The Unkindest Tide (October Daye #13) - Seanan McGuire Page 0,160

your answer carefully.”

Cal looked at me sullenly before looking at their feet. “Fine,” they said. “I’ll stay on the porch.”

“Excellent. Now return to feline form, please. You’ll attract less attention that way.” I turned my back on them and resumed walking. They would follow instructions. Cal enjoyed playing the rebel, but they wouldn’t risk my genuine annoyance.

Sure enough, there was a rustling behind me as Cal stepped into the bushes beside the nearest house, followed by another rustle as they leaped out of the brush on four legs. I kept walking, not giving them the satisfaction of looking back. They would only take it as proof that they were getting to me, and keep going.

Cal and I have known each other since we were kittens. We’ve never been friends; as Prince, I was never encouraged to socialize with the common children of the Court. It was only after my father’s death that I began to ask myself how much of that had been his idea. Uncle Tybalt was always happy to leave my rearing to my parents, and Father’s will was always stronger than Mother’s. He was the one to stress how important I was, how powerful and special, and how much I needed to hold myself apart from the people I’d eventually rule.

I felt a pang of guilt at that. But the past is past—it can’t be changed—and while I might regret my paucity of friends among the Court, I’m too aware that Quentin’s time in the Mists is short and growing shorter; the only question now is whether he has to leave before I’m forced to become King. Call me a coward or call me cruel, but I have no wish to widen my social circle further, not when I’m about to lose my best friend in all the worlds. I’m a cat. We don’t share well.

Seen from the street, Helen’s house was as dark as the others around it. I started up the porch steps, smiling as I felt the magic grow thick and taut around me, like a bowstring drawn back and ready to be released. If I’d been human, I would have been repelled long before I reached the top step, shoved gently back by the field which concealed the lights from sundown to sunup every night. Helen’s father has tried to explain the parameters of his wards before, and the reason he lowers them during the day—something about postal workers and Girl Scout cookies. To be honest, I’ve never been able to bring myself to pay attention long enough to understand his apparent cleverness. The house is secure; Helen is safe. That’s all I care about.

One more step carried me to the shabby welcome mat just outside the front door, and the spell released me with a soft, nearly audible sigh, allowing me to see the house as it truly was: brightly-lit and fully awake. The windows were open. Pixies swarmed around the hummingbird feeders, sipping sugary red juice and squabbling with each other in high-pitched voices.

I rang the bell. Footsteps thumped down the stairs inside. Then the door opened and Helen tumbled into my arms, her lips seeking mine, safe from prying human eyes within the shell of her father’s illusion.

Oh, Helen. My Helen. She wasn’t going to pose any competition to Helen of Troy any time soon, and I didn’t want her to; the sort of beauty that can launch a thousand ships is the purview of the Daoine Sidhe, may they choke on it, and it doesn’t belong in my arms. I have friends among the Daoine Sidhe—Quentin is virtually my brother—and I still don’t think I could love one of them. Their power is too much about how perfect they are, and not enough about the things they do.

A human mother and a Hob father had left her on the short side, not quite five and a quarter feet tall. Her hair was brown, curly, and inclined to mischief; I’d found myself with a mouthful of it more than once, when I was trying to play the skilled lover and plant kisses on her throat, jaw, or shoulder. Despite the scent of it, her shampoo didn’t taste like mint or melon. It tasted like soap. I didn’t like it.

I liked everything else about her. She was curvier than she’d been when we first met; puberty had been kind. There was nothing about her I didn’t like, and I’d never been shy about telling her so when she got self-conscious. She’d