Chimes at Midnight Page 19

  “The Queen sent someone to hit me in the face with a goblin fruit pie,” I said. “Well. We’re assuming it was the Queen. That much goblin fruit is going to be expensive, and she’s the one with the most interest in seeing me discredited, instead of just dead. If any of the jam dealers I’ve been hassling had decided to go after me, they would have hired an assassin instead of wasting perfectly good product.” The thought of the pie I’d been hit with made my head start spinning again. I raised my wrist and started sucking on it again. The taste of blood was faint, but it helped.

  “Ah, the good old days, when men tried to kill you with guns and I could simply eviscerate them,” said Tybalt.

  Walther snorted. “Any questions I had about who your companion was have just been answered. Can you drop the illusions?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not wearing one.”

  He paused. Beside me, the faint smell of musk and pennyroyal ghosted through the air as Tybalt removed his human disguise. Finally, Walther said, “That’s what I was afraid of. Let me guess: you got hit with the goblin fruit, your body went ‘oh, this is nice,’ didn’t recognize it as a poison, and tried to adjust things to get the maximum amount of enjoyment. Only since I’m going to bet you were overdosing at the time, you weren’t awake to consciously control the urge, and so you wound up dialing yourself almost all the way human before you ran out of oomph.”

  I blinked, lowering my wrist. Tybalt blinked. Walther grinned, a little wryly.

  “Did you think I put ‘Professor’ in front of my name because I wanted to get respect from college girls? I am actually capable of analytical thought.” He paused, cocking his head. “You were ready to beat me down to get at the goblin fruit a minute ago. How are you feeling now?”

  “Sore,” I said. “Tired, annoyed, hungry . . .”

  “But not like you want to take me on if it gets you a fix?”

  I eyed him warily. “Not as such, no.”

  “Good. Good. Your instincts are usually right, when you let yourself trust them. For you, blood will almost always be the answer.” He grabbed a suspiciously convenient roll of gauze from the desk, lobbing it at me underhand. I caught it, only fumbling slightly in the process. My fingers were too thick and clumsy, and they didn’t want to do as they were told.

  Well, they were going to learn. Until I could get hold of a hope chest, they were what I had to work with. “Do I even want to know why you had this sitting there?”

  “I work with sharp things, and some of us don’t heal like superheroes,” said Walther. He paused, blanching. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s okay.” I shook my head. “Although if you have a scalpel or something that I can borrow, that would be good. I don’t want to depend on getting Tybalt to claw me when the craving gets too bad.”

  “I would prefer to avoid that myself,” said Tybalt.

  Walther frowned. “How much do you know about anatomy? Physiology? Where the major arteries in the humanoid body tend to appear?”

  “Wow, you know, most people would just go ‘where the major arteries are,’” I said, trying to make him smile. It didn’t work. I sighed. “Very little. But that isn’t my main concern right now.”

  “When you’re bleeding out because you sliced yourself wrong, it will be,” said Walther.

  “And when I’m so high I can’t think, much less act, I might as well be bleeding out,” I snapped back. “At least then, I’d die knowing that I was trying. Look, I’ll avoid any visible veins, I’ll cut across instead of cutting down, but I need easy access to blood. Unless you’ve managed to cook up a cure while we weren’t looking?”

  “Not yet,” said Walther. “I’m still trying. But there are better options than scalpels.”

  “Like what?”

  He turned his back on us, opening one of the long drawers in his desk to produce a leather-wrapped bundle. When he unrolled it, he revealed a variety of old-fashioned-looking surgeon’s tools, including a syringe that could probably have been used to extract blood from a Bridge Troll. I blanched.

  “That is not a better option than a scalpel,” I said.

  “I’ve been a chemist for a long time,” he said, picking up the syringe. “That used to include a lot of the duties humans have transferred to doctors.”

  “You practiced bloodletting?” asked Tybalt.

  “For about eighty years. Syringes and leeches, that’s the way to keep food on the table. Toby, pick up that bottle of rubbing alcohol and come over here. Let’s see if we can’t find a way to keep you from damaging yourself to get the blood out.” He paused before adding, “It’s the bottle labeled ‘rubbing alcohol,’ next to the bottle labeled ‘H2SO4.’ Don’t grab the wrong one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the other bottle is sulfuric acid, and you’ll die.”

  “Oh, because that’s safe,” I grumbled. Grabbing the bottle that wasn’t going to kill me, I walked over and offered it to Walther.

  “Good,” he said. “Tybalt, get me one of the ice cube trays from the freezer?” He picked up a cotton ball, dousing it in rubbing alcohol. “Toby, arm, please.”

  Hanging my leather jacket on the nearest chair, I held out my right arm. Walther swabbed a square of flesh about an inch wide clean and drove the needle home before I could tense up. Eighty years of practice had left him pretty good at gauging the location of a vein: the syringe in his hand began to fill with blood as soon as he pulled back the plunger.

  No matter how advanced my blood magic has become, the sight of blood has always made me nauseous. Not this time. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glass as it filled. My stomach grumbled again. If I couldn’t have goblin fruit, apparently blood would do perfectly well. “Great,” I said, sounding dazed even to my own ears. “Now I’m a vampire.”

  “There’s precedent,” said Walther. “There are some old records that claim Daoine Sidhe changelings last longer once they’ve become addicted than most others, because they can take sustenance from the blood of beasts. You’re just cutting out the middle man.”

  “I could hunt for her?” asked Tybalt.

  “You could, but I think this is more hygienic, and probably more effective. Pass the ice tray?”

  “Here.” Tybalt stepped up beside me, holding a bright green plastic ice tray.

  For some reason, that struck me as unutterably funny. I put a hand over my mouth, but not quickly enough to smother my smile. Walther just smiled, taking the ice tray from Tybalt’s hand.

  “If you’re smiling, there’s hope,” he said, and put the tray down on the counter before picking up another cotton ball. “Hold this to the wound while I determine whether we need more blood.”

  “Yay,” I deadpanned. “Holding my blood inside my body is always my favorite part of crazy alchemy adventures.”

  He pulled the needle out. A bead of blood welled up before I slid the cotton into the place. The smell of copper still filled the air, relaxing my nerves further and causing my stomach to rumble again. It felt like I was trading one form of addiction for another. At least this one came naturally, and might eventually make me better, instead of making me worse.

  Walther turned to the ice cube tray, squirting blood from the syringe into each of the tiny squares. He ran out of blood with only half the spaces filled. Turning back to me, he said, almost apologetically, “Other arm, please.”

  “You could at least buy me dinner first,” I said, bending my right arm to keep the cotton in place as I extended my left.

  “Tybalt would gut me if I tried,” said Walther. Again, he slid the needle into my vein; again, the glass chamber began to fill with blood.

  “See, that kind of attitude is never going to get you anywhere with the ladies.” I sighed, watching the blood flow. Then I paused, and asked, “Shouldn’t I be dizzy? Blood loss is supposed to make you dizzy.”

  “Right now, I think your body is too distracted for dizziness.” Walther pulled the needle out again, putting another puff of cotton in place
. “Bend your arm.”

  I did as I was told. “That doesn’t sound very scientific to me.”

  “Says the girl with the goblin fruit addiction and the tomcat boyfriend, to the alchemist who’s about to do something really impressive,” said Walther. He emptied the freshly-drawn blood into the last of the little squares, put the syringe aside, and reached for a saltshaker filled with what looked like paprika. “You may want to step back.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because there’s a fifty-fifty chance this is going to explode.”

  I stepped back. So did Tybalt, who positioned himself slightly to my left, where he could push me clear if something actually blew up, without seeming like he was hovering. I appreciated his concern, even as I resented the need for it.

  Walther sprinkled the paprika-looking herbs over the squares of congealing blood before waving his hands and beginning to chant in Welsh. The air in the lab chilled by about eight degrees in as many seconds, the faint ice and yarrow scent of his magic surrounding us. He kept chanting, lowering his hands toward the blood. The air got even colder. Then the magic burst like a popped balloon, and Walther turned to face us, grinning broadly.

  “I am a genius,” he announced. “You may lavish praise upon me at your leisure. But don’t take too long, I haven’t got all night.”

  “I’ll start lavishing praise when you tell me what you did,” I said. The air wasn’t warming as quickly as it had cooled. I shivered and hugged my arms to my body. “Can I put my coat back on now?”

  “If the bleeding has stopped, yes.” Walther produced a cookie tray and a roll of parchment paper from the mess on the counter. He spread the paper across the metal, then reached behind himself for the ice cube tray. “Voilà.”

  “Walther, seriously, you need to tell me what I’m supposed to be getting excited about, because I honestly don’t have a clue.”

  Walther tipped the ice cube tray over the parchment paper. The “ice cubes” fell out . . . but they weren’t ice cubes, not even bloody ones. Instead, a shower of what looked like polished garnets landed on the parchment paper. They ranged in size from Tic Tacs to throat lozenges almost an inch long.

  I blinked. “That’s my blood.”

  “Yes.”

  “You turned my blood into . . . what, exactly?”

  “These are like M&M’S; they melt in your mouth, not in your hands.” Walther picked up one of the mid-sized “stones,” offering it to me. “Try.”

  “If you say so.” I took the chunk of solidified blood and popped it into my mouth, where it immediately dissolved on my tongue. The growling in my stomach stopped, replaced by a sudden feeling of fullness. It didn’t even leave the taste of blood behind; instead, my mouth tasted like mint and lavender. I stared at him. “What . . . ?”

  “It’s a simple preservation spell, with a little herbal mixture to make the taste more palatable.” Walther turned to the counter one more time, this time producing a plastic baggie. “If you take one of these whenever the craving gets too bad, you should be able to keep it under control, for a little while. I’ll keep working on a more general treatment. This is just a short-term solution.”

  “What do I do if I run out?”

  “Try not to run out.” Walther swept the artificial jewels into the baggie before pressing the zip-seal closed. “This is . . . I’ll be honest, Toby, I have no idea how your body is sustaining itself. You’re the source of this blood. It shouldn’t give you any nutrition you didn’t lose in creating it. At best, this is like dancers eating ice chips to convince themselves that they’ve had an actual meal. At worst, it’s not even that much. You’re going to starve if this goes on too long, and I’m concerned that bleeding you more than once would wreak havoc on your system when it’s already overtaxed. Do you understand me?”

  “Do I understand that this is a stay of execution, not a cure? Yeah. But it’s more than we had when we got here.” It might be enough to get me to a hope chest—or to Mom, although that seemed less likely. I picked up my leather jacket, shrugging it back on. “You do good work, Walther.”

  “Yeah, well, I came to the Mists for the tenure, I’m staying for the excitement.” Walther smiled a little as he turned to hand me the bag of gleaming red stones. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Please try to be careful. And Tybalt, if she seems to be running out of stamina, don’t let her argue. Get her out of whatever she’s doing and back to someone who can take care of her.”

  “I will have her at Shadowed Hills before she can utter a word of protest,” said Tybalt.

  “Hey, right here, remember?” I protested. I took the bag from Walther, tucking it into the inside pocket of my jacket. The urge to eat another stone—just one—was strong. I forced it away.

  “Yes, and we’d like to keep it that way.” Walther shook his head. “I know too much about goblin fruit, and not enough about Dóchas Sidhe. Be careful.”

  “I’ll try.” That was all I could promise him. That was all I could promise anyone, myself included. This wasn’t the sort of situation that allowed for much in the way of “careful.” But there was “less stupid,” and maybe that would be enough.

  It was going to have to be.

  SIXTEEN

  TYBALT PICKED ME UP before stepping onto the Shadow Roads. I huddled against him, holding my breath and squinting my eyes tightly shut. Better a few frozen eyelashes than a pair of frozen eyeballs. Before I got hit in the face with an evil pie, I would have joked about my eyes growing back. Now . . . well. Until we got things sorted, these were the only eyes I was going to get.

  The thought was morbid enough that I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing. Given how little air I had left, that would have been a terrible idea.

  Then we were stepping out into the warm, still air of the San Francisco night. I coughed as Tybalt put me down, steadying me with one hand while I wiped the ice from my face. Finally, I opened my eyes and said, “That’s it. You’re nice and all, but I need something with a little more horsepower if I’m going to be running back and forth across the Bay Area.”

  He quirked a faint smile. “Are you dumping me for your car?”

  “Come on. You always knew it was coming.” I coughed again, grimacing as my cold-chapped lips threatened to split. “But seriously. I can’t keep taking the Shadow Roads everywhere we go. If it means the Queen can track me, so be it.”

  “Ah.” Tybalt paused, indecision clear. “I suppose this would be a bad time to point out that your vehicle remains in Pleasant Hill.”

  “We’ll work it out.” I started walking toward the Luidaeg’s apartment. None of the Queen’s men were lurking this time—at least, none that I could see. There was always the chance that . . . wait. I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “October?” asked Tybalt. “What is it?”

  “I’m an idiot,” I said.

  “Yes, frequently, but what now?”

  “The Luidaeg said I’d be able to see through any illusion while I had the fireflies, and so what did I do? I left them in their damn flask, and then I left the damn thing at the Library.” I started to walk a little faster now. “I need my car, and I need those fireflies, at least until I can get my hands on a hope chest. You know, I did not sign up for a crazy fairy tale scavenger hunt this week.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Tybalt, pacing me. I shot him a sharp look. He shrugged. “You got out of bed. The universe does seem to take that as a personal affront.”

  The urge to call him something unforgiveable was strong. I settled for glaring and walking faster until we reached the Luidaeg’s door. It looked the same as always. I’d never been able to see through her illusions anyway. Raising my hand, I hammered against the water-damaged wood loudly enough to wake the dead. Then I stepped back, and waited.

  It wasn’t a long wait. The door opened just a crack, revealing the scowling, suspicious face of the Luidaeg. She blinked when she saw me, suspicion fading first into puzzlement, and finally into raw shock. Allowing t
he door to swing the rest of the way open, she said, “Toby?”

  “Yeah,” I confirmed.

  “Bullshit.”

  I blinked. “Okay, that’s not the reaction I was expecting. Look. I have my knife, I have my jacket, I have my sarcastic tag-along . . . what else is required for the position? Because I’m way too tired to stand out here and argue about my identity any longer than I need to. I need your help.”

  “What you don’t have is a hell of a lot of fae blood,” the Luidaeg said. Her hand shot forward, grabbed my upper arm, and hauled me into the apartment. Tybalt followed, not protesting her rough treatment of me. Even Kings of Cats have to come with some sense of self-preservation.

  “Ow!” I protested, trying—and failing—to pull myself out of her grasp.

  She raised her head, eyes narrowed, and turned toward Tybalt. “Close the door,” she said. Then she started walking, hauling me toward her bedroom.

  I had time to note that the illusions normally filling her apartment were gone, leaving the place visibly impeccable. She knocked three times when she reached her bedroom door—she almost always did that, and I never knew why—before opening it to reveal the dark, candle-filled cavern of her bedroom. The walls were lined with saltwater tanks. I couldn’t make my eyes focus on half of them, although I knew their contents: that one held hippocampi, brightly-colored as reef fish and the size of my hand; that one housed a pearl-eyed sea dragon the length of my arm. His name was Ketea, and the Luidaeg once used one of his scales to turn me into a Merrow.

  “Sit,” she commanded, shoving me toward the large bed. I stumbled backward, barely managing to avoid hitting my hip on one of the carved wooden posts that held up the canopy. She planted her hands on her hips, eyeing me. I squirmed, but didn’t say anything. It seemed better not to. Finally, she said a single word: “How?”

  “Someone hit me in the face with a pie,” I said.

  The Luidaeg blinked, expression going slack. The candlelight threw strange shadows over her cheeks, and made my stomach clench. I don’t like candles. “That’s . . . wait . . . what? You’re almost human because someone’s been watching too many damn Bugs Bunny cartoons?”