Chimes at Midnight

Other things that had happened during our unexpected hairpin turn in the middle of a San Francisco street: my hands were pressed flat against the dashboard, although I didn’t remember putting them there, and Quentin was bent almost double, his arms wrapped against my seat’s headrest. I forced the muscles in my arms to unlock. It wasn’t easy. Adrenaline had everything confused, and my body really wasn’t interested in listening to me.

“Danny?”

“Yeah, Tobes?”

“If you kill us trying to protect me, Tybalt will figure out a way to get through that skin of yours and introduce you to your own internal organs. He’s Cait Sidhe. He can do it.”

To my surprise, Danny laughed. I blinked. He grinned. “See, as long as you’re capable of gettin’ pissed at me, I know you’re gonna be okay. You may not like what comes between here and actually getting to that point, and the rest of us will pretty much hate it, ’cause you can be nasty when you want to, but you’re gonna be okay.”

I blinked again. Then I smiled. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

“’Course not. You’re the hero. You’re never supposed to think about your own mental health.” Danny wrapped a human disguise around himself and slid out of the car before I could answer him. Stifling a snicker, Quentin did the same.

I reached for my seatbelt. My hands were shaking too badly for me to undo the latch.

Slowly, I raised them to a level with my face, trying to make the shaking stop. If I really focused, I could stop the worst of it, but a fine tremor remained, like my body was caught in its own private earthquake.

Danny knocked on the window. I jumped.

“You okay in there?” he asked. His concern was visible; he knew something was wrong.

All I had to do was admit it. All I had to do was say, “I’m sorry, I’m done, I’m starting to break down,” and he’d take me back to Shadowed Hills. Jin could put me to sleep until Tybalt or the Luidaeg got back with Mom, however long that took, and I’d be okay, or at least I’d have a shot at it, which was more than I had now. All I had to do was say the word.

And Nolan would die, if he wasn’t dead already. Because there was no chance that anyone other than the Queen had taken him, and there was less than no chance that she was going to let him live a second time. His life had been the coin she used to buy Arden’s silence. Well, Arden wasn’t silent anymore. Not even running away would save him now. And then there were all the humans and changelings who would waste away yearning for goblin fruit . . .

I lowered my hands and plastered a smile across my face, hoping the unfamiliar humanity of my features would make it harder for him to know that I was lying. “I got a splinter from the protection charms on your stupid dashboard,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

Danny didn’t look like he believed me, but he said, “If you’re sure,” before straightening again.

I wasn’t sure. I was so far from sure that we weren’t even in the same time zone. But I was doing the best I could. I raked my shaking hands through my hair, trying to catch my breath. Then I reached into my jacket and pulled out the second baggie. I wasn’t sure about this, either. I didn’t see any other way.

Opening the baggie, I reached in, pulled out a frozen piece of the Luidaeg’s blood, and dropped it onto my tongue.

There was no taste of mint and lavender this time, no soothing feeling that I was somehow repairing myself. Instead, it felt like my entire mouth was freezing solid, a cold so profound that it actually crossed some unmarked internal line and started to burn. I gasped and folded forward, clutching my stomach.

Somewhere outside the car, Danny and Quentin were shouting my name. I managed to peel one hand free and wave to them, trying to signal that I was okay. It was hard to focus through the burning chill. Slowly, it was replaced by the taste of loam, the smell of bonfires in the night. I tried to pull myself out of the memory I could feel building around me, but it was too late; I was already lost. And then . . .

And then . . .

“Dammit, Amy, you’re not listening to me!” I’m angry with her, and with myself. This is my fault as much as it is hers. She’s the youngest. She should never have been given so much freedom, never allowed to make so many poor decisions. But we were scattered, broken by what had happened to our parents, and we left her free for so long. Too long. This is my fault.

She whirls, blonde hair flying, hands balled into fists, and shouts, “You had no right!”