A Local Habitation by Seanan McGuire Page B

Torquill?”
    “What?” he said, eyes widening. Then he laughed, the rich, delighted laugh of a man confronted with something genuinely funny. “Oh, man. Oh, wow. Can I tell her you called her that? She’ll have an aneurysm.” I don’t like being laughed at under the best of circumstances. This wasn’t the best of circumstances. I glared. He stopped laughing. “What’s wrong?”
    “Will you please tell me who you’re talking about?” I asked, plaintively. “We’re here on official business from the Duke of Shadowed Hills, and I’d really like to know what’s going on.”
    Alex cocked his head to the side. “Sylvester sent you?”
    “He’s worried about January, so he asked me to check in.”
    “Please don’t get pissed at me for asking this, but . . . do you have any proof?”
    “What?” I blinked at him.
    Looking sheepish, Alex shrugged. “Proof. Do you have anything to prove that Sylvester sent you?”
    “Just this.” I offered him the folder I was still carrying. “Really crappy directions to Fremont, our hotel reservations, and some stuff telling me whose fences I shouldn’t climb over.”
    Alex flipped it open, scanning the contents before offering a quick nod. “Okay, good enough for me; if you’re dumb enough to be faking all this, I figure that’s your lookout, and the real Toby Daye’ll show up soon to beat your face in. Come on, I’ll take you to January.”
    “Let me tell Quentin.” I reclaimed my folder and turned, moving to stick my head back into the cafeteria. Quentin was at the table we’d been sharing, shredding a napkin into long, narrow strips. “Hey.”
    “What?” he said, not looking up.
    “I’m going to go meet Sylvester’s niece. You want to come?”
    “Is he going?”
    “You mean Alex?” He nodded, continuing to shred his napkin. “Yes.”
    “Then I’m staying here.”
    I paused. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine.” Quentin raised his head, meeting my eyes for a moment before looking down again. “I just don’t like him, that’s all.”
    “Already?”
    A shrug.
    “You sure you want to stay here all by yourself?”
    “I’m a big boy,” he said. “I think I’ll be okay in the big, well-lit cafeteria.”
    “Suit yourself,” I said, stepping back and letting the door swing shut. If he wanted to be that way, I wasn’t going to stop him.
    Alex was waiting where I’d left him. “Well?”
    “He’s not coming.”
    “His loss. Come on.” Flicking his hair out of his eyes, Alex turned to head down the hall. His legs were long enough to cover ground at a dismaying rate, and I hurried to catch up. At least we seemed to be staying in the same building.
    “People come and go so quickly here,” I muttered. I’m not used to walking with people who treat it as some sort of unspoken race.
    “We drew straws to see who’d get to deal with you,” he said, as he walked. “Gordan lost, but I owed her a favor, so she swapped with me. Something about wanting to actually get some work done today. Sucker. I would’ve paid her to let me check on you, instead of the other way around.”
    “Is that so?” I glanced at his ears as I caught up to him, trying to be casual. You can usually get a hint about fae heritage from the shape of their ears, and I like to know what I’m dealing with. Maybe if my mother weren’t Daoine Sidhe—the blood-workers of a blood-obsessed culture—I wouldn’t be as entranced by bloodlines. But she is, and in a lot of ways, I am my mother’s daughter.
    He was half-blooded, I could tell that much; the human in him was too strong to miss, and most fae don’t freckle. Still, the curve of his ears was unfamiliar. They were too sharp for Daoine Sidhe, too delicate for Tylwyth Teg, and not long enough for Tuatha de Dannan. I let my lips part, “tasting” the air. Sometimes I can catch the balance of someone’s blood on my tongue and sound out their heritage that way. It’s not a common gift, even among the Daoine Sidhe, and a