“Only if I can lift them.”

“Try.” I stood, hoisting Quentin and passing him to her. She was able to support him, barely, by looping his unwounded arm around her neck and wrapping her own arms around his middle. A haze of static rose around them, and they were gone.

I raced to the edge of the catwalk and looked down, keeping my eyes away from the place where Gordan fell. Elliot was a dark shape on the floor, and in its own way, looking at him was almost as bad as looking at her would have been. I glanced to the side and saw April appear near the door, looking almost comical with Quentin hanging unevenly from her shoulders. When she saw me looking, she waved. Blinking back tears I hadn’t realized were there, I waved back.

It took almost ten minutes to descend the ladder: my left hand was only grasping weakly, and it was harder to go down exhausted than it had been to go up panicked. But in the end, there was solid ground under my feet, and I was standing on my own. I nodded to April, leaving her to support Quentin as I went to kneel by Elliot’s side.

His shirt was drenched with blood, and his pulse was shallow, but he was breathing. If we got him to a healer soon, he’d live. I slid my arms under him and lifted, straining until I got back to my feet. Elliot was smaller than I was: I could carry him, if I took it slow. Nodding to April, I turned, and we carried our respective burdens out into the afternoon sunlight.

Things ended quickly after that. April left me halfway across the lawn, teleporting herself and Quentin to the futon room before her strength gave out. I walked through the knowe with Elliot in my arms, accompanied by a cascade of cats. Justice had been done. They’d scatter soon, but for the moment, they still belonged at ALH. I don’t know whether it was April or the cats who told Tybalt it was over, but he met me in the hall, scooping Elliot out of my arms without a word. That was good. I wasn’t certain I could talk without starting to cry.

Riordan’s men could only hold Sylvester for so long. He arrived at ALH almost an hour after Gordan fell, finding us clustered on the lawn in the midst of a sea of cats. Connor was awake and feeling well enough to snipe at Tybalt. Elliot’s wounds had been tended as best we could, and Quentin . . . he wasn’t any worse. That would have to be enough to tide me over until Jin could look at him. We were leaving ALH.

For good or ill, January’s strange dream died with Gordan. The worst part is that I still don’t know whether it would have worked. If she’d had the time, maybe Jan really could have done what she set out to do—but the clock ran out, and we’ll never know.

I never saw Sylvester and Jan together, but the family resemblance between him and April was too strong to deny. He hugged her. He told her he was sorry about her mother, and that he’d send her people back as soon as he could. And then his men carried the wounded to the van, myself included, and he took us away. There would be no invasion. Not even Riordan could interpret a man coming to his lost niece’s fiefdom as an act of war. I fell asleep in the back of the van with my head on Connor’s shoulder, and I didn’t dream.

Tybalt stayed behind, saying it was to take care of the cats who had been Barbara’s subjects . . . but he didn’t look at me. That strange new expression that had come to his face when he saw me wake Alex was still there, lurking. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Mostly, I just felt tired.

The healers were waiting at Shadowed Hills, and I started breathing again as Jin, the oldest and best-known of his healers, came to take my hands. The others took Connor, Elliot, and Terrie away, but Jin treated me and Quentin together. She took care of me first, despite my protests; conditions hadn’t been ideal for any of us, but the infection in my hand was farther along than the infection in Quentin’s arm. Gordan really seemed to have done her best with the medical care—something that made a sick sort of sense, since she wanted us intact when she killed us. She did her best. It just wasn’t quite good enough.

I started crying when Quentin opened his eyes. I couldn’t help it. Part of me was certain we’d lost him until that moment; that the infection was too much, and he’d die without giving me the chance to say I was sorry.

“Jeez, Toby,” he said, squinting at me. “You look awful.”

I smiled through my tears. “You, too, kid. You, too.”

The physical wounds were the easy part. There’d be a scar on his arm and he’d have to wear a brace for a few months—not even magical healing can completely repair damaged muscles, and there was a chance he’d hurt himself if he wasn’t forced to take it easy—but that was all. My scars were worse. Blood magic leaves marks. Still, they were nothing I couldn’t live with. The emotional wounds would take longer to heal. For all of us.

I stayed as long as I could, listening as the reports on the others came in. Connor’s transformation into his seal shape had probably saved his life. Gordan shot him twice. As a seal, his blood circulated more slowly; Tybalt was able to patch him up after coaxing him back to human form. Elliot lost a lot of blood before April got to him, but they were able to save him. The healers said he’d be up and walking in a matter of days. Not bad for someone who’d been at death’s door a few hours before.

Terrie was another matter. The sun went down and there was no change. Jin knew the situation by then, and told the rest of the healers to wait until morning before they passed a final judgment. I was pretty sure they’d get a surprise when the sun came up. When I perform a resurrection, I do it for keeps.

And then Sylvester called, and I had to go. I entered the throne room, got down on one knee, and explained everything. He and Luna listened in silence as I explained January’s last days and the things leading up to them, the broken dreams and betrayals, the impossible hopes for salvation. It didn’t take long enough. That sort of thing never does. When I finished, Sylvester said I was free to go, and I walked out without another word. I didn’t say good-bye to Quentin. He’d be better off without me. I took a bus to the BART station and caught the next train home, where I fed the cats, coaxed Spike out from under the sink, called Stacy to offer vague reassurances, and went to bed. There’d be time to think about things later; there’s always a later.

But later came and went, and somehow, there was always something else for me to worry about. There were bills to pay and laundry to do; there were cases that needed to be taken and solved. They were small, human things—missing children and wayward husbands—nothing supernatural or strange. Once again, I reacted to pain by turning my back on Faerie, and for a while, it worked. There were no deaths and no mysterious screams in the night, and I started thinking I might be able to sleep again.