Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(33)

I settled into it, flashing him a quick smile. Tybalt smiled back, his own relief painted clearly across his features. His position had been as bad as mine was, maybe worse: I had to worry about my fiancé rejecting me, but he had to worry about the political status of his entire race. What he did here, he did for all Cait Sidhe, not just for the Court of Dreaming Cats. Maybe he could have handled things better—absolutely he could have handled things better—but I couldn’t blame him for a few small missteps. Just like always, we were standing on uncharted ground.

“How did you arrange all this?” I asked.

He settled into the chair across from mine, picking up the pitcher and pouring us each a glass of dark, faintly fizzing liquid that smelled of blackcurrants and roses. “As I said, the kitchen staff sends their regards. You’re well liked in this court, although I couldn’t for the life of me say why, insufferable creature that you are.”

“I thought you liked me insufferable,” I said, reaching for my glass.

Tybalt put his hand over mine and smiled. There was nothing but fondness in his eyes.

“My dearest October, I adore you insufferable,” he said.

I laughed, and for the first time since this conclave had been announced, I started to feel like things were going to be all right.





EIGHT


WE SPENT AN HOUR or so out on the balcony, eating slowly, enjoying the night air. I was enjoying the absence of the nobility—well, except for Tybalt, Raj, and Quentin, which really meant that I was enjoying the absence of annoying nobility—even more. The teenagers finished their spaghetti and made a raid on our tea tower, taking half the scones back to their table. I threw a wadded-up napkin at them, and they laughed, and everything was perfect.

That alone should have told me it couldn’t last. The air rippled and Sir Grianne of Shadowed Hills was suddenly sitting on the balcony rail. Her Merry Dancers spun in the air around her. Like King Antonio, she was sketched in shades of gray. Unlike him, her skin was ash and her hair was granite, striated in bands of dark and light. Also unlike him, she was wearing simple livery: a tunic in the blue and gold of Shadowed Hills and a sash around her waist in the silver and purple of Arden’s household.

“Grianne,” I said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, like my ignorance was none of her concern. “On loan,” she said.

Candela tend to be short-spoken, preferring to communicate through pulses of light and the motion of their Merry Dancers, the glowing orbs that accompanied them everywhere from birth onward. Grianne exemplified her race. I waited several seconds, and no further details were offered.

Right. “Did you need something?” I asked.

“The conclave is resuming,” she said, her voice thin and reedy as the wind through the trees. “Your presence is requested by the High King.”

“I guess that’s our cue.” I stood. Quentin and Karen did the same. I started to turn toward Tybalt, but stopped as the smell of pennyroyal and musk tickled my nose, carried to me by the light midnight wind. He was already gone. So was Raj. It made sense: they hadn’t left the gallery with us, so they couldn’t exactly return with us without making the declaration of allegiance that Tybalt had been trying so hard to avoid. I understood the necessity, but it still bothered me.

Quentin put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t have to look down when I turned to meet his eyes. That bothered me, too, but in a different way. He was growing up. He wasn’t going to need me much longer. He already didn’t need me in the way he had, once, when he’d been trying to muddle his way through puberty and I’d been the one who was willing to restock the fridge and let him crash on my couch. Everything was changing, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go sit through more political screaming.”

There was a flash of greenish-white light as Grianne toppled backward off the railing and was gone. Sometimes I feel like we hang out with too many teleporters.

It didn’t take long to walk back to the dining room where we’d been served our first, abandoned dinner. It was empty. The tables had been cleaned, and the lights were turned down low, presumably so no one would get confused and try to come here for the conclave. There was a strange sound as we stepped through the door, like the distant rustle of skeleton leaves, or the beating of a thousand autumn leaf wings on the wind. My heart dropped into my stomach. I knew that sound. It stopped almost instantly, but it was too late. I’d already heard it.

I stopped and spread my arms, keeping Quentin and Karen from moving forward. They were good kids. Better yet, they had both known me long enough that when I indicated that I needed them to stay where they were, they froze immediately.

“What is it?” asked Quentin.

“That sound,” I said. “Did you hear it? When we first came in.”

“Dead leaves,” he said. “The whole place is decorated in redwoods. There’s going to be some settling, especially when there’s no one talking to cover it up.”

“Redwoods don’t have leaves, you doof,” said Karen. “They’re evergreens.”

“Just stay here, both of you.” I stepped forward, wishing I’d been allowed to bring my knife; wishing I wasn’t walking, unarmed, into a large, empty dining hall where I’d heard—or thought that I’d heard—the beating of the night-haunts’ wings. It hadn’t been loud enough to have placed them in this room. They were approaching. But why?