wandering Robin would be more difficult to catch. If she stayed in daylight she would have an edge when facing any of Unwinter’s minions capable of lightshield chantment; and the plagued would not dare even this milksop daylight.
Or so she hoped. She also hoped, as she ghosted noiseless above the roof while the mortals inside drank coffee, stared at glowing screens, argued, and cheated at their “jobs,” that she would have a better idea before sundown.
LOCKED AND SILENT
19
Jeremiah left his truck behind at the jobsite—dead mortals didn’t drive—so it was two long, weary bus rides and a mile’s ramble before he stopped at the corner and peered down his street. Midday, and the trailer court lay silent under the drizzle. The Garnier house was quiet and dark. Mama Loth’s rocker tilted back and forth, squeaking a little as the breeze pushed at it. The glass windchimes on Loth’s porch tinkled a sad dissonant melody.
He crouched in the lee of Bob Haskell’s dead, ancient van with a stag painted on its side, its four flat tires melding with the patched concrete. The stag was the only spot of color on the street, its painted sides somehow heaving even as it lifted its disproportionate head. Behind it, the artist had tried for mountains that looked more like low blue loaves of bread. The grass looked like wisps of smoke, and Jeremiah was suddenly aware he reeked of fire and bloodshed.
He exhaled softly. Nothing appeared out of order. If they could find him at an iron-laced jobsite, though, could he assume his home was safe? Or even the admin building downtown?
Then again, an attack on his burrow would be foolish; they couldn’t guess what he had lurking in the walls or ceiling to trap the unwary.
Five minutes. That’s all you’re allowed.
He stepped out of cover and sauntered down the street, an iron nail clutched in his left fist, every sense quivering-alert. The doorknob gave under his hand, and all was as it should be. It even smelled right—dust, dead air, the lingering of Robin’s perfume.
“I should have known,” he muttered once, while opening dresser drawers that still held a breath of violet sachet. In the end, a single backpack contained everything he needed. The spare pair of boots, two pairs of jeans, underwear, a few shirts… and the weapons. The two knives, slender-hilted with curveleaf blades. He’d left behind the long, slim box strapped to the wrapped cylinder of a quiver when he left Court, and now he regretted it. A bow kept the enemy further from you than the lance.
He paused, and swept Daisy’s jewelry from the top drawer of the dresser into the Crown Royal bag she’d kept potpourri in. She’d never wanted much—it got caught on things, got lost, she said. He knew it was because they scraped by. He could have done so much more, but Daisy said it was good enough.
He’d believed her. Now he wondered.
Four and a half minutes later, he stepped out onto the porch and glanced at the carport. It stood like always, the thorny vines reaching up like a throbveined hand. He swung the door shut as an afterthought, and stopped.
Little green buds covered the tough blasted vines. They were tipped with pinpricks of swelling crimson.
All the breath left him in a rush. He actually clung to the doorknob, memory rising under his skin. Daisy on the step, laughing, her hand up to shade her eyes. Daisy coaxing the rose vines, Daisy warm and silently sleeping on moonlit nights.
Why was her face suddenly a haze? Just the coppery hair and her rich, young, beautiful laugh.
His fingers slid off the knob. It was spring. There were tiny razor-tooth leaves clinging to the vines as well. No mystery, just that the roses had finally decided to come back. Sometimes they did. It had nothing to do with anything sidhe. Just chance, luck, coincidence.
“Right,” he muttered, and his fingers flicked. The door locked, the deadbolt shot home. Let it stand or let it burn, he had everything he needed.
Except he didn’t. He hefted the bag onto his shoulder and checked the sky. Still gray and spattering drizzle on the mortal earth. At the site they would be poking through the wreckage, either cursing the loss of half a day to disaster or secretly excited at the break in routine.
Halfway down the street, he glanced back. The little flashes of red in the carport mocked him, and the trailer already looked abandoned. Mama Loth would watch his carport