There's always been something about her.

Everyone, of course, knows about Amandine's daughter. The fact that Amandine chose to play faerie bride is something most people find amusing, and which Tybalt finds disgusting. He was younger and considerably more foolish when he made his own mistake with a mortal, but he had the self-respect to regret it when it inevitably backfired. Amandine simply went insane and left those around her to clean up after her progeny.

Or, at least, tolerate her progeny. Progeny that, as far as Tybalt can tell, is determined to get into any manner of trouble, all under the guise of honor.

When she disappears, he thinks he's pleased. He feels pleased, at any rate. It's no more than an upstart changeling deserves, and really, she should have known better than to chase after purebloods with three times as much power as she has even fully rested. She'll be found, and that will be the end of it. No one will speak of her honor or her heroism any longer.

But he finds he misses her, and wakes up worried as days stretch into months and she doesn't reappear. Fourteen years pass, and he never manages to put her out of his mind, never calls off the subjects he has looking for her, even as their leads fade and they start just striking out randomly, hoping to get lucky.

Then Elaine comes into his room one evening and tells him she's been found, and he feels like ice water has been poured on him. "Thank you," he says, trying for calm.

She nods and leaves, and he - systematically, almost levelly - rakes his claws across the wall with such force that they leave inches-deep scores in the earth beyond the wooden paneling.

That should be the end of it, but he finds her again. He wants to confirm something to himself - he doesn't know what. He's shaken by how wrong she smells, even as he wants to believe it is her, that good fortune has returned her to them again. He knows he should leave it alone, knows he should walk away from her and not look back.

But as with most things in Faerie, "curiosity killed the cat" is a warning as much as it is a human child's nursery rhyme.

-

When she asks him for a favor, for just a moment, his world stops.

He doubts she notices; perceptiveness has never been counted among October's many talents. A pity, considering her insistence at setting herself up as Faerie's most annoying detective. He recovers easily enough, but in the end, he can't tell her no. So she saddles him with an object that shouldn't exist, and then leaves to put herself in even more danger.

If he wasn't entirely certain of his shift in allegiance immediately after she gave him the hope chest, seeing her lying in an Undine's pool, bleeding out, confirms it. She cannot die; that thought is the one that clutches him as he holds her and seeks safety for her. If she dies, he will be bereft. Not because of the hope chest; damn the hope chest. Because of her.

It's not a comfortable thought.

Anne always laughed at him when he became lost in his thoughts. She loved pointing out that it was a trait unbecoming of the Cait Sidhe, whose minds were so mired in instinct and animalism. He'd snarl at her then, but he never meant it, and she knew that and her laughter would redouble in heartiness. Even sitting in his Court, thinking of Toby, he misses her.

But the once-fierce ache has faded, and the bitterness…he can't nurse it, not anymore, without the heavy feeling of knowing he's lying to himself. Not when the finest person he knows, whom he also happens to be in love with, is a changeling.

She will die, doubtless even more stupidly than an ordinary changeling would. Certainly, it will be due to some problem she can't help but meddle in. Tybalt knows this, with a sharpness that doesn't fade, and in fact becomes even clearer when he remembers her prone body in the gardens. She's living on borrowed, stolen, and frantically stitched-together time.

But even that isn't enough to stop the treacherous love and loyalty that is taking hold inside him.

In the end, after Lily treats her, he watches over her. He can't bring himself to do anything else. She's peaceful in sleep, and it makes him ache, want tied up in how oddly beautiful he finds her. At rest, her fire and bite are gone. Even she can't hurl sarcastic invectives at him when she's recovering from almost dying. But he's still drawn to her, not in the least because he knows the promise of the force of nature she'll become once she wakes up.

When he returns to his Court, he firmly delegates what needs doing and locks himself in his room, thinking. This - his feelings and what an idiot they turn him into - can't go on. He knows it with the same certainty that he knows the pattern of Julie's coat and the twists and turns of his Court. He has to do something to stop it. He has to make her not want his presence, even subconsciously; he has to make it so that if she sees him, she'll try to kill him. He has to make it so she'll never, no matter how badly she thinks she needs it, come for his help.

An idea grows. On the whole, it's unforgivable; if anyone else attempted it, he'd kill them on the spot. It's also the only course of action that will accomplish what must be done.

Grimly, he stands and moves to leave. He'll do this for everyone in his Kingdom, the subjects he owes his time to, who deserve a King who's not…distracted. And he'll do it for Toby. He can't - and won't - allow his regard to place them both in danger.

He will finish it.

-

He finds Toby at home, for once, rather than having to track her down. She's making coffee. He smells it before she opens the door. Of course, once the door is open, both the smell and her scowl assault him.

"Tybalt. What do you want?"

He recovers as quickly as he can. "Many things that don't concern you, and one that does."

Her expression doesn't change, revealing her lack of understanding. "I've come to collect on my debt," he adds.

She immediately stiffens, mouth tightening into a hard line. He blinks, however, and then she's just rolling her eyes. "Fine. Come in. I'm getting coffee, and then you can tell me what you need."

'Need' is the wrong word, but he doesn't correct her. Instead, he steps inside and follows her to the kitchen.

She waves him into a chair at the kitchen table, which is cluttered with all manner of junk. She doesn't clean often, and lacks someone to do it for her. If it were feasible, Tybalt would bring her back to the Court of Cats for what they're about to do, but even he knows that doing so would be foolish. No matter how distasteful the act was, her memory would haunt him for years if he saw her in his bed.

"Okay," she says, sitting down. "What's up? Please don't tell me it's a bad case, I'm resting for at least a week before I go off to get shot at again."

He tenses up in spite of himself. "Nothing so strenuous," he says. "Unless you choose it to be."

She narrows her eyes at him. Always so easy to needle - he pushes the rush of affection down and forces himself to smile slowly, cruelly.

He is not going to let this go well.

"Spit it out, Tybalt," she says, leaning back in her chair. "It's nearly nightfall. You're lucky I was even awake."

Tybalt himself had hardly slept. "My dear October," he says, making it sound like an insult. "It was difficult to settle on a favor. You owing me is…tantalizing."

"Not in the mood. Tell me what you want."

He suspects she has already guessed, and is simply lying to herself. Tybalt is rarely direct; it's not in his nature, though he has kept his own private policy of honesty with October. Only recently has that become a problem. "You," he says.

There are a heavy five seconds of silence, and then Toby says, flatly, "Get out."

"Now, now, Toby. You know as well as I do that you can't simply refuse."

"I can, and I will." Her eyes are wide, her hands tight around her coffee mug. She isn't pulling away; she should. Tybalt's intention is not to make this pleasant. "I'll fulfill your favor, Tybalt, I'll find something you've lost or set something right, but I'm not going to -"

"Share your bed?"

"Or yours," she bites out.

Tybalt surveys her for a moment. He feels oddly impassive, having made the decision and slammed the door shut on his affection for her - for now, anyway. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice, October. We're bound."

"Tybalt -"

He leans forward and rests his hands on her wrists. The touch is gentle, but he knows she can feel the strength behind his hands. "Finish your coffee," he says, stroking his thumbs over the delicate bones of her wrists. "There is no need to make this unpleasant."

"Too late for that," she says, but she shakes his hands off and lifts the mug to her mouth.

He watches her with lazy interest, not bothering to hide how much he desires her. He sees the second she makes her decision; she blinks once, had, then tilts the mug further, finishing the entire thing in one movement.

He applauds delicately. "Well done."

"Get up."

He toys with the idea of not obliging her at all, making her sit on his lap or something equally capricious. In the end, though, he stands - after waiting long enough that she is standing as well, glaring at him.

"I should slit your throat for this."

"You would violate Oberon's laws to prevent a quick tumble? I'm shocked, October, absolutely shocked."

"You're a bastard, actually, and you'll be a bastard who never speaks to me again," she snaps. "I mean it, Tybalt. If I ever see you again, it's open season on you. And believe me when I say I won't miss."

"You know exactly what to say to keep me interested," he all but purrs. He's only half lying. He'd be a fool if her fire didn't interest him.

He makes his way unerringly to her bedroom. She follows him in, then stands next to the bed, arms crossed.

Her hands are shaking a little, and for one moment, his stomach twists. He doesn't show it, though, only closes the door with a final-sounding click.

"Fine," she mutters, and reaches for the bottom of her shirt.

"No," Tybalt says.

She stops immediately.

"Wise of you, little fish," he says. He crosses the room in a few steps, stopping close enough that she's forced to look up at him.

He expects her to look away. He is, after all, a King of the Cats; he knows the effects his gaze has. But she keeps her eyes open, angrily glaring even after they begin to water.

He's stalling. He makes himself reach out, fingers skimming Toby's hips.

"You should eat more," he finds himself saying.

"You should have been drowned as a kitten," she says. "If wishes were horses."

He makes his chuckle cruel, then hooks his fingers under her shirt. "Arms up," he says, and takes her shirt off when she obeys.

Once she's naked from the waist up, bra and shirt discarded in a careless pile, he makes a show of studying her impassively. When his wandering eyes reach her face, he sees that she's studying him, as well, eyes narrowed.

"I suppose turnabout is fair play," he says, and unbuttons his shirt.

"Nothing about this is fair play."

"No," he says, and shrugs his shirt off. He doesn't miss the way her eyes flicker over him again, but he forces himself not to react to it. Not emotionally, anyway; he's already hardening, just looking at her, despite the circumstances.

"Let's get on the bed," he says. "Unless you'd prefer to be fucked against the wall like a common whore?"

"You haven't met many whores. And, what, you don't want my pants off? I'm shocked, Tybalt. I thought you were all about easy access."

She manages an impressive amount of sarcasm. "Not yet," he says, and smiles.

It's obvious she's rattled, but she rolls her eyes and gets on the bed, propping herself up with her elbows. "Well?" she says.

He lowers himself over her. Before he was somewhat aroused, but he feels fire where their legs touch. She stiffens slightly when she feels him, but he watches her force herself to relax with the easy practice of someone used to being in danger.

For a second he just looks down at her. He wants to kiss her, but he suspects she'd bite his tongue off, and - that is not what he's here for. Instead he braces himself on a forearm and trails a single finger of his free hand down her left side, just brushing the side of her breast.

"Damn it, Tybalt," she snaps. "Stop acting like -"

When she doesn't finish the sentence, he arches a brow. "Like?"

"You can't just get it over with?"

That doesn't answer his question, but it does give him an opening. "Where would the fun be in that?"  he asks, and splays a hand on her stomach.

It moves slightly when her breath stutters. She looks away from him, stubbornly staring at the ceiling.

The thing to make her hate him the most would be to just take his pleasure and leave, but that would require him being capable of doing so. And - curse it all, he can't bring himself to hurt her physically.  He wouldn't be able to accomplish the deed.

"You know," he says, skimming his hand up and just brushing his fingers over her nipple, "I won't hold it against you if you participate."

"If I touch you, it will be to wring your neck," she says.

"That's bravado. Why not at least tell me you have a knife under the pillow?"

"Maybe I do," she tells the ceiling.

He sighs. This is entirely outside his area of expertise - he's never attempted to seduce the unwilling. But he knows women, so after a moment's thought he ducks his head and kisses down her neck. He makes the kisses dirty, nipping at her skin a little, instinct telling him she'd prefer that to the gentle kisses of a human lover.

He's right. She moves beneath him, just a little, before obviously forcing herself still again.

He smiles a bit, worrying the same patch of skin right at the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. He returns his hand to her breast, pinching very lightly, then caressing, as he mouths down to her other breast and kisses the underside, the curve over her heart, her collarbone.

She sighs a little, shifting. This time she doesn't stiffen up again. She hardly goes soft; Tybalt's not even sure she knows how. But he is no longer kissing a stiff board of a woman.

When he sucks her nipple into his mouth, still lazily playing with her other breast, she gasps. Her legs move, just a bit, hips moving against him. He can smell and sense arousal just as easily as fear, and the balance of the two in her is slowly changing. She still radiates anger, but it's more complex now. He allows himself the luxury of switching breasts, teasing lightly with his tongue where he already reddened her skin, touching her everywhere he can reach.

He glances up at her finally, and feels his stomach fall - she's looking at him, and her face is utterly unreadable. She, who is an open book to him, has shuttered herself.

That won't do.

"Now, I think, pants," he says. His voice is lower, his arousal plain, but he keeps his tone steady. She looks away again and reaches for the button on her jeans.

He beats her to it, though, sitting back on his knees and tugging them down. Her underwear is utilitarian, but Tybalt barely cares. He leans back in, kissing her shoulder and nudging her thighs a little farther apart.

She moves with reluctance, but not the threat of physical violence that she carried earlier. Her skin is soft, ridiculously so; part of him is quietly shocked that he can touch her like this, knuckles brushing over the skin of her inner thighs, just missing her cunt.

"Is this what gets you off?" she says, sarcasm imbuing every word.

"What is 'this', pray tell?" He rests his hand on her hip, leaning in to nip at her jaw, trace his tongue over her ear.

Her breath catches again. "Torturing the unwilling."

"I'd hardly call it that," he says. He runs his thumb down from her belly button to the top of her underwear. "Think about what you know of the Cait Sidhe," he says quietly into her ear. "The base physicality appeals to us, but we are never without finesse. We are not satisfied by…dry, simple intercourse." He moves his thumb down, over the cotton of her underwear, pressing down against her clit and then continuing.

Her underwear is damp. He's assaulted by the feel of it, despite already knowing what he'd find. He moves without thought, then, lifting and tugging her underwear with little finesse. He's more than a little surprised when she moves with him, lifting her hips and kicking the fabric off.

She's beautiful. He touches her again, with two fingers this time, feeling the wetness and spreading it around. It's decadent, and wholly unnecessary; he could enter her now and it would cause her not the slightest bit of pain. But he does it anyway, playing with her clit and shallowly pushing two fingers into her, watching as her breathing increases and her legs fall further apart by the inches. She keeps licking her lips, and he burns with a hunger he can't attribute to anything but the whole of her.

He's completely hard now, and when she moves her legs again, she presses against him. He expects her to flinch, but instead she lifts her head a little and looks down. Her unreadable expression has changed, and he would give anything for her thoughts; but her thoughts are not why he's doing this.

"October," he says quietly, forcing it into a taunt.

She returns her gaze to his face. He pulls his hand away from her cunt and sucks his fingers into his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

Her mouth falls open slightly, and she licks her lips. When she speaks, her husky tone belies her words. "Let's just get this over with."

His mind fails to provide him with any sort of comeback. Wordlessly, he moves away from her and off the bed, stepping out of his trousers and boxer briefs and rolling the condom he brought on. She watches him again, and when he follows the line her body makes on the bed, he realizes she's clutching the sheets tightly.

He's not sure if it's the selfishness of wanting her to touch him, or the desire to not restrict her movement, that makes him lie down next to her.

"Well?" he says when she doesn't move.

"You have got to be kidding," she says flatly.

"I assure you, I'm not."

"Bastard," she mutters. She sits up, though, then straddles him. The muscles in her thighs stand out when she holds herself over him.

For a moment he thinks she really is going to pull a knife out. But then she sinks down onto him, warm and wet, and she swallows hard as her eyes shut.

He rests his hands on her hips, holding her on him as he adjusts to the feel of her. There is no difference, really, between her and other women he's slept with, aside from the obvious markers of Faerie biology - but now that he is here, with her on him, he can't pretend this isn't Toby, that he is entirely detached.

"You may move, you know," he says, rocking his hips up to underscore the point.

She has amazing balance, but even she cannot generate leverage out of nowhere. She leans forward, bracing her hands on his chest and rocking her hips. The friction makes Tybalt shudder, his hands tightening on her hips.

Toby lets out a breath, long and slow, and begins setting a rhythm. She moves with an unthinking grace that Tybalt doesn't think she even knows she has; her eyes are still closed, and her fingers are digging into Tybalt's chest, but she stays slick for him as she moves. He reaches up, touching her breasts, cupping her shoulders, watching her move against and with him.

When she speeds up a little, he slips a hand in and presses against her clit. Her response is immediate, back arching and cunt tightening around him.

"Oak and ash, I - you -"

"Yes?"

She shakes her head, but she speeds up, moving greedily against him. He rubs her in time with their movement, anchoring his other hand on her hip. He can't keep himself from noticing how sweetly they move together, how he aches everywhere they touch, any more than he can keep himself from picturing sitting up and kissing her, slowing their movement with his arms around her.

He refrains, watching her get more and more desperate. Just as she's approaching completion, though, he makes a lightning-fast decision, thumb sliding away from her clit, denying her friction in favor of holding her hips still.

He hardly knows what he wants until her eyes fly open and she gifts him with the most murderous look he's ever gotten from her. He expects her to sit back, and she does - but then she grabs his hands and digs her fingernails in until he lets go.

Her strength isn't greater than his at close range, but he's so surprised when she grips his wrists and pushes forward that he's pinned before he even realizes what's happened. Their faces are inches apart now, and she breathes harshly as she begins moving again, stimulating herself with the advantage of the angle.

It's impossible to ignore the way her body changes, this close. He can all but feel her heart beating, and his fingers curl in on themselves when she begins to come, moving around him, her entire body as she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood and tightens her hands on his wrist tightly enough to bruise.

"Toby," he breathes without thought.

She doesn't make a sound, and her arms don't even shake, but it doesn't matter. They're close enough that he can arch his neck up and kiss her, hard, pushing against her grip and thrusting up roughly.

She makes a shocked noise, and he's about to pull away when she suddenly starts kissing back, another wave of her orgasm hitting her. It goes on so long that Tybalt himself is shaken when she finally pulls back, eyes wide with shock, body finally beginning to relax.

He has to move then. Her arms have enough give that it's child's play to break her hold and roll them over so that she is under him. He has a second's fear that she will lie there, limp, but then she groans and wraps her legs around him, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him down to kiss him again.

That's how he comes, surrounded by her in every way, pressed against her and shuddering. She kisses him through it, and keeps kissing him when he's finished. It's he who pulls away, slipping out of her and immediately mourning the loss.

Her eyes are still wide. He has to look away, rolling to the side and pulling the condom off. There's a trash can right next to the bed; he drops it in and then turns back around.

The tension between them is impossibly thick. He knows, with horrifying certainty, that if he tries to kiss her again he'll be rebuffed. And - he has to finish this correctly. So he smirks and reaches out, ignoring how she stiffens in favor of cupping her cunt, pressing the heel of his hand against her clit.

In all honesty, he's expecting to be slapped. His world is sent reeling when she grips the sheets again and cants her hips up, eyes slipping closed.

There is no deity, no parent of Faerie, that he can pray to, but he sends up a helpless plea anyway as he moves to press himself against her, slipping a single finger into her and rubbing her clit. He's more gentle this time, feather-light touches as she shakes against him. It takes him a minute to realize she's making noise, little half-sobs and moans that she fails to swallow.

He kisses her neck, keeping his teeth to himself; it's obvious she wouldn't appreciate them right now. She's moving slowly, all but undulating, her entire body spent; as he brings her slowly but surely back to the edge, he can't help but think that he's never seen her more beautiful - sexually appealing.

No, he thinks as she comes again, mouth open in a silent cry. Beautiful.

For a precious few seconds as she comes down, he thinks he could say something, anything, to set this right. A specific kind of madness has overtaken him; his previous goal seems not to even matter.

But then he pulls his hand away, and she opens her eyes. Her expression is sharp and clear, and she is more angry than he's ever seen her.

"Get out."

Her voice is low, her tone poisonous. He sits up and ruthlessly forces awareness upon himself, smiling down at her with every bit of cruelty he can muster. "Did I say I was finished?"

Her hand moves towards the headboard, and oh, he is a fool. The knife is at his throat before he manages to move.

"Our deal is done. I owe you nothing, and if I ever see you again, I will cut you into so many pieces even the night haunts won't be able to collect all of you."

Her fury rocks him to his core, but he makes himself stand up slowly, get dressed lazily, as she stands and holds the knife. When he's put together, he sketches out a bow and smirks at her. "It's been a pleasure," he says, and looks her up and down one more time.

She snarls. "Get out!" she shouts, advancing on him.

He does. It's not until her door has slammed shut and he is opening up the shadows that he allows himself to feel, unmistakably, his heart breaking.

-

He is a King of Cats, if a pathetic one; he does not have the time to wallow in his own self-destruction. He goes back to his Court and settles any number of trivial matters. Some of them, perhaps, could have been tended to by lesser members of his Court; but that decision is his to make.

When dawn breaks, he retires to bed. He, as King, has a large, well-decorated room that he can choose to use when he doesn't sleep with the rest of his Court. He hasn't used the room in months; tonight, he closes it, a signal to the others that he is not to be disturbed.

He lies awake for some time, thinking. Toby hates him now, of that he is absolutely certain. He did precisely what he wanted, so naturally, he now feels as though he's going to fly to pieces.

His heart has been broken before. This is somehow more painful - the finality of death had ended hope for him. Only now is he realizing that still having some small measure of hope is far more painful.

Tomorrow…tomorrow, he will go about his business. For the first time, since Toby came to San Francisco, it will be without keeping track of her. She could die tomorrow and he wouldn't know until someone saw it fit to pass the news on, likely days after the event.

The thought should be comforting, but instead, he causes him agony. He falls asleep only out of necessity, and his dreams are more troubling than they've ever been, full of her and her hurt.

It isn't until he leaves his room the next night that he realizes something rather crucial to the forgetting-Toby plan: he hasn't called off his spies yet.

Elaine skids up to him. "She's in trouble," she blurts out. "I tried to find you, I tried -"

"I was not to be disturbed," he says coldly. "Slow down. What's she done now?"

"Disturbed a nest of Redcaps."

He curses. Damn it to hell, he should have foreseen this. Couldn't some noble child get kidnapped so at least her self-destructiveness would have direction? "Where?" he says.

Elaine wordlessly hands him a sliver of wood. He feels it, and the world bending to it; it's all that he needs.

"Inform the others I will return by dawn," he says. Elaine wisely doesn't answer; he opens the shadows and steps through as she hastens away.

When he steps out of the shadows, Toby is, in fact, fighting a nest of Redcaps. He snarls and leaps on the nearest one. If she is killed -

It will not be his fault. He is not responsible for her stupidity. It will, however, feel like his fault.

By the time silence reigns, he has dispatched three Redcaps and is covered in blood. He's shaking his hand off in disgust when Toby slams him, facefirst, into the brick wall of their now-messy alley.

Cold steel pricks the back of his neck. "That's an interesting expression of gratitude."

"I was handling it."

"You were about to be eviscerated."

"And I'm sure you'd care." Toby hauls him forward and then slams him back again, blade still pointed unerringly at his throat. "I've never asked you how you find me before."

He smiles. "I'm sure you'd be absolutely fascinated by the information."

"Yeah, maybe." She looks him steadily in the eyes. "Stop this, Tybalt. I don't know what game you're playing and I want no part of it."

"Then kill me," he hears himself say.

She was standing perfectly still, but now, she freezes absolutely. "What?"

He will see this through to the end. "Kill me," he says, as though he's discussing the weather. "I'm clearly at your mercy."

The knife pricks his throat just enough to draw blood. "I'm not stupid enough to think you don't have something up your sleeve. And I don't want - I want to be left alone. No more showing up, no more sarcasm, no more taunts. You had your fun. You've had it for years."

"I truly enjoyed fourteen of them."

The knife cuts a bit deeper, but with a calm control Tybalt wasn't aware Toby really had. He can't help but wonder if that is due to his own ignorance, or if it's a new development. "Tybalt."

"October."

"I'm not playing this game anymore."

"Then don't," he says. He sees a solution, suddenly, one even Toby will bend to.

She blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Stop running into danger that you know will kill you, and you'll never see me."

Her eyes go wide. He feels a kind of vicious thrill at punching through her calm. "That's it?"

"Absolutely." He'll call Elaine off, he tells himself, and that will be the end of it.

"You're lying," Toby says distantly. Her eyes are unfocused, suddenly, and dreamy.

It occurs to Tybalt that he is bleeding in front of Amandine's daughter. "You have my word," he says sharply.

She shakes her head and focuses. "I - fine." She steps back. "Leave. Now."

"I'd advise you to do the same."

Toby just crosses her arms and looks at him.

He sighs, but he opens the Shadowed Roads and steps through them. He doesn't allow himself to look back.

The first thing he does when he returns is summon Elaine. "Tybalt," she says, eyes widening.

Ah, yes. The blood. "You are relieved of your duties," he says curtly. "Do not follow October any longer."

"Tybalt -"

"That's it," he snaps, and leaves her gaping in the hallway.

He needs to get out of these clothes. Immediately.

As soon as he's changed, however, his mind has worked its way around the Toby problem and presents him with a credible solution. He summons Elaine again. "You will continue to follow October," he says, "but do not report back to me unless she is in mortal danger. Understood?"

Elaine nods, then hesitates. "Tybalt. Is everything okay?"

He raises his eyebrows.

"…I'll go now," she says, and shifts into her feline form, leaping into the shadows.

He doesn't see October again for almost two months. Truth be told, he'd been hoping for six; but then, he'd also been hoping he wouldn't have to be the one to summon her.