Page 75 of A Killing Frost

“Just don’t do it again,” said Tybalt, and exhaled slowly, seeming to release some tightly coiled inner tension.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” I said, and started the car.

As always, Tybalt’s focus shifted to the road once we were moving, hands locking down on the dashboard so hard that it seemed impossible for him not to leave indentations when he finally let go. I smothered my smile. His dislike of riding in cars was well established, and the fact that he was not only willing to do it for my sake, but willing to do it in human form, where we could all talk to each other, was a statement of incredible trust and love.

Simon, who was roughly the same age, was much more relaxed in the backseat, but then, I knew for a fact that Simon used to have a car of his own. Maybe he still did. A lot of purebloods have systems in place for long-term protection of their assets, and I’d never cared enough about Simon’s car or lack thereof to ask. I smirked and drove a little faster.

“Mustyou?” asked Tybalt, sounding aggravated.

“Do you want to go home and put all this behind us?”

“Yes.”

“Then, unfortunately, yes, I must.”

He sighed loudly and closed his eyes.

In short order, we were pulling up in front of the museum. It was early enough that the parking lot was entirely empty. “Everybody out,” I said, pushing my door open with my foot.

Tybalt and Quentin tumbled out of the car, the one because he was desperate not to be confined any longer, the other because he was desperate to get inside and see his boyfriend. Simon didn’t move.

“Simon?” I opened my door and peered over the seat at him. “We’re here. Come on. Get out of the car.”

“You can’t expect me to face them after what I’ve done,” he said. “I can’t—this is cruel, to everyone. Please don’t make me do this.”

“This is the easiest way I know of to get a message to Saltmist, and you should probably apologize to Dean before he tells his parents what you did,” I said, and closed my door before opening his and taking hold of his arm. “Come on. Get out of the car before I drag you out of the car.”

“This is assault,” he said mildly, unbuckling his seatbelt and allowing himself to be tugged free. “I’ll have you know that this is behavior entirely unsuitable for a lady.”

“Good thing I’m a knight, not a lady,” I said, letting go of him and starting toward the shed that would grant us access into the knowe. Quentin and Tybalt hurried to pace me, while Simon lagged behind, which made sense, given how little he wanted to be here. Goldengreen had been his second home when it belonged to Evening. Now, he was an enemy, unwelcome in these halls, and had no reason to expect a warm reception.

And that didn’t matter, because we were nearly finished, and that meant pressing forward until we reached the ending.

We passed through the shed into the knowe, which was a much easier and more pleasant transition than approaching through the Summerlands, for all that I’d learned things on the other route that I had very much needed to know. Evening had been shaping and reshaping the Mists for a long time. She must have had a reason. What was it about the place that kept attracting Firstborn?

Hell, what was it about the place that had attractedOberon? Every time I tried to think too hard about his presence, it was like my mind flinched away from the concept, refusing to consider it more than absolutely necessary. Oberon. I’d found Oberon. I’d interacted with Oberon. The King of Faerie was here, in San Francisco, in his eldest daughter’s living room, and it was because of me. But why had he been pretending to be a human police officer? Had he been hiding as a human for five hundred years? What possible utility could that have?

The main hall of Goldengreen was empty, the witch-lights burning pale gold in their sconces and beating back the shadows. No pixies flitted by overhead; they must have still been mushrooms in the courtyard, unable to spread their absent wings.

“I’ve never been a tree,” I said quietly. “I was almost a tree once, but the spell was never finished. Do trees know what’s happening around them?”

Tybalt reached over and took my hand, squeezing my fingers.I shot him a grateful look. He smiled. It was, for a moment, almost pleasantly normal.

“No,” said Simon. “They don’t, or if they do, it’s only in the slowest of vegetable manners. They’re essentially asleep without dreaming, until such time as they’re released back to their original shapes. Sap and silence are all.”

“That’s terrible,” said Quentin. “Why would you do something so terrible to people?”

Simon gave him a startled but appraising look. “If you had to remove someone from your path, and your choices were killing or changing them, which would seem the kinder?”

“I don’t know,” said Quentin.

“Changing,” said Tybalt.

“Killing,” I said.

Simon smiled a little. “You see? There is no agreement. Everyone must decide on their own, when the situation arises and cannot be set aside. A man who has become a tree cannot do you harm, or flee, or anything else. So long as you don’t intend to set either ax or flame to his roots, it has always seemed to be the kinder choice, at least to me.”

“I don’t like it,” said Quentin.

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