away, he had unfastened his seatbelt and closed the distance between us, and now he was pressed to me like a teenage boy after the prom. I fumbled with my own seatbelt until I found the latch and was able to squirm free, wrapping myself around him in turn. His fingers found the back of my neck, tangling in the small wisps of hair not contained by the net of ribbons. I splayed my fingers against his chest, bracing myself without pushing him away, and kissed him like I thought the world was going to end.
We were still like that when the rear door opened and Quentin said, sounding both amazed and a little disgusted, “Don’t you need to
breathe
?”
“Ah, you see.” Tybalt pulled his mouth away from my throat, turning a lazy, smug-eyed smile on Quentin. “I am a King of Cats, and she was a fish for quite some time. We are both very, very good at holding our breath.”
“Off.” I pushed him away, shaking my head. “You just had to go to the fish place, didn’t you? Quentin, did you get my coffee?”
“I like being alive,” he said, and passed me the cup.
“Good.” I took it, refastened my belt, and started the car, trying to pretend that Tybalt wasn’t grinning wickedly at me from the passenger seat. It wasn’t easy. “Buckle up.”
I let Tybalt hold my coffee as we drove the last mile or so to the Luidaeg’s neighborhood. The area where she lived wasn’t exactly what you’d call “upscale.” Or “nice.” Hell, even “livable” was pushing it, although the definition is different when you’re a functionally immortal sea witch who likes to be left alone. San Francisco grew up around the Luidaeg. She could live wherever she damn well wanted to.
The streets changed around us as we drove, careful maintenance giving way to benign neglect, then wanton vandalism, and finally the sort of disrepair that implied the residents had abandoned all hope. It was just another facade. The people living in the Luidaeg’s shadow enjoyed some of the lowest crime rates in the city. When we had earthquakes, their foundations didn’t crack; when it rained for a week, their roofs didn’t leak. The residents of the blocks surrounding the Luidaeg’s dockside home were her last passive line of defense against strangers, and she took care of them.
No one lived on the Luidaeg’s block. There was maintaining a neighborhood, and then there was putting up with neighbors. One was good sense. The other was likely to get someone killed.
I parked on the street, reclaiming my coffee from Tybalt and letting Quentin carry the burritos as we walked down the alleyway to the Luidaeg’s door. It was old, faintly bloated wood, set into a frame that looked so water-damaged it might fall apart at any moment. Appearances can be deceiving, especially where the Luidaeg is concerned. I knocked lightly. Then I stepped back, sipped my coffee, and waited.
“Think she’s up?” asked Quentin, rummaging through the bag of burritos.
“If she’s not, we’re probably all about to be torn limb from limb. Get ready to run.” I peered into my cup. “Maeve’s tits, I think they pumped this stuff up from the center of the Earth. It’s not coffee. It’s fermented dinosaur blood.”
“Cool.” Quentin pulled a foil-wrapped burrito out of the bag and began unpeeling it.
I raised an eyebrow. “‘Cool’? That’s all you have to say?”
“Be glad he’s not grilling you about the comet that killed them all,” said a dry voice. We turned, almost in unison, to see the Luidaeg standing in the alley behind us, two paper grocery bags in her arms. She looked faintly puzzled, but not annoyed. I’d take it. “What the fuck are you three doing here?”
The Luidaeg is fond of human profanity, I think because it tends to shock the purebloods. I shrugged. “We were in the neighborhood.” I didn’t want to tell her I’d been exiled until after she’d agreed to let us in.
“Uh-huh. Is there a burrito in that sack for me?”
“Lobster,
We were still like that when the rear door opened and Quentin said, sounding both amazed and a little disgusted, “Don’t you need to
breathe
?”
“Ah, you see.” Tybalt pulled his mouth away from my throat, turning a lazy, smug-eyed smile on Quentin. “I am a King of Cats, and she was a fish for quite some time. We are both very, very good at holding our breath.”
“Off.” I pushed him away, shaking my head. “You just had to go to the fish place, didn’t you? Quentin, did you get my coffee?”
“I like being alive,” he said, and passed me the cup.
“Good.” I took it, refastened my belt, and started the car, trying to pretend that Tybalt wasn’t grinning wickedly at me from the passenger seat. It wasn’t easy. “Buckle up.”
I let Tybalt hold my coffee as we drove the last mile or so to the Luidaeg’s neighborhood. The area where she lived wasn’t exactly what you’d call “upscale.” Or “nice.” Hell, even “livable” was pushing it, although the definition is different when you’re a functionally immortal sea witch who likes to be left alone. San Francisco grew up around the Luidaeg. She could live wherever she damn well wanted to.
The streets changed around us as we drove, careful maintenance giving way to benign neglect, then wanton vandalism, and finally the sort of disrepair that implied the residents had abandoned all hope. It was just another facade. The people living in the Luidaeg’s shadow enjoyed some of the lowest crime rates in the city. When we had earthquakes, their foundations didn’t crack; when it rained for a week, their roofs didn’t leak. The residents of the blocks surrounding the Luidaeg’s dockside home were her last passive line of defense against strangers, and she took care of them.
No one lived on the Luidaeg’s block. There was maintaining a neighborhood, and then there was putting up with neighbors. One was good sense. The other was likely to get someone killed.
I parked on the street, reclaiming my coffee from Tybalt and letting Quentin carry the burritos as we walked down the alleyway to the Luidaeg’s door. It was old, faintly bloated wood, set into a frame that looked so water-damaged it might fall apart at any moment. Appearances can be deceiving, especially where the Luidaeg is concerned. I knocked lightly. Then I stepped back, sipped my coffee, and waited.
“Think she’s up?” asked Quentin, rummaging through the bag of burritos.
“If she’s not, we’re probably all about to be torn limb from limb. Get ready to run.” I peered into my cup. “Maeve’s tits, I think they pumped this stuff up from the center of the Earth. It’s not coffee. It’s fermented dinosaur blood.”
“Cool.” Quentin pulled a foil-wrapped burrito out of the bag and began unpeeling it.
I raised an eyebrow. “‘Cool’? That’s all you have to say?”
“Be glad he’s not grilling you about the comet that killed them all,” said a dry voice. We turned, almost in unison, to see the Luidaeg standing in the alley behind us, two paper grocery bags in her arms. She looked faintly puzzled, but not annoyed. I’d take it. “What the fuck are you three doing here?”
The Luidaeg is fond of human profanity, I think because it tends to shock the purebloods. I shrugged. “We were in the neighborhood.” I didn’t want to tell her I’d been exiled until after she’d agreed to let us in.
“Uh-huh. Is there a burrito in that sack for me?”
“Lobster,
Similar Books
