Page 81 of The Brightest Fell

The Luidaeg spun around before Simon could say anything, slamming her hand into his chest. It passed through skin and muscle, into the space behind his breastbone, and for a terrible moment, everything seemed to stop, because she was standing there with her arm buried halfway to the elbow in another person’s body. Simon went stiff, his jaw going slack and his arms dangling useless at his sides.

“I truly am sorry,” said the Luidaeg, and pulled her arm free.

In her hand was a bird, slightly larger than the one that had flown to roost in August’s breast. Its wings were green, and its tail was forked like the ribbon on a Christmas present. The Luidaeg moved her other hand, and was suddenly holding a bottle like the one that had contained August’s way home. Maybe it was the same bottle. It was large enough to hold the bird, but barely; when she drove the stopper home, the bird beat its wings against the glass, clearly pinned and uncomfortable, unable to comprehend its captivity.

“The price is paid,” said the Luidaeg, and tucked the bottle into her gown. She snapped her fingers. August collapsed to the floor, gasping as the Luidaeg’s spell released her.

Simon blinked. It was the first time he’d moved since the Luidaeg reached into his flesh to pull his payment out. Then he shook himself convulsively, like a dog trying to dry off after an unexpected dousing in a lake.

“Papa?” said August. She stood slowly, uncertainly, her knees knocking together as she moved. She looked so lost. Who knew that it could cost so much to be found?

“Simon?” I said.

He looked at her, and there was no comprehension in his face. She might as well have been a stranger to him, as he had so recently been a stranger to her. Then, slowly, he turned to me, and smiled. It was the languid, oily smile of the man who had been Oleander’s lover and Evening Winterrose’s willing servant. He’d had good reason to be both those things, but they were what had helped him to get so lost.

“Why, October,” he virtually purred. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Uh,” said Quentin.

“Crap,” I said, and drew my knives, one in each hand. Silver is the most common metal in Faerie, and iron is the most deadly; used together, they can even kill the Firstborn.

August’s eyes widened. She leaped to her feet, throwing herself between me and Simon. “No!” she shouted. “Don’t you hurt my father!”

“Dear, you seem like a very nice girl, whoever you are, but I assure you, I’m not your father,” said Simon. He gripped her shoulders and shoved her aside, showing none of his former care. “October and I, on the other hand . . . we have unfinished business, don’t we?”

“Uh, Luidaeg?” I said. “Little help here?”

“He’s lost his way home,” she said. “He was using you as a map to get himself there.”

“So shouldn’t he forget who I am?”

“Apparently, no,” she said. “That wouldn’t be as absolutely isolating as only remembering that he hates you.”

“Oh, swell,” I said. I returned my attention to Simon. “I know you can’t remember this right now, but we’re not enemies anymore. I’ve even sort of forgiven you for the fish thing. Can you chill, please, so we can work this out?”

Simon’s response was a sneer, and a complicated motion of his hands through the air. The smell of smoke and rotten oranges rose around him, heavy enough that I had no trouble identifying it.

“Guess not,” I muttered.

Simon didn’t say anything. He just flung his spell at me, hard and fast. Not fast enough: I got my knives up, crossing them in the air in front of me, and felt the impact up my arms as whatever he’d been trying to cast struck the iron and evaporated. Whatever it was, it had been strong enough that it rocked me backward, onto my heels. Simon snarled, hands beginning to move again.

I was mostly human, standing in a room with two stunned, motionless purebloods and a Firstborn who was actively forbidden to raise a hand against any descendant of Titania unless they were entering into a bargain with her. So naturally, I did the only thing that made sense, and I charged, knives still held in front of me, ready to deflect whatever he might throw.

Simon Torquill had been called many things over the centuries, and having spent time with the man, I was willing to accept that most of them were accurate. I’d heard him referred to as a monster, a cheat, a trickster, and a coward . . . but I had never heard him called a fool. When he saw me running toward him he spun on his heel and fled deeper into the apartment, heading toward the back door.

I was perfectly willing to follow him until the Luidaeg’s hand on my elbow stopped me. I turned to her. She shook her head.

“Don’t,” she said. “You can’t save him from what he’s done to himself. Let him go. I won’t lock my doors against him.”

“What did you do?”

We both turned. August was still standing where Simon had put her, staring at the two of us. She looked so much like our mother—so much like me—that I was briefly taken aback. Until that moment, she had been an obstacle, not an individual. Now . . . this woman, this stranger, who had attacked me the moment that we met, who had abused and enchanted my allies, she was my sister. We shared blood. It didn’t seem quite real.

She took a step forward. “What did you do?” she repeated. There was menace in her tone now, like she thought she could somehow frighten us into putting her world back to normal.

Even Quentin was unimpressed. “Simon fixed your mess,” he said. “You should settle down. You’re being sort of a jerk.”

August stopped to blink at him. “Who, in Oberon’s name, are you?”