Chimes at Midnight

“’Cause we’re in a moving car that’s been enchanted seventeen ways from Sunday to keep the iron in the frame from bein’ a problem. Plus my mechanic doesn’t like it when I get tickets, since paying those off sort of cuts into my disposable income, so she’s got a bunch of don’t-look-here and hide-and-seek and nope-not-yours charms in here. Queen might be able to find us when we’re sitting still. Dunno. But when we’re moving, we’re invisible to anybody doesn’t know just what they’re looking for. So relax. It’s cool.”

“How is Connie, anyway?”

Danny grinned, a little sheepishly. “She’s good. Real good.”

“How’s her schedule looking? I may want to ask her about making some of these modifications to my car. It would sure be nice to be able to drive around without worrying about being tracked.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point. I’ll check and see if she has any big jobs comin’ up.”

Quentin leaned forward, bracing his hands against the back of the seat. “So, have you asked her out yet?”

Danny couldn’t really blush—rock isn’t much for showing subtle changes in skin color—but he scowled like a champion. “None of your business, pipsqueak.”

“You should, you know. She’s smart, she’s funny, she has her own business . . . she could do way better than you. If you don’t jump, she’s going to find somebody who will.”

“Kid’s right.” I smirked at Danny. “Connie’s pretty much got it going on. What’s the problem?”

“I may take romantic advice from the kid, but I ain’t listening to you,” Danny said. “You had to nearly die before you’d listen to me and get with the big kitty. Didn’t I tell you ages ago that you should?”

“Yes, you did, and now we’re telling you to get with Connie. Besides, she’s a Gremlin. For her, fixing your car is about as intimate as it gets. And she didn’t give me a bucket of bonus concealment charms.”

Danny sank lower in his seat, grumbling. “I don’t like you ganging up on me.” There was a note of relief to his complaint. He liked seeing things trend toward normal as much as I did. Wasn’t that the trick, though? Life was one long series of efforts to reach the golden mean, where everything was the way that it was supposed to be. Where we could tell jokes with our friends and tease them about their love lives, and no one had to die for it to happen.

I wanted normal back. And that meant seeing this through.

It was late enough that the parking lot was almost empty when we reached the San Francisco Art Museum. The few cars that remained gleamed faintly, revealing the presence of concealment charms. I glanced fondly down at the firefly that was resting on my collarbone. “You’re awesome, little guy,” I said.

Maybe it was my imagination, but the insect seemed to glow a little brighter after that.

“I’m not sure the cliff-side entrance would be a good idea right now,” I said, getting out of the cab. “I mean, it might work. Or it might decide I’m too mortal to be allowed inside the knowe and dump me into the ocean. Drowning doesn’t sound like a good time to me.”

“You pushed May off that cliff once,” said Quentin.

“May is indestructible; I’m not,” I said. “Can you get us in through the shed?”

He nodded. Danny and I followed him out of the parking lot and into the weeds that grew on the stretch of unlandscaped field next to the museum.

Quentin led us on a looping route that seemed to follow no pattern or trail, until we reached an old, rust-covered shed that looked like it should have been demolished years ago to make way for something newer and less likely to give tetanus to tourists. There was a large padlock on the door. Oak trees grew all around it, their branches spread above it like a canopy. It wasn’t visible from the parking lot. Somehow, no one ever seemed to find that strange. It was just another part of the museum. The human tendency not to ask questions when the fae don’t want them to has served us very well over the centuries.

Voices seemed to whisper from the tall grass as we approached the shed. They were softer than I was accustomed to them being, more believably tricks of the wind blowing off the water. They were accompanied by a feeling of “you should turn back” that was stronger than normal, like the spell had adjusted itself to match my heritage. The more human an intruder was, the less they’d hear the voices, but the more they’d hear the whispered threats.

Quentin walked to the door, where he bent and said something to the lock. The voices stopped, and the wind seemed to still. If I strained, I could catch the faintest hint of steel and heather perfuming the air. Then the stillness passed, and the door swung open, despite the padlock remaining in place. “I love that trick,” he said, sounding pleased with himself.

“You can have a cookie when we get home,” I said, and walked past him, into the knowe—