Page 40 of Night and Silence

SHE LOOKED PEACEFUL, her hands crossed over her chest and her legs stretched out so that her sneaker-clad toes pointed toward the far wall. We could have been in her bedroom or at the residence hall, someplace where she had every reason to lie down for a nap without concern that something would happen. She was dressed in blue jeans and another UC Berkeley sweatshirt, and I was taking a step toward her, hand outstretched, when my phone rang loudly enough to jar me out of my brief fugue.

I stopped where I was and pulled the phone from my pocket, checking the display. Walther. With another longing glance at my little girl, I swiped my thumb across the screen and raised the phone to my ear. “What?”

“Marlis says she’s still there. She wanted to know why I was asking. I told her I didn’t know, but that’s not going to hold my sister long. You know how paranoid they are in Silences. They have good reason to be, but—”

“Whatever they have up there, it’s not the false Queen. She was here. She’s the one who took Gillian.” Gillian, my Gillian, was breathing easily, not in any visible distress. She was asleep, yes, but it couldn’t be elf-shot, or she would have been dead before I reached her. Whatever this was, it would be something reversible, something temporary. I could have her up and back home with her parents before dinner. Maybe saving her twice would be enough to make them let me in. Maybe they’d set a place for me.

They wouldn’t. But oh, it was nice to dream.

“How are you . . .” Walther paused, his breath catching loudly enough to carry through the phone. “Her magic. You found her magic. Did you find . . . ?”

“Gillian’s right here, Walther. She’s asleep. She’s so beautiful, and she’s right here.”

There were no visible wounds on Gillian’s hands or face. She could have just been taking a strangely peaceful nap in a deserted, fire-devastated house. Even her hair was relaxed, falling in perfect waves across the mold-speckled pillow. Her skin was a few shades darker than mine, a gift from her Italian father, but if she opened her eyes, they would be foggy blue, like mine had been when I pretended to be human, like my own father’s eyes. He lived on in the granddaughter he’d never known, and if there was anything that kept me from mourning the loss of my human blood, it was the fact that it still flowed in her veins. I had given up the greater part of my own mortality in part so that when the time came, I would be able to preserve hers.

I hadn’t seen her in so long, but I knew her. I would always know her. She was my child, she was mine, and I couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful.

“October . . .” Walther hesitated. “Is anyone with you? I’m concerned.”

I couldn’t imagine what there was for him to be concerned about. “There was some sort of repulsion spell outside the house. I got through by bleeding. The others can’t bleed the way I can.” I laughed unsteadily. “Finally, that’s a useful skill.”

“So you’re alone with your daughter right now?”

“Yes. I should wake her up. Her father is so worried about her.” Cliff seemed like a small concern at the moment. More than anything, I wanted to see Gillian open her eyes and smile at me. She hadn’t smiled for me in so long, not since she was so small, and I wanted to know what it felt like to have my adult child see me. I needed to know.

“Toby, hang on. Doesn’t this seem a little easy?”

No. Nothing about this day had been easy. I wanted to hang up. But this was Walther, and he’d been a good ally to me; he was the reason so many of the people I loved were awake, not dreaming their lives away in some forgotten tower. I forced myself to keep the phone against my ear as I said, “I don’t think so.”

“And I get that. Look, do me one favor and I’ll drop it, okay?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You said you had to bleed to get wherever you are right now. That’s all I want you to do. Bleed for me again. Bleed one time, enough to let you see any illusions that might be screwing with your perception. If I’m wrong, if nothing changes, you can wake her up. Okay?”

It was a reasonable request. The fact that it irritated me as much as it did was a sign that he wasn’t wrong to make it. I swallowed my anger, trying to focus on the reason I didn’t want to bleed. There didn’t seem to be one. Walther was asking me to be careful, that was all. I’d promised Quentin I would do exactly that. So why was the idea infuriating me?

I drew my knife with my free hand. Keeping the phone pressed to my ear, I drew the blade across my lower lip, wincing as it parted delicate skin and brought blood bubbling to the surface. Quickly, I sucked at the wound, filling my mouth with the coppery new-penny taste of my own pain.

The room changed. I had time to register the shift—how much darker it seemed, how much more advanced the rot on the walls was—before the creature on the bed was howling her displeasure and lunging for me.

This wasn’t the first time some terrible thing had pretended to be my little girl in order to get to me. I didn’t know why it was such a surprise. But it was, and I was dimly afraid that it would continue to be, every time it happened. In the moment, my greater focus was on keeping myself alive. If there was any mercy to the situation, it was that she no longer looked like Gillian. I wasn’t fighting my own little girl.

I brought my knife up, dropping the phone in my haste to block the attack. The creature howled again, dancing back from the touch of silver. She was emaciated, a husk of a woman, with skin the color of spoiled cream and hair like rotting gorse, a tangle of brown and gold and slimy, filthy green. Her eyes were holes leading into an abyss, and her mouth was a horror of teeth and hunger.

“Toby?” Walther was shouting now. “Toby, what’s going on?”

“Little busy here!” I yelled, as the creature—the Baobhan Sith, sweet Oberon, this was a Baobhan Sith—lunged again, her howl like the rush of wind around the walls of a crumbling keep. Her outline flickered even as she was attacking, and I knew if I let it, the illusion that had made her appear to be my child would reassert itself. I wouldn’t be able to fight back. I’d just stand there and let her rip my throat out.

I shoved the sleeve of my leather jacket up to my elbow and slashed my own arm, not taking any care to avoid the major arteries. Blood sprayed the room in a hot gush before the skin scabbed over, healing faster than I could cut. The Baobhan Sith paused, sniffing the air with a speculative look on her face. She was hovering easily three feet off the floor, because what I like in an opponent is the ability to fly.

“Hi,” I said. “I am Sir October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, and I command you to stand down, in the name of Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills and Queen Arden Windermere in the Mists.”

That got her attention. The Baobhan Sith shrieked and dove for me, mouth open and aimed at the thick smear of blood coating my arm. I danced backward, bringing my knife up to block her. It wasn’t as good as a sword, or a shield, or running the hell away, but the door was somewhere behind me, and I didn’t want to turn my back on her. In my experience, letting something with that many teeth get the jump on me was a good way to lose more skin than I liked.

She slapped my knife to the side, hard and fast enough that I barely had time to parry, and then her mouth was clamping down on my arm, her sharp, serrated teeth reopening the closed wound and making dozens of new wounds at the same time. I shrieked in surprise and pain, slashing at her shoulder in an effort to make her let go.

The blow landed, my knife slicing into her arm and embedding itself against the bone. She didn’t let go. If anything, she bit down harder, suckling at my arm like an infant. I struggled to pull my knife free as a wave of dizziness washed over me, nearly dropping me to my knees.