An Artificial Night
Page 9

Spike took that as consent, withdrawing its claws and scrambling up my side to perch on my shoulder. I shook my head and left the apartment. No more delays.
Despite Spike’s tendency to ride pressed against the windshield, I didn’t need to worry about it being spotted; rose goblins have instinctive glamours that keep them hidden from anyone they don’t want seeing them. Control erodes natural magic. The better any race of fae gets at “using” magic, the less instinctive magic they have left. Some things come easier to certain races—like blood magic to the Daoine Sidhe—but a lot of the natural talents common to the smaller fae are almost missing among the races that can pass for human. Spike can do pretty much whatever it wants without fear of being noticed by the human world.
The drive to Mitch and Stacy’s felt like it took no time at all. Panic does that, cramming weeks into hours and hours into seconds. Devin used to call it “running on changeling time,” his way of referring to that state where time runs too fast and no matter how much you have, it’s not enough. All I could think about while I drove was how losing Gillian had nearly killed me. I couldn’t let that happen to Mitch and Stacy. I just couldn’t.
Mitch met me at the car. “Mitch,” I said, and hugged him. He clung for a moment before I pushed him to arm’s length, looking him in the eye. “Where’s Stacy?”
“Inside,” he said. His voice was shaking as much as he was. “She won’t let the kids out of her sight. She even had me move Karen downstairs so she could watch her sleep.”
“Okay. Can you answer a few questions before I go in?”
He stared long enough that I was afraid he didn’t understand me. Then he nodded, saying, “I can try.”
“Stacy said Andrew and Jessica were missing.” He nodded. I continued, “Did you see them go to bed?”
“Yes. They were there, and Cassie says Jessica was in her bed when she left.”
“Good to know.” That was when Spike leaped from the car roof to my shoulder, anchoring itself through my leather jacket with a full complement of claws. I flinched. Cats are blunt instruments compared to rose goblins.
Mitch stared. “Toby, why is there a rose goblin on your shoulder?”
“Spike wanted to come, and I didn’t have time to argue.” Spike sniffed the air and growled. I frowned. “It’s never done that before. Spike? What’s wrong?” That was all the warning it gave before it launched itself from my shoulder and raced for the house, claws churning divots out of the lawn. It looked enraged, like it was running to defend its territory against an unwelcome invader. I glanced at Mitch, snapping, “Go to Stacy,” and followed Spike.
I almost caught up with Spike on the run across the yard, but it jumped through the window to the living room while I was forced to take the door. It beat me to the stairs by leaping over furniture while I had to weave past Stacy and the kids. We paced each other to the upstairs hall where it began to circle, thorns rattling angrily. It was making a low, almost subsonic snarling noise, like something about the hall offended it. That didn’t bode well. Spike originally belonged to the Duchess of Shadowed Hills. It usually had a pretty good idea of what was and was not dangerous, and if it was unhappy about the hallway . . .
I drew my knife, holding it against my hip. “Which way?” Spike looked up and hissed. I sighed. “That doesn’t help.”
There were six doors. One led to the linen closet, and the one next to it led to the bathroom. The door to Cassandra’s room was ajar, showing a tangle of papers and discarded clothes on the floor, and the door to Mitch and Stacy’s room was open, displaying the characteristically unmade bed. Mitch works nights; Stacy must have woken him when she found the children missing.
The first door led to Jessica and Karen’s room; the door to Anthony and Andrew’s room was across the hall. Both rooms were cluttered, verging on messy—nothing out of the ordinary, considering the age of their inhabitants. I started toward the girls’ room, scanning for signs of a struggle. It was in disarray, but not beyond the normal limits of a room shared by two preteen girls. Whatever happened, Jessica left without a fight.
A hand on my shoulder stopped me as I started to step across the threshold. I stiffened. Only the knowledge that Anthony and Cassandra were in the house kept me from swinging around blade-first. Sometimes I think I’m getting trigger-happy. Then I think of how many things have tried to kill me and I wonder why it’s taken this long for the paranoia to kick in.
“Aunt Birdie?” Cassandra whispered.
I relaxed, looking over my shoulder. “Yeah, puss?” Spike was still turning in slow circles, growling. I wasn’t sure what had it so pissed, but I wasn’t going to get in its way.
“Did you find them?”
“Not yet. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” she said, face falling. “Mom’s not doing so good. Will you come down?”
The tone of Spike’s snarling changed, becoming more insistent as it stopped circling and began advancing, stiff-legged, toward the boys’ room. “Not yet,” I said. “Keep your mother and everyone else downstairs, all right?”
“Okay,” Cassandra said dubiously, looking at Spike. “Your rose goblin is growling.”
“I know. Go downstairs, Cass. I’ll be there soon.” Or I’ll be dead, I added silently. I try not to ignore warnings, especially ones I don’t understand. Spike could be freaking out over a mouse, but it might also be reacting to a threat I couldn’t see. Assuming the worst is a good way to keep from being surprised.
She looked at me, frowning. Then she turned and went downstairs.
I waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade before following Spike into the boys’ room. Half of it was Anthony’s, decorated in spaceships and astronomical posters; the floor was marginally cleaner on that side. Andrew’s half was done up in dinosaurs and clowns, all bright colors and rounded angles. The dinosaurs I gave him for his birthday were on the shelf beside his bed, seeming small and somehow sad. The boy who loved them wasn’t here.
Spike stopped in the center of the room, tossing back its head and howling. The sound scraped at my nerves, leaving them raw. I flinched and stepped past it, moving to study Andrew’s bed. It didn’t look like there’d been a struggle: the sheets were thrown back and the blanket was shoved to one side, but that was normal. Kids sleep hard. If Andrew was taken from the bed, he either didn’t wake up, or he went voluntarily. Considering Faerie, both were options. I knelt to check under the bed before moving to poke through the closet.