“No,” said another man. “Nothing fictional.” He was the one wearing the human disguise; if I squinted, I could almost see the outline of his wings.

“Peter, that’s not fair,” protested the first man. “We allowed Elvish.”

“Elvish is a language!”

“Only if you’re living in a Tolkien novel,” said the brunette, shoving her glasses back up her nose. I’d never seen a Daoine Sidhe wearing glasses before.

“Oh, come on,” protested Peter. “Hey, Colin?”

The man next to the water cooler looked up. “Yeah?” His hair was shaggy and green, and henna tattoos covered most of his visible skin. A sealskin was looped around his waist, the ends tied in a granny knot. A Selkie? That was unusual this far inland.

“Is Elvish a language?”

Colin considered this, and then said, “Well, Gordan speaks it.”

“Is that a yes or no on the Elvish?” demanded the brunette. She looked annoyed. I understood how she felt.

“It’s not a language; Klingon is, and she just switched to Italian, which makes six.” A new man stepped out of one of the walkways, hands tucked into the pockets of his impeccably tailored suit. His hair and goatee were clipped close, not a strand out of place. “That work?”

“Hey, Elliot. Yeah, that works,” said the brunette.

This was worse than trying to watch opera without a program book. I cleared my throat. Quentin gave me a stricken look, but the crowd didn’t miss a beat, continuing to debate foreign swear words. I cleared my throat again; either they couldn’t hear me, or I was being ignored.

“Excuse me?” I said, finally.

Elliot looked up and smiled, taking his hands out of his suit pockets. Quentin shrank back. I’m sure the expression was meant to be reassuring, but few things are less reassuring than a smiling Bannick: their teeth are sharp and mossy, and they look perfectly equipped for a nice dinner of young Daoine Sidhe. The teeth are misleading—the Bannick are actually very friendly people. They like to live in bathhouses and on coasts, and unlike the Kelpies, they don’t kill travelers. Well, not often. “I’m sorry; are you lost?” he asked.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m looking for Countess Torquill. Is she here?”

“Sorry, no,” said the brunette, eyes still on her clipboard. “Can we help you?”

I bit back a sigh, saying, “I really need to talk to January. Will she be back soon?” Inwardly, I was fuming. It wasn’t her fault Sylvester hadn’t told her we were coming, but I’d still expected her to be there when we arrived. No one ever accused me of being logical.

She glanced up, smiling. “Probably not.”

“Damn.” The multilingual cursing was still going on. I looked toward it. “What is that?”

“That would be Gordan,” said Colin.

“Why is she screaming like that?” asked Quentin.

“Because she found a flaw, an error, nay, a veritable bug in her code,” said the blond, with obvious relish. “I think her poor obsessive heart may break.”