“I picked the lock.” Seeing his disapproving expression, I sighed. “Look, we’re here because Sylvester’s worried. That justifies a little breaking and entering. Now get in the car.”
He rolled his eyes but did as he was told. The security system was more impressive than practical; it took almost five minutes for the portcullis to open, and that’s too long to wait for a door. With the purebloods, style almost always triumphs over substance. Once the opening was wide enough, we drove through, following the winding driveway down a short hill to the parking lot. The undergrowth dropped away, replaced by a well-manicured lawn that surrounded the two buildings at the blacktop’s far side. Trees rose in a forebidding tangle around us, the illusion of wilderness only leavened by glimpses of the city skyline. They’d done an excellent job with it, especially when you considered that they were in the middle of Silicon Valley, where very few people can afford their own private forests.
The buildings were red brick, connected by concrete paths that wound in seemingly random curves across the lawn. The taller building was five stories high; the smaller one was only two. It looked more like a private school than a computer company. There was a distinct lack of steel and chrome.
The strangest thing about the landscape was all the cats. There were about two dozen scattered around the almost empty parking lot, strolling lazily along, bathing themselves, or just dozing in the sun. Even more were on the grass, lounging, watching us come.
“Toby . . .”
“I see them.” The cats in our path didn’t even bother to run as we drove down the hill; they just sauntered away, tails in the air. I pulled into a spot near the front of the lot, stopping the engine, and they promptly surrounded the car. One bold calico leaped onto the hood, staring at us through the windshield.
“That’s just not right,” Quentin said.
“Uh-huh,” I agreed, unbuckling my seat belt. I got out of the car, tucking the folder under my arm. Giving the cats a confused, speculative look, I glanced back toward the gate.
There was someone—a little girl—standing by the trees. She was wearing denim overalls, and the wind was rippling her long blonde hair in a wave. The light winked off her glasses as she turned her head, looking at me. I raised a hand . . . and she was gone.
“Okay, that was creepy,” I said. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Quentin asked, stepping up next to me.
“That’s a ‘no.’ ” I squinted at the place where she’d been. There are several races in Faerie who can disappear like that. I couldn’t for the life of me guess which one she’d been.
Quentin was giving me a funny look. “What’re you staring at?”
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on.” I locked the car and turned, heading for the smaller building with Quentin close behind. Half a dozen cats followed us, stopping to spread out in a wide semicircle on the grass when we had almost reached the door. They didn’t move any closer to the building, and their eyes never left us.
A brass plaque was bolted to the wall, out of place in its simplicity. “ ‘And gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name—William Shakespeare.’ Huh.” I reached out to touch the lettering, and a jolt of static stung my hand. “Ow!”
“What was that?” Quentin demanded, sounding alarmed.
“Low-level warding spell. It’s not supposed to hurt people . . . at least, not the ones who don’t mean any harm.” I stuck my finger into my mouth, studying the plaque.
“How does it know?”
“See this line, here?” I indicated one of the streaks of silver, careful not to touch the metal a second time. “This is Coblynau work. It’s probably the real security system.”
“How so?”
“Even if someone manages to break through the gate, they won’t be able to get in with this on the door. It’s only a low- level ward for us because we’re supposed to be here. If we were here to hurt things, it’d be a lot worse.” And that “little spark” would have been enough to do some serious damage.
“Oh,” said Quentin. “Is it safe to go in?”
“Let’s find out.” There was a piece of cardboard taped to the door, the words “please take deliveries to the back” scrawled across it in black marker. An arrow under the words pointed toward the corner of the building. I ignored it, pushing the door open only to be hit by the dual indignities of arctic air-conditioning and a truly tasteless pea-green carpet.
Most reception areas are meant to make people feel at home; this one combined the worst features of a seventies color scheme with plastic art-deco furniture. It seemed to be designed to make people leave as quickly as possible. The plants were also plastic, and the magazines on the glass end tables were all at least three years old.
“Ew,” said Quentin, looking at the carpet.
“Agreed.” I frowned. No one used this room for business; they didn’t maintain it because they didn’t have to. There was a door at the back. I started toward it. “Come on.”
“Shouldn’t we try to call someone or something?”
“The sign said deliveries go to the back, and this looks like the back to me.” I shrugged. “We’ve just become a delivery.” What we lacked in postage, I was sure we’d make up for in destructive potential. The knob was unlocked. That was all the invitation I needed.
“I’m not comfortable just barging in,” said Quentin.
“And I’m not comfortable just standing around. Follow me or don’t; it’s up to you.” I pushed the door open and walked through. I was halfway down the hall before I heard the door close, and Quentin came running to catch up. I smiled and kept going.
ALH Computing obviously started life as a warehouse: there were no interior walls, just a labyrinthine succession of shoulder- high cubicles stretching into the distance. The floors were concrete softened by industrial-sized throw rugs. A ladder on one wall led up to the catwalks crisscrossing the ceiling. They extended far higher than the room’s evident ceiling, going up at least three tiers, maybe more, and only the bottom two were lit. It was impossible to tell what might be up there—and after a moment’s thought, I decided I probably didn’t want to know.
This was the smaller building, and it was huge. How were we supposed to find Sylvester’s niece?
“Toby . . .”
“Shhh. Listen.” Someone was shouting near the center of the room, dimly audible through the twisting maze of cubicles. It was the only sound breaking the buzz of the lights—as large as the space was, it was practically deserted.
“Whoever that is sounds pissed.”
“Right. So we go that way.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Probably not,” I said, starting into the shoulder-high labyrinth. The cubicle walls looked like they were made from loosely connected panels, like a series of giant corkboards. If I got lost, I could just knock things down until I found the way out.
The path ended at a wide spot that seemed to be the meeting point for all the trails through the maze. Several people were gathered there, staring down one of the narrow pathways with obvious interest. All of them were fae, but only one was cloaked in the flicker of a human disguise. Interesting. The shouting was coming from somewhere down that path; the voice was female without being feminine, and swearing a blue streak in at least four different languages. Whoever it was, she seemed to have been designated as the afternoon’s entertainment.
“How many is that so far?” asked one of them, a tall blond man who could probably have made the cover of
Surf Weekly
without really trying. Though you don’t see many surfers with poppy-orange eyes and pointed ears.
The woman next to him frowned, looking at her clipboard. “Six, if you count Klingon. Are we counting Klingon?” Her hair was brown with streaks of red, making her look like the victim of a bad dye job. The combination of that hair with her china-pale skin tagged her as Daoine Sidhe; she had the right sort of artful graceless-ness, like she wore the world instead of letting it wear her.
“No,” said another man. “Nothing fictional.” He was the one wearing the human disguise; if I squinted, I could almost see the outline of his wings.
“Peter, that’s not fair,” protested the first man. “We allowed Elvish.”
“Elvish is a language!”
“Only if you’re living in a Tolkien novel,” said the brunette, shoving her glasses back up her nose. I’d never seen a Daoine Sidhe wearing glasses before.
“Oh, come on,” protested Peter. “Hey, Colin?”
The man next to the water cooler looked up. “Yeah?” His hair was shaggy and green, and henna tattoos covered most of his visible skin. A sealskin was looped around his waist, the ends tied in a granny knot. A Selkie? That was unusual this far inland.
“Is Elvish a language?”
Colin considered this, and then said, “Well, Gordan speaks it.”
“Is that a yes or no on the Elvish?” demanded the brunette. She looked annoyed. I understood how she felt.
“It’s not a language; Klingon is, and she just switched to Italian, which makes six.” A new man stepped out of one of the walkways, hands tucked into the pockets of his impeccably tailored suit. His hair and goatee were clipped close, not a strand out of place. “That work?”
“Hey, Elliot. Yeah, that works,” said the brunette.
This was worse than trying to watch opera without a program book. I cleared my throat. Quentin gave me a stricken look, but the crowd didn’t miss a beat, continuing to debate foreign swear words. I cleared my throat again; either they couldn’t hear me, or I was being ignored.
“Excuse me?” I said, finally.
Elliot looked up and smiled, taking his hands out of his suit pockets. Quentin shrank back. I’m sure the expression was meant to be reassuring, but few things are less reassuring than a smiling Bannick: their teeth are sharp and mossy, and they look perfectly equipped for a nice dinner of young Daoine Sidhe. The teeth are misleading—the Bannick are actually very friendly people. They like to live in bathhouses and on coasts, and unlike the Kelpies, they don’t kill travelers. Well, not often. “I’m sorry; are you lost?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m looking for Countess Torquill. Is she here?”
“Sorry, no,” said the brunette, eyes still on her clipboard. “Can we help you?”
I bit back a sigh, saying, “I really need to talk to January. Will she be back soon?” Inwardly, I was fuming. It wasn’t her fault Sylvester hadn’t told her we were coming, but I’d still expected her to be there when we arrived. No one ever accused me of being logical.
She glanced up, smiling. “Probably not.”
“Damn.” The multilingual cursing was still going on. I looked toward it. “What
is
that?”
“That would be Gordan,” said Colin.
“Why is she screaming like that?” asked Quentin.
“Because she found a flaw, an error, nay, a veritable bug in her code,” said the blond, with obvious relish. “I think her poor obsessive heart may break.”
I blinked. “Does she do this often?”
“Every time,” he said, winking. For some reason, I felt my cheeks redden. Quentin scowled.
“You can set your clock by it,” Colin added.
“If you bother to set a clock at all,” said the brunette. The shouting stopped and she looked at her watch. “Twenty-one minutes, eight languages. She’s right on schedule.”
Talking to the entire group at once was making my headache worse. “Is there somewhere we can go to wait for the Countess?”
“Sure—have you eaten? You’re welcome to wait in the cafeteria.” Elliot glanced to the brunette, who shrugged and offered another brilliant smile. “You can get something in your stomachs while you wait for January to come talk to you.”
“Great,” I said, and realized I meant it. Headaches make me hungry. Next to me, Quentin perked up. Teenage boys are almost always ready for another meal. “Food would be wonderful.”
“All right, then. Follow me.” Elliot started down one of the paths into the maze, waving for us to follow. I shrugged and did as I was bid, nodding to the others as I passed. I had nothing else to do, and Quentin was looking almost pleasant for the first time since we’d arrived. Maybe after he ate something he’d stop glaring all the time.
“Later, Elliot,” called the blond, joining Colin at the water cooler. The brunette had gone back to her notes, and Peter was wandering calmly down one of the aisles. It seemed this really was just “business as usual.”
“See you,” Elliot said, waving again. “Keep walking,” he advised, more quietly. “They can smell fear; they’ll be on you like hawks if they know they make you nervous.”
“You’re pulling my leg . . . right?” Quentin glanced to me, anxious.
“He’s kidding,” I said. People who stand around taking notes while their friends scream usually aren’t dangerous to anyone but themselves.
“Yes, I’m pulling your leg,” Elliot said. “You both look so serious.”
“I’m on official business,” said Quentin, tone going stiff and formal.
I shrugged. “I just have a headache.”