GOING BACK INTO THAT apartment took all the self-control I had, but I did it; I had to. I had heard three shots fired, and there were only two gunshot wounds on the "body." That meant one of the bullets might still be somewhere in the room. If I wanted to be certain of the way that Evening died, I needed to find it.

Iron bullets are heavy and uneven. That changes their ballistics; they can't fly smoothly. Even if the police knew about the third bullet, they would've been starting their search from the shooter's position with an incorrect idea of how far the bullet could have gone. I found it buried in the wainscoting of the wall across from the balcony, a small, uneven sphere that told me everything I needed and didn't want to know.

It was iron, pure enough to sting even from several feet away. I left it where it was and left the apartment for the last time. Physical evidence wasn't required, and you can't work sympathetic magic with iron. I'd just needed to know know.

The news van was still on the street as I walked back to my car, got inside, and pulled away, but the camera crew was nowhere in sight. That was good. My misdirection spells aren't strong enough to stand up on film, and I didn't want them recording me with blood caked on my hands and jeans.

The iron told me two things: first, that Evening's killers were fae, since no human would have used that particular weapon, and second, that I wasn't dealing with any of the usual suspects. My own wounded sensibilities wanted to jump straight to the a.s.sumption that Simon and Oleander were involved, but they depended too much on magic to carry that much iron. They don't have many scruples. That doesn't mean they'd be willing to deaden their own magic for weeks, maybe even months, by having that much contact with iron. All that would do was get them caught, and they're just too smart for that.

Evening's blood had its own share of information to impart, although it was a bit more nebulous in its usefulness. She didn't call anyone else before she died; I was the only one who knew she was gone, other than the night-haunts-and her killers. Somehow I doubted the people who killed her would be spreading the news that they'd broken Oberon's first law-the prohibition against killing purebloods except in formally declared war-and the night-haunts aren't big conversationalists. I don't even know anyone who's actually seen them. I was on my own, and I was on a time limit, because I had to find her killers before I found myself drowning in her curse instead of pond water.

And all that would have to wait, because I had more immediate duties to fulfill. There were rites to be observed, words that needed to be said, for the sake of the ones who hadn't died. The purebloods don't take death easily. Something has to cushion the blow. Beyond that, there was the simple fact that a woman had been brutally murdered by someone who clearly knew her nature. Humans don't carry cold iron knives-they're heavy, clumsy things, and modern technology is so far beyond them that they only appear in fae hands. Whoever killed Evening made sure her death would be as painful as possible. That made this a matter for her liege, and that meant I had to go someplace I really didn't want anything to do with: the Court of the Queen of the Mists, monarch of Northern California.

The current Queen of the Mists didn't take the throne under the world's most auspicious circ.u.mstances; she became Queen in 1906, when the great San Francisco earthquake took out half the fae in the city, including her father, King Gilad. She'd been raised somewhere outside the Court, and no one ever knew her mother, but Evening-who was already Countess of Goldengreen-supported her claim, and no one really wanted to argue. She's been in charge ever since, first from her Court in North Beach, and, after her first hollow hill was destroyed, from her Court by the Bay. No one knows her name, or where she grew up, or much of anything about her, really, beyond the fact that she's the Queen, and her word is law.

She and I have never gotten along. Sylvester and Evening were the ones who insisted he be allowed to knight me for services to the Crown when her original Court was destroyed; the Queen was all for throwing me out with the rest of the changeling rabble. Maybe it's the fact that she's a mixed-blood-her heritage is a strange blend of Siren, Sea Wight, and Banshee-or maybe she's just a sn.o.b, but the woman has never liked changelings, and t.i.tling me went against all her sensibilities. She did it anyway, because the services I'd performed were too large to be ignored, and because Evening was pushing for it. I don't think the Queen has ever forgiven me. I've made it a rule to stay out of her presence as much as possible, just to avoid reminding her that she's unhappy.

It doesn't help that changelings form the lowest rung of fae society; we're too mortal to belong and too fae to be sent back to our human parents with a pat on the head and a "have a nice life"-a.s.suming our human parents are still alive after we've been in the Summerlands long enough to realize how raw the deal there can be, which is by no means guaranteed. Most of us wind up spending the centuries as hangers-on in the various Courts of Faerie, following our immortal relatives and begging for crumbs like puppies until our own mortality catches up with us and we crawl off to die. That's the way the game is supposed to work. Only I've always refused to play by those rules, and it hasn't exactly endeared me to the higher echelons of the n.o.bility.

It was late enough that there were few cars heading for the bay. Some places are too cold to take a date on a December night, even in a city whose fame is based around an icy ocean and constant fog. Since freezing to death isn't conducive to having a good time, the tourists had set their sights farther inland, leaving me with a clear shot at my destination: a little cl.u.s.ter of streets and crumbling businesses about six miles down the coast from Fisherman's Wharf. The beach I was aiming for wasn't part of any nature preserve, coast trail, or tourist attraction. It was just a small, stony stretch of ground on the inside curve of the coastal wall, isolated enough to be forgotten and important as all h.e.l.l from the faerie point of view.

There were no street vendors or tourist traps where I was headed: just the smell of the sea and the natural decay of any seaside city. In most of the city, parking is at a premium because of the tourists. Near the Queen's knowe, it's hard to find because there just isn't very much of it. Warehouses and aging industrial buildings don't exactly inspire the construction of parking lots. It took fifteen minutes of circling before I found a s.p.a.ce without a meter tucked halfway down a side street that was more like an alley. I shoved my purse into the glove compartment before getting out. Maybe it was an invitation to theft, but I don't like to carry anything unnecessary when I'm visiting the Queen. There's too much of a chance that I'll need to run.

The taste of roses flooded my mouth as I got out of the car. I staggered, the image of a sprite with tattered oak-leaf wings flashing across my mind. The key . . . The key . . .

Whatever it was, it was important, but it was something I'd find when I was through telling the Queen what had happened. I forced the image down, along with the th.o.r.n.y arms of Evening's entangling curse. I had a job to do. Hiking my coat up around my chin, I started down the alley, moving toward the sea.

Almost all fae Courts are tucked in hidden places called "knowes," little pockets of reality balanced between the mortal world and the Summerlands. Some of them are easy to get to while others require everything up to and including blood sacrifice just to get inside. It depends on who built them, and who controls the doors.

I've seen doors tucked away in carnival photo booths, gas station restrooms, and old cardboard boxes, as well as in the more traditional gra.s.s rings and stone gateways. The Queen of the Mists opened her own doors, which means that her knowe is well-hidden and not easy to reach; getting inside means walking a quarter mile of largely uninhabited beach, scrambling over damp rocks coated in seagull s.h.i.t and old seaweed and trying not to fall into the Pacific Ocean on the way. An after-dark hike across a slippery beach isn't exactly the ideal follow-up to a murder scene unless you're a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t, which I'm not. Fortunately, the tide was out. Unfortunately, the moon wasn't providing much light, and even changeling vision is no help when the fog is rolling in.

Sneakers aren't really made for wet sand and slippery stone, but I somehow managed not to fall into San Francis...o...b..y before I reached the cave that marked the entrance to the Queen's Court. It was narrow, dank, and dark, almost hidden behind a seemingly random fall of rocks. Altogether, it managed to project the impression that the whole thing might come crashing down at any moment, and of course that meant it was the only way in.

I stepped off the rocks and winced as my socks were immediately soaked through with seawater. The night just kept getting better. Now I had bad news to deliver to a powerful woman who didn't like me, a terrible crime to avenge, and wet socks. Grumbling, I walked into the darkness.

The water in the cave got deeper as I moved farther in, reaching to the middle of my calves and soaking my jeans to the thigh. I shivered, keeping one hand against the damp wall for guidance. Someday, I hope Her Majesty discovers central heating and basic drainage systems. Until then, visiting her is a matter of stumbling around in the dark and hoping that there's nothing nasty waiting there to jump out and shout "surprise."

The stone began to glow a pale, luminescent white about twenty feet from the entrance. I kept walking, ignoring the feeling of phantom hands plucking at my clothing and hair. The ground abruptly leveled out, water disappearing as the rough stone was replaced with polished marble. I walked on, my wet shoes slapping against the marble with every step, and after another ten feet, the walls opened up, and I was suddenly walking through a vast ballroom with ice-white marble floors and fluted columns holding up the distant ceiling. Courtiers thronged like exotic birds, pointing and whispering behind their hands as they took note of my untidy appearance. I pressed on.

The trouble with the Queen of the Mists is that she's so far above normal protocol that she feels no need to live by it, save when it suits her, even as she forces it on everyone around her. If I broke the slightest rule, I could find myself in more trouble than I'd ever get out of. She, on the other hand, could do whatever she wanted, and all I could do was curtsy. That meant I needed to head for the throne room, because propriety says that visits begin with a formal presentation. If I was lucky, she'd be there.

I'm so rarely lucky. There was a shimmer in the air, and the taste of frozen salt a.s.saulted my tongue. The sound of wet shoes. .h.i.tting the floor stopped as my sneakers were replaced by low-slung heels to go with the floor-length blue silk gown that had taken the place of my clothes. I only know one woman rude enough to do something like that without my consent, and technically, it wasn't rude when she did it. Rank hath its privileges.

Burying my hands in the skirt, I dropped into a deep, low curtsy, bowing my head. "Your Majesty, it's an honor."

"October." The voice was light and airy, like a half-forgotten dream. There was no surprise in her tone; she sounded mildly pleased, like I came traipsing through every day. I guess ennui is a good thing when you're facing an eternity in politics. "How very delightful it is to see you."

From the sound of her voice, she was somewhere off to my left. Good. If I could just avoid looking at her, this might not go too badly. "The delight is mine, Your Majesty," I said, and straightened, keeping my eyes turned straight ahead.

The Queen was standing right in front of me.

I didn't expect it, and I didn't have time to look away without giving offense. Forcing myself to swallow the urge to recoil, I looked into her face. She smiled slightly, expression saying she knew what she was doing, and didn't care. It was, after all, her right.

A lot of Faerie's children are beautiful, but the Queen takes it past beauty, to the point where beautiful and terrible collide. It's hard to look at her and stay focused on anything but continuing to look at her, making her happy, making her smile for you. It's part of the reason I don't come near her when I can avoid it. I hate being forced into things.

She was wearing a snow-colored velvet gown that brought out the pink undertones of her skin, saving her from looking like she'd been carved from ivory. Her silver-white hair fell to the floor in an unbroken line, trailing almost a foot behind her. I've always a.s.sumed that her hair is at least part of the reason she never leaves the knowe-give her five minutes in the mortal world and her shampoo bills would be astronomical. A thin band of silver sat atop her head, but it was really just for show. There was no question of who the monarch here was. I stayed standing, fighting the urge to drop to one knee.

She stepped toward me, her dress rippling like water. Only a pureblood would accessorize with the ocean itself.

"What are you doing here, October? You avoid my court when you can. That seems to be most times, these days. I was beginning to think you had, perhaps, forgotten the way."

Never lie to anyone who can have you locked up for looking at them funny. It's just a good survival strategy. Still, I could try to skirt the issue. "I've been keeping to myself, my lady."

"First your mother stops attending us, then you vanish into your own little world. One might begin to think your bloodline has lost its love for us." Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, daring me to argue.

"I'm afraid I don't care much for your Court, my lady." The crowd whispered around us, expressing quiet disapproval. Candor may be wise, but excessive bluntness isn't one of the socially accepted arts in Faerie.

"Do we bore you?" asked the Queen, still smiling.

"You scare me."

"Is that better or worse?"

"I don't know." I shook my head. "I'm here on business."

"Business?" Now she grinned, openly amused. "What sort of . . . business . . . brings you here, when you've been avoiding us so long? Have you brought another fish story to tell us?"

I winced. Between Tybalt and the Queen, it's a wonder I don't need therapy. "I wish that were the case, Your Majesty. I'm here because of the Countess Winterrose."

"Because of the Winterrose? What, are you here to claim some offense against her?" Her grin remained, and the Court around us buzzed with speculation. Changelings rarely claim offense against purebloods. The battles when we do are invariably a lot of fun to watch, full of blood and glory, and almost always fatal for the changeling.

"No, Your Majesty." This is the society that created Evening, and my mother, and every time I have to deal with it, I'm happier that it's not the only thing that created me. "I'm here because she's gone."

"What?" Her smile faded into surprise, wiping away the smooth curl of her disdain.

For once, the overstylized formality of Faerie was a blessing, because it meant I didn't need to figure out what to say on my own. "When the Root and Branch were young, when the Rose still grew unplucked upon the tree; when all our lands were new and green and we danced without care, then, we were immortal. Then, we lived forever." I looked down and away, not wanting to see the look on the Queen's face. It didn't matter: I could hear what I didn't see in the sudden stillness of the Court. There's only one reason for the death chants.

It was too late to stop. It was too late when the gun went off. I pressed on. "We left those lands for the world where time dwells, dancing, that we might see the pa.s.sage of the sun and the growing of the world. Here we may die, and here we can fall, and here my Lady Evening Winterrose, Countess of the fief of Goldengreen, has stopped her dancing."

I left my head bowed until the quiet was too much to bear. The Queen had gone so still that she might as well have been a statue, somehow carved from mist and sea foam. I couldn't blame her: I'll live a long time, if I'm careful, but the most I can expect is a few centuries. That's a lot in human terms. It's nothing compared to what the purebloods get. The reminder that they can die is sometimes more than they can take.

"Your Majesty . . ." She raised her hand, pale fingers shaking as she warded my words away. I quieted, waiting for her to compose herself before I continued, saying, "Your Majesty, she charged me to find the cause of her death. May I ask . . ."

"No."

I stopped, surprised. I'd expected a lot of things. I hadn't expected her to refuse me. "Your Majesty?"

"No, October Daye, daughter of Amandine." The Queen lifted her head, jaw set. "I will not help you, and we will speak of this no more. What's done is done; when the moon is high, we will dance for her, and until that day, no one here will speak the name of the Winterrose, and after that day, no one will speak her name again. I will not help you . . . and you will not ask me to."

"But . . ."

"No. Amandine's daughter or no, I will not give you what you would ask me for. I would refuse you and be d.a.m.ned before I did such a thing." She shook her head. "I have done enough for you down the years; there are no debts between us, and I will not help you now."

Not even being slapped would have surprised me more. "But, my lady, Evening was murdered, with iron-"

"Don't tell me how she died!" I rocked back on my heels, clapping my hands over my ears in a vain attempt to block out the voice of the Queen. Maybe time had diluted the blood of her Banshee and Siren ancestors enough that her scream wasn't fatal, but I've never been much for roulette. "Don't tell tell me!" me!"

The Court was buzzing again, but this time, their whispers were directed at the Queen. She was shaking where she stood, eyes gone moonstruck-mad with fury. Her rage might have been impressive if it was focused on something else, but it was focused on me, and that made it terrifying. Humanity has instincts that kick in around the fae, forcing them to be good and humble. Changelings don't get the full brunt, but we get some of it, until sometimes even our own parents can scare us away. I backed up several steps, dropping a hasty curtsy. "Your Majesty, if we're done, I . . ."

"Get out!" She snapped her head from side to side, an unearthly wail seeping into her voice. "Now!" "Now!"

I didn't need another invitation. Whirling, I ran toward the far wall, and through it, back into the darkness of the cave on the other side. My shoes were made for dancing, not running over seawater-slippery rocks. After the third time I nearly fell, I pulled them off, carrying them in the hand that wasn't being used to keep my skirt as far out of the water as possible. Bruising my feet was a small price to pay if it meant I could get away from the queen before she decided to shut me up herself, or worse, forbid me to involve myself in Evening's murder.

The air outside the cave was so cold that running into the open was like being slapped. It didn't matter; I didn't stop. I ran across the beach, stopping only when I hit the pavement, and there only long enough to put my shoes back on. My original clothes hadn't come back, and I doubted they would-the Queen is strong enough that a transformation of the inanimate was likely to be forever. I didn't care. I kept running.

SIX.

MY CAR HADN'T BEEN DISTURBED. I dug the spare key from under the b.u.mper and fumbled with the lock until I managed to stop the shaking in my fingers and get the door open. I climbed into the driver's seat, nearly slamming the trailing hem of my dress in the door as I closed it and started the engine. Evening's liege wouldn't help me. This wasn't a mortal problem. Mortal tools wouldn't solve it, and my camera wasn't going to save my a.s.s this time. The police could study Evening's "body" forever if they wanted to, but a lot of the fae don't leave fingerprints. They'd never find anything, and that meant there wouldn't be anything I could steal from them.

Slamming my human disguise back into place, so that I just looked like a hard-used brunette in a party gown, I slumped in the driver's seat and scowled. I needed to look at things from a different direction. Maybe I couldn't do anything as an investigator, but as a knight . . . there are resources in Faerie that don't exist in the human world, and this was a faerie crime. I could solve it, if I found the right spells and called in the right favors. But still . . . I'm just a changeling. Evening was ten times more powerful than I'll ever be. Whatever took her down wasn't just lucky; it had to have been strong, too, or it wouldn't have scared her that way. That meant I needed some power of my own, or I wouldn't stand a chance.

Asking the Queen for help after she'd all but thrown me out of her knowe might be rude enough to get me killed. Dying wasn't part of my plan for solving the case-it was bad enough that it might be the price of failure-and that meant our Lady of the Mists was actually a hindrance, because if I got in her way, I wouldn't have time to run. There were other Courts and n.o.bles I could go to, but only a few had the resources I'd need, and of the choices I had, only two didn't leave me cold. I wanted to get out alive, and that ruled out both Blind Michael and the Tarans of the Berkeley Hills. I considered the Luidaeg, but cast that thought aside as quickly as it had come. Some things are worse than dying.

I couldn't go to Lily. I just couldn't. That wasn't as self-involved as it sounds; Lily's an Undine, and she's tied to her knowe. Unless Evening's killers sat in the Tea Gardens discussing what they were about to do, she wouldn't be able to help me anyway.

Sylvester would help me if I went to him.Sylvester would insist insist on being the one to help me, and I couldn't take it. I'd have to go to him eventually-he'd have to know that Evening was gone, and he was my liege; it was my duty to make sure he knew-but I couldn't go until I was going to be able to say, "It's all right, I have help, I don't need you." I could stand a lot of things, but I wasn't ready for the idea of him being able to make me come back. on being the one to help me, and I couldn't take it. I'd have to go to him eventually-he'd have to know that Evening was gone, and he was my liege; it was my duty to make sure he knew-but I couldn't go until I was going to be able to say, "It's all right, I have help, I don't need you." I could stand a lot of things, but I wasn't ready for the idea of him being able to make me come back.

If I couldn't trust the Queen, and I couldn't turn to Sylvester, there was really only one place left that I could go. Devin. Devin, and Home.

Lips thinned with new resolve, I pulled out of the alley, heading away from the water and into the part of the city that smart people do their best to avoid after the sun goes down. I try to be smart when I can, and careful when I can't, but at the moment, neither of those was going to work for me, because I was doing something I'd sworn I'd never do. Oberon help me, I was going Home.

A lot of changelings have fled the Summerlands over the centuries, building an entire society on the border between Faerie and the mortal world. The purebloods know-of course they do-but they don't know what to do with their precious half-blood children when they turn into angry adults, and so they've never done anything to stop it. It's a vicious, cutthroat place, where the strong feed on the weak, and it's where changeling runaways always seem to end up.

I was twenty-five when I ran away from my mother's household. I could barely pa.s.s for a young sixteen. I starved in alleyways, fled from Kelpies, and ran from the human police, and was on the verge of giving up and going back when I found what looked like an answer. Devin.

He took me in, fed me, and said I'd never have to go back there if I didn't want to. I believed him. Maeve help me, I believed him. Even when I realized what he was doing-what the "little favors" and the increasingly bigger a.s.signments would lead up to, even when he came to my room at night and said I was beautiful, that my eyes were just like my mother's-I still believed him. He was all I had. I knew I couldn't trust him, that he'd use me, and that he'd break me if I let him. I also knew he wouldn't turn me away, because his place was Home, and Home was where everyone stopped. Home was where they didn't care what color your eyes were, or that you cried when the sun came up, or that your hair was brown like your father's when the Daoine Sidhe are supposed to be brightly colored and fair. Home was willing to have me, and I knew I could earn myself a life there, if I was fast, clever, and heartless. I could earn my own way.

If Devin had just wanted me for my body, he would have used me up and thrown me away, and no one would have been able to stop him. I've seen changelings better than me get destroyed by the border world. Mortal drugs don't have anything on their fae equivalents, and Faerie offers a lot of ways for the innocent to get themselves killed. I was lucky; Devin wanted me for the cachet of having me. My mother wasn't n.o.bility, but she was a celebrity of sorts, the strongest blood-worker in the Kingdom, a friend to Dukes and more. No one ever thought she would bear a changeling. And Devin was the one who took me away from her.

I was his lover and his pet and his favorite toy, and he let me have my temperamental little ways, because it was all paid for when he got to walk into a pureblood party he'd bartered an invitation to attend with me on his arm. He gave me what I needed to survive on the outskirts of the mortal world; a birth certificate, lessons in mortal manners, a place to stay. I paid my keep with the shame I let him bring to the people who loved me, and I tried to tell myself it was worth it.

Maybe I was addicted to him; to the way he looked at me, and the way he touched me, and the way he made me feel like I was something more than just another half-breed. He hurt me, but everything I knew told me I deserved it. I never told him no. I never wanted to. Everything I let him do, everything I did, was of my own free will.

When Sylvester got me knighted, leaving Home was part of the price. I agreed without hesitation, and I only saw Devin twice after that. Once on the day I told him I was leaving, and once . . .

I yanked my attention back to the road. The streets were getting worse as I drove, squalor giving way to decay. My destination was at the heart of the rot, in a place where only the people with nowhere else to go ever went. It wasn't a place for children-it was never a place for children-and maybe that's why we flocked there, gathering in a dying Neverland ruled by a man who was more Captain Hook than Peter Pan. "You'll be back," Devin said on the day I left him, with my wrists still sc.r.a.ped and my lips stinging, and he was right, because here I was. Coming Home.

The building I parked in front of looked abandoned, but was probably home to twenty people after the sun went down. The air seemed even colder now that I was inland. I gathered my damp skirts around myself, shivering as I locked the car door. Nothing had really changed. The wrappers in the gutter had different logos and the music thumping in the background had a different tone, but the eyes of the people who watched from doorways and windows, taking my measure as I pa.s.sed, were just what they'd always been: hungry, angry, and hopeful. They all needed something, and every one of them was hoping I'd be the one to provide it.

Catcalls and insults followed me down the block to a tiny, nondescript storefront wedged between a crumbling motel and an all-night ma.s.sage parlor. I paused, feeling like I was falling backward through time. It was all exactly the same, even down to the old miasma of pleasure, pain, and promises, as falsely alluring as a call girl's perfume. There were no tricks required to get inside, because Devin wanted you to come in. It was getting out that would be the hard part.

The big front window was blocked off with graffiti-covered plywood, and a simple bra.s.s sign was mounted over the door. HOME: WHERE YOU STOP. That sign never tarnished or got dirty, and it served as the focus for a misdirection spell so powerful that I'd never seen a human glance toward the building, much less the door. Devin said he bought it from a Coblynau pureblood, trading the sign and its enchantment for nothing but an hour in his arms. I called him a liar the first time he told me that. Coblynau are ugly, lonely people who love metal more than they love air, and the promises you have to make to get a blade or bracelet of their crafting are dear enough that I couldn't see him winning so much as a ring.

It didn't take long for me to realize he hadn't been lying. Casually turning someone else's needs to his own advantage was exactly the sort of thing Devin did best. He stole whatever he wanted, sharing his ill-gotten gains with his children, the empty-eyed girls and damp-palmed boys who came to him praying he'd have the answers. Now here I was again, praying for the same thing.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

The main room at Home was large and square, littered with ancient furniture and lit by a scavenged electrical generator that powered two refrigerators and an antique jukebox as well as the overhead lights. Heavy metal blared from the jukebox at a volume high enough to almost vibrate the floor. The air smelled like smoke, vomit, stale beer, and yesterday's desires; all the things I left behind when I went off to live in a different, cleaner world.

A handful of teens lounged around the otherwise deserted room like the casual ornamentation they were. I didn't know any of them, but I recognized them on sight because they were Devin's kids, and so was I. Our fellowship went deeper than our faces. It went all the way down to our bones.

How many of you is he f.u.c.king? I wondered, and was immediately ashamed. Front room duty was always the hardest. You had to stay alert without seeming to pay attention, and no matter how long you had to sit there, you didn't dare fall asleep. I hated it. You were a visible challenge to anyone who felt like calling Devin out for some real or imagined sin, but you couldn't say no and you couldn't leave once you'd been told to stay. I wondered, and was immediately ashamed. Front room duty was always the hardest. You had to stay alert without seeming to pay attention, and no matter how long you had to sit there, you didn't dare fall asleep. I hated it. You were a visible challenge to anyone who felt like calling Devin out for some real or imagined sin, but you couldn't say no and you couldn't leave once you'd been told to stay.

These new kids could so easily have been the ones I remembered, only changed by updates in teenage fashion. They were all changelings, and not one of them was wearing even the most basic human disguise. There was a calculated reason for that; seeing them as soon as you entered told you that when you were Home, you came as you were. It made the edges of my own illusion itch, like a coat that didn't quite fit. I wouldn't take it off yet, though. Not until I'd seen Devin.

Four kids were in view, which meant there were at least three more I hadn't spotted. A boy and girl who looked too alike to be anything but siblings sat near the jukebox, their sharply pointed ears and glossy gold hair marking them as descendants of the Tylwyth Teg. A half-Candela girl with pale green eyes leaned against the wall by the door, juggling globes of dim light, and a boy with hedgehog spines instead of hair squatted in the corner, a clove cigarette dangling from his lips.

All four had turned to watch as I entered, an inquiring band of Lost Children studying the grown-up who had wandered into their territory. Maybe I used to be one of them, but they didn't know me. For once, this proof of my escape didn't make me feel any better.

"Nice dress," said the Candela. The room erupted in snickering. I stayed where I was, waiting for it to die down.

Knowing Devin's kids, they were all armed and ready to jump me at the first sign of trouble. That was fine. I hadn't come to Home looking for a fight, but starting a small one would get me to Devin faster. Protocol said I should be polite: introduce myself, make nice, put up with whatever c.r.a.p they handed me, and ask if I could see Devin before the end of the night. Maybe they'd even let me, if I was nice enough. But I was tired and Evening was dead, and I didn't have the time or the patience to play at pleasantries.

The brother of the paired changelings looked like he was the oldest one in the room, if only by a year or two. That made him the point man. I walked toward the pair, and they looked back at me, expressions not betraying any interest in who I was or what I was doing there. Never be the first one to show that you care; that kind of weakness can get you killed.

"I need to see Devin," I said. Now that I was closer, I could see that their eyes were the glaring neon green of pippin apples. Faerie is anything but stinting in the colors it uses.

The brother blinked, obviously expecting something subtler. Good. If he was off balance, he was more likely to give me what I wanted. Unfortunately, it was his sister who spoke, flicking her bangs out of her eyes as she announced, "That's not gonna happen."

Her accent was a mixture of inner-city Spanish and downtown punk so thick it verged on parody and a perfect complement to her overdone makeup, rat's nest hair, and seemingly permanent sneer. She could have been pretty, if she'd been willing to gain twenty pounds and stop trying so hard, but as it was, she looked like a cross between Twiggy's younger sister and every downtown wh.o.r.e I'd ever seen. There was no way she was more than fourteen.

Of course, that was looking at her from a mortal perspective. I looked sixteen when I came to Devin, and I always did my best to look even younger when I had to do bar duty. It helped if they underestimated you. So she might have been older than she looked . . . but I saw her as fourteen, and the way she held herself told me I was pretty close to right.

"Sorry, lady, but you can go home now," she continued. "He's busy."

I sighed inwardly. I hadn't been underestimating her; she was as young as she looked, and she had no idea what she was messing with. I narrowed my eyes, glaring, and she licked her lips, fixing me with what was probably meant to be a languid sneer. I managed not to laugh. Instead, I shook my head, and repeated, "I need to see Devin. Now, please."

"So why do you need to see the boss-man?" she drawled. Her accent was starting to get on my nerves. "I don't think he's expecting you. I think you're trying to sneak in while he's not looking."

Well, she was smart enough to guess my motives. Not that it was going to do her much good, since I wasn't planning to let her stop me. "Does it matter?" I replied. "I need one of you-I don't care which-to tell Devin that Toby's here, and she needs to talk to him right away."