“Of what?”

I started walking. Susan ditched her club behind a shelf and followed me. We must have made a charming sight, both of us all scuffed up, torn, ragged, and wounded. A few late shoppers stared, but no one seemed willing to approach us.

“Time can pass at a different rate in the Nevernever than it does here,” I said. “All those stories about people partying with the fae overnight and waking up in a new century? That’s why it happens.” The next link in the logic chain got forged, and I said, “Oh. Oh, dammit.”

“What?” Susan said.

“It’s a three-hour trip to Chichén Itzá,” I said quietly. “We can’t get there by midnight.” Lead ingots began to pile up in my belly and on my shoulders and the back of my neck. I bowed my head, my mouth twisting bitterly. “We’re too late.”

Chapter 38

“No,” Susan said fiercely. “No. This isn’t set up on Greenwich mean time, Harry. These creatures aren’t performing their ceremony based on a clock. They’re using the stars. We only know an approximate time. It could happen after midnight.”

It could happen half an hour before midnight, I thought, but I didn’t say that to Susan. Instead, I nodded. She was right. What she was saying just didn’t feel right, but I knew, in my head, that she was on target. I forced myself to ignore that little whispering voice of defeat in my ear.

“Right,” I said. “Keep going, maximum speed. We need to get back to St. Mary’s and pick up everyone there.”

Susan nodded and said, “Half an hour back if there’s no traffic.”

“And if you have a car,” I said, “which we don’t.”

Susan’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Good thing there’s a whole parking lot full of them, then.”

I opened the front door for Susan, followed her out onto the sidewalk, and nearly got run over by an emerald green stretch limousine, its tail fins, elongated hood, and shining chrome grille marking it as something created in the extravagant years subsequent to the Second World War. The limo screeched to a halt, and the driver, dressed in a no-nonsense black suit, got out and hurried around to the door nearest us. He was medium height, thin, young, and good-looking enough to be acting or modeling—so much so, in fact, that I decided immediately that he wasn’t human.

Almost as soon as I had the thought, I suddenly saw the young Sidhe lord as he truly appeared—dressed in an emerald green tunic and tights, each with accents of deep violet. His sunny hair was bound back into a tight braid that fell past his waist, and his feline, cat-slitted amber eyes were piercing. He saw me staring and gave me a mocking little bow that only barely moved his head and chest, then opened the limo’s door.

The Leanansidhe leaned over from the far side of the passenger compartment, an exasperated look on her face. “And here thou art at last, child. What madness possessed thee to pay a social call upon the Hunter? He has a grudge against thee. Know you not what that means?”

Susan tensed and took a step back from her. My godmother noticed it and favored her with a toothy smile. “Fear not, half child. I’ve no reason to restrain thee again—unless, of course, thou wouldst like to see where it leads.” She glanced up at the night sky—mostly hidden behind all the light pollution—and said, “Granted, we would be forced to indulge such curiosity another time.”

“Godmother,” I said, staring. “What . . . a big car you have.”

She shook a finger at me. “The better to take you to the House of the Weeping Mother so that we may embark upon our quest, child. Glenmael, help them in, if you please. We race against time.”

The young Sidhe gestured gallantly toward the rear of the limo and offered me a supporting arm.

I scowled at him (provoking another smiling bow of his head) and helped Susan into the car. I got in without help of my own, and in short order we found ourselves seated facing the rear of the vehicle and my godmother as the young Sidhe pulled out of the lot and headed for I-55.

“Ridiculous,” Lea said, staring at me in disapproval. “You look utterly ridiculous.”

I blinked at her and then down at myself. Okay, well, granted. I’d been smeared with ichor and then rolled around in dirt and debris and I had a bleeding cut on one hand, which does not for neatness make. My jeans were a wreck, my T-shirt was beyond repair and going to get cut up for rags, and even my duster looked dirty and strained. Susan wasn’t in much better condition.

“I’m not going to a state dinner, Godmother,” I said.

Her voice turned wry. “That depends upon who wins the battle, me-thinks.” She looked me up and down and shook her head. “No. No, it won’t do at all. My queen has a certain reputation to maintain, after all. Your first engagement as the Winter Knight calls for something a bit less . . . postapocalyptic.” She studied Susan with a critical expression. “Mmmm. And your concubine cannot be allowed to bring any shame upon you and, by extension, upon the queen.”

I sputtered.

Susan arched an eyebrow. “His concubine?”

“His lover, the mother of his child, yet to whom he is not wed? I believe the term applies, dear.” She waved a hand. “Words. La. Let us see.”

She rested a fingertip thoughtfully upon the end of her nose, staring at me. Then she said, “Let us begin with silk.”

She murmured a word, passed her hand over me, and my clothes started writhing as if they’d been made out of a single, flat organism, and one that hadn’t yet had the courtesy to expire. It was the damnedest feeling, and I hit my head on the roof of the limo as I jumped in surprise.

A few seconds later, clenching my head, I eyed my godmother and said, “I don’t need any help.”

“Harry,” Susan said in a strangled voice. She was staring at me.

I looked down and found myself garbed in silken clothing. My shirt had become a billowing affair of deep grey silk, fitted close to my torso by a rather long vest of midnight black seeded in patterns of deep amethysts, green-blue opals, and pale, exquisite pearls. The tights were also made of silk, closely fit, and pure white, while the leather boots that came up to my knees were the same deep grey as the shirt.

I stared at me. Then at Susan.

“Wow,” Susan said. “You . . . you really do have a fairy godmother.”

“And I’ve never been able to indulge,” Lea said, studying me absently. “This won’t do.” She waved her hand again. “Perhaps a bit more . . .”

My clothing writhed again, the sensation so odd and intrusive that I all but banged my head on the roof again.

We went through a dozen outfits in half as many minutes. A Victorian suit and coat, complete with tails, was nixed in favor of another silk outfit, this one inspired by imperial China. By then, Susan and Lea were actively engaged in the project, exchanging commentary with each other and ignoring absolutely every word that came out of my mouth. By the seventh outfit, I had given up trying to have any say whatsoever in how I was going to be dressed.

I was given outfits drawing inspiration from widely diverse cultures and periods of history. I lobbied for the return of my leather duster stridently, but Lea only shushed me and kept speaking to Susan.

“Which outfit is really going to get that bitch’s goat?” Susan asked her.

Finally, Lea’s mouth curled up into a smile, and she said, “Perfect.”

My clothes writhed one more time and I found myself dressed in ornate Gothic armor of the style used in Western Europe in the fifteenth century. It was black and articulated, with decorated shoulder pauldrons and an absurdly ornate breastplate. Gold filigree was everywhere, and the thing looked like it should weigh six hundred pounds.

“Cortés wore armor in just this style,” Lea murmured. She studied my head and said, “Though it needs . . .”