couch and the heaps of junk mail threatening to cascade off the coffee table and conquer the floor. I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. Combine that with the fact that I’d been regularly pulling eighteen-hour days since getting my PI license reinstated, and it was no wonder my apartment was a disaster zone. I just wasn’t sure I wanted my liege to see it that way.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say “sorry, come back later.” For all that my fourteen-year absence means I’m currently somewhat outside the social order at Shadowed Hills, I’m still a knight errant in Sylvester’s service. If he wants to drop by my apartment, he has every right to do so. Of course, his impending visit almost certainly meant he had a job for me. Swell. Nothing says “hangover recovery” like being called to active duty.
Spike was twining around my ankles. I knelt to pick it up, wincing as it settled to the serious business of kneading my forearms with needle-sharp claws.
“Come on, Spike. Let’s get dressed.” It kept purring as I carried it to the bedroom, calling over my shoulder, “Cagney, Lacey, watch the door.” The cats ignored me. Cats are like that.
One advantage to being a changeling: my hangovers are a lot milder than they should be. Thanks to the coffee, my head was almost clear by the time I finished my dramatically shortened shower. I got dressed at double-speed, choosing practical clothing for what was bound to be a long day. I had just finished tying my shoelaces when someone knocked on the front door, the sound punctuated by the rattle of Spike’s thorns.
“At least I’m not naked,” I muttered, and rose.
Sylvester had his hand raised to knock again when I swept the door open in front of him. He stood there for a moment, looking almost comically startled. Then he smiled, offering me his hands. “October. Did Tybalt give you my message?”
“Hey, Your Grace,” I said, taking his hands for a second before allowing him to pull me into a hug. A human disguise covered his true features with the dogwood flower and daffodil smell of his magic. I’ve learned to find that particular combination of scents soothing. It means safety. “Yeah, he did. I’m sorry I missed your call.”
“Oh, don’t be. You don’t sleep enough,” he said, letting go and stepping past me into the apartment. “I had no idea you and the King of Cats were getting on so well.”
I reddened. “We’re not. He followed me home.”
Sylvester raised an eyebrow, saying more with a gesture than words could have expressed. I shut the door, resisting the urge to hunch my shoulders like a scolded teenager. There are some conversations I never wanted to have with my liege. “Why was the King of Cats answering your phone?” was the start of one of them.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I would have called sooner, but I only recently learned that I was needed at the Queen’s Court.”
“Do I even want to ask why?”
A shadow crossed his face, there and gone in an instant. “No.”
“Right.” We fell quiet, with me looking at him and him looking at my apartment. There was an aura of bewildered disapproval from his side of things, like he couldn’t understand why I’d choose to live in a place like this when I had all the Summerlands to choose from. For all that Sylvester’s one of the most tolerant nobles I’ve ever known, I knew that confusion was sincere. He really didn’t understand, and there was no way I could possibly explain.
Sylvester’s one of the Daoine Sidhe, the first nobility of Faerie. His hair is signal-flare red, and his eyes are a warm gold that would look more natural on one of the Cait Sidhe. There’s nothing conventionally pretty about him, but when he smiles, he’s breathtaking. Even dressed in a human disguise that blunted the points of his ears and layered a veneer of humanity over his otherwise too-perfect features, his essential nature came shining through.
All the Daoine Sidhe are like that. I swear, if they hadn’t raised me, I’d hate them all on general principle.
“October, about your living conditions—”
I clapped my hands together. “Who wants coffee?”
“Please. But really, October, you know you’re always welcome at—”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Both. But . . .” He paused, eyeing me. “We’re still not having this conversation, are we?”
“Nope,” I replied cheerfully, turning to step back into the apartment’s tiny kitchen. “When I’m ready to come home for keeps, I’ll let you know. For right