She turned away, walking past a ranch house with aluminum siding hanging off in patches. The woman who lived there raised Italian ducks that ate all the grass seed anyone in the neighborhood planted. Kaye thought of the ducks and smiled. A trash can rolled in the street, bumping up against plastic bins of beer bottles set out for recycling. Kaye crossed over the parking lot of a boarded-up bowling alley, where a sofa rested near the curb, cushions hard with frost.
Plastic Santas glowed on lawns beside dried grapevine reindeer wrapped with fiber-optic lights. A twenty-four-hour convenience store piped screechy carols that carried through the quiet streets. A robotic elf with rosy cheeks waved endlessly next to several snowman windsocks fluttering like ghosts. Kaye passed a manger missing its baby Jesus. She wondered if kids had stolen him or if the family had just taken him in for the night.
Halfway to the cemetery, she stopped at a pay phone outside a pizza place, put in quarters, and punched in Corny’s cell number. He picked it up after the first ring.
“Hey,” Kaye said. “Did you decide about the coronation? I’m on my way to see Roiben before it starts.”
“I don’t think I can go,” Corny said. “I’m glad you called, though—I have to tell you something. I was driving past one of those storage places. You know the kind with the billboards that have quotes on them like ‘Support Our Troops’ or ‘What Is Missing in C-H-blank-blank-C-H? U-R.’”
“Yeah,” Kaye said, puzzled.
“Well, this one said ‘Life Is Like Licking Honey from a Thorn.’ What the fuck is that?”
“Weird.”
“No shit, it’s weird. What is it supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just don’t dwell on it,” Kaye said.
“Oh, right. Don’t dwell. That’s me. I’m so good at not dwelling. It’s my skill set. If I was going to take one of those tests to see what job I was best suited for, I would rate a perfect ten for ‘not dwelling on shit.’ And what job do you think that would qualify me for exactly?”
“Storage unit manager,” Kaye said. “You’d be the one to put up those sayings.”
“Ouch. Right between the legs.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“So, you’re really not coming tonight? You seemed so sure it was a good idea for you to face your fears and all that.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Just as she would have spoken, he said, “The problem with facing my fears is that they’re my fears. Not to mention that a fear of megalomaniacal, amoral fiends is hard to rationalize away.” He laughed, a brittle, strange cackle. “Just once I’d like them to finally give up their secrets—tell me how to really protect myself. How to be safe.”
Kaye thought of Nephamael, the last King of the Unseelie Court, choking on iron, and Corny stabbing him again and again.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Kaye said. “I mean, it’s almost impossible to protect yourself from people, forget faeries.”
“Yeah, I guess. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Corny said.
“Okay.” She heard him hang up the phone.
Kaye walked on, drawing her coat more tightly around her. She stepped into the cemetery and started up the snowy hill, muddy and grooved by the sleds that had gone over it. Her gaze strayed to where she knew Janet was buried, although from where Kaye stood, the polished granite stones looked the same with their plastic garlands and wet red bows. She didn’t need to see the grave for her steps to slow, weighed down by the memory like sodden clothes must have weighed down Janet’s drowning body.
She wondered what happened when the baby cuckoo realized it wasn’t like its brothers and sisters. Maybe it wondered where it had come from or what it was. Maybe it just pretended nothing was wrong and kept on gulping down worms. Whatever that bird felt, though, it wasn’t enough to keep it from pushing the other chicks out of the nest.
Cornelius Stone closed his cell phone against his chest and stood still for a moment, waiting for the regret to ebb. He wanted to go to the coronation, wanted to dance with the terrible and beautiful creatures of the Unseelie Court, wanted to gorge on faerie fruit and wake up on a hillside, scourged and sated. He bit his cheek until he tasted blood, but the yearning only rose with the pain.
He sat down in the library aisle on carpeting so new it had a clean, chemical smell that was probably evaporating formaldehyde. Opening the first of the books, he looked at woodcuts and turn-of-the-century line art. He saw pictures of ponies with flippers that looked nothing like the kelpie that had murdered his sister. He flipped to a ring of tiny cherubic faeries with red cheeks and pointy ears dancing in a circle. Pixies, he read. None of them resembled Kaye in the least.
He tore each page carefully out of the binding. They were bullshit.
The next book was no better.
As he started ripping apart the third, an elderly man looked down the aisle.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” he said. He was holding a fat hardback western in one hand and squinted at Corny as though, even with his glasses, he couldn’t see him very clearly.
“I work here,” Corny lied.
The man looked at Corny’s scuffed biker jacket and his shaggy almost-a-mullet hair. “Your job is to rip apart perfectly good books?”
Corny shrugged. “National security.”
The guy walked away muttering. Corny shoved the rest of the books into his backpack and walked out the doors. Disinformation was worse than no information at all. Alarms clanged behind him, but he didn’t worry. He’d been to other libraries. The alarms didn’t do anything but make a pretty sound, like a church bell from the future.
He started in the direction of the coronation hill. No, he wasn’t going to party with Kaye and her prince-of-darkness boyfriend, but that didn’t mean he had to stay home. None of those books could help with what he had planned, but he’d expected that. If he wanted answers, he was just going to have to go right to the source.
The servants didn’t like to let Kaye into the Palace of Termites. She could tell by the way they looked at her, as though she were only the scuff of her shoes, the dirt under her fingernails, the stench of coffee and cigarettes that clung to her clothes. They spoke grudgingly, eyes never meeting hers, and they led her through passageways as though their feet were made of lead.
Here was the place to which she ought to belong, but instead the grim and fabulous court, the cold halls, and the ferocious denizens made her uneasy. It was all very lovely, but she felt self-conscious and awkward against such a backdrop. And if she did not belong here and she didn’t belong with Ellen, then she couldn’t think of any place left to belong.
It had been nearly two months since Roiben had assumed the title of Unseelie King, but a formal coronation could only occur on the darkest day of winter. After tonight he would be the true Lord of the Night Court, and with the title would come the resumption of the endless war with the Seelie fey. Two evenings past he’d woken Kaye by climbing a tree, tapping against her bedroom window, and drawing her out to sit on the frozen lawn. “Stay Ironside for a time after I’m crowned,” he’d told her. “Lest you be dragged into more danger.” When she’d tried to ask him for how long or how bad he thought it was going to get, he’d kissed her quiet. He’d seemed restless, but wouldn’t say why. Whatever the reason, his restlessness had been infectious.