Artificial Night, An - Seanan McGuire Page 0,34
your head and show it to you.” That pleasure was reserved for me.
I slowed as the Luidaeg’s building came into view on the left. It was a heap of crumbling brickwork and peeling paint that looked like it was going to collapse any day. I think she’s the only tenant—at least, I hope she is. No one should live that way unless it’s by choice. I pulled into the first available space. Whimpering, Spike followed me out of the car. I couldn’t reassure it. Hell, I couldn’t even reassure myself.
The Luidaeg’s door was set deep in the shadows, sheltered by a rickety fire escape. The frame was darkened and warped by years of neglect. There were no wards; she didn’t need them. Raising one hand, I knocked.
“It’s open!”
Great, a self-service portal to hell. Just what I always wanted.
The door swung silently open when I turned the knob; the Luidaeg likes special effects, not clichés. I stepped inside and choked, trying not to gag on the mixed smells of seaweed, mold, and rotting fish. The dark hallway was filled with clutter and half-seen obstacles; a light flickered at the other end, very far away. Spike flattened itself against my ankles before climbing my side to huddle on my shoulder. Giving it what I hoped was a reassuring pat, I began picking my way through the garbage on the floor. Things moved in the darkness near the walls, scuttling and hissing, and I was suddenly glad my night vision isn’t as good as my mother’s. Spike hissed. I stroked its head with one hand and kept walking.
The Luidaeg was in the kitchen, rummaging through a water-stained cardboard box. Gas lamps filled the room with a shifting, unsettling glow. She looked up as I entered, asking, “Did you look back?”
Sometimes I think the Luidaeg never ends a conversation; she just puts them on hold until you come back into range. “No,” I said. “And if you think that was easy at rush hour, you’re nuts.”
“I never said it would be easy.”
“I know.” I thought about adding “but I don’t understand,” and decided against it. I wanted her to help me. Pissing her off would be a bad idea.
She put her hands on her hips, eyeing me. I waited. Never rush anyone who’s personally witnessed continental drift.
The Luidaeg doesn’t use glamours to make herself look human; she’s a natural shapeshifter, and she’s as human as she wants to be. Freckles and a peeling tan warred for dominance over her features, and a piece of electrical tape barely held her oily black curls in a rough ponytail. She was wearing stained coveralls and heavy dock boots, leaving her arms and upper chest bare. She could have been in her late teens or early twenties. There was nothing fae about her, and that was scary as hell. She’s Firstborn and incredibly powerful, but she can hide so well I’d never see her coming. There are a lot of things I’d rather face than the Luidaeg on a bad day. Like Godzilla.
“Did Luna tell you what was going on?”
“Some.” I found a reasonably clean spot on the counter and leaned against it, trying to ignore the cockroaches scuttling away. “She said Blind Michael was riding because he needed new members for his Hunt.”
“Pretty much.” She snagged one of the larger roaches and popped it into her mouth. I winced. Swallowing, she continued, “He Rides once a century. Before that happens, he sends his Huntsmen to bring him suitable children. They find the kids, catch them, and bring them to him.”
“Why children?”
“Because they’re young enough to become his.” She shook her head. “He can’t have a Hunt without Riders.”
“Why haven’t we killed him?” I blurted and instantly regretted it. Blind Michael was the Luidaeg’s brother; her sisters died at the hands of Titania’s children a long time ago, and she’s never forgiven Titania’s line for their deaths. Considering my own heritage, reminding her that Firstborn can be killed didn’t seem like the best possible idea.
She narrowed her eyes, pupils thinning to serpentine slits. “It’s been tried. Once it was even tried by my sisters and I—we belong to Maeve, but that doesn’t make us monsters. Remember that, child of Oberon: even we can tell the difference.”
The Daoine Sidhe are claimed by Titania, not Oberon. This didn’t seem like the right time to point that out. “Why didn’t it work?”
“Because there are rules, and they weren’t followed.”
I frowned, reaching up to stroke Spike. It huddled against my neck, whining.