My name does the same thing, and that’s why I’ve never changed it to something more normal. My mother was what she was, and I am what she made me, and she thought “October” was a perfectly normal name for a little girl, even one born in 1952 at the height of human conservatism. If that little girl’s last name happened to be “Daye,” well, that was all the better! She was a loon, even then, and I miss her.

The sky was getting lighter; my encounter with the Kelpie had slowed me down enough to take me into dangerous territory. I started to walk a little faster. Getting caught outside at dawn won’t kill me—sunrise is painful, not fatal—but dawn also means a massive increase in the human population, and the last thing I needed was someone deciding I needed medical aid while my illusions were off. I look closer to human than a lot of changelings do, but “close” doesn’t cut it on the streets of a human city.

The streetlights above me flickered and went out, giving a final warning of morning’s approach. Time was up. Hiking up the collar of my coat for a little more cover, I started to run. Not that it was going to do much good; I was still blocks from my apartment, and the light was moving a lot faster than I was. There was no way I was going to make it.

A narrow alley stretched between two buildings about half a block ahead. Forcing one last burst of speed, I raced to the alley’s mouth and ducked inside, moving as far back as I could before the growing pressure of the dawn forced me to stop and slump against the wall. I could feel it spread across the city, ripping down all the small illusions and minor enchantments of the night. Then the light hit the alley, turning my slump into a collapse, and I stopped thinking about anything more complicated than taking my next breath.

There’s nothing kind about the way sunrise affects the fae. Just to make it even less fair, it’s harder on changelings than it is on purebloods, because we have fewer defenses. The light didn’t quite burn, but it came close, filling the air around me with the ashy taint of dying magic. I kept my eyes closed, forcing myself to take slow, measured breaths as I counted down the moments between the dawn and the day.

When the pressure of the dawn passed enough to let me move again, I straightened, taking a shaky breath, and moved deeper into the alley. The aftereffects of sunrise last for five minutes—ten at the most—but most spells just won’t take during that time. That’s part of why it’s so dangerous to be outside at dawn. The threat of discovery is always there, and it’s not a good idea to take chances.

It helps that humans don’t believe in faeries anymore. Not even the people who say that they do. Oh, sure, they may believe in cartoon sprites and sexless fantasy creatures, but they don’t believe in the real thing. There are reasons for that, and some of them are even good ones, but there are also the reasons they believed in the first place. Dawn is one of those reasons. It pulls down our illusions, making us too easy to see and too hard to deny; after all, even the most stubborn humans will usually believe their own eyes. All it takes is one moment of carelessness on the part of the faerie world, just one, and after that . . .

After that comes the iron and the silver and the rowan wood, and the mass graves on both sides, and the burning. In the end, it always comes down to the burning, and that’s a risk I’ve never been willing to take. I may be playing at being human, but that doesn’t make me stupid.

People were starting to pass on the sidewalk outside the alley. Humans have always preferred to live their lives by daylight. I used to think it was because human beings have crappy night vision, and it wasn’t until I got older and more cynical that I realized it was because they have less to be afraid of during the day. Illusions don’t last as long in broad daylight. The monsters can’t find as many places to hide, and all Faerie’s lies get easier to catch and define. You can be human and still be safe, during the day.

Something rustled behind me, and I tensed. I wasn’t alone.

“Great.”

First I got caught outside at dawn, and now I was sharing an alley with somebody who could see me for what I really was. If this day got any better, I was going to scream.

I turned, hiking my coat up around my chin. Anyone who looked closely would be able to see that something wasn’t right, but the alley was dark and narrow, and frankly, the sort of person you meet in dark alleyways at dawn is looking for things besides pointed ears. “Hello?” I peered into the shadows.

Two green circles flashed in the dark. I yelped, jumping backward and pressing myself against the wall.

“And may I wish a very good morning to you, too, October.” The voice was amused, underscored by a chuckle like thick cream. “What happened? Did the prettiest little princess miss her carriage home?”

“Tybalt,” I said, surprise dissolving into disgust. I straightened. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

The shadows parted, flowing around the man who stepped through them into the alley. They slid together again once he was through, closing seamlessly. I’ve always wished I could do that—but then, Tybalt’s pureblooded Cait Sidhe, and he can do a lot of things I can’t. He smirked. I glared.

I’m not short, but Tybalt’s about six inches taller, giving him just enough height to look down on me when the fancy takes him. He’s got the sort of sleek, muscled build that only comes from a few specific types of exercise programs. For most men, that would mean yoga or running. In Tybalt’s case, it means bloody control of the local Court of Cats. He became their King by right of blood; he’s held the position by beating the crap out of anyone who tries to take it away. The Cait Sidhe take a more direct and violent approach to succession than most of Faerie.

Even in the dim light of the alley, I could pick out the darker bands of brown that streaked his short-cropped, slightly tousled hair, mimicking a tabby’s coat. His eyes were narrowed, but I knew that if I could see them, they’d be green, split by cat-slit pupils. Add all that to skin like ivory and the sort of face that winds up on magazine covers, and it’s no wonder that Tybalt’s looks get him a long way with a lot of people. Not with me. That doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed them—the man is basically walking sex appeal—but I’m not dumb enough to do anything more than look. Even when I was interacting with Faerie of my own free will, I only looked when I was sure he couldn’t see me. Some games are too dangerous to play.