“The only thing I can do,” I said, sighing. “I’m going to ask the dead.”

TWENTY-FOUR

FINDING A TAXI NEAR the docks after dark is something I never want to do again. I would have called Danny; unfortunately, I couldn’t find a phone, and I was reduced to waving my arms whenever a likely car passed by, hoping someone would take pity and stop. Eventually, someone did.

The rose goblin had never been in a car before. It kept peering out the windows, making interested mewl ing noises until I had to fight not to laugh. The last thing I needed to do was convince the driver the woman he’d picked up in one of the worst parts of town was crazy. Besides, I was afraid the laughter would be more hysterical than anything else. I’d left the Luidaeg’s apartment in a daze, fumbling for a line of reasoning that didn’t lead back to blood. There wasn’t one. The entire case was bound in blood magic and chains of broken lives; it made sense to solve it the same way. So what if I didn’t want to? That never stopped me before.

It was past midnight when we reached my apartment. I paid the cabbie with the last of my cash, wincing as I did it. If I didn’t find a new job soon, I was going to be replacing fae problems with more mundane ones. Maybe I could learn to be a bartender. They work nights, don’t they?

The rose goblin rode my shoulder as I walked up the path to my door. The wards hadn’t been reset the last time I left, mainly because I’d been carried out by Manuel and Dare. I hesitated, contemplating what might be inside, then unlocked the door and opened it, flipping on the living room light. Waiting rarely solves the question of what’s under the couch.

There was barely time to take in the carnage left by the Doppelganger’s attack before two angry brown-and-cream shapes darted out from under the coffee table, yowling. The rose goblin rallied, leaping to the floor and rattling its thorns. The cats backed off a few feet, bemused, and glared at me. Not only had I gone away, but I’d come back with a . . . well, with a something, and it was threatening them.

I laughed, closing the door behind me. “Cagney, Lacey, back off. This is . . .” I paused, trying to think of a suitable name. “This is Spike. He’s visiting.” The rose goblin looked up at me and rattled its thorns, chirping.

The cats weren’t as easy to mollify. They yowled again, now circling us both. Spike turned in circles to match them, rattling whenever they got too close. “Spike, guys, stop it. You can fight later.” All three stopped, turning to look at me. I’d just gotten cats to obey. Wonders never cease.

I crouched to look at them, and they looked back, oddly calm. Sometimes, when they do things like that, I wonder if they’re actually Cait Sidhe planted to keep an eye on me—but that way lies madness. They’re just cats, and all cats know the same strange roads, in the end.

“I need to speak to your King,” I said. They blinked luminous blue eyes, looking blank as only cats can. I sighed. “I need to see Tybalt. I know you can find him.”

They gave no evidence of understanding; Lacey started to wash Cagney’s ear, ignoring me. Spike looked between them and rattled its thorns, confused. I stayed where I was, waiting. “Guys, don’t make me force the issue,” I said. “You know you have to take me to him if I demand it. You can find the Court of Cats. I can order you. I’d rather ask.”

The cats exchanged a look, Lacey abandoning her bathing efforts. Cats aren’t the smartest creatures alive, but they recognize a demand, even from a changeling. Cats and faeries have a special relationship, one that’s pulled them at least partially into our world, and they know a plea when they hear one. Stretching to show their unconcern, they started for the door.

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. They were going to take me. Cagney paused at the door, letting out a decisive yowl. The tone was easy to read: an obvious “come on or shut up.” I started to follow, and then turned back, retrieving the gun from beneath the edge of the curtains. It was heavy in my hand, and the closeness of the iron burned, but any protection was better than none. If iron bullets weren’t enough, this was already over.

Spike rattled. I looked back at it, shaking my head. “Stay?” It rattled again. “Stay. Guard.” That seemed to get through: it settled into a watching posture, eyes on the window. Great. A week of death, iron, and demons, and now my house was being guarded by a mobile rosebush.

The cats were waiting outside. I slid the gun into my pocket, and nodded. “Lead the way.”

They walked down the path to the common walkway connecting my apartment to the mail and laundry rooms. I followed a few feet behind, keeping them in sight, concentrating so hard on their bobbing tails that I didn’t even notice when the path diverged from the ones I knew. The sound of hissing broke my concentration, and I looked up.

“Oh, boy.”

We were standing in a narrow alley I almost recognized from the area near Golden Gate Park—almost, but not quite. Space had twisted to form arched curves and folded angles, becoming subtly wrong. Every available space was covered with cats, from pampered house pets to grizzled back fence warriors. Something that looked like a lynx crouched toward the back of the mob, hissing with the rest. It was enough to remind me, graphically, that size doesn’t mean much when you’re outnumbered.

“October.”

I turned, leaving my hands in my pockets as I said, “Hello, Tybalt.”

The King of Cats was sprawled atop a stack of mattresses blocking the alley’s mouth, flanked on either side by large, angry-looking calicos. About a dozen human-form Cait Sidhe lounged on the walls and ground around him, dressed in tatters and rags. Most of them didn’t look like they went on two legs very often. Cagney and Lacey melted into the throng, vanishing; they brought me, their disappearance said. That was all the help I’d get.

“You’re here,” Tybalt said, sounding more amused than surprised. The height of his “throne” put him above me, allowing him to look down on me without quite straining either of our necks. He’d changed his clothes, trading them for skintight jeans and a black silk shirt. Good. If I was lucky, they hadn’t done the laundry yet. The courtiers around him watched me with predatory eyes. You’re a predator or you’re prey, their expressions said, and we’ll kill you either way. “Why are you here? This isn’t your Court.”

“This is the Cat’s Court; I have business with their King. That means truce.”