Page 13 of Night and Silence

He stopped talking, a look on his face that made me feel like I’d just punched him in the gut—and it wasn’t a bad feeling, much as I might have wanted it to be; hitting him would have been real satisfying right about then—and pulled a phone out of his pocket.

“Good,” I said. “Go to contacts.”

“Done,” he said.

“Punch this in,” I said, and rattled off my number, pausing when I was done to ask, “Got it?”

“I do,” he said. “Toby, please—”

“Good,” I said, cutting him off again. “Text me, so I’ll have your number. Now get out, both of you. We’re wasting time.”

They walked toward the door, Miranda looping her arm through Cliff’s and giving me a poisonous look. I looked blandly back. I didn’t want the man she was clinging to so fiercely, hadn’t wanted him in a very long time—not since I’d fought my way home despite impossible odds and been told I was no longer welcome, that home was no longer mine to claim. Anyone who could reject someone they had claimed to love so conclusively wasn’t for me.

I didn’t want the man, but I’d always wanted the child. I’d always loved the child. And Miranda had been part of keeping that child away from me. I was grateful to her for making sure Gilly grew up with a mother, even if it hadn’t been me. That was where my gratitude ended.

That was where my hatred began.

Cliff looked back when they reached the door. “I’ll text you with her residence hall information,” he said. “Please, bring her home. I know I haven’t been fair to you, I know there’s nothing I can do to make that better, but please . . . bring her home.”

“I will,” I said.

Sunlight lanced into the hall when he opened the door. I stepped back involuntarily, away from the burning brightness. Only dawn has the power to destroy illusions, but the one I was wearing hadn’t been made to stand up to any real scrutiny. It would look wrong in direct sunlight. It would look like the lie it was.

Cliff looked at me in confusion as Miranda’s eyes narrowed in something that felt like contempt. Then they were gone, stepping out into that terrible daylight.

It took everything I had not to slam the door behind them. I sagged, pressing my forehead to the wood and closing my eyes as I released my ragged illusions. They dissolved into the smell of cut grass and copper, and I sobbed, struggling not to let myself collapse. I couldn’t. There wasn’t time. I could have this, this stolen moment of tears and terror, but soon enough, I’d need to get moving. Gillian was out there somewhere, lost and scared, and while I couldn’t say for sure that it was because of me, because of who and what I was, I couldn’t discount it, either. Not yet.

I pushed away from the door and started for the stairs, wiping my eyes as I went, trying to look less like I was on the verge of collapsing. It wasn’t easy. Dimly, distantly, I realized that I wanted Tybalt more than anything else. He was supposed to be here, giving me something stable to hold onto when the world was dropping out from under my feet. I couldn’t be angry with him for being hurt by what my mother had done, but I could miss his solidity.

When had he gone from being an adversary to becoming my surest port in the storm? And how was I going to hold on now that he was slipping away, buried under his own terror and the weight of what it meant to love me? My mother would always be a part of who I was, just like I’d always be a part of who Gillian was. No matter how far we run, we never get away from family.

I plodded up the stairs, relaxing slightly when I reached the cool, shadowy upstairs hallway. May’s door was closed. That was normal. Jazz was usually the first one up, thanks to her diurnal nature and desire to maintain a real job, and she closed May’s door when she left, to keep the cats out. Cagney and Lacey mostly preferred to stay in my room these days, resting their tired bones in the piles of pillows and on the laundry that always wound up strewn on the floor, but when Tybalt came to visit—rare as that felt right now—he always kicked them out, saying that while a cat might look at a king, there were some things he’d prefer his subjects not observe.

I didn’t want to do this. I wanted to leave a note and let her sleep. She could wake up in the afternoon with the problem already solved and Gillian safely back in Cliff and Miranda’s arms . . . and I knew that wasn’t going to work. She would never forgive me. She would be right not to.

Carefully, I eased the door open, revealing a pirate’s trove of casual treasure. Putting my magpie Fetch in a room with a woman who had a literal raven’s eye for shiny things had resulted in a bedroom that looked like it was halfway through the process of transforming into a thrift store. There were two separate dressing tables, one on either side of the room, both covered in jewelry boxes and wire stands glittering with necklaces. Glass, precious stones, it didn’t matter: what mattered was that they were beautiful. Silk sheets covered the ceiling, playing peek-a-boo with strands of twinkling white lights, so that it felt like they were trying to recreate the foggy heights of Muir Woods in their bedroom.

May was a curled comma in the middle of the bed, her arms wrapped around what I assumed was Jazz’s pillow. I paused for a moment, looking at her without illusions or disguises. Her face was mine, blunted by a façade of mortal blood she had never truly possessed: whatever else she might be, my Fetch was a pureblood through and through. But she remembered being me, and more, she remembered being a girl named Darice—Dare—who’d died when she was young enough to be my daughter, who had considered me her hero.

Dare was the reason May existed. Without those memories to urge her on, the night-haunt she had been would never have been willing to activate Oberon’s ancient binding and have herself called as a Fetch. It should have been the end of her. Instead, it had become a new beginning. I was grateful. I would always be grateful, just like I’d always be sorry that I hadn’t been able to save her.

I sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over to gingerly shake May’s shoulder. She made a soft mumbling noise and burrowed deeper into the covers.

“May,” I said. “It’s me. I need you to wake up. Come on. We don’t have time.”

May opened her eyes. Rolling onto her side, she pushed herself up onto one elbow and squinted at me. “Toby? What time is it?”

“Way too damn early,” I said. I stood. “Get up and get dressed. You just missed Cliff and Miranda. There was an incident at Gillian’s school last night. The campus police found blood in her car. I need to wake Quentin, and we need to get moving. I thought you might want to come with us.”

May’s eyes widened for a moment. Then they narrowed, a look of steely determination sliding into place. “There’s no might about it. I’m coming with you. How dare you even imply I wouldn’t.”

I blinked. “I didn’t think—”

“No, you usually don’t. And I’m usually pretty forgiving of that, since I know how your head works. I know how easy it is for you to get swallowed up in that swamp you call ‘logic.’ But no. I am not sitting this one out.” She rolled out of the bed and onto her feet, eyes wild, teeth all but bared. “She’s my daughter, too. I’m helping you bring her home.”

“Okay.” I raised my hands, palms outward, trying to defuse the situation before it could get out of hand. “That’s fine: that’s why I woke you. We’ll leave a note for Jazz, and . . . that’s fine. I’m going to go get Quentin. All right?”

“Go,” she said.