Page 15 of A Killing Frost

Technically, bringing Simon home might still mean killing him, depending on how he responded to the attempt. I wasn’t ready to think too much about that yet, just like I wasn’t ready to commit to giving up my humanity yet. Somewhere in the muddle my life had become, I’d wound up dealing with things that were much bigger and more terrifying than anything one changeling from San Francisco should be expected to contend with. I wasn’t going to do it until I had to.

“You’re worried she’ll make the cost something impossible,” said May.

I nodded. “I am.”

“I’d never let you make a bargain like that. I’d take the price first.”

“We don’t even know what it might be, which is why we’re going to Luna first,” I said. “Karen’s vision implied that the Rose Roads would be the way to get to him, and Luna’s tied to the Rose Roads. She can get us there. The worst she can say is ‘no.’”

“And if she refuses to help?”

“Then we’ll think of something else,” I said. “We’re good at that. Will you help me?”

“Of course,” said May. “Just let me call Jazz while you change into your work clothes, unless you were planning to wear your nice shoes to Shadowed Hills.”

“Not tonight,” I said, and smiled, before leaving her room and heading to my own. She would have said something if Quentin was home already; we’d have to stop at Saltmist and pick him up before we crossed the Bay, unless I wanted to spend the next year being yelled at for leaving him out of a quest.

Spike was still asleep on my pillow when I stepped into the room. I paused to tap it on the head and say, “Hey, get up. I have to go to Shadowed Hills. You want to come?”

It opened its vibrantly yellow eyes and blinked before clambering to its feet and shaking vigorously, resulting in a sound like someone rolling a barrel of maracas down a hill. Then it chirped, the sound interrogative and sharp.

“Yes, I know Luna’s mad at me,” I said, heading for my dresser. “It doesn’t matter. This has to be done, and she can be mad at me while I’m there just as easily as she can be mad at me from a distance.” More easily, maybe. I’ve been told I’m an irritation that lingers, but everyone who said that was mad at me at the time, so I don’t know if I can call them objective observers.

Spike rattled at me again as I pulled off my dress and dug a tank top out of the drawer. I glanced over my shoulder at it. “Are you willing to come or not?”

I’ve never been sure how intelligent rose goblins are or aren’t. Not human-smart, I don’t think, but closer than the cats. Spike—the rose goblin I interact with the most—seems to understand speech, or at least, responds as if it does, and that’s generally been good enough for me. It doesn’t always come when called, but neither do I. If we’re going to measure intelligence based on obedience, we’re all going to be very disappointed.

It rattled its thorns a third time before jumping off the bed and trotting over to sit next to my ankles. I smiled at it.

“Awesome. I appreciate it, buddy.” Technically, the prohibition on saying “thank you” doesn’t apply to fae animals. Technically, pixies are considered animals, but they have their own magic, customs, and society. It seems safer to assume everything in Faerie isfully capable of understanding me and holding a grudge if it decides it wants to.

Getting dressed didn’t take long. It never does, since my taste in clothing is more practical than decorative. I like interchangeable jeans, tank tops, and sensible shoes. Everything I own is going to get bled on at least once, so why not make it easy to replace things when necessary? I had to remove my knife long enough to refasten the belt over my jeans, but apart from that, it was remarkably easy to reach the point where I was ready to leave the house. I paused for a long moment before opening my nightstand and removing a braided metal key. The last thing I did before heading for the door was grab the leather jacket hanging off the chair beside my bed. It settled across my shoulders like the armor it represented, well-worn and comfortable and conforming to the shape of my body more accurately than any other piece of clothing I owned.

It wasn’t always mine. Unless something is custom-made for you, nothing can ever be said to have “always” belonged to anyone, but this jacket’s provenance is a little more specific than “I bought it from Sears.” Once upon a time, before I was even willing to admit we were friends, this jacket belonged to Tybalt. He’d handed it to me because I was cold, and somehow I’d just never quite gotten around to giving it back.

It was mine now, no question. With as much as I’d bled on the leather, it was probably technically a member of the family. I shoved the key into my front pocket, pushing it down until there was no chance it would fall out. This was one thing I really didn’t want to lose.

May was in the hall when Spike and I emerged. She’d changed her own clothes, going for jeans with brightly colored cotton patches on the knees and a neon-green peasant blouse that looked like it had been stolen directly from the 1980s. I stopped, blinking. She beamed.

“Like my new shirt?” she asked. “I dyed it myself.”

“It’s clashing with your hair,” I said. “How is it clashing with your hair? Blue and green are supposed to be friends.”

“I’m very good at color theory,” she said.

I shook off the stunning color mismatch in front of me, turning toward the stairs. “Come on. We need to go ruin Quentin’s date.”

“He won’t thank us for that.”

“His manners are too good for him to thank us for anything,”I said. “But if I don’t get to have a nice time with my boyfriend, neither does he.”

“See, this is why I don’t have a boyfriend,” chirped May, following me down the stairs. Spike stuck to my ankles the whole way, like a very well-trained dog. He only paused occasionally to rattle. “You don’t feel the need to crash my dates.”

“I don’t understand your dates. ‘Let’s visit every thrift store in San Francisco’ doesn’t feel like high romance to me.”

“It works for us,” said May. She brightened as we stepped into the kitchen and she spotted Tybalt. “Hey, kitty-cat! You clean up good.”

“I could say the same of you, sweet Lady Fetch,” said Tybalt.

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