A Local Habitation
Page 54

“Do we need to have a talk about what ‘keep someone with you’ means?” I asked, heading for the coffee machine. My exhaustion was fading, replaced by a sense of general irritation with the world. “Why are you here by yourself? Jan’s alone in her office.”
He sighed, putting down his cup. “You’re mad at me.”
“I’m mad at everyone.” I poured myself a cup of coffee as Quentin walked past me to the soda machines. “You’re the third person I’ve found alone. Are you trying to make this harder than it has to be?”
“No, I’m not. I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it,” I said, and took a long gulp of coffee, relaxing as I felt the caffeine starting to hit my system. “Quentin, get something nutritious to go with your soda. A Snickers bar or something.” Peanuts have protein, right? Topping off my coffee, I walked over to the pay phone.
“Dial nine for an outside line,” said Elliot.
“I don’t think that’s going to be an issue.” I put down my coffee, picked up the receiver and pressed my palm against the keypad, hitting all the numbers at once. The smell of grass and copper rose around me, almost cloyingly strong as I chanted, “Reach out, reach out and touch someone.” Quentin and Elliot were looking at me like I was nuts. That was all right; maybe I was.
The silence gave way to clicks, which faded and were replaced by watery ringing. Then a familiar, irritated voice was on the line, saying, “Hello?”
There are times for pleasantries; this wasn’t one of them. “Luidaeg, it’s Toby. I need to summon the night-haunts.” Elliot stiffened. Quentin dropped his soda. Well, they recognized the name.
The Luidaeg was silent so long that I was afraid she’d put the phone down and walked away. Then she snarled something in a language I didn’t recognize before demanding, in English, “What?!”
“I need to summon the night- haunts.” Repetition is sometimes the best way to deal with the Luidaeg: just keep saying the same thing over and over until she gets fed up and gives you what you want. All preschoolers have an instinctive grasp of this concept, but most don’t practice it on immortal water demons. That’s probably why there are so few disembowelments in your average preschool.
“Why?”
I outlined the situation as quickly as I could without leaving anything out. Dealing with the Luidaeg is a bit like juggling chainsaws, except for the part where you can’t master the trick. A chain saw won’t flip randomly in midair and dive for your throat: the Luidaeg might. Worse, if she thought I was holding back on her, she could refuse to help.
Elliot paled as I described what I’d found in Barbara’s desk, but kept listening, horrified and fascinated. Quentin gave me a wounded look and turned away. It wasn’t that I was calling for help: it was that I was calling the Luidaeg, who had every reason to hurt me after she helped. Almost everyone’s heard of the Luidaeg; she saw most of Faerie born, and she may see it die. Even for people who are supposedly immortal, that kind of age is scary. Some people say she’s a monster. I just say that she’s got issues.
When I finished she said, “And that’s why you want to summon the night- haunts?” She didn’t sound angry; just tired, and a little bit exasperated.
“Yes. I’m hoping they can tell me why they haven’t come for the bodies.”
“What if they won’t tell you? What if they don’t know?”
“I don’t know,” I said, opting for honesty before cleverness. “I’ll think of something.”
The Luidaeg snorted. “I’m sure you will. How many of the people you’re ‘guarding’ will die while you think?”
That stung. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“Is it good enough?”
“Are you going to help or not?” Across the room, Quentin winced. The Luidaeg’s had millennia to learn how to piss people off. It was probably always a natural talent, but at this point, she can pack a world of insult into a single word.
“I shouldn’t, but I will,” she said. “Mostly because if I don’t, I’m sure you’ll try anyway and get yourself killed while I’m not there to watch. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes,” I lied, and gestured to Elliot, making scribbling motions in the air. He handed Quentin a notebook and pen, and Quentin brought it to me, quickly. I nodded to him, saying into the phone, “Go ahead.”
“Ask me the question first.”
“Luidaeg, I—”
“You know the rules. Ask me, and I’ll tell.”
“How do I summon the night-haunts?”
“Good girl. Now, here’s what you’ll need . . .” And she started rattling off ingredients and ritual gestures the way most people assemble shopping lists. Fortunately, I take good shorthand. Quentin watched, grimacing as I wrote out more and more elaborate instructions. I ignored him, continuing to write until she finally stopped, snapping, “You got that?”
“I think so. First, you . . .”
She cut me off, saying, “Good. Remember, don’t get cocky, and be sincere. It’s the intention they’ll be listening to, not the shape; if you don’t believe in what you’re saying, the night- haunts have the right to demand you go with them as a sacrifice.” She paused. “I should set up a deal like that. Bother me and I get to eat you.”
“Luidaeg?”
“Yes?”
“Will this work?”
“Follow my instructions and it will. Do you understand what you’re summoning?”
“I think so.”
“Good. You do this alone. They won’t answer if they feel the calling isn’t unified.”
I glanced at Quentin and Elliot, wincing. They weren’t going to like this. “All right. I understand.” I’d have to explain while we prepared.
“Understand this, too—that was your last question. My debt to you is paid. I don’t owe you anymore.” The line went dead.
I set the receiver back in the cradle, saying, “I know, Luidaeg. I know.” She’d owed me one true answer to any question I cared to ask. She didn’t owe me anymore. If I survived ALH, I might be coming home to my own execution.
Is there a law that says life can’t be simple?