A Local Habitation
Page 78

Tybalt was holding Elliot a foot off the ground. He’d shown at least a little bit of mercy, letting go of Elliot’s throat in favor of grabbing his collar. While this seemed less likely to rip Elliot’s jugular open, it wasn’t doing him any favors in the “breathing” department; Elliot was thrashing, face turning a worrying shade of plum. Every cat in the place seemed to have gathered around them, turning the lawn into one teeming, furry mass.
“Tybalt?” I said, lowering my hand.
He turned toward me, and dropped Elliot. “October?” His eyes flicked from my pristine condition to the scrapes on my cheek and the bandages on my hands before narrowing, attention swinging back to Elliot, who was huddled in a graceless, gasping heap. “Is this one responsible for your hands?”
“What? No! No, I did it myself.” I was smiling, irrationally relieved by his arrival. Tybalt doesn’t normally move me to smile, but somehow, having additional fire-power didn’t strike me as a bad idea. “I sort of had to.”
“How do even you wind up in a circumstance where you ‘sort of have to’ slice your hands open?” Tybalt prowled toward me, Elliot clearly dismissed. “Did you also ‘sort of have to’ do whatever it is you’ve done to your face?”
“No, that happened when I jumped out of my car to keep myself from being inside it when it decided to explode.” I shrugged. “It’ll heal.”
“If you don’t die.”
“If I don’t die,” I agreed.
He gave me another up and down look, finally saying, “Nice coat,” before turning back to Elliot, who shrank back. “You. The cats say you’re one of the people in charge here.”
Elliot glanced at the cats surrounding him like he was looking for support. A fluffy orange tomcat flattened its ears, hissing. He winced. “I . . . I suppose I am. Can I help you?”
“You can begin by explaining why no notice of Barbara’s death was sent to the other Regents of the Court of Cats,” said Tybalt, sounding almost bored as he hoisted Elliot back to his feet. “Then, you may explain why my subjects tell me that any who enter that building,” he indicated the door with a jerk of his chin, “never come out again.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Elliot?” Elliot didn’t answer, being preoccupied with once again turning a rich, slow shade of purple. I sighed. “Tybalt, most people can’t answer questions when they can’t breathe. Put him down.” After a pause, I added, “Gently.”
Tybalt lowered Elliot’s feet to the ground, not letting go of his shirt. “Speak,” he growled.
“We didn’t tell you because we didn’t have any way to reach you! There aren’t any other Cait Sidhe in the County! Jan said her uncle knew you, but we couldn’t get through to him, and people kept dying!” Elliot was babbling, words spilling over one another as he fought to get them out before Tybalt cut off his air again. “We weren’t hiding it from you!”
“And the cats?” Tybalt asked, in a tone that seemed much more relaxed, and was likely much more dangerous. I didn’t mind. I wanted the answer to that one, too.
“I . . . the cats were Barbara’s responsibility,” Elliot said. “I really don’t know.”
Tybalt released his shirt and knelt, not taking his eyes off Elliot. A calico hopped onto his shoulder, meowing, and he nodded, expression grave. The cat jumped down again as he straightened. “The cats agree with your story.” The words “luckily for you” didn’t need to be spoken. They were already all too present. “You may take me inside now.”
“Wait.” I raised a hand, remembering why we’d left the building in the first place. “I’d rather not be left alone out here, and I still need to make a call. Can you two hang on?”
“Of course,” said Tybalt, in a dry tone. “I came entirely to wait on your pleasure, not to avenge a dead Queen of my line at all.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, I smiled. “Excellent. This won’t take long.”
I meant that seriously. What I didn’t expect was how accurate my words would be. I dialed the pay phone in Paso Nogal, waiting until a winded Melly answered the phone, managing to gasp out, “Hello?”
“Melly?”
“October! Ah, child, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Melly, is Sylvester still there? I need to—”
Melly cut me off, saying, “His Grace has already ridden out, along with most of the knowe, I’m afraid. Even Her Grace went along. Is it . . . is it true that dear January’s left us?”
The image of Luna attacking a killer with an army of rose goblins was interesting, but not useful. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, that poor lamb,” she said, with a deep, wounded sigh. “Just take care, if you would. There’s been death enough.”
“I will,” I said, before hanging up. I’ll give Elliot this much; of the pair of them, he was the only one pretending not to listen. “Sylvester’s on his way. He’ll get Quentin out of here.”
“Good,” said Tybalt. “Now may we go inside?”
“Of course,” said Elliot.
Tybalt fell into step beside me as we followed Elliot into the knowe, saying quietly, “I would have come straight to you, but the place is warded. None of the Shadows would open.”
“They have a Coblynau on staff.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “That would do it. Why are you so concerned with what becomes of this ‘Quentin’? Is he a new swain of yours?”
“First, Tybalt, no one says ‘swain’ anymore. Secondly, no. He’s a foster at Shadowed Hills, and he’s been injured. Someone was trying to shoot me, and they got him instead.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“I don’t know.” I paused. “But you might. Elliot, take us to the cafeteria.”
“Why?”
“Because we just got ourselves a bloodhound,” I said, smiling thinly. Tybalt snorted at my comparing him to a dog, but didn’t object. The news that I’d been shot at seemed to have disconcerted him more than I expected. If it made him agreeable, well, I wasn’t going to argue.
The cafeteria was empty. Wherever the surviving denizens of ALH were spending their day, it wasn’t here, perhaps because they were avoiding the grisly sight of Quentin’s blood, which had dried to a dirty, unpleasant brown on the floor all around the soda machine. Elliot stiffened at the sight of it. “No,” I said, before he could ask. “You can’t.”