His laughter died, his expression sobering. “Is this the point at which you tell me that my company is no longer desired?” he asked.

“No. This is the point where I tell you I need your help.”

Tybalt blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “I am intrigued, and will hear your proposition.”

“All right. I . . .” I paused, glancing back toward the car. Quentin was in the passenger seat, clearly pretending not to eavesdrop as he buckled himself in. I returned my attention to Tybalt. “I have a lot to get done, and a limited amount of time to do it. I can only be in so many places at once.”

“Whereas I can be in quite a few,” he said slowly. “Am I correct in presuming that you want me to talk to the cats?”

“I do. Ask them if they’ve seen anything, anything, that might lead us to the Lorden boys—or to Rayseline. I’m going to do what I can at the Queen’s Court, but I don’t think that’s going to be enough. Not without some extra help.” Extra help, and one hell of a lot of luck.

He stepped a little closer, the air between us crackling with the hot pennyroyal and musk scent of his magic. “And if I do this for you?”

“I’ll owe you a favor.” I offered him a small smile. “Also, maybe we’ll all survive long enough for me to repay it.”

“Perhaps we will.” He looked at me gravely.“October . . .”

“Yes?”

Tybalt stopped, and shook himself, looking for all the world like he was trying to dry himself off after an unexpected dunking. “Nothing. Open roads, October; I’ll see you shortly.” He handed me the drawer before he stepped backward, drawing the shadows around his body like a veil, and was gone.

Well, that was one problem dealt with, at least for now. Cats get just about everywhere, and even the ones that aren’t Cait Sidhe are usually willing to cooperate with their King. If anybody would be able to find out more about what was going on, it would be the cats, and through them, Tybalt.

I put the drawer in the backseat before getting in the front and taking the keys from Quentin. “And we’re off.”

“Where did Tybalt go?” asked Quentin. “Did you guys have another fight? Because I don’t know anybody who fights as much as you two.”

“Your insight is appreciated, squire,” I said dryly, and started the car. “Aren’t you supposed to be respectful now, or something?”

He snorted.

“About what I thought,” I said, and pulled out of the parking lot.

Quentin spent most of the drive back to San Francisco changing the radio station and telling me about the war preparations at Shadowed Hills. They were worrisome, to say the least. Sylvester might believe this war could be avoided, but the Queen was going full speed ahead getting the Kingdom ready. I suppose it made sense—better to be prepared and not need it than unprepared and in serious trouble—but it felt almost like she wanted this war. And that scared me.

Having Quentin along was useful for at least one thing: I made him carry the drawer of rocks down the path to my apartment, while I took the substantially lighter collection of papers. The living room lights were on when we arrived, and the wards were open. I opened the door and stepped inside, calling, “Hey. I’m back.”

“Hey,” May replied. She was on the couch with Jazz’s head in her lap; the Raven-maid was sound asleep, black hair fanned out like glossy feathers on her girlfriend’s leg. She probably needed the rest. Keeping up with us nocturnal folk can be exhausting. A masked psychopath was on the TV, vivisecting a teenage girl in a way that was probably supposed to be new and inventive, but was nothing compared to watching a Kelpie shred a surfer.

“Sorry.” I closed the door, motioning for Quentin to put the drawer of rocks on the floor next to the umbrella stand. He did so, with obvious relief.

“Don’t worry about the noise—I don’t think a nuclear explosion could wake her right now.” May clicked off the TV. “You brought Quentin. That’s new.”

“Hi, May,” he said.

“Hi.” She twisted around to focus on me. “So what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” I leaned over the back of the couch, putting the box of papers down before scooping Spike off the cushion where it was curled. It chirped before ramming its head, catlike, against my upper arm. I winced. “Ouch. Yes, I missed you, too.” Spike chirped again, sounding pleased. The sound caused the lump of fur on the beanbag chair to raise all three of its heads. Two were brown and cream, belonging to my half-Siamese cats. The third was russet-red, and belonged to Raj, currently lounging in the form of an Abyssinian cat.

“You left with Tybalt and came back with Quentin.” May said. “I’m a little worried. I’d appreciate it if you’d throw me a bone before I gnaw my fingernails to the quick.”

“Ah.” I sighed. “Well, we’re going to war.”

“I knew that.”

Raj yawned, blinking glass-green eyes first at me, then at Quentin. “Hi, Raj,” said Quentin. Raj mewled in answer.

I stayed focused on May. “I mean we’re really going to war. Sylvester’s pages are emptying the armory, and the Queen’s men are looking for Amandine so they can ask her to contribute.”

“Contribute what?” asked May, with horrified fascination.

“I don’t know. A headache?” I put Spike down. It shook itself, rattling like a maraca, and wandered over to sniff at Quentin.

“So where’s Tybalt?” asked May, causing Raj to turn and watch me intently.

“I asked him if he’d talk to the cats for me. People aren’t always careful to check the corners for strays before they open their mouths, and I need information.” I pointed to the drawer of rocks. “We need to get these to Walther.”

“These being . . . ?”

“Rayseline’s rock collection. I want him to see if there’s anything special about them.”

“No.”

I blinked. “No?”

“No, we’re not getting them to Walther.”

“Then who—?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about that big Bridge Troll guy that’s always hanging around? You know, the one who talks to rocks for fun? I’m just putting that out there.”