The silence gave way to clicks, which faded and were replaced by watery ringing. Then a familiar, irritated voice was on the line, saying, “Hello?”

There are times for pleasantries; this wasn’t one of them. “Luidaeg, it’s Toby. I need to summon the night-haunts.” Elliot stiffened. Quentin dropped his soda. Well, they recognized the name.

The Luidaeg was silent so long that I was afraid she’d put the phone down and walked away. Then she snarled something in a language I didn’t recognize before demanding, in English, “What?!”

“I need to summon the night- haunts.” Repetition is sometimes the best way to deal with the Luidaeg: just keep saying the same thing over and over until she gets fed up and gives you what you want. All preschoolers have an instinctive grasp of this concept, but most don’t practice it on immortal water demons. That’s probably why there are so few disembowelments in your average preschool.

“Why?”

I outlined the situation as quickly as I could without leaving anything out. Dealing with the Luidaeg is a bit like juggling chainsaws, except for the part where you can’t master the trick. A chain saw won’t flip randomly in midair and dive for your throat: the Luidaeg might. Worse, if she thought I was holding back on her, she could refuse to help.

Elliot paled as I described what I’d found in Barbara’s desk, but kept listening, horrified and fascinated. Quentin gave me a wounded look and turned away. It wasn’t that I was calling for help: it was that I was calling the Luidaeg, who had every reason to hurt me after she helped. Almost everyone’s heard of the Luidaeg; she saw most of Faerie born, and she may see it die. Even for people who are supposedly immortal, that kind of age is scary. Some people say she’s a monster. I just say that she’s got issues.

When I finished she said, “And that’s why you want to summon the night- haunts?” She didn’t sound angry; just tired, and a little bit exasperated.

“Yes. I’m hoping they can tell me why they haven’t come for the bodies.”

“What if they won’t tell you? What if they don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” I said, opting for honesty before cleverness. “I’ll think of something.”

The Luidaeg snorted. “I’m sure you will. How many of the people you’re ‘guarding’ will die while you think?”

That stung. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Is it good enough?”

“Are you going to help or not?” Across the room, Quentin winced. The Luidaeg’s had millennia to learn how to piss people off. It was probably always a natural talent, but at this point, she can pack a world of insult into a single word.