You lost any chance of seeing her again when you handed the cure over, mortal. Robin’s breath wanted to fetch up into a sigh; she denied it. Four in, four out, even and slow, for a mortal could be dangerous with the amorous fit upon him and the song was Robin’s only defense.
“I do not know, sir Henzler.” Courteous enough, and she stepped sideways, her hand searching for the doorknob.
He stopped, stock-still. “I’ll wait.” His face was now a crafty child’s, under hanks of limp hair. Now she could see his legs were bare, covered with pinch-scabs, under a pair of stained boxers with smiling penguins cavorting across the cloth. “I’ll wait, and I shall build her more marvelous dolls. Little tiny toys, to creep into blood and breath and brain.”
He’s even talking like a sidhe now. Her gorge rose, she denied it, and wasted no more words on the moontouched mortal.
Outside, the chill was a balm. Even if the place still reeked of smoke and refuse, it was a cleaner smell than inside the glamoured trailer. From the outside, it was a ramshackle, empty cavern, listing dangerously, everything about it warning passerby or poacher away.
She scrubbed her hands together, once, twice, and listened intently. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Robin turned counterclockwise once, and hurried for the main entrance, her heels making soft sounds against cracked, weed-clotted pavement. Each dip and rise was familiar-strange; she could remember riding a borrowed bicycle along its humped back, so long ago. Of all places for Puck Goodfellow to hide the Seelie Queen’s precious little morsel, why had he picked here? Merely to upset one little Ragged? She was not worth such effort from the closest thing to a leader the free sidhe had, even if he had brought her to Summer.
Who knew what Puck ever meant or intended? She hunched slightly and hurried more, faint tendrils of vapor rising from her bare shoulders into the night air. She either had to find the Goodfellow and his cargo, or slip over the border and bring the news to Summer that the Fatherless had absconded with something valuable.
Neither option was appealing, even if it was Summer herself who had traded with Puck to provide some of the chantments and glamours around her mortal toy.
Robin stopped, her head upflung, brushing back her hair and feeling at small items caught in its long flow—the bone comb, two long, thin pins, a ribbon tied about a matted lock to the left of her nape. Chantments in solid form, but she was no warrior to carry weaponry. There was nothing in her hair that would help at the moment.
Especially since another silver huntwhistle sounded. Far to the south, but its high, chilling cry sent a wave of almost-panic through her.
Whatever you’re going to do, Robin, you’d best decide now.
AN ARRIVAL
4
Falida Street lay deserted, shadows swirling uneasily as the streetlamps flickered. Ripples danced, flickers weaving between the lampposts. A weary mortal might think them fireflies out of season, or gossamer traceries of violated night vision. They moved against the wind, sometimes clustering, and if the mortal was sensitive, he might even hear chiming and high, sweet giggles.
A thrill ran along the shivering air, and the streetlamps died one by one, their bulbs fizzing softly. The tiny dots of light dilated, each a palm-sized sphere. Their colors changed almost at random—crimson, emerald, sapphire, each hue spreading through its neighbors before being replaced by another.
The last streetlamp, on the corner of Falida and 217th, struggled to stay lit. When it finally winked out, the bobbing, weaving lights turned cold blue. They clustered, and their tiny piping chorus took on a darker tone.
Pixies always collected where the Veil was thin, and this night was no different. Any of Summer’s realm or the free sidhe would make themselves scarce as soon as that chill pale azure spread. Even a mortal might have sense enough to flee.
The darkness swirled. One moment, nothing, the next, it appeared, and the pixies scattered shrieking in their sharp, tiny crystal voices. One or two weren’t fast enough to escape the breath of chill accompanying the tall, bulky shape, and their lights snuffed out, tiny bodies thudding onto pavement and decaying quickly, sending up coils of autumn-leaf vapor that vanished through the flux of the Veil.
The killing cold etched frost onto the cracked sidewalk; the black horse pawed with too-slender hooves, a chiming ringing down the dark street. The equine head was subtly wrong, too.