A Local Habitation
Page 72

I knew the blood was vital as soon as I tasted it. Then Jan’s memories overwhelmed my vision, and I didn’t know anything beyond what the blood was telling me.
Warning bells in the server room; need to make sure everything’s okay, we have enough problems already. The lights are out. That’s no good. Can’t see in the dark, never could, stupid eyesight, stupid glasses. Feel around, find the switch, where’s the switch—
Pain pain pain, pain like burning, pain everywhere, why’s my shirt wet? Reach down, feel the blade where it meets my chest—the fire ax from down the hall? Why is the fire ax in my chest? I . . . oh. Oh, I see. Shouldn’t I be upset? Shouldn’t I be crying? It hurts. It hurts so bad. But all I feel is confused. Why is this happening . . .
“Toby?” Quentin’s voice cut through Jan’s memories.
“Be quiet,” I said, and swallowed again, screwing my eyes closed. I’d already learned something vital: we were right when we assumed it was a “who,” not a “what.” Monsters don’t generally use fire axes. The magic stuttered, trying to catch hold, and started again. . . . here? I grab the ax handle, and pull, trying to free myself. I don’t want to die like this, I don’t want to die without answers . . .
Something’s behind me, it’s too fast to see (the room’s too dark too dark to see), grabs the ax out of my hands. Turn to run, run run run, too late, steel hits flesh, shoulder hits the wall, look for purchase, grab hold, flailing, losing blood so fast. It hurts, but I’m angry, so angry—how dare they hurt my friends, my family, my world—I catch the blade and they gasp, it’s a person, a person, not a monster, can’t see who, I can’t see . . .
The blade pulls free. I scream—so angry, so helpless—and the ax hits again and again, and it’s getting hard to breathe. Can’t see. Can’t taste anything but blood. Force the air through the lungs, out the lips, “Why?”
No answers. The ax hits again, and there’s a new feeling, a cold new feeling . . .
That was when the memories in the blood ended; my best guess was that she fell and died after that, while that “cold new feeling” drained the vitality from the blood still in her body. I shook myself, gasping, back to the present. “She fought,” I said, aware of how dazed I sounded.
“Toby?”
“It’s okay, Quentin. I’m okay. I just . . .” I looked at my bloody fingers, and shuddered. “I found part of what we’ve been looking for.”
“Did she see the killer?”
“No. Jan wore glasses, remember?” I allowed myself a bitter chuckle. “She had no night vision.”
Quentin deflated, saying, “Oh.”
“At least she had a chance to fight. That’s more than the rest of these poor slobs got.” I wiped my hand on my jeans—a little more blood wouldn’t make a difference one way or the other—and started for the door. “Come on. We need to get moving.”
“What are we going to do now?” Quentin asked, following me.
“First we’re going to move her down to the basement. I want all the bodies in one place.”
“And then?”
“Well, then, we’re going to find the others, and I’m going to call Sylvester.” I offered him a small, grim smile. “I think I’m done avoiding a diplomatic incident, don’t you?”
TWENTY-THREE
THIS TIME, THE PHONE RANG five times before it was answered: Sylvester again, out of breath and anxious, sounding almost terrified. “Hello? Who’s there?”
I paused. “Sylvester?”
“Toby! Oak and ash, October, why didn’t you call before? We’ve been waiting. Your hotel says you haven’t been checking messages there, either. What’s going on? Where are you?”
“What . . . what are you talking about? You know where I am! You told us to stay here.”
Now he sounded wounded; more than that, he sounded scared. “I did no such thing! Tybalt came to tell us you were worried about tampering with the phone systems, and I’ve been waiting here ever since. When it wasn’t me, it’s been Etienne, or Garm. Even Luna’s taken her turn. You haven’t called.”
Oh, Oberon’s blessed balls. Gritting my teeth, I said, “The problems with the phones may go a little bit past tampering.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I called you right after Connor got here, and you said we should all stay put.”
He paused. “Do you mean . . . ?”
“Uh-huh. Connor and Quentin are still with me.”
“Oh. Oh, October. That’s not good.”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the boys. Quentin was leaning against one of the soda machines, while Connor was making himself a cup of tea. I’ve always been wary of men who don’t drink coffee. Tea’s just such an inefficient way of getting your caffeine on. “No,” I agreed. “No, it’s almost certainly not.”
Something in my tone must have telegraphed how serious things had become, because there was a pause before he asked, “Are you hurt?”
“A little bit. Nothing I can’t handle.” My head was pounding, my hand felt like hamburger, and the cuts on my face had barely started to scab. Oh, yeah. I was in top condition.
“What about Quentin?”
“He’s scraped up, but he’s fine. We had a minor accident with the car.” It was technically true. We were already out of the car when it exploded. “Connor got here after that; he’s fine, too.”
There was another pause before he said, more quietly now, “Not everyone’s fine, though, are they? I can hear it in your voice.”
“January,” closing my eyes and letting my forehead rest against the cool metal of the pay phone. “She’s dead.”
“Ah.” There was a world of pain in that single tiny syllable; a world of mourning that he didn’t have time to give in to. “How?”
“We’re still not sure. She didn’t die like the others, though. Her death was more . . .” I hesitated. Somehow, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say “violent.” Not when I could already hear Sylvester crying. Lamely, I finished, “. . . disorganized. Either she wasn’t the intended victim, or it was more personal than the others were. I don’t know yet.”