A Local Habitation
Page 8

“Play music.”
I eyed it. “Where does the cassette go?”
“Toby.” He rolled his eyes. “You really are a Luddite.”
“I spent fourteen years as a fish, remember? I’m allowed to be clueless about your crazy modern techno-toys.” I waved a hand. “Anyway, I think the company’s somewhere in the business district.”
“You think?”
I thrust the folder of instructions at him and restarted the car. “Here. See if you can figure out where we’re supposed to be going.”
“Okay . . . hey.” He flipped through the papers, frowning. “Where are the directions?”
“And thus you put your finger on the problem.” I shrugged. “We go left.”
“Left?”
“We’ve got to start somewhere.”
“Left it is.” He sighed. “I have got to show you how to use the on-line map services.”
“Maybe later.”
The two of us working together were able to make something like sense from Sylvester’s twisted notion of “giving directions,” and twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of a gate with a number that matched the one in the file. The fence stretched a full block in either direction, protecting a tangle of undergrowth Sleeping Beauty’s groundskeeper would have envied. The plants I could identify were fast-growing varieties probably chosen for the ability to cover ground in a hurry, while the trees were all eucalyptus, the tallest weed known to man. They grow fast enough to create thick cover years before almost anything else, and here in California where they have no native predators, they grow taller than they were ever meant to.
A stone arch spanned the driveway, supporting a portcullis that looked like it was stolen from the set of Camelot. Something flashed in the darkness behind the gate; I doubted it was a deer.
“Are you sure this is the right place?”
I pointed to the wooden sign reading ALH COMPUTING and said, “Looks like it.”
“How do we get in?”
“Good question. Hang on.” There was an intercom set into the fence: high-security or not, they needed a way to know when they had guests. I got out of the car, moving to study it more closely. “Hey, Quentin, bring me the folder.”
“So I’m your servant now?”
“Very funny. Give me the damn folder.” I held out my hand. Laughing, he passed the folder over.
There was no security code in Sylvester’s directions; there wasn’t even mention of a security system. Lovely. I leaned forward, pressing what I assumed was the “talk” button. “Hello? Anyone there?” There was no reply. I shook my head, looking back at Quentin. “Ideas?”
He shrugged. “We could go home.”
“Unfortunately, no.” Sighing, I turned back to the intercom and hit the button again. “Hello? This is October Daye—I’m here to see January Torquill. Can someone let me in?” I waited several minutes, frowning. It was a nice day, but I didn’t want to spend it outside.
Finally, annoyed, I blew the intercom a kiss and said, “Speak ‘Friend’ and enter,” while projecting the firm belief that I’d entered the correct code. The smell of copper rose in the air as a sharp, stabbing pain hit me behind the eyes, making it clear that even if the spell didn’t work, my body’s limited magical resources had noticed it and debited me accordingly.
All fae have a limit to what they can do, and mine is lower than most. Just maintaining my human disguise can be a strain; when you add the rest of my daily magical wear-and-tear . . . let’s just say that I have more than my share of magical migraines.
At least the pain wasn’t for nothing. The intercom crackled, displaying the word “welcome” on the reader screen as the portcullis began cranking upward. I straightened. “Right. Let’s go.”
Quentin frowned. “What did you just do?”
“I picked the lock.” Seeing his disapproving expression, I sighed. “Look, we’re here because Sylvester’s worried. That justifies a little breaking and entering. Now get in the car.”
He rolled his eyes but did as he was told. The security system was more impressive than practical; it took almost five minutes for the portcullis to open, and that’s too long to wait for a door. With the purebloods, style almost always triumphs over substance. Once the opening was wide enough, we drove through, following the winding driveway down a short hill to the parking lot. The undergrowth dropped away, replaced by a well-manicured lawn that surrounded the two buildings at the blacktop’s far side. Trees rose in a forebidding tangle around us, the illusion of wilderness only leavened by glimpses of the city skyline. They’d done an excellent job with it, especially when you considered that they were in the middle of Silicon Valley, where very few people can afford their own private forests.
The buildings were red brick, connected by concrete paths that wound in seemingly random curves across the lawn. The taller building was five stories high; the smaller one was only two. It looked more like a private school than a computer company. There was a distinct lack of steel and chrome.
The strangest thing about the landscape was all the cats. There were about two dozen scattered around the almost empty parking lot, strolling lazily along, bathing themselves, or just dozing in the sun. Even more were on the grass, lounging, watching us come.
“Toby . . .”
“I see them.” The cats in our path didn’t even bother to run as we drove down the hill; they just sauntered away, tails in the air. I pulled into a spot near the front of the lot, stopping the engine, and they promptly surrounded the car. One bold calico leaped onto the hood, staring at us through the windshield.
“That’s just not right,” Quentin said.
“Uh-huh,” I agreed, unbuckling my seat belt. I got out of the car, tucking the folder under my arm. Giving the cats a confused, speculative look, I glanced back toward the gate.
There was someone—a little girl—standing by the trees. She was wearing denim overalls, and the wind was rippling her long blonde hair in a wave. The light winked off her glasses as she turned her head, looking at me. I raised a hand . . . and she was gone.
“Okay, that was creepy,” I said. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Quentin asked, stepping up next to me.