“Yo. Squishies.” Hitch emerged from a wall, beckoning. “Over here.”

  “Squishies?” Evanne bridled.

  “Yeah. You’re so … fleshy. Not like me.” He gestured with those not hands at his body. “OG spectre, all the way.”

  “OG?” Evanne shook her head, rust locks rustling against Tarragon’s wings. “Never mind. What’s up, oh forgetful sage of ages past?”

  “There’s a passage behind this wall.”

  “Less useful than you might think.”

  “I mean, it ends at this wall.” He made an after-you gesture at the blank facade. “What kind of imbecile builds a tunnel that ends at a wall?”

  “Someone who’s budget ran out?” Tarragon felt a little stir of excitement. “Or, someone who built a secret door?”

  “Exactly.” Hitch glowed a softer blue. “I, as you’ve pointed out, don’t have hands. So, I can’t push the button.”

  “There’s a button?” Evanne hurried toward the wall.

  “Figuratively, sure.” Hitch shrugged. “There’s something that opens it.”

  Tarragon hmm’d. “Probably not a secret door.” She alighted from Evanne’s shoulder, fluttering to the wall and peering. No, no seam I can see. Wait. There it is. The fairy drifted up, following the line of the door. Rust and grime had befouled the outline. “Looks like a service tunnel, not a secret door.”

  “Same thing.” Hitch leaned against the wall. “Because there’s no service people…” He trailed off, looking at Tarragon. “Sorry.”

  Evanne glared at the ghost. “That was a dick thing to say, even for you.”

  “I said I was sorry!”

  “Try acting sorry!” The maybe-Vhemin glared. “I know you don’t like Tarragon⁠—”

  “It’s not that⁠—”

  “But if we don’t get in, there’s no fixing the armour, which means no saving the world, righting wrongs, or justice for Imshir. Or don’t you get that? We need to, Hitch. So many people are dead, and we don’t even know why.”

  Tarragon tried to flutter a little quieter. “I think⁠—”

  “I forget,” Hitch said. “I forget all the time. Not just things that happened before, but things that happened yesterday, or this morning. It didn’t use to happen.”

  “I know you’re forgetful. It’s your least charming quality.” Evanne put her hands on hips.

  “I’m trying to say, I think I’m finally dying.” He held up his wrists, no hands at the end. “There’s so little left of me anymore, and I think my time is done. I didn’t get to do what I needed, and the world’s tired of carrying me.”

  Tarragon tried again. “If we just push this⁠—”

  “What do you mean, Hitch?” Evanne’s voice caught.

  “I mean, I won’t be here much longer. I think, anyway.” He glanced away. “There’s no rulebook, Evanne. But I am sorry. I sometimes remember what Tarragon’s done, but sometimes I don’t, and … I get angry.”

  “Great,” the fairy said. “Now⁠—”

  The wall groaned, rust and dirt flaking away, a little water pooling at the bottom. Oh no, Tarragon thought. I didn’t do that, so what’s opening it from the other side?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Evanne spun the scattergun from its holster faster than she’d done before. The ancient weapon keened, its pitch increasing past her hearing as she pointed it into the black of the secret doorway. Air hissed past her legs, tugging her still-wet breeches, a chill running through her. The wind was stale, like no one had breathed it for, say, eight hundred years. No hint of rot, no mould, nothing musky. A slight hint of metal, but not the coppery wonder of blood. Just … steel, oiled, and put away for a winter that lasted a millennium. Evanne’s remade heart hammered in her chest. She bared not-quite-sharp-enough teeth, glaring into a maw dark as pitch.

  There was nothing there.

  Hitch looked at her, the scattergun, then the doorway, and back to her. “You good?”

  The weapon trembled in her hand. “How did this open?”

  “There’s a button,” Tarragon said. “It’s⁠—”

  “Who pressed the button?” Evanne let the scattergun nose a little up, then down, following the barrel with her eyes. There’s really nothing there. “I’ve never seen the sorcery that lets a button press itself.”

  “Thaumaturgy,” Tarragon glittered. “It would⁠—”

  “Thing is, there is more than one button.” Hitch faced the doorway.

  “All I was saying is, there’s more than one way to push a button,” Tarragon grumbled. “There is also more than one button, and I would have got to that.”

  Evanne closed her eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “So, what I’m hearing is there’s another button, by which a person, or thaumaturgist from a distance, is pressing. And this button will open the door.” She opened her eyes, looking to Hitch, then Tarragon.

  The fairy nodded. “Yes. The button opened the door. I’m almost certain.”

  Evanne lowered the scattergun. “That leaves just one problem to solve.” She rubbed her bare arms, shivering a little as air wisped past her. “How did the person, or thaumaturgist, know to open the door?”

  Hitch brightened and raised a not hand. “I…” Then he lowered it. “I’ve got nothing.”

  “There are ways of watching a place from another,” Tarragon said.

  “Like, a scrying stone?” Evanne scowled at the ceiling above, daring a spy to be there.

  “Like,” Tarragon agreed in a suspiciously non-specific way.

  Evanne slipped the scattergun into its holster, slicked back rust locks, and squared her shoulders. “Let’s go meet our watcher.”

  The tunnel was clean enough, and drier than the room they’d come from. It twisted and turned, Evanne imagining it snaking about subterranean rooms and non-secret passages, taking them to the button-presser. Tarragon flitted a little ahead, trailing glimmer. There was something different about the fairy. An urgency about her, but a buoyancy too, as if she’d left an anchor at the lake bottom and could finally fly, like really fly. That maybe things would turn out. It made Evanne’s heart warm, despite how she had to hurry to keep up. I really like this fairy. I want her to be happy. I want her to live. She’s so much older than me but hasn’t spent time above ground. So much dark and silent time as a prisoner of my people, but she forgave me for being one of them, and is helping me, and Hitch, even when he’s a huge dick. I think I love her, and I don’t know what that means. “So.”

  “So,” the sprite agreed.

  Be cool, Evanne. “No cobwebs.”

  Tarragon turned, flying backward so she could look Evanne in the eye. “Cobwebs mean spiders. Spiders mean insects.” She giggled. “And insects mean there are no fairies to keep the nest clean.”

  Evanne felt a small stir in her chest, right in her remade heart. It felt tight, like happiness, but tight, like caution too. “You think there are still fairies here?”

  “Of course there are fairies here!” Tarragon flew a loop. “We’ll see them soon. They will make us tea and cake, and remake your armour, once we go back for it, and they will like Pakhet, and perhaps tolerate the ghost.”

  Evanne smiled despite herself. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “Because someone else would clean out the cobwebs?”

  “Something like that.” Evanne glanced at Hitch. “You feel like scouting?”

  “I dunno,” the ghost said. “You going to talk about me behind my back?”

  “It’s likely.”

  “Sometimes I wish you were as dishonest as everyone else says you are.”

  “Wait.” Evanne frowned. “Who says I’m dishonest?”

  “And with that, I’ll be right back.” The ghost slipped into a wall.

  Tarragon flitted on ahead. “Come on, Evanne. You’ll meet other fairies, good ones I mean. Ones who can Build things, make machines, mend the broken things, and it’ll be okay.”

  Evanne hurried to keep up, Tarragon’s sparkle glittering further ahead. “Everything’s already okay. Slow down, Sandwich.”

  The fairy slowed, a grudging orange tone coming into her glimmer. “You Bigs are so plodding.”

  “It comes with having huge feet and no wings,” Evanne said. “The good news is we can lift really heavy things, and don’t get swallowed by eels.”

  “Hah. You just haven’t met an eel large enough.”

  “Hah,” she agreed. I do not want to meet the eel that can swallow me. “Will the other fairies have a problem with Hitch?”

  “Only if he’s a dick.”

  “So, quite likely then,” Evanne mused. “But seriously. Do you think they will help us?”

  “Once they realise the Itikari armour was his?” At Evanne’s nod, Tarragon sighed. “I think so. I don’t think they’ll have much of a problem with a dead dude who fought for the home team.”

  Evanne bit her lip. What is she not saying? “But.”

  “But,” Tarragon drew the word out, “they might have a problem with a Vhemin. I mean, a mostly-Vhemin. A bit Vhemin?” She squinted. “Just how much Vhemin are you?”

  “I’m monster enough, true,” Evanne growled, dredging up the Trick to hide her embarrassment. I can’t help what I am.

  Tarragon psh’d. “You aren’t evil. I can see it, and so will they.”

  “You sound confident.” Evanne wanted to believe it.

  “Look. There was a war, a long time ago, and a lot of people died. I was Itikari. Your dad, or like his dad seven times removed, was Vehement Systems. They fought, and I think they ruined everything. More fighting won’t fix it.”

  They rounded a corner, coming to door. No button, though. “And you’ll explain this to the fairies, and they’ll just … be cool with it?” Evanne tried to hide her doubt.

  The door clicked, and slid wide, the corridor bathed in radiance from the other side. It was brilliant, like staring into the sun, a pure white that made her teeth hurt. Evanne blinked, shielding her eyes with a hand. Her Vhemin’s blood heat vision was clouded too, because the light was burning hot. There wasn’t any noise, though, which allowed her to hear a woman’s voice, clear as day. “They will not ‘be cool’ with it. It’s time for an accounting.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It wasn’t some rando threatening her that bothered Evanne. That seems to happen on a daily. It was that she couldn’t see the rando. There was light, heat, and a voice: that’s it. The scattergun found its way into her hand, the draw smooth and sure like she knew how to use it. The weapon’s heft felt good, lending her a confidence as it gave its soft, eager whine. She readied a Trick, throwing her shoulders back, chin jutting. “Come get some.”

  “I’m over here.” The voice was female, strong, and certain of the outcome.

  Evanne obliged, pointing the scattergun a little to the right. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect.” The woman practically purred, but this time right in her ear. Words were accompanied by a touch on her elbow. Evanne whirled, which turned out to be the wrong response, as the touch turned to a grip, her whirl into a tumble, and she tasted the ash-metal of the old floor as it smacked her in the face.

  The scattergun clattered free, the ancient weapon going silent as Evanne’s hand left the grip. Well, fine. Evanne growled, rolled, and found that burning radiant light right there, on her, hands at her throat. I can’t see. I don’t understand. She felt a weight on her stomach, bucked in instinct, and whoever it was tumbled free. Evanne clawed across the floor, hand finding the scattergun, the old grip giving her strength, and she stood, bringing the weapon about.

  “Fuck.” Tarragon was frozen in the air. Not like ice, because the tiny woman struggled like a dervish that would fit in a teacup, but those invisible hands that had held Evanne’s throat moments earlier gripped the fairy. Or that’s what it looked like, because Evanne could see right through Tarragon’s body as if someone’s invisible fist held her, and that fist let you see the other side.

  “Gun on the floor,” said the woman.

  Evanne hesitated. “Or what?”

  “You know what? You’re right.” Tarragon screeched as she moved through the air, the invisible person holding her shifting to a line of cages. Evanne hadn’t clocked them when they’d entered, because she had other things to worry about, but sure enough: lots of cages made of gold wire. They didn’t look like they were supposed to be here. Stacked, rather than built in. If the ancients had put these here, they’d look more … right. The room itself wasn’t huge, perhaps the size of the small library Evanne had liked back home.

  Imshir isn’t there anymore. I don’t have a home.

  The library had been small because all it held were books that told stories about the clockwork inside a person, not facts about how stuff worked, and that’s what Evanne liked. Stories of action and adventure. And romance. Don’t forget that. Evanne locked eyes with Tarragon, saw the pleading there, and felt her chest seize tight. Tarragon was tossed into a cage, and quick as you like the door was closed with a little snick. The fairy threw herself at the door, rattling the tiny bars of her cage, but she was locked in there. I’ve got to get her out. “Hitch? I need you!”

  The ghost materialised by her side. “This looks bad.”

  “Before you do something we’ll both forget, let me show you something.” The voice had moved to the left this time. There was a click and Tarragon arched her back, eyes wide, face locked in a grimace. She stayed like that for a few seconds, then with another click fell backward. “These cages are built for fairies. It’s hard to damage someone who’s designed to live next to radiation or survive a shock, but it turns out all you need is enough joules.”

  None of this made sense. Radiation? Joules? With dawning horror, Evanne saw many cages held a tiny body. So many fairies. Are they all dead? Evanne took a faltering step toward Tarragon as the fairy got onto one knee. The click came again, and Tarragon made a noise like jit-jit-jit before collapsing at the next click. “Stop it!”

  “Then put the fucking gun down, Vhemin cur, or the next time she won’t get back up.”

  “Play along,” Hitch suggested. “We don’t need the gun anyway.”

  Evanne gripped the weapon tighter, then sagged, putting it on the ground.

  “Good,” the voice soothed, sly now. “Kick it away.”

  Evanne toed the weapon, spinning it across the room where it shored up against a wall with a clang. I hope Hitch has good moves for taking out an invisible person without use of a scattergun. She felt her shoulders alive with tension, like a metal wire was threaded through them and someone as strong as her father was pulling it tight. Relax.

  It’s not easy to relax, because something’s wrong here. This place is supposed to be deserted. “Who are you?”

  “A gift from beyond time, a Hail Mary from the ancients who didn’t believe in losing, given to the people of our time to win.” There was almost a purr in the voice, a subtle slinkiness that was all cream and a happy cat.

  Evanne felt the tension leave her shoulders as she laughed. “Oh, no. You’re none of those things. You’re a thief with borrowed secrets, playing at miracles in a place that time’s forgotten. There’s no war, Mary, and no one to fight it for. Hitch, now!” The spectre slid sideways toward her. There was a snap and, just like that, he was gone. Evanne blinked, reaching her hand toward where he’d been. Nothing. “Hitch?”

  The voice chuckled, and this time was right in her ear. “This place was built as a haven. There is no place for the dead in a land of wonders.”

  Evanne whirled, taking a wild swing, and hit nothing but air. “Face me, coward!”

  “As you wish.” Across the room the air shimmered, then relaxed, like the world was letting down its cares. The colours and lines of the wall and cages shivered, outlining a person, the greys and blues all trickling together, running like wet watercolour. The outline solidified, became substantial, tall, lean, and a hunter.

  A Feybrind.

  She was furred like all the People, with a pale coat and diamond eyes. Where Uncle Day’s gold glance held warmth and safety, this woman’s glare held contempt, an ice tundra Evanne’s father’s cold-blooded kind would never be welcome on. Evanne realised her mouth was open, closed it, then said, “But… you’re Feybrind!”

  “I am.” Her lips moved, the words coming out.

  “And you speak!”

  A half-smile, the best Feybrind could manage. “I see Vhemin remain as ugly and brutish as ever but have picked up some small skill in observation.”

  “Maybe Vhemin,” said a small voice behind the Feybrind. They both looked to Tarragon. “She’s maybe Vhemin.” The fairy rocked her hand in a so-so gesture. “Maybe not. Depends on the time of day, I think.”

  Evanne wanted to chew that over, but the only way that was going to happen was if she got this mysterious pale woman under control. She sidled toward her scattergun, still resting on the ground, as if the Feybrind said, I don’t need it, not for the likes of you. Evanne bared not-quite-shark-teeth in a jagged smile. People have underestimated me before. Wouldn’t be the first time. “How is it you talk?”

  “You don’t want to know how I control this place, or caged the fairy?”

  “If you’re offering⁠—”

  “No,” the Feybrind said. “I think not those.” She laid fine fingers against the fur at her throat, parting it to reveal a thin black collar. “This is a piece of wonder the ancients made for those of their own who were robbed of words. Sickness could do it, some illnesses so bad even their magics could do naught. This lets a human speak again. Or, as it happens, one of the People. All I had to do was learn how one should speak, if one could.”

  Evanne stopped her sideways travel. “How did you do that?”

  That half-smile, and a show of teeth. “Carefully.”