back in human form, a full night and half a day before he might have expected her to manage it.
She had plainly just changed. She was curled into a ball on the cement floor, her arms drawn in and her face tucked down. She obviously hadn’t been wearing her winter-fairy dress when she’d shifted, and the reason was obvious, because she looked cold even in the ragged jeans and oversized white sweater she was wearing. She looked terrible, washed out and pale, and even thinner, as though weight had burned off her just over the three nights of the full moon. But she looked completely human. There was no trace of the monster left, to Miguel’s eyes, though no doubt a black dog would have still recognized her as a shifter.
At first Miguel thought she didn’t even know he was there. Then she said, still not looking up, “Go away.”
“Right,” he said. He was obscurely embarrassed, as though he’d walked in on a girl in the shower or something. He said, rattled enough fall back into his mother’s Spanish—he, who’d been reading and speaking colloquial English since he could remember— “Lo siento.” Then he said, “Sorry,” and started to back away again, up the stairs, clumsy because he was backing up—but that wasn’t why he felt clumsy.
“Wait!” Cassie said, and uncurled suddenly.
She looked even thinner and more desperate once she sat up. The wild look in her eyes might have belonged to a creature of frost and winter, a fairy, a woodland elf—but it was her, and not her shadow. Miguel wanted to say something, but what could he say? He wasn’t moon-bound. She wasn’t going to want sympathy from him .
“I heard you,” she said. Her tone was fierce and angry. “I was there.”
She didn’t say she was glad he’d come down to read to her. From her fury, she might hate him for it. Miguel nodded, awkwardly. “Right . . .”
“You want to get rid of Étienne Lumondiere.”
Miguel hadn’t expected that at all, and stared at her, speechless.
Cassie told him, “We need black dogs right now. We need numbers. But Étienne isn’t the kind we need. He’s trouble. No human is going to want to be here as long as he is. He’s not worth that kind of problem.”
“That’s what I thought,” admitted Miguel. “But I’m pretty sure Grayson isn’t going to see it that way.”
“Yeah, not unless you plant the idea in his mind. You’ve already started, I know, but you could do better—and he mustn’t catch you at it.”
“Yeah, working that out is the hard part—”
“I know how. But not now. Come back in an hour.”
It was easy, actually, in principle. Tricky in practice, though.
It was all about getting Grayson to see Étienne Lumondiere as a threat to Dimilioc, as well as an asset. The Master had to decide he was an asset better used elsewhere, not kept close to Dimilioc’s central territory. And the Master had to be annoyed enough to get rid of him, but not so much so as to kill him—a fine line with a black dog. Plus Miguel and Cassie had to arrange everything without letting anyone, not Grayson nor Étienne nor anyone else, see they were doing anything at all on purpose.
Yeah, in practice it was tricky. Without Cassie’s help, Miguel wasn’t sure how he would have arranged to get Grayson in the right spot at just the right moment. That had always been the key. Setting the hook was one thing, but landing the fish was the thing. It was more like hooking a shark. A shark was not what you wanted to catch unless you had very strong fishing line. And preferably a harpoon. Miguel had only words. And Cassie Pearson’s help, now. Miguel didn’t know exactly how she got Grayson to the library at just the right moment: she sure hadn’t asked the Master of Dimilioc for his personal help in finding just the right book. Or maybe she
She had plainly just changed. She was curled into a ball on the cement floor, her arms drawn in and her face tucked down. She obviously hadn’t been wearing her winter-fairy dress when she’d shifted, and the reason was obvious, because she looked cold even in the ragged jeans and oversized white sweater she was wearing. She looked terrible, washed out and pale, and even thinner, as though weight had burned off her just over the three nights of the full moon. But she looked completely human. There was no trace of the monster left, to Miguel’s eyes, though no doubt a black dog would have still recognized her as a shifter.
At first Miguel thought she didn’t even know he was there. Then she said, still not looking up, “Go away.”
“Right,” he said. He was obscurely embarrassed, as though he’d walked in on a girl in the shower or something. He said, rattled enough fall back into his mother’s Spanish—he, who’d been reading and speaking colloquial English since he could remember— “Lo siento.” Then he said, “Sorry,” and started to back away again, up the stairs, clumsy because he was backing up—but that wasn’t why he felt clumsy.
“Wait!” Cassie said, and uncurled suddenly.
She looked even thinner and more desperate once she sat up. The wild look in her eyes might have belonged to a creature of frost and winter, a fairy, a woodland elf—but it was her, and not her shadow. Miguel wanted to say something, but what could he say? He wasn’t moon-bound. She wasn’t going to want sympathy from him .
“I heard you,” she said. Her tone was fierce and angry. “I was there.”
She didn’t say she was glad he’d come down to read to her. From her fury, she might hate him for it. Miguel nodded, awkwardly. “Right . . .”
“You want to get rid of Étienne Lumondiere.”
Miguel hadn’t expected that at all, and stared at her, speechless.
Cassie told him, “We need black dogs right now. We need numbers. But Étienne isn’t the kind we need. He’s trouble. No human is going to want to be here as long as he is. He’s not worth that kind of problem.”
“That’s what I thought,” admitted Miguel. “But I’m pretty sure Grayson isn’t going to see it that way.”
“Yeah, not unless you plant the idea in his mind. You’ve already started, I know, but you could do better—and he mustn’t catch you at it.”
“Yeah, working that out is the hard part—”
“I know how. But not now. Come back in an hour.”
It was easy, actually, in principle. Tricky in practice, though.
It was all about getting Grayson to see Étienne Lumondiere as a threat to Dimilioc, as well as an asset. The Master had to decide he was an asset better used elsewhere, not kept close to Dimilioc’s central territory. And the Master had to be annoyed enough to get rid of him, but not so much so as to kill him—a fine line with a black dog. Plus Miguel and Cassie had to arrange everything without letting anyone, not Grayson nor Étienne nor anyone else, see they were doing anything at all on purpose.
Yeah, in practice it was tricky. Without Cassie’s help, Miguel wasn’t sure how he would have arranged to get Grayson in the right spot at just the right moment. That had always been the key. Setting the hook was one thing, but landing the fish was the thing. It was more like hooking a shark. A shark was not what you wanted to catch unless you had very strong fishing line. And preferably a harpoon. Miguel had only words. And Cassie Pearson’s help, now. Miguel didn’t know exactly how she got Grayson to the library at just the right moment: she sure hadn’t asked the Master of Dimilioc for his personal help in finding just the right book. Or maybe she
Similar Books
