“Yeah.”

“Then, yes, I do.” I unfastened my seat belt, climbing out of the car. “Let’s go say hello.” Quentin followed close behind as I started across the lot.

The girl wasn’t as young as I’d assumed; she was probably closer to thirteen than ten, although Quentin still looked a few years older. There was a strange blankness to her features that created the illusion of her being a much younger child—a certain lack of information, of the experience you’d expect from a girl in her early teens. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a gray T-shirt, and her only visible adornments were the rabbit-shaped barrettes that kept her shoulder-length blonde hair from falling into her face.

Everything about her was yellow, from the faint golden tan of her skin to her wide yellow eyes, shadowed by the green frames of her glasses. Her irises matched her hair with eerie exactness. She had the Torquill bone structure; whatever she’d started out as, she was definitely her mother’s daughter now.

“Hi,” I said, stopping a few feet away. Quentin stopped beside me, but didn’t say a word.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was neutral: it was like talking to a recording. She could have been Daoine Sidhe—her stance and the shape of her ears suggested it—but I didn’t think so. She didn’t feel like one of the Daoine Sidhe. She didn’t feel like anything.

“I’m—”

“You are October Daye, Knight of Shadowed Hills. And this is Quentin, currently fostered at Shadowed Hills from parts unidentified.” It wasn’t a question.

Great. All-knowing kids aren’t my idea of a good time. “Yes, I’m Toby, and this is my assistant, Quentin, and we’re from Shadowed Hills.”

“I’m April.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“Why? Does your mother want to see me?”

A quizzical look crossed her face, marring her neutral expression. “My mother is occupied with greater concerns. I thought you had come to view the body.”

There are a lot of ways to get my attention. Saying the word “body” is near the top of the list. “The what?” Quentin gaped at her.

“The body. Colin has suffered a hardware failure and fallen out of synch with the server. Everyone is greatly upset; they’re running in circles, just like last time, and they’re not getting any work done. There is still testing to complete, you know.” She said the last almost peevishly, like the world was creating bodies just to spite her.

“No, I didn’t know,” I said slowly, thinking, Just like last time? “Where’s the body?”

“Inside, through the glass doors, at the center point of the cubicle maze. Everyone is there. You should go there as well. Then you can worry about it for them, and they will all go back to work.” There was a sharp snapping sound, like an electrical cable breaking, and April vanished. Ozone-scented air rushed into the space where she’d been standing.

That’s not something you see every day. I stared at the empty air.

“Toby . . .”

“I know,” I said, shaking myself out of it. “Come on.” Turning, I ran for the door.

This time, I was expecting the transition into the Summerlands, and I took note of the moment when it happened, already wondering how many other ways there were to move between the two sides of the building. Quentin pulled ahead and opened the door into the hall, pausing as he waited for me.

I could smell blood mixing with the processed air as soon as the door was open. Strange as April was, she’d been right about at least one thing: something was very wrong.

“Behind me, Quentin,” I said, stepping past him.

“But—”

“No buts. If things look dangerous, you run.”

Quentin hesitated before falling in close behind me. Being a page teaches you how to shadow people without being underfoot; that’s part of being a good servant. Now he was getting the chance to see how it also prepared you for combat. If anything attacked us, his position meant he was already balanced to fight back.

Elliot, Alex, and Peter were standing at the center of the cubicle maze, arranged in an unconscious parody of the way we’d first seen them. Their fear was so strong it was almost something I could reach out and grab hold of. Peter’s human disguise shimmered around him, casting off sparks as his almost-hidden wings sent up a panicky vibration that made my teeth itch. I moved closer, close enough to see what they were staring at.

Colin was sprawled on the floor, eyes open and staring, unseeing, up into the darkness of the catwalks. I didn’t need to check for a pulse or ask if they’d tried CPR. I know dead when I see it.

The ground around the body was clear, with no signs of a struggle. Discreet punctures marked his wrists and throat; there were no other injuries. I glanced back at Quentin. He was standing a few feet behind me, wide-eyed and pale as he stared at the body. I couldn’t blame him. The first time you see real death is hard.

“Out of my way,” I said, stepping between Peter and Elliot. There are times when I have a lot of patience, but there are things that don’t get better, or easier, when you let them wait.

“Toby . . .” Alex began.

“Now,” I snapped. “And stay here. I need to talk to you.” They moved without any further protest. Elliot, at least, looked somewhat relieved. I’m half-Daoine Sidhe; that means people assume I know how to deal with the dead. After all, of all Titania’s children, only the Daoine Sidhe can “talk” to the dead, using their blood to access their memories—often including the memory of how they died. We’re like the fae equivalent of CSI. Some races got shapeshifting or talking to flowers, and we? We got borrowed memories and the taste of blood, and people washing their hands after we touch them. Not exactly what I’d call a fair trade.

I’m half-Daoine Sidhe; I’m also half- human. That does a lot to damage my credibility, but being the daughter of the greatest blood-worker alive in Faerie makes up for my mortal heritage. Lucky me. I’ve been trying to live up to my mother for my entire life. Because a crazy, lying idiot is the perfect role model.

The Daoine Sidhe didn’t sign up for the position of “most likely to handle your corpses,” but we didn’t have to. Most fae don’t have much exposure to death, and they’re grateful when someone—anyone—is willing to play intermediary. Death doesn’t really bother me anymore; somewhere along the line, it just became a part of who I am. Coffee and corpses, that’s my life. Sometimes I hate being me.