for you. So what’s Andy?”
“He was my parrot, and then he was a shark. Now he’s...what are you now, Andy?”
“M’a rowboat,” he said sleepily.
“Do rowboats nap?” I asked.
“I wish,” muttered Cassandra. “They’ve been trying to drive me crazy all night.”
“Really? How are they doing?”
She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. “Amazingly well.”
“I see.” I tickled Andrew until he stopped yawning and started giggling, then set him back on his feet. “Go be a rowboat.” He laughed and ran for the swings, Karen close behind.
“How do they get all that energy?” I asked as I stood. “They never stop moving.”
Cassandra grinned. “I have no idea. If I knew, I could skip freshman physics.”
“I’m gonna go let your folks know I’m here. You need anything?”
“Can I have a tranquilizer gun?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just tell Mom we need to cut the cake soon, or I may kill them all.”
“Got it. Give the kids sugar before you kill them. Because that’s gonna calm them down.” I winked and turned to head inside.
If the party seemed hectic in the yard, it was even worse when packed into the confines of Mitch and Stacy’s cluttered living room. School pictures and crayon art covered the walls, while toys, domestic mammals, and small children got underfoot when least expected. The furniture was covered with clear plastic sheeting, but that would just delay the damage, not prevent it.
Stacy was positioning chairs around a series of folding tables when I walked in. Anthony, their nine-year-old, was helping her, looking harried. The party was clearly getting to him, and just as clearly wasn’t getting to his cheerful-looking mother. “Toby! Good, you’re here,” she said, unsurprised by my appearance. “Get the cake.”
“Got it,” I said, shaking my head as I moved toward the kitchen. If I’d been juggling that many kids, I would have demanded whiskey and duct tape instead of offering them things bound to make them even more hyperactive. But that’s Stacy.
As a quarter-blooded changeling, Stacy was aging faster than any of us, but she wore it well enough that it didn’t seem to matter. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a ponytail and a paint-stained apron was tied around her waist. All the kids take after her to some degree—Jessica looks like a miniature version of her mother—and they could have done a lot worse.
Mitch was in the kitchen unpacking the cake, a three-tiered monstrosity covered in sugar dinosaurs: clearly our friend Kerry’s work. It would take hearth-magic to make realistic sugar reptiles that small. “Hey,” he said. “Help me with this.”
“Sure.” I stepped into position, taking one side of the cake. “How many kids are here, anyway?”
“Nineteen.” He laughed. “You should see the look on your face! It’s a party, Toby.”
“Most parties don’t involve the entire kindergarten.”
Mitch just laughed, muttering a quick charm to light the candles. We could hear Stacy’s voice drifting from the living room, calling the kids to come in and sit down as we carried the cake through the kitchen door. A dozen different off-key renditions of “Happy Birthday” promptly burst forth. The Centaur was singing in German, while a tiny Snow Fairy with ice in her hair joined in with what sounded like a Japanese pop song. Welcome to birthdays in Faerie.
Flanked by a Goblin and a Hamadryad and beaming from ear to ear, Andy leaned out of his chair to blow out the candles with one surprisingly strong breath. Everyone started to cheer. I clapped my hands, laughing.
Happy birthday, kiddo. Happy birthday.
The birthday party had been more draining than I expected. Too many memories of Gillian and the few birthdays we’d shared before I disappeared, too many little laughing ghosts waiting to ambush me. I got home a little after midnight and crawled straight into bed, where I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, until sometime after four. I’d been asleep for less than an hour when the telephone rang, jolting me awake.
I bolted upright, sending the cats tumbling off my chest as I groped around in the dark to find the phone. I glanced at the clock as my hand closed on the receiver. 5:34 AM. Whoever it was had better have a damn good reason for calling, or they were going to suffer. “What?”
“Morning, Toby! I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I suppressed the urge to swear. I only know one person who would risk physical harm by calling me that close to dawn. “What do you want, Connor?”
“Hey, nice voice recognition; you got it on the first try. How are you?”
“Do you know what time it is?” Most fae are notoriously late risers, as in “after sundown if at all possible.” That’s most of us, not all. Selkies are skinshifters. They don’t have any real magic beyond some basic illusions and the power contained in their skins. Dawn messes with them just like it messes with the rest of us, but daylight doesn’t bother them. Once the sun’s up, they’re fine. As a consequence, they have an annoying tendency to be morning people.
Exhibit A: Connor, who cheerfully said, “Half-past five.”
“Right.” I groaned, wiping the sleep from my eyes. The cats had retreated to the foot of the bed, shoving Spike out of the way as they curled up in the warm spot it had created. Sadly chirping, Spike slunk toward me. “Now explain why I should let you live.”
“I’m too cute to kill.”
“Try again.” Spike tried to crawl into my lap. I shooed it away as I swung my feet around to the floor. The rose goblin gave me a wounded look and began grooming its thorns.
“How about I say I’m taking you out for breakfast? My treat.”
“Uh-huh.” If Connor hadn’t been married, that statement would have had me leaping for my clothes no matter what time it was. With things the way they were, I wasn’t thrilled. “What does Raysel think of this plan?”
He hesitated before saying, “She doesn’t exactly know.”
I sighed. “Then I’m not going to breakfast with you. Raysel would kick my ass.” Rayseline Torquill was Connor’s wife, the daughter of my liege lord, and every interaction I had with her went a little further toward convincing me that she was certifiably crazy.
Raysel’s madness wasn’t her fault, which made it difficult to blame her for it, no matter how much it complicated things. She and her mother were kidnapped shortly before I was turned into a fish, and they were missing for almost as long as I was. They came back a few years before I made it out of the pond. Jin says they just appeared in the garden one day, returning as suddenly and unexplainably as they came.
If anyone knows what happened to them during those missing years, they haven’t told me. Luna came back quiet and a little sad, and Raysel…Raysel came back broken.
Maybe it would have been different if I’d managed to avoid Simon’s spell and keep myself from being transformed. Maybe, if I’d been just a little better at my job, they would have come home as healthy and happy as they left it. Maybe. Even in Faerie, time doesn’t run backward, and I guess we’ll never know for sure.
“It’s not like we’d be doing anything wrong,” he said, a note of pleading in his tone. “It’s just breakfast and we’ve been friends since before Raysel was born.”
“Skipping the part where you haven’t exactly been subtle about liking me, that woman thinks I’ve done something wrong when I breathe.” Raysel has hated me since I came back. The fact that there was a time when I’d have happily hopped into bed with her husband might have something to do with it, but it seems to go deeper than that. She acts like I’m her worst enemy, and I have no idea why.
“Please.” Now the pleading was much harder to ignore.
I hesitated. “What’s the deal?”
“What’s the deal?” He laughed. The sound was brittle. “I’m standing at a pay phone on Fisherman’s Wharf because I spent last night sleeping on the beach. My wife is nuts, but it’s a diplomatic marriage, so I can’t leave her, and most of my friends from Roan Rathad are afraid to come near me because they’re so sure she’s going to kill them—and me—one day. I’m lonely. I spend all day, every day, watching my own back, and I’m lonely.” More quietly, he said, “I’m sorry about the kiss. It won’t happen again. But I need a friend, Toby. I need a friend so badly you wouldn’t believe it.”
He sounded desperate. More, he sounded sincere. Connor’s always been good at covering misery with apparent cheer, and I was starting to suspect that he’d been getting even better since he married Rayseline. Shoving my hair out of my eyes, I sighed. “All right, you win. We’ll do breakfast. Where do you want to meet?”
“Mel’s okay?” The change in his tone was immediate enough to make me feel bad for wanting to avoid him. Raysel wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, if I can hang around with the Luidaeg, I can handle Rayseline Torquill.
“Mel’s is fine.” Mel’s Diner in downtown San Francisco is a purveyor of classic Americana, from the ever-popular fried egg sandwich to the fat-saturated roast beef platter. There are no surprises at Mel’s. I like it that way.
“Meet you in an hour?”
“Better make it two.” I stood, grabbing my robe off the floor. “I need a shower, and the sun isn’t up yet. I can’t go outside safely until it is.”
“Oh, right. You’re a wimp.”
“And you’re a skinshifting bastard.”
“I love you, too. See you at Mel’s!” The line went dead. Connor and I have been competing for the last word for a long time, and he’s finally starting to catch up. I need to work on my phone-slamming skills.
I tied my robe and started for the hall, rubbing at my eyes. There was no way I was getting back to sleep. Spike and the cats followed me to the kitchen, where the astronomical calendar on the fridge informed me that dawn was scheduled for 6:13 AM. I’d had to go to the Science Museum bookstore to find a calendar that listed times for sunrise and sunset, and it was worth the effort. Knowing exactly when the sun would rise meant I could have a cup of coffee without worrying about timing things wrong and scalding myself. I’d get through sunrise, take a shower, and meet Connor for a plate of something bad for me. It was starting to look like it might be a decent morning.
There was a knock at the door.
I turned, frowning. No one knocks on my door before dawn. Most of my clients these days are fae and wouldn’t risk being caught out so close to sunrise, and I don’t take human clients who seem likely to show up after midnight. “The hell?”
I started for the door, stopping as I caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye. The cats were huddled under the coffee table, tails bushed out and ears slicked flat. Spike had vanished completely. “Okay. That’s weird.”
There are certain basic rules of survival in my world. One of them is that you don’t live to a ripe old age by ignoring the warnings you get from your pets. Cats that live with the fae tend to get a little touched by strangeness, and the things that get that kind of reaction from them are usually looking for worse reactions from me. Reactions such as screaming, running, or going for a weapon. Whoever or whatever was out there probably didn’t intend anything good.
Feeling increasingly paranoid, I looked back toward the door as my visitor knocked again. I didn’t want to deal with a potential threat before my morning coffee, but whatever it was wasn’t going away. Just swell. I reached into the umbrella stand and pulled out my baseball bat as I approached the door. A girl can’t be too careful if she’s addicted to breathing, and I’ve found that being hit in the head with a stick of aluminum is enough to daunt most monsters, at least for a moment.
“Who is it?” I called. My mother’s blood taught me about monsters, but both sides of the family taught me that I’d get smacked if I forgot my manners.
“Candygram.”
I eyed the door. Whoever it was didn’t just scare my cats, they also quoted bad comedy routines: truly the stuff of terror. Something about the voice made the back of my neck itch. I ran through a quick catalog of options in my head but couldn’t connect it to anyone I knew. Shifting the bat behind my back in case it was one of my neighbors, I opened the door. And froze.
Considering some of the things—and people—I’ve found on my doorstep in the past, I didn’t think I could be surprised anymore. I was wrong.
She stood about five foot eight, with long, almost gangly limbs and the sort of curves that get lost in anything shapeless. Her stick-straight brown hair fell to her shoulders, failing to conceal her dully-pointed ears. She had the sort of pointed face that doesn’t get called “pretty,” even on a kid. “Striking,” maybe, or “dramatic,” but never pretty. Her eyes were beautiful, though, large and bright, with gray irises so pale they seemed to echo the colors around them. I knew those features pretty well. After all, I saw them in the mirror every morning. It was like looking at a photograph, only this photograph was answering my open-mouthed shock with a smirk and a tip of an imaginary hat.
The only major difference between us was the clothes. She was wearing a long green skirt and a cream-colored sweatshirt that proclaimed “Shakespeare in the Park: What Fools These Mortals Be” in faux-Gothic lettering. I was under-dressed in bare feet and bathrobe.
“What the—”
“The name’s May Daye,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
Not even shock can dim my eternally inappropriate sense of humor. “How cute,” I said. Then I froze again, wondering what I’d just insulted. I’m normally pretty good at spotting the bloodlines of anyone—or anything—I deal with, but painful past experience has taught me that I’m not always accurate. Especially when I’m dealing with shapeshifters.
“Really? I thought it was sort of trite myself, but what can you do? Post a complaint against the universe? Anyway.” She brushed past me and took a slow look around the living room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Hey, it’s the cats!” She held out a hand toward Cagney and Lacey, who were still doing their best to disappear under the coffee table. “Here Cagney, here Lacey—” The cats bolted, vanishing down the hall.
May shook her head and dropped onto the couch in an easy sprawl. “Silly cats. Anyway, you’d better put that bat down before you hurt someone, like me. I’m allergic to physical pain. I’m pretty sure it gives me hives.”
I closed the door without letting go of the bat, unwilling to take my eyes off her. She looked like me, she sounded like me; she could have fooled an uninformed observer. If she’d been willing to hold still and keep her mouth shut, she could have fooled my best friends. Even Devin’s hired Doppelganger hadn’t done its job that well.
May shook her head again. “Close your mouth. You look like a goldfish.” The barb hit home. Anyone who knew me well enough to steal my face should have known better than to make cracks about the time I spent as a fish.
My notoriously short-lived patience was running out. I glared, demanding, “What the hell are you?”
“A Fetch. Your Fetch, to be exact,” she said. “You know, the spirits that wear your face when they come to escort you to the lands of—”
“—the dead,” I finished. “Little problem: I’m not dead.” A Fetch is a duplicate of a living person created when it’s time for them to die. They’re incredibly rare, and most people don’t get one. I certainly never requested the honor.
May shrugged. “Mortality’s a constant. I have time; I can wait.”
“You can’t be my Fetch! I’m not going to die!”
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking at me with renewed interest. “Did you go all pureblooded and death-proof when I wasn’t looking?”
“Yes! I mean, no! I mean, yes, I’m sure!”
“I wouldn’t be. I mean, you’re not exactly Little Miss Caution. Look at this.” She pulled down the collar of her sweatshirt, displaying a knot of scar tissue on her left shoulder. “Iron bullets? Yeah, those are a sign of good survival prospects. Or this?” This time she raised the bottom of the shirt, showing the curved claw-marks that crossed her stomach. I’d never seen those scars from the outside: they looked a lot worse from this angle. Some of those wounds should have been fatal.
May tugged her shirt back into place. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not exactly on the universe’s ‘ten longest projected life-spans’ list. I wish you were, because when you die, I die with you. But.” She shrugged. “Fate doesn’t have a suggestion box.”
“Why are you trying so hard to make me believe that I haven’t got much time before I—”
“—shuffle off this mortal coil? Because you don’t, hon. I’m sorry, but it’s true. And what’s with the Shakespeare fixation? Didn’t your mother know about Nora Roberts?”
“Well, first, my mother doesn’t care about mortal authors,” I said, slowly. Her rapid subject changes were confusing me. “Second, I was born in 1952. How was I supposed to find Nora Roberts? Borrow a time machine? And if you have issues with my Shakespeare fixation, why are you wearing that shirt?”
She glanced down at herself. “It’s what they had in the Goodwill donations box. I didn’t manifest with clothes on. Do you have any idea how hard it is for naked people to go shopping?”
“I’ve never shopped naked,” I said. “I thought you were my Fetch. Aren’t you supposed to know these things?”
“Of course. I know everything there is to know about you, right up until the universe decided you were destined to die and created me to be your guide.”
“Everything?” I didn’t like the sound of that. There are some things I don’t want anyone to know.
“Everything. From what you got on your sixth birthday to what kind of flowers you leave on Dare’s grave. I even know what you were thinking about Tybalt after you saw him in those red leather pants—”
I held up my hand. “Stop. I believe you.”
"I thought you might.” She smirked, adding, “I didn’t even need to get detailed.”
“Trust me, I don’t want you to.” Raking my hair back with one hand, I gave her a long, hard look. It was like looking into a strange, hyperactive mirror. Your reflection doesn’t usually start to fidget and study its nails while you’re standing still.
“Why now?” I asked, finally.
May sobered, giving me the first serious look I’d seen from her. “I guess someone feels you’ve earned yourself some time to settle your affairs before you go. I’m your wakeup call. Don’t put anything off, because you may not be around that long.”
“I’m not ready to die!” I protested. My mind was racing. What was it going to be? Simon and Oleander coming back to finish what they’d started? Or something simpler, like a drunk driver who didn’t hit the brakes in time? There are a lot of ways to die, and I’d never really thought about them before. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be thinking about them now.
Death omens aren’t a blessing, no matter what people say; they make you nervous, and that can get you killed. Maybe it’s just me, but I dislike self-fulfilling prophecies. They’re too much like cheating.
“I don’t know much about how people really think, since all my memories are borrowed from you, but I’m pretty sure no one’s ever ready to die.” May rose from the couch, moving with an easy, artless grace that finally confirmed she wasn’t a Doppelganger playing tricks.
When shapeshifters copy a person, they copy them exactly, body language and all. I’ve seen Fetches before. I would have known what she was the moment I saw her if I’d been willing to believe it. Fetches don’t have time to learn little things like motor control, so they come complete with the knowledge of how to move and comport themselves. May was created from fragments of me, but she moved like a pureblood: all fire and air and unconditional grace. She moved like something I’d never been and never would be.
“Anyway, I’m just here to do my job,” May said, and then grinned, solemnity abandoned. “I just want you to know what’s coming down the pike, so to speak. Now that you do, I’m going to go try that twenty-four-hour Chinese place down the block. I remember that you like Kung-Pao chicken. I wanna see if I do, too.”
Dazedly, I said the first thing that popped into my head: “If you had to steal clothes from the Goodwill, how are you planning to afford Chinese food?”
May laughed as she crossed to the door. “Don’t worry about it.” Putting her hand on the knob, she paused. “I’ll be around, and when the time comes, I’ll be waiting.” Then she stepped out the door, whistling. I can’t carry a tune; neither could she, and that made it all real. I’d believed her, but I hadn’t really understood what she meant until I heard her mimicking my utter inability to whistle. I was going to die. I couldn’t stop it.
I was going to die.
She paused to wave. I grabbed a plate off the coffee table, flinging it in her direction. Her eyes went wide before she slammed the door. The plate hit it and shattered.
“No!” I shrieked, regardless of whether or not she could hear me. I was screaming at the universe as much as I was screaming at her, too angry to think straight. “I will not lie down and die because you say it’s time! Do you understand me? I refuse!”
There was no answer but the sound of my own breathing. The cats crept out of the hall with their ears pressed flat, growling in the backs of their throats. Spike slid out from behind the couch, stalking stiff-legged to sniff at the doorjamb. The threat was over from their point of view; it was safe for them to come out and make a show of being brave.
I really wished that I could say the same. I’ve never been the most safety-oriented person in the world. I know I take too many risks. But I’ve always been able to promise myself that I’d stop, that tomorrow I’d settle down and stop playing with fire. Only now it looked there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow. And it wasn’t fair.
Spike was pacing in front of the door, making an angry keening noise. “Aren’t you a little late to play protector?” I asked. It rattled its thorns. With a sigh, I moved to lock the door. Fragments of plate crunched underfoot, cutting my feet. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. When you’re waiting to die, you have bigger things to worry about than a little bit of blood.
I clicked the lock home, shuddering, and turned away. Dawn was coming; it was time to get ready for breakfast with Connor. If there’s one thing I know about destiny, it’s this: it doesn’t give second chances, and it doesn’t believe in waiting for you to be ready. If it was coming for me, it was already too late. All I could do was try to make sure it didn’t catch me sitting still.