few places that perhaps could break her trail. She did not wish to cross its threshold unless things became truly dire, but the wind chilled further as light drained from the sky, and Robin Ragged was suddenly aware of just how weary she was.
She calculated distance, probable meanings, and Puck’s sudden interest, and arrived at a very depressing conclusion.
I might as well. What does it matter?
“The Rolling Oak.” It was neither a confirmation nor a denial, and she backed up still further. No hummock turned her ankle, no bog clutched at her shoes. Perhaps it was an omen, or merely good luck. “Perhaps I shall see thee there, Goodfellow.”
“Ah, my lady Ragged, perhaps you shall.” The unholy glee on his slim brown face would have given her pause, but she had already fled into the birches, taking the chance that they would halt or turn any curse he spat at her retreating back. His last call, though, shivered the naked branches overhead. It was an old song, and no doubt he sang it to taunt her, for at the end of it was a death.
“For my love promised to meet me, and will she be untruuuuuuue…”
The rest of its chorus burned inside her as she reached the edge of the park.
And lo, my love, she came too late.
And oh, my love, was you.
LONG AND LONG
22
It would have been easier with something to practice a sympathetic chantment on. Something she had worn or breathed upon.
But of course it couldn’t be easy, not for him.
Dusk found Jeremiah on Challer Avenue, where the old Garden Faire had stood. A meeting place for free sidhe and mortal-Tainted, it had once been a throbbing hub on the edge of the Gobelins. The market—and its goblin Doges—no longer stitched themselves to the alley alongside, perhaps because the coffee shop was now a burned-out husk, with only a faint lemony tang of sidhe remaining. Violence still tingled in the blackened walls, and he ducked past the faded festoons of caution and crime-scene tape.
The massive mahogany counter the long-haired ghilliedhu girls had clustered at was a shell, the walls dappled with smoke and water damage. No sign of Ardie Meg, the brughnie proprietor he had once almost considered a friend; no sign of anyone else. Just the vibration of screaming and smoke—and a very faint, almost unsmell of bitter almonds.
Unseelie, again. Scavengers, or besiegers? Had open war been declared on free sidhe without him knowing? Of course, if he’d known, would he have cared?
Not before today.
No, Gallow, be honest. Not before Friday night.
He told that sneering little voice in his head to fuck off and eased around the long shoal of burned and shattered mahogany, his boots making the floor wobble alarmingly. He’d thought this place was built on concrete, but maybe that was glamour. Exhausted ghosts of cinnamon steam and faint breaths of coffee-smell rose, brushed his cheeks and the backs of his hands.
There was a scorch in the back hallway leading to the little-used restrooms, scorch-smear clawing down from the ceiling. Up near the top the wall was eaten away, and he sniffed cautiously, smelling the peculiar fading ozone of an electrical fire. This wall was shared with a mortal bar that faced onto 73rd instead of Challer; perhaps some catastrophe there had spread.
Wood and field burned easily, and so did their spirits. He shook his head, deciding it didn’t matter, and headed for the bar.
The shelves behind the mahogany wreck were twisted and warped. He crouched right where the cash register had been, and reached back. He had to actually put his head under the bar, into the smoking darkness, and for a moment the thread of screaming and fear rose to overwhelm him.
Yes, a mortal fire. Brughnies didn’t burn like ghilliedhu or other wood-spirits, so Ardie might even be alive elsewhere. Who knew? They were homefast wights. They didn’t like to move, but would one stay here?
His fingers closed around oiled black canvas. He pulled it free, gently, and his fingers sensed no breakage. He didn’t breathe until he had the little bag safely cupped in his hands, straightening his legs so he could check the interior again. No movement, and his instincts weren’t tingling.
Still, it wouldn’t do to stay here, now that he had what he sought. The few small tokens he’d taken from Summerhome might possibly be useful. It was a wonder they hadn’t been found by scavenger or fortune-hunter.
If Ardie was still alive, she was underground. Good luck finding her; brughnie