A Local Habitation Read Online Free PDF

Luidaeg as lonely—she’s older than nations, and she’s watched empires die—but she was. People are afraid of her; they avoid her haunts, warn their children about her, and whisper her name when the lights are low. How could she not be lonely? Personally, I’m amazed she’s still so close to being sane.
    I started visiting when I realized why she kept calling. We’d play chess, or wander the docks feeding the seagulls and talking. She had a lot to talk about; it’d been a long time since anybody stopped to listen. So I listened, and every visit ended with the same exchange: “Will you ask me now?” “No.” “I’ll kill you when you do.” “I know.” Then I’d go home and so would she, and for a little while, neither of us would be lonely. I take my friends where I can find them.
    With my calls taken care of, I just needed to gather my weapons. I pulled my new aluminum baseball bat from under the bed, peeling the price tag off the handle before I dropped it next to the duffle bag. Then I turned to my dresser, opening the top drawer and digging through the rolled socks and crumpled nightshirts to pull out a black velvet box tied with a golden ribbon. I tucked it into the duffel bag. It was the last thing I needed. It was everything I had.
    Once upon a time there was a girl who thought I was a hero—or maybe she just thought I was her hero. There wasn’t much difference, in the long run; I couldn’t protect her, and she died. Maybe the knife she left me could do something to protect me. Dare was a good kid. I didn’t mean to let her down. And maybe, if I carried her with me, I could still be somebody’s hero.
    I slung the duffel over my shoulder and grabbed the baseball bat as I headed for the door. Maybe I let Dare down. Maybe I didn’t. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t going to let Quentin down, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to fail Sylvester. Not this time, and not ever again. I paused at the door, winding my fingers through the air and humming as I pulled together a quick but passable human disguise. The cut grass and copper smell of my magic rose around me, eclipsing the smell of pennyroyal that clung to Tybalt’s jacket like herbal perfume. Spike sneezed, leaping up onto the back of the couch and rattling its thorns.
    “Are we allergic today?” I asked. It rattled its thorns again, and I laughed. “Right. You guys be good. No wild parties. Stacy will be over to feed you, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I closed the door quickly, shutting out the reproachful looks from my pets, and started down the path toward the parking garage.
    My apartment is what’s considered “a lucky find” in the San Francisco housing market: not only is it rent-controlled and relatively spacious, but it comes with parking—an unheard-of luxury in a city where fistfights have been known to break out for a decent spot. According to my lease, covered parking is a deterrent to theft and vandalism, and justifies my increased rent. Given the kind of cars I tend to drive, I view it as a deterrent to public mockery.
    My last car was the victim of a one-person car chase through downtown San Francisco that left the shocks destroyed and the brakes beyond repair. After I managed to find it—which wasn’t easy, since I’d abandoned it on the street with the keys still inside—it was clear that the only decent thing to do was put it out of its misery. I sold the parts that still worked, scrapped the rest, and bought myself a lemon yellow 1974 VW Bug. I like Bugs.
    As I let myself into the garage, it became apparent that my car had acquired a new hood ornament, since last time I checked it hadn’t come with a blond teenage boy. He was sitting cross- legged on the hood with a pair of headphones on, leaning back on his hands and studying the cracks in the ceiling.
    “Quentin, get off there! You’re going to scratch the paint.”
    “With what?” he asked, pulling off the headphones as he turned toward me. “I