There was no answer. I opened the door.

May’s room amazes me. I’m not tidy—I tend toward “congenial clutter”—but I’m not a pack rat, whereas May would happily keep a souvenir for every moment of her life. Her room reflects that. One wall is lined with mismatched bookshelves holding her “collections;” the other wall is occupied by two dressers and an oak vanity that I helped her carry home from a garage sale. No one needs as much makeup as was spread across the top of her vanity, or that much costume jewelry.

May herself was huddled in the middle of the bed with her legs drawn up to her chest and her forehead pressed to her knees. There was something wrong with the shape of her. I just couldn’t tell quite what it was, and that scared me.

“May?”

“Lily’s dead, isn’t she?” she asked, not moving.

I stepped the rest of the way inside, closing the door behind me. “Yeah.”

“Thought so.” May raised her head, looking at me through the washed-out brown curtain of her hair. I froze, realizing what was wrong as she offered me a bitter smile. “It grew out about an hour ago. Look.” She pulled back her skirt, displaying a circular scar on her upper thigh. “That’s where Blind Michael’s men shot you, isn’t it?”

“May—”

“Don’t. You know what this means. We match because the universe thinks you’re going to die soon. And that means I’m going with you.”

“We can cut your hair.” I didn’t think we could fool reality that easily, but it was worth trying. Anything was worth trying.

“I already did.” She waved a hand at the floor. A small heap of hacked-off hair lay near the foot of the bed. Some of it was streaked in magenta and blue; the remains of her dye job. “It grew back. You can’t cheat fate, October. We were stupid to try.”

“No, we weren’t.” I sat down next to her on the bed. “I’m not sorry.”

May sighed. “I guess I’m not, either. It’s been fun, y’know? This whole thing, it’s been fun.” She shook her head. “I’ll miss the farmer’s market at the Ferry Building. And Telegraph Avenue. And Danny’s crazy Barghest rescue service.” More quietly, she added, “And Jazz. I’ll miss her.”

“Hey. We can still win.” I stroked her hair back from her face. “Tell me more about Jasmine. Where did you meet her?”

“On Telegraph.” May sniffled, offering a wan smile. “She runs a junk store. I was buying costume jewelry, and she asked if I wanted to join her in the office for coffee. She was pretty obviously flirting, so I started flirting back. I said sure. I didn’t want her to think I was . . . you know . . . ” She waved a hand, indicating me.

Since I’d never met Jazz before the Ball, it seemed unlikely that she would have mistaken May for me. I ventured, “Daoine Sidhe?”

“Yeah.” May’s smile grew. “Full disclosure, y’know? So as soon as we got out of the public shop, I dropped my illusions and told her what I was. I figured she’d throw me out as soon as I said ‘Fetch.’ ”

“But she didn’t.”

“She didn’t,” May agreed, putting her head down against my shoulder. “She said she’d been in relationships with way bigger problems than one of us being a transitory manifestation of impending doom. Like this one girl who liked her computer more than she liked her girlfriend, and another one who smoked.”

“She sounds sweet.”

“She is.” May sighed again, the sound seeming to come up all the way from the soles of her feet. “I think I could’ve loved her.”

“Hey. Don’t talk like that. It’s not over yet.”

“It may as well be.” She closed her eyes. “I tried to be different from you. I tried so hard. I guess I just wasn’t good enough.”

“Hush,” I said. “It’s not your fault. It never was.”

May wasn’t to blame. She didn’t choose what she was. She did her best with what she had, and that’s all any of us can do. We’re handed the balance of our blood and the shape of our lives and told to do something with them. May started with nothing but a copy of my past, and became someone I couldn’t have been. The universe made her to show that I was going to die, but she developed a life of her own. She became real.

We all have our roles to play. Even wayward Fetches with no fashion sense.

We sat that way for a long time before she asked, “Will it hurt?”

I hate the hard questions. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you can tell me.”

“I don’t know, either.” She pulled away. “I think it will. I can almost remember that it will, but it’s not there yet. I can’t know how you’re going to die in time to stop it.”

“It’s okay,” I said, and I meant it. “I didn’t expect you to know.”

“Good.” May settled against me, putting her head on my shoulder. “I’m scared.”

“So am I.” I was starting to cry again, and my head was killing me. I wanted to stay with her and hold her forever, where nothing would ever find or hurt us. I wanted us both to live forever. I just didn’t see any way to make that happen.

FIFTEEN

EXHAUSTION CAUGHT UP WITH ME while I was sitting with May; serial killers and sleep deprivation are practically part of my daily life. I woke to the sound of a ringing phone. We’d slept through the dawn, me slumping forward until my elbows rested against my knees, May falling backward to sprawl across the mattress. She looked so damn fragile, one arm thrown over her eyes to block the light.

“I’ll fix this,” I said, and kissed her forehead before I left the room. I propped the door with a pillow to keep the cats from complaining and still managed to reach the kitchen before the machine picked up. Snatching the receiver from its cradle, I tucked it under my ear and walked toward the kitchen. “It’s Toby.”

“It’s Connor,” replied the voice on the other end, sounding even wearier than I felt. My breath caught in my chest. I hadn’t realized I was worried about him until I heard his voice. “Are you okay?”

Connor’s known me longer than almost anybody else. There wasn’t any point in lying to him. “No,” I said. The coffeepot was still half-full. I grabbed a mug and filled it before shoving it into the microwave. Hot coffee. I was not going to survive the day without hot coffee. “You’ve heard?”