Having a life of her own suited Valentine very well.
She was still blind, of course—but between Percy, Oliver, and Halstead, she had more than enough help to sort out a narrow, workable routine in the Lower World. Percy certainly would have preferred her to stay with him until La Voûte came back with something to go on, but Valentine had no intention of pacing Hull like a caged tiger. She found herself back in Blackfrost in short order instead, demanding useful tasks to pay off her debt.
“You don’t have a debt,” Lord Blackfrost told her, with a languid sigh. But he didn’t expend the effort to deny her a second time—instead, he sent her ferrying messages to other realms, and had her dip in on that silly garden shop in Toronto, shoring up wards and checking discreetly on Halstead’s old apprentice. Some of these errands turned out to be far more exciting than first expected—but for the most part, they were just a way to stay busy while more experienced investigators sought out Sidney’s trail.
Halstead offered to help find Sidney, of course, but—just as La Voûte had implied—the resources of a faerie lord (or a faerie queen, in this case) were not terribly adequate to the task of searching out a mortal in the Lower World. Valentine allowed Halstead to try anyway, as it kept her from worrying over graver matters.
Even a blind woman could see that Lord Blackfrost’s dire predictions were coming true.
“Th’ Bright Lady laughed in my face,” Valentine had been forced to tell him this time. “She said you must be desperate for somethin’ if you’re askin’ old enemies for alliances.”
“We’re not old enemies,” Lord Blackfrost had muttered tightly. “My father was her enemy.” But he knew as well as Valentine did that most faerie lords saw little difference between the mantles and the individuals who wore them. Old enemies would forever hate Lord Blackfrost for crimes he’d never even committed... while old allies like the Drowned Lord began to turn on him, one by one.
Lord Blackfrost’s only current ally to be found was a brand new, bewildered faerie lord known as the Lord of the Looking Glass... and while the man that Valentine had nicknamed Tootles was certainly clever, he wasn’t exactly a power to be feared. In a head-on confrontation, she was grimly positive that any other given faerie lord would eat him for breakfast.
Valentine was still brooding on this matter as she returned to Hull... but even as she stepped out into the city proper, the matter slipped away from her mind, dissolving into so much smoke.
What was I just worried about? she thought, frustrated. She was sure it was something very concerning... but all that offered itself to mind was the fact that she still needed a guide if she was going to stumble her way back to Percy’s clinic. Valentine’s first instinct was to call Percy himself—but the distant, lukewarm heat of the sun seeped into her skin, dispelling that hopeful thought. Instead, she fumbled with the phone in her pocket and ordered it to call Oliver. Like a faerie servant, it obeyed.
The phone took a bit longer than usual to pick up. When it finally did, Valentine heard a soft swear word, and the sound of Oliver clearing his throat. “Hey there!” he said brightly. “Bit early, aren’t you?”
Valentine narrowed her eyes. Oliver was, perhaps predictably, a very accomplished liar when he put his mind to it—but when it came to Valentine, his fear of being caught always filtered through, no matter how he tried to hide it. “Am I?” she asked. “Maybe Arcadia made time slip in my direction this time. I could use a hand findin’ th’ bus.”
“Right, ‘course,” Oliver said nervously. “Usual spot?”
“Yes,” Valentine replied slowly. “Th’ usual spot.” She paused suspiciously. “Is somethin’ wrong, Red?”
Oliver choked softly. “Gotta punch out,” he said. “See you soon.”
Oliver ended the call... and Valentine crossed her arms to wait.
Valentine knew the sound of Oliver’s footsteps as he approached. There was a definite hint of wariness to his gait today. She opened up her Witchsight and saw the faintest flicker of Oliver’s red and gold aura. Even as she watched, it shifted and danced, as though laughing at some secret joke.
Valentine stayed very still as Oliver approached her, carefully gauging his distance. He was much taller than she was—his shoulder normally rested at a level just next to her cheek. If she was very precise, she thought, she could probably...
Oliver let out a soft shriek of surprise as Valentine snapped out her hand to catch him by the arm.
“Bloody hell!” he squeaked, in a voice nearly as high-pitched as the whines he sometimes made in fox shape. “How... how’d you even...”
Valentine tightened her fingers very slightly on his arm. “Let’s talk, Red,” she said ominously.
Oliver trembled in her grasp. Valentine felt his eyes sweep over her, though she couldn’t see his face. She kept her own expression carefully stony and foreboding.
The little fox cracked all at once.
“Percy got a call today,” Oliver babbled quickly. “He’s leavin’ somewhere tonight as soon as th’ sun goes down, even though he knows it’s somethin’ he ought to wait on you for. I called an’ told him you were comin’, an’ he asked me to stall you ‘till he can leave.”
Valentine tightened her fingers on his arm, and Oliver yelped lightly. “Get me back to th’ clinic ‘afore th’ sun goes down,” she said, “an’ I’ll take it out of Percy’s hide, instead of yours.”
Oliver swallowed hard. “Yes ma’am,” he said in a tiny voice. He tried to slide his arm free from Valentine’s hand, but she held onto it in a vice-like grip as he called them up a taxi.
They hit a detour and a spot of traffic on the way back. Valentine felt Oliver growing more and more uneasy, tapping his foot against the floor, and she knew the sun was close to setting.
She didn’t dare speculate on the nature of the call that Percy had gotten. The obvious answer battered at her mind, stiffening her spine and shortening her breath. But there was no point in making assumptions. All she had to do was catch Percy before the sun went down and wring the answers out of him—
“Bollocks,” Oliver muttered tightly. The last of the warmth on Valentine’s skin had disappeared.
Valentine pulled out her phone again and ordered it to call Percy. The call rang a few times, but ultimately went to voicemail. “I’m unable to answer the phone at the moment,” Percy’s cheerful voice informed her. “But I’m sure if you’re important, I’ll remember to call you back.”
Valentine scowled at the phone in her hand. “I’ll give you important, you poncy leech,” she growled. But as the phone beeped, she prodded at its glass screen, eventually finding the button that was supposed to end the call.
“Well, that ain’t very nice,” Oliver muttered nearby.
“I’m not a very nice person,” Valentine snapped at him. She heard him cower back a bit. Oliver then went carefully quiet, like a cat hiding in a corner.
The cab came to a slow, rolling stop. Valentine tugged the door open, leaving Oliver to handle the driver. There was an indistinct familiarity to the corner she stepped out upon—a blur of subtle sounds and feelings that told her she was home.
Home, Valentine thought, briefly surprised by the notion. That sounds right. The idea stung a bit as she thought of Percy trying to lie to her, to duck away without her. Whatever his reasons, it bothered Valentine more deeply than she wanted to admit. Much of her foul mood until now had been a sham for Oliver’s benefit... but a hint of real anger crept into her throat as she searched out the key in her pocket and stabbed blindly for the lock.
The clinic was already closed, which boded ill for her timing. Valentine stalked for the back room, sweeping her Witchsight over the office there—but Percy’s distinct and powerful aura was nowhere to be found.
Valentine leaned against the doorframe, sucking in her breath. I’ll kill him, she thought. Whatever nonsense he’s up to this time, he knows I’d disapprove, and he’s gone off before I can even talk to him about it—
“That is a frightful look on your face, dear,” Percy’s voice observed from behind her.
Valentine whirled, startled—but Percy caught her by the waist, tugging her back against him. He settled his chin atop her head with a soft sigh. “Oliver sang like a little canary, didn’t he?” Percy mused. “You know, he never has a problem lying to anyone else on my behalf.”
“Percy!” Oliver’s shocked voice filtered back from the front of the clinic. “I, uh. Figured you’d scarpered by now.”
“Oh, I intended to,” Percy said cheerfully. “But you know, you must be rubbing off on me a bit, Oliver. I had a second thought for once in my life. I was even working on a third one just now—can you imagine?”
Valentine hardened her jaw. She wanted to disentangle herself from Percy’s grip—but the sheer relief of finding him still here had mixed with that comforting wintergreen scent of his, damn him.
“An’ where exactly were you goin’ ‘afore you confused yourself by thinkin’?” Valentine asked him acidly.
Percy sighed and pressed his lips to her hair. “I deserve that,” he admitted. He paused for a long moment. “...La Voûte called. He believes he’s found... well. You know.”
Valentine’s heart froze in her chest.
“You hadn’t gotten back at the time,” Percy said. “I thought I might spare you the distress and sort the matter myself, so I asked Oliver to handle things while I was gone.” He paused heavily, and his arms tightened on her. “When Oliver said you were back, I thought I’d slip out first. Thankfully, however, I haven’t yet murdered that rational little voice at the back of my head, no matter what Sissy likes to tell people. I realized I wasn’t sparing you any sort of distress; I’m afraid my intentions were far darker than that.” Percy sighed deeply. “I was going to do something dreadful, and I didn’t want you to be there for it.”
Valentine closed her eyes.
He was going to kill Sidney, she thought.
La Voûte had suggested that Valentine would need to formalize a divorce, at the very least. She’d allowed the idea, clung to it comfortingly, in an attempt to avoid thinking of all the other dizzying implications of finding her husband. Focus on the problem at hand, she’d thought.
Part of her, Valentine realized, had hoped that they wouldn’t find Sidney. As awful as that might be, it would have saved her the wild riot of emotions that now tore through her body.
“I hope you can forgive me,” Percy said very quietly.
Valentine found herself leaning back into his grip to keep herself from swaying on her feet. Percy held her up. The length of his body pressed against her—familiar angles she had kissed and caressed. A soft flash of sunlight in darkness enfolded her senses.
“I don’t know if I want to stop you,” Valentine whispered. She felt a sense of stunned, detached horror at the words. She’d dragged people back to the Drowned Lord before, knowing that the journey would end in torture and death. She’d even killed people herself a few times, in the heat of the moment. But it had never been anyone she knew personally—and never of her own volition.
The idea of killing Sidney filled her with overwhelming, righteous fury. It gave her a sense of terrible relief. It filled her stomach with nausea, and made her want to cry.
But Percy would have done it himself. After decades of carefully avoiding his darker instincts, he would have taken the outcome from Valentine’s hands and prevented even the ghost of the decision.
Even now, she knew that he would, if she asked him to do it.
“I didn’t want you to have to deal with this,” Percy murmured. Worry stole into his tone. “It isn’t fair that you should. But it isn’t fair to keep it from you, either. I’m afraid I don’t have a skillful answer to solve it all, this time.”
Valentine clutched instinctively for the ivory crucifix in her pocket for the first time in weeks.
No, a voice whispered to her. If you give your grief away, you’ll make the colder, more sensible decision. That’s a choice as well.
Somehow, Valentine managed to tear her fingers away from the ivory. As she pulled her hand free of her pocket, Percy stole it, threading his fingers through hers.
“I ‘ave to see him,” Valentine said in a small voice. “Who knows if it even is him? There’s only two people who’d know, an’ th’ other one is a faerie lord.”
Percy hesitated. They’d both noticed the absence of a decision in her words. But he didn’t press her on it—it was true that they could have the wrong person, after all.
“We can find another way if you like,” Percy said softly.
Valentine shook her head against him. “I don’t want to wonder,” she said. “I ‘ave to know... what he’ll say. Who he is now.”
Percy let out a long, slow breath behind her. “If that’s what you’d prefer,” he whispered.
“What’s all this about?” Oliver asked carefully. He’d stepped a bit closer to the two of them, though he still kept a certain respectful distance.
Valentine felt a moment of silent agreement ripple between Percy and herself. Someone might die. Oliver doesn’t need to be involved in that.
“Mind your own business, Red,” she said harshly.
“You know,” Oliver said slowly. “I don’t think I will.” She heard him take a few careful steps forward. “You look upset. I’ve never seen you upset. Seen you angry, for sure. But you never looked this way. Not even when you showed up wi’ no eyes.”
Valentine forced a breath into her lungs. “Bloody vermin, you are,” she hissed out. But her voice choked on the words, and she knew they had no bite.
“We may know where to find the man who sold Valentine into slavery,” Percy said in a cool, clipped tone, even as Valentine searched vainly for the words to explain. “I might kill him, Oliver. Given the mess, you’ll want to stay behind.”
Oliver was quiet for a long moment.
“You must think I’m from th’ right side of the tracks for some reason,” Oliver said finally. “Not quite sure where you got that idea, toff. I thought you’d know better by now, given how long we’ve known each other.” He shifted indistinctly, and Valentine imagined him leaning against the counter, though she wasn’t entirely certain that the image was accurate. “There’s a special place in hell for pimps an’ slavers, Percy. You leave me behind if I’ll be in th’ way. But don’t imagine that I’ll think any less of you if you come back needin’ a new fancy shirt.”
Oliver turned his head so that his voice drifted over more clearly to Valentine. “Go scare th’ livin’ daylights out of th’ bastard, Pallid Valentine,” he said.
There was a fierce, wild tone to his voice—the sort of growl that reminded her he really was a predator, if only a small one. Somehow, that tone dug deep into Valentine’s bones, shoring up the awful confusion in her soul.
Valentine forced herself to stand on her own. Slowly, she tugged the ragged, borrowed coat closer about herself.
“No matter what else happens,” she said very softly. “He’ll be prayin’ to someone for forgiveness.”