“Oh, you think?” I tried to pull my wrist away. He didn’t let go. I turned to level a glare at him. “You need to let me go now, Tybalt. I smell blood. The Luidaeg could be hurt in there. She could need me.”

“Or she could be dead, and you could be walking headlong into the grasp of whatever killed her.” He frowned. “This is too strange and too easy and I do not like it.”

“Neither do I.” This time when I pulled away, he let go of my wrist. “We ran here because she might need us. I’m not going to run away again just because we were right.”

“I know.” His frown faded, replaced by a coldly predatory expression. I’d seen it on his face before, usually right before something got seriously hurt. “We will go slowly. We will stay together. And if I have to, I will drag you with me onto the Shadow Roads.”

“Agreed,” I said, and turned back to the hole that had once been the Luidaeg’s front door. Everything about this situation felt wrong; everything I’d ever learned about self-preservation screamed for me to turn around and run. I drew my knife.

With Tybalt to guard my back, I walked forward, into the apartment.

TEN

THE HALLWAY WAS dark, although I couldn’t have said whether the lights were off or broken. The Luidaeg’s illusions were back at full strength, cloaking everything with filth and decay. I wanted to take that as a good sign—most people can’t maintain illusions when they’re dead—but this was the Luidaeg, and all bets were off. Maybe the clean, well-organized apartment she lived in was actually a horrible, rotting shell that she’d transfigured into something more livable, and now the transformation was falling apart. I didn’t know. The Luidaeg had never told me, and suddenly my lack of information felt like it could be the thing that got one or both of us seriously hurt.

The smell of blood was stronger now that we were inside, although it was still weak enough that I couldn’t be sure we were going in the right direction. I wasn’t even sure whether it belonged to the Luidaeg. I breathed in deeper, trying to confirm, and almost gagged on the smell of rotting wood and decaying fabric. No more deep breaths for me.

The carpet made nasty sucking sounds as we picked our way through the debris, making a silent approach impossible. Even Tybalt couldn’t move without making noise. That would normally have been a little reassuring, since I find Cait Sidhe stealth slightly unsettling under most circumstances. At the moment, I wished there were something I could do to muffle our steps. Anything that might have given us an advantage.

But there was nothing. We walked down the hallway to the living room, where the moonlight filtering in through the grime-smeared windows illuminated a level of chaos that was unusual even for the Luidaeg. Her coffee table had been smashed down the middle, reduced to a pile of splinters, and two moldering cushions from the couch were split open. Muddy stuffing and rotten feathers were scattered around the room. Cockroaches skittered around the edges of the walls, disturbed by our motion.

I stopped, motioning for Tybalt to do the same, and closed my eyes as I broke my promise to myself and took a deep breath of the cloying, fetid air. I was looking for the source of the blood I’d been smelling since the street, and maybe traces of a bloodline that didn’t belong to one of us. I was hoping for something that might lead us to whoever had done this, or maybe an early warning before someone dropped an illusion and attacked.

What I wasn’t expecting was the way the blood slapped me across the face, so strong that it nearly knocked me off my feet. I gasped before I could stop myself, stumbling backward as my eyes snapped open. Tybalt was there to catch me by the shoulders, steadying me and keeping me from landing on my ass on the Luidaeg’s floor.

“What is it?” he whispered, lips close to my ear.

“Blood,” I managed.

“So you’ve said,” he said. “What—”

But I had already turned my attention back to the room, swinging my head back and forth like a bloodhound seeking a scent until finally I found it and plunged forward, heedless of the trash and obstacles littering the floor. Let Tybalt watch my back; I needed to find the source of that blood. I needed to know if the Luidaeg was okay.

The smell of blood led me to the shredded couch, which was flipped over to create a smaller bubble of hidden space within the greater room. The Luidaeg was behind it, lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. Two more split cushions had fallen to cover her, mostly hiding her body under a veil of poly-foam blend stuffing. I threw them aside, almost grateful for the brief reek of mold that accompanied the motion. At least it was something to obscure the smell of blood, if only for an instant. The Luidaeg didn’t move.

The Luidaeg wasn’t okay.

“October?” asked Tybalt from behind me.

“Here!” I dropped to my knees on the carpet. The squelching noise my landing made had nothing to do with seawater. There was blood everywhere in this terrible little corner of the room, soaking into everything it touched. Grabbing the Luidaeg’s head, I turned it until she was facing me. “Luidaeg? Can you hear me?”

My eyes had adjusted enough to the dark that I had no trouble seeing the long streak of half-dried blood running down the side of her face, dipping inward at the corner of her mouth before tracing the line of her neck and vanishing under the collar of her blood-soaked sweatshirt. A bruise had blossomed under her left eye like some sort of terrible flower, all bitter yellows and deep purples. More blood was matted into her hair, turning her normally wavy curls into a jagged mass of spikes and snarls.

“Oh, root and branch . . .” I whispered, feeling under her jaw for a pulse. She looked so much smaller than I had always believed her to be, her natural illusions withering and fading away. The Luidaeg had seen legacies born, seen empires rise and kingdoms fall. She was older than anyone else I had ever met, even Blind Michael. Along with her sisters, she had once been the terror of bog and fen, a mother of nightmares and a sister to screams.

But that was so long ago. Her brothers and sisters had been hunted and killed by Titania’s jealous children, or by descendants of Oberon looking for an easy path to becoming heroes. Her fens had dwindled until she was nothing but a dockside squatter, and still she’d been remembered. She’d become a monster to her parents’ surviving children, and she’d made the role her own. She was too old and too much a part of our heritage to die.