"I'm not sure my safety is really a priority right now," I said, shaking my head before I stood. "I'll do my best."

"That's all I've ever been able to ask from you." Sylvester stood in turn, moving to embrace me. I didn't pull away. "I'll send the knights out, and start sending out inquiries. If there's anything to be learned here, I'll learn it. And if you need help, call us. We'll be there."

"I'll call," I said.

Sylvester let me go, looking at me sternly. "Promise, Toby."

I held up my hands. "I promise! I promise."

That appeared to be enough to satisfy them. Luna rose as well, and hugged me briefly before giving me a nudge toward the doors. "We'd keep you here all day if we could," she said. "That's why you need to go. Finish doing what you're bound to do, and come back to us."

"I'll do what I can," I said, and forced a smile before turning to make my exit.

Quentin was standing by the door in the hall, back to playing the perfect footman. There were several people waiting for an audience, and so he didn't move from his position, but he winked as I brushed by. I spared him a tight, pleased smile. He was a good kid, and he was learning. Maybe there's some hope for us yet.

It was late enough that a steady trickle of people filled the halls, heading toward the audience chamber at a leisurely pace. It's a good thing Faerie isn't big on fire marshals: while the traffic wasn't heavy enough to stop me from making my way to the door, it would have complicated an evacuation. Most of the people I pa.s.sed gave me odd looks for going against the current, although one fragile-looking Gwragen wedged into a niche on the wall offered me a conspiratorial smile as I pa.s.sed. I guess she thought she'd found a kindred spirit, someone else who just wanted to get away from the crowd. She was right, in a way, although my urge to get away was born of urgency, and not the natural Gwragen reluctance to get caught up in social niceties. I returned her smile and kept going, rushing down the last stretch of hallway to the knowe's back exit.

The late afternoon light was momentarily blinding as I stepped back into the mortal world. I raised an arm to cover my eyes, waiting for the brightness to fade. When it did, I looked around to find myself at the bottom of the hill, dressed in my own clothes, with a warm buzzing in the air that told me my human disguise was back in place. I reached back to check the tip of one ear, confirming that it was round. It was. I shoved my hands into my pockets, looking up the hill toward the oak that served as the door in, before I sighed and started across the parking lot.

My car was where I'd left it, apparently undisturbed, despite the fact that I'd left it unlocked; no real surprise there. Pleasant Hill isn't a big crime town-the worst they usually get is groups of teenagers pushing each other around and saying "you suck." It's a nice change, especially after San Francisco, where it's perfectly acceptable to give your girlfriend an ear as a courting gift in some of the less reputable neighborhoods.

I opened the door and got in, fastening my seat belt. The radio came on when I turned the key, and I hit the scan b.u.t.ton until it found the local eighties channel. I prefer listening to music I can recognize, and that doesn't include most of the stuff that makes the current top forty.

Thoughts about the case and Shadowed Hills kept me occupied until I reached the Bay Bridge and needed to pay attention to the traffic. Even with the other cars to deal with, it wasn't a difficult merge-not unless you counted the two tailgaters and the little old lady who seemed convinced that the speed limit was fifteen miles an hour-and I wasn't in a hurry. I had plenty to think about while I waited to reach the tollgate. I inched forward, following the flow of traffic, and shook my head. I'd just think about it until the puzzle came together and everything made sense. Then I'd find Evening's killers, bring them to justice, and go to bed for a week.

The toll taker at the tollbooth didn't even look at me as he held out his hand, saying blandly, "Four dollars."

Smiling, I reached into my pocket and slipped him four of the mushrooms I'd plucked from the gra.s.s under my window. "Miss Suzy had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell," I said to him. He started to protest, and I finished, "Miss Suzy went to heaven, the steamboat went to New Jersey where it enjoyed a lucrative career in children's programming." The smell of copper and cut gra.s.s rose around me, twining around the toll taker's head.

A brief, stabbing pain hit me behind the eyes, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The illusion seemed to have worked, because the toll taker dropped the mushrooms into the fare box, waving me through. I smiled wanly, tipped an imaginary hat, and drove on. Yes, it was mean and petty and something I probably shouldn't do. On the other hand, subst.i.tuting random pieces of greenery for human money is a long-standing tradition, and the fae are supposed to revere and uphold tradition, right? Besides, I only do it when they're rude to me. And when I don't have exact change.

Traffic on the bridge was light, and I was beginning to think that I was going to make it the rest of the way home without incident. I smiled, antic.i.p.ating a smooth trip to my apartment, followed by a pause where I could start a.s.sembling clues into something that resembled a coherent picture. The temptation to blame it on the Queen was pretty strong, even though it would probably get me executed. Unfortunately, I didn't think that theory would get me very far; something wasn't right there. Oh, well. There was time for me to think about it.

I'm sure it's written somewhere, possibly in Fate's day planner: "October Daye is never to be given enough time to actually think about what she's going to do next." I was exactly halfway over the bridge, surrounded by water, when a deep, rumbling chuckle rolled out of the backseat, and a figure loomed up in the rearview mirror.

There was someone else in the car.

FOURTEEN.

MY FINGERS CLENCHED ON THE WHEEL as I stiffened, forcing myself to keep looking straight ahead. This was just great. Positively peachy. Finding an intruder in my car when I was on a bridge, driving over more water than I cared to think about? Exactly what my day didn't didn't need. I searched frantically for options and couldn't find any. There was nothing I could do but keep on driving. need. I searched frantically for options and couldn't find any. There was nothing I could do but keep on driving.

After a moment I cleared my throat, and said, "You realize that if I go off the bridge here, we're both going to die."

I don't know what kind of reply I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I got: a deep, rolling chuckle, one that was almost closer to a growl. Laughter over the idea of a watery grave is never precisely a sign that you're dealing with a sane individual.

Swallowing, I tried again. "I've got to admit, you've got the advantage. I'm pretty sure you know who I am, or else you wouldn't be here. You mind telling me why you're in my car?"

The only answer was another chuckle. I fought the urge to turn around for a better look. Even if he was unarmed, which I doubted, you should never give up any degree of control over your car when you're on the Bay Bridge. It's a form of Darwinism: if you're dumb enough to take your eyes off the road while crossing part of one of the largest bodies of water in the world, you're too dumb to be allowed to live. Then again, if the guy in the backseat killed me, that would also be a form of Darwinism. This situation seemed less escapable by the moment.

"My patience isn't eternal, you know," I said, calm fading from my voice. I was scared and I was angry, and there was no sense in trying to hide it. "If you're going to threaten me, can you hurry and do it before we crash? I just got this rust bucket paid off, and I really really don't feel like looking for another car." don't feel like looking for another car."

This time, he didn't laugh; he just loomed even larger in my rearview mirror, edges blurred by a block-me illusion and his silence telegraphing the fact that one way or another, he didn't expect me to be shopping for a new car anytime soon.

He was in the car. That was a fact. It was something I couldn't change, and that meant I needed to stay calm. It's hard to be rational when you're mad, and it's even harder when you're scared, so I refused to go with either one. Once the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was out of the car, I could pull over and have a nice nervous breakdown. a.s.suming I survived.

The first off-ramp was just ahead. Good. The San Francisco streets aren't necessarily safer than the Bay Bridge, but it's harder to fall to your death if you make a wrong turn. Harder, not impossible; if the world actually has an edge, it's probably hidden down a one-way street somewhere in San Francisco.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, sending a silent "sorry" to my car. I was serious when I said I didn't want to go shopping for a new one. Sure, it was a 1974 VW Bug with enough miles on it that I thought someone might have driven it to Hawaii, but it was still my car. I chose it because I liked it, and I was honestly sorry we weren't going to get more time together. At least it was going to die in the line of duty.

The exit loomed, and I hit the gas, accelerating off the bridge and onto Harrison Street. Most of the traffic stayed behind us, heading toward more acceptably tour isty locations. That was dandy. I watched the shadowy man in the mirror as he moved closer to my side of the car, obviously still under the a.s.sumption that we were playing by some sensible set of rules. He was wrong.

I like games. I usually win.

As soon as he was fully in motion, I slammed my foot down on the gas, jerking the car into a hard left. He flew across the car, hitting the door with a satisfying thud. Horns blared around us as we went rocketing the wrong way down a one-way street. "What the-?" demanded a voice from the back. I didn't recognize it-good. That meant it wasn't anyone I knew, and there'd be less guilt on my part if I managed to smash the car into a wall and kill him. I can be mercenary, but I'm not heartless.

"It's called reckless driving, a.s.shole!" We were on a direct collision course with a taxi. I swerved at the last moment, swearing. The man in the back did the same, more loudly. I didn't want to hurt anyone but him, and I'd settle for shaking him up enough that he wouldn't chase me when I ran. "I know I'll I'll survive if we crash. How about you? Did you remember to buckle up?" survive if we crash. How about you? Did you remember to buckle up?"

"You're going to kill us both!"

"That's the idea!" It was actually fun, in a fatalistic sort of way. I smiled grimly as we wove in and out of traffic, watching the near misses become less miss and more near. There's nothing like a good high-speed car chase to get the evening started off right, even if there's technically only one car involved.

"Stop this car right now, or I'll-"

"You'll what?" I turned down another one-way street. We were going with the flow of traffic this time, if you ignored the fact that I was doing ninety when everyone else was doing twenty-five. "Hit me? Honey, if you take the wheel away from your Auntie Toby while we're going this fast, we're both going to die-that means you and and me, not just me. Settle back and enjoy the ride, unless your employer paid you so well that you're willing to die." me, not just me. Settle back and enjoy the ride, unless your employer paid you so well that you're willing to die."

The figure in the backseat pulled back, snarling, "Pointy-eared b.i.t.c.h . . ."

"Actually, I'm a pointy-eared s.l.u.t. Only purebloods get to be b.i.t.c.hes." I swerved left, and heard him hit the side panel. "Are you still not wearing your seat belt?"

"I'll kill you!"

"You'll have to get in line." Somehow, we'd wound up driving half on and half off the sidewalk. That was fine by me, as long as the pedestrians kept getting out of our way.

This time he just snarled. Fine. He was getting p.i.s.sed and I was getting tired, and it was time to stop. I slammed my foot down on the brake, bringing the VW to a screeching halt as I undid my seat belt with one hand. The shocks were definitely going to be a write-off, but it was almost worth it-I hadn't had that much fun in ages.

My unwelcome pa.s.senger hit the back of my seat with a resounding thump. I caught a brief glimpse of his angry snarl, thin lips drawn back from oversized yellow teeth, before I was out the door and on my way down the street, not looking back.

Fear and adrenaline are a runner's best friends. I was almost a quarter of a block away when I heard the car door slam, followed by a man's voice shouting for me to stop. That wasn't going to happen. The man was a Redcap, and Redcaps are almost all paid thugs-they don't attack at random. Someone sent him after me. Whoever it was had almost certainly killed Evening, and once they'd tortured me into telling them where to find the hope chest, I'd be the next to die. I kept running, and I never even heard the gun go off.

The bullet hit the back of my left shoulder just above the collarbone. I screamed, staggered, and forced myself to keep going. It took a second for the pain to settle down into a single throbbing ache, one that broadcast, loud and clear, the fact that I had bigger issues than the fact that a hired thug was taking shots at me in the middle of a San Francisco street: The bullet had been made of iron. I could feel the burning its pa.s.sage left behind, and I focused on that, forcing my legs to keep going. Part of me wanted to give in to the pain and collapse, and that part was just going to have to cope, because there was no way I was going to stop and let a lunatic slaughter me with iron. Simple death I could deal with, maybe. But death by iron . . . nothing hurts more than an iron-dealt wound. I rode Evening's death. I didn't need to experience that kind of pain firsthand. Ever.

The street was almost deserted-just my luck. The one time I actually wanted a crowd, and there wasn't a soul in sight. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I could feel myself slowing down, iron working its way farther and farther into my body. It was going to be a race between blood loss and iron poisoning to see which one could take me out faster. If I didn't find a way to at least stop the bleeding soon, I was going to be writing myself out of my own mystery before it even got started; exit October, stage left. All the a.s.sa.s.sin had to do was follow and wait.

I ran until it felt like the running was going to kill me, eyes half-closed and one hand clamped over the open wound at my shoulder.

Sometimes, it's all about the timing. I half ran, half taggered up to a bus stop just as the bus arrived, and I grabbed the rail, hauling myself aboard without missing a beat. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d with the gun was far enough behind that he couldn't get a clean shot, and the chances of him catching the bus before it left were almost nonexistent. Time and the San Francis...o...b..s system wait for no man.

The driver stared at me as I dug for change with my left hand. I did my best to ignore him, focusing on getting my fingers to obey my commands. They were still responding, but it wasn't going to last; the iron was working its way farther into my shoulder, and my entire arm was going slowly numb. I stared back, aware of how I had to look, blood soaking my sweater and matting my hair down against my shoulders. Was I still wearing my disguise? I didn't know, but after the iron bullet, I wouldn't have bet on it. Iron kills magic.

"Is there a problem, ma'am?" asked the driver.

I dropped my coins into the fare box. "Drama student," I said, as glibly as I could manage. "Rehearsal got a little overenthusiastic."

I could tell from his face that he didn't believe me; I could also tell that he didn't really want to know. He nodded curtly and slammed the bus doors, only seconds before the bus lurched away from the curb, brakes squealing. I managed to grab a pole and ease myself into the nearest empty seat before I fell, doing my best to keep my back away from the wall. It's rude to get blood on the seats. After about half a block the movement of the bus stopped being jarring and started to soothe my nerves, inviting me to take a nice, long nap. You deserve it, the motion said, you've earned it. You ran away. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.

Even through my exhaustion, I could tell that wouldn't be a good idea. Napping when you're bleeding like a stuck pig-even if the few sh.e.l.l-shocked travelers on the bus were polite enough to ignore it-is a good way to wake up dead. I braced my elbows against my knees and pressed my right hand harder against the point where the bullet had entered. It wasn't doing any good. No matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn't stop the bleeding from my back. Shuddering, I wiped my left hand across my lips, and froze. They were wet.

Looking at the blood streaking my fingers, I considered the irony of it all. I'd survived Simon Torquill and Oleander de Merelands, I'd survived the siege on the Queen's Court, and here I was bleeding to death on the six-fifteen bus, surrounded by people trying to pretend that I wasn't doing exactly that. People talk about heroes dying "good deaths." You think somebody died well and valiantly, and it was worth it-and then somebody opens fire, and you realize that no matter how good your death is, it's the last thing you'll ever get. That makes it bad enough in my book.

I knew one thing: sitting still wouldn't save me. I forced myself to stand at the next stop, staggering toward the exit. If I was going to bleed to death, I was at least going to do it outside. My head spun with every step. I hadn't realized how much blood I'd really lost until I started moving again.

The bus steps seemed to have gotten higher while I sat. I leaned heavily on the rail, inching down to the bottom, where I froze, head pounding, and tried to get my balance back. Where was I? Had the bus moved at all? Blood loss and iron poisoning both do interesting things to the brain, and suddenly, I just wasn't sure.

"Hey, lady, are you getting off?" said the bus driver.

"Where am I?" I asked. The words echoed like they'd been shouted down a long tunnel.

The driver didn't seem to notice how distorted my voice had become. Poor man. He must have been half deaf. "We're at the north entrance to Golden Gate Park, lady. Is this your stop?" He paused, and then asked more gently, "Do you need a doctor?"

Shaking my head, I stepped off the last step and onto the curb, leaving my fingerprints scribed on the handrail. It dimly occurred to me that leaving b.l.o.o.d.y handprints around the city was a bad idea; I just wasn't sure why. The driver looked at me, then at the blood on his bus, and shook his head. I wanted to make some pithy, memorable comment and tell him I'd be fine, but I didn't trust the words not to come out in Cantonese just to spite me. I missed my chance, if I'd ever had it. The doors slammed shut and the bus pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in front of Golden Gate Park.

Golden Gate Park. I knew people there. I was almost sure I knew people there. Turning, I stumbled past joggers and tourists, starting down the asphalt path that led into the park proper.

The path twisted and curved, and I followed it with dogged determination, not really caring where it went. It was getting harder to think. My shoulder was still bleeding, but it didn't really hurt anymore; I was almost too dizzy to keep walking, and it didn't hurt. That wasn't a good sign. When gunshot wounds stop hurting, it's usually because you're not strong enough for the pain. Your body shuts it off rather than dealing with it. But I was in the park. I'd made it that far. I might have a chance.

Golden Gate Park swears fealty to no Lord. It may look like one huge holding from outside, but it's not; it's more like a coral reef of tiny fiefdoms, scattered through the landscape like secret stars. Most of the park's power is in the doors it hides. If I could reach one of those doors before my strength gave out, I might be okay. It wasn't likely, but it was possible. And if I didn't make it to one of those doors, and I was lucky, I'd collapse where my body wouldn't be found until the night-haunts had finished with me.

Of course, the odds were better that I'd be handing some mortal fool a corpse with pointed ears, leaving the survivors to handle all questions that came next. Faerie's managed to stay hidden this long on nothing but sheer chance, and chance can't last forever.

The taste of roses was rising in my throat, overwhelming the acrid taste of blood. "Sorry, Evening," I whispered. There are some things even promises can't do. Dimly, I wondered what would happen when the blood stopped. Would it hurt? Or would I just go to sleep? So many questions, so little time before shock and blood loss made them academic.

The tang of incense undercut the taste of blood and roses, catching my attention. I was halfway down the side of a small hill before I realized I'd left the pavement, and my feet went out from under me, losing their purchase on the slick gra.s.s. I slid the rest of the way. At least there was no more pain: I was somewhere comfortably past pain, where nothing really mattered anymore. I knew there was something I needed to do, but I was starting to lose track of what it was. The smell of incense was getting stronger, beckoning me forward. I looked up and froze.

I was sprawled in front of a stylized Oriental gateway. It was mostly hidden by leafy trees and climbing ferns, but that didn't matter; I knew it. I could have been dead and still known that gate. It haunted my dreams.

The j.a.panese Tea Gardens.

After everything that happened there, I would have been happier trusting myself to the hospitality of Blind Michael's Hunt on a full moon night with no candle to guide me home. But even as I pushed myself upright, I knew the choice wasn't mine. You can't afford to be picky when you're bleeding to death, and it would make perfect sense for me to die in the Tea Gardens. I'd failed to do it once before. Might as well get it right this time.

I picked myself unsteadily up and staggered toward the admissions booth. My left arm was dangling uselessly, and I fumbled to keep my balance as I dug my right hand into the pocket of my jeans. There was nothing there but squashed mushrooms and b.l.o.o.d.y lint. I'd thrown the last of my change in the fare box on the bus, not bothering to check to see how much I was paying. Too late now. It's rude to trick your way into someone else's knowe, but I was out of options and out of time. If I couldn't pay, I'd just have to make my way inside another way.

The woman at the gate blinked, eyes widening at the state of my clothes. She was blonde, with feathered hair and a brain that was probably equally feathered, but I could see traces of faerie blood in the shape of her eyes and the way she held her head. That was probably why she'd been hired, even if the blood wasn't strong enough to make her anything more than mortal. The fae that live in Golden Gate Park look out for their own.

This woman's heritage was a small blessing to me; it would make her more susceptible. Even if I couldn't convince her I wasn't what she thought I was, I should be able to enchant her long enough for me to get into the Tea Gardens. Lily might not be able to help me, but she was the most likely of a very slim set of options. At least I knew that if I got onto her land, I could die in peace.

Biting my tongue, I whispered the first three lines of "The Owl and the p.u.s.s.ycat" under my breath, and stumbled as the iron wound in my shoulder burst from distant numbness into bright new pain. I caught myself on the edge of the booth, taking a deep, unsteady breath, and handed my b.l.o.o.d.y lint and mushrooms to the woman behind the counter.

It almost wasn't enough. What little power I had was starting to fade as I slipped in and out of full consciousness. She frowned before squinting at the contents of her palm, seeming to see through my hasty illusion.

Coins, I thought, as firmly as I could. I thought, as firmly as I could. You don't see anything but coins. It's exact change. You don't see anything but coins. It's exact change. Her frown deepened before resolving into a sunny smile. She dropped the mushrooms into her register. Her frown deepened before resolving into a sunny smile. She dropped the mushrooms into her register.

"Welcome to the j.a.panese Tea Gardens! Have a nice day," she said, radiating that odd brand of insincerity that seems bred into gatekeepers of all types. I forced myself to smile and half walked, half staggered onward. It had been a great day for petty thievery-between the gatekeeper and the toll taker, there were at least two people who'd be coming up with short registers at the end of the day. Of course, I'd been rewarded for my tricks with an iron gunshot wound. Who says there's no such thing as karma?

The paths through the j.a.panese Tea Gardens are made of narrow, weathered planks. Trees and beds of flowers surround them, occasionally yielding to rock gardens or shallow stretches of water. Bridges punctuate the landscape, some arching up at angles that actually require stairs. It takes a pretty good sense of balance to make it through the Tea Gardens without falling, even if you avoid the bridges. At the moment, balance wasn't something I had a large supply of. The paths were slippery with water and decay, and the lack of traction nearly knocked me over half a dozen times before I managed to get out of sight of the front gate.

At the base of the moon bridge I gave up, sitting down in a patch of ferns. The movement just made me dizzier, throwing the world into a kaleidoscope dance of water, blood, and shadows. I shuddered, falling forward, and caught myself with my good arm before I could pitch face-first into the water. My reflection rippled in front of me, giving me a clear picture of the situation. My illusions were entirely gone-any tourist coming down the path would find themselves looking at more than they had bargained for-and blood caked my lips and hair, soaking my sweater almost to the waist.

I looked into my own eyes, and knew I was going to die.

One of the koi surfaced to stare at me, breaking my reflection into countless ripples. I looked down at it, almost smiling as I reached out to stroke its head with my numb left hand. It didn't shy away from the gesture. "Hey, remember me?" I whispered. "Did you miss me? I think . . . I think I may be staying this time ..." The fish sank back below the surface, leaving my fingers dangling in the water. Faint rings of red rippled out from where they touched.

I didn't even feel my face hitting the pond. Everything was darkness, glorious darkness and the final, perfect absence of pain. It was done, all of it, the running and the fighting and the pain. After everything that I'd gone through, it was finally over, and this time, the waters would carry me home.

FIFTEEN.

"TOBY, DON'T BE DEAD, don't be dead." It sounded almost like Tybalt's voice, too distorted and far away to really tell. Water was soaking through my sweater, plastering my hair down against my cheeks; my eyelids were heavy. Too heavy to bother opening. I leaned into the arms that were holding me up and let myself go limp, falling back down into the darkness.

Time pa.s.sed. How much, I couldn't say; I only knew that I was rising toward consciousness, and I fought that ascent with everything I had. Waking held pain and duty and too many questions, while sleep held only peace, and the shadows of sunlight on the water. I was done. Sleep was all I wanted now.

You can't always get what you want. The pain hit without warning. I gasped, opening my eyes in surprise, only to squeeze them shut again as my head began throbbing. What little I'd seen told me next to nothing about where I was, only that there was a roof above me, and that the dim light wasn't natural. I was inside; I just didn't know where. Not that it mattered, since I was too weak to move and in too much pain to care. Hopefully, I wasn't slated to be somebody's dinner. At least if I was, it would probably help my headache.

A little experimentation showed that I could move my right hand. The ground beneath me was soft, springy, damp to the touch, and faintly warm. I frowned, becoming curious despite myself. Where was was I? I?

Footsteps approached from behind me. I couldn't run; I couldn't even make my eyes open again. All I could do was lie there, frozen, as a hand caressed my temples and a soft voice whispered, "She is not yet ready for you. Sleep."

The blessed dark rose again, reclaiming me.

I dreamed of gla.s.s roses and the taste of pennyroyal.

Waking came faster the second time, even if I was no more willing; going back to my body meant going back to the pain, and it had gotten worse while I slept, spreading out from my head and shoulder until every breath caught in my chest. But I was alive. The realization hit me, and I opened my eyes, too startled to play dead any longer. I was alive.

I was looking up at a ceiling of woven willow branches, held up by a series of arches that appeared to have grown from the mossy floor. Pixies cl.u.s.tered on every available surface, their shimmering glow lighting the room. The moss beneath me was soaking wet, and as a consequence, so was I. I knew where I was. Lily's knowe.