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they can do, and mine is lower than most. Just maintaining my human disguise can be a strain; when you add the rest of my daily magical wear-and-tear . . . let’s just say that I have more than my share of magical migraines.
    At least the pain wasn’t for nothing. The intercom crackled, displaying the word “welcome” on the reader screen as the portcullis began cranking upward. I straightened. “Right. Let’s go.”
    Quentin frowned. “What did you just do?”
    “I picked the lock.” Seeing his disapproving expression, I sighed. “Look, we’re here because Sylvester’s worried. That justifies a little breaking and entering. Now get in the car.”
    He rolled his eyes but did as he was told. The security system was more impressive than practical; it took almost five minutes for the portcullis to open, and that’s too long to wait for a door. With the purebloods, style almost always triumphs over substance. Once the opening was wide enough, we drove through, following the winding driveway down a short hill to the parking lot. The undergrowth dropped away, replaced by a well-manicured lawn that surrounded the two buildings at the blacktop’s far side. Trees rose in a forebidding tangle around us, the illusion of wilderness only leavened by glimpses of the city skyline. They’d done an excellent job with it, especially when you considered that they were in the middle of Silicon Valley, where very few people can afford their own private forests.
    The buildings were red brick, connected by concrete paths that wound in seemingly random curves across the lawn. The taller building was five stories high; the smaller one was only two. It looked more like a private school than a computer company. There was a distinct lack of steel and chrome.
    The strangest thing about the landscape was all the cats. There were about two dozen scattered around the almost empty parking lot, strolling lazily along, bathing themselves, or just dozing in the sun. Even more were on the grass, lounging, watching us come.
    “Toby . . .”
    “I see them.” The cats in our path didn’t even bother to run as we drove down the hill; they just sauntered away, tails in the air. I pulled into a spot near the front of the lot, stopping the engine, and they promptly surrounded the car. One bold calico leaped onto the hood, staring at us through the windshield.
    “That’s just not right,” Quentin said.
    “Uh-huh,” I agreed, unbuckling my seat belt. I got out of the car, tucking the folder under my arm. Giving the cats a confused, speculative look, I glanced back toward the gate.
    There was someone—a little girl—standing by the trees. She was wearing denim overalls, and the wind was rippling her long blonde hair in a wave. The light winked off her glasses as she turned her head, looking at me. I raised a hand . . . and she was gone.
    “Okay, that was creepy,” I said. “Did you see that?”
    “See what?” Quentin asked, stepping up next to me.
    “That’s a ‘no.’ ” I squinted at the place where she’d been. There are several races in Faerie who can disappear like that. I couldn’t for the life of me guess which one she’d been.
    Quentin was giving me a funny look. “What’re you staring at?”
    “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on.” I locked the car and turned, heading for the smaller building with Quentin close behind. Half a dozen cats followed us, stopping to spread out in a wide semicircle on the grass when we had almost reached the door. They didn’t move any closer to the building, and their eyes never left us.
    A brass plaque was bolted to the wall, out of place in its simplicity. “ ‘And gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name—William Shakespeare.’ Huh.” I reached out to touch the lettering, and a jolt of static stung my hand. “Ow!”
    “What was that?” Quentin demanded, sounding alarmed.
    “Low-level warding spell. It’s not supposed to hurt people . . . at least, not the