"Use glamour to hide your appearance," Sholto said. "I have sent for taxis. They will arrive very soon."
"What magic is it," I asked, "that lets you find taxis in L.A. at a moment's notice?"
"I am the Lord of That Which Passes Between, Merry, and taxis are always going between one place and another."
It made perfect sense, but it made me smile all the same. I reached for Sholto, and Frost let him take me, though not just with his arms. The thick muscular tentacles wrapped around my body, the smaller ones playing along my thighs, somehow finding their way under the borrowed trench coat.
"Next time you are in my bed, I will not be half a man."
I kissed him, and whispered against his lips, "If that was you as only half a man, King Sholto, then I can hardly wait to have you in all your glory."
He laughed, that joyous sound that had brought the singing of birds in the sluagh's dead garden. I thought there would be no answer here, but suddenly over the sighing of surf came singing, one birdsong after another, sliding in joyous celebration in the dark. It was a mockingbird, singing for Sholto's laughter.
We stood for a moment on the edge of the Western Sea with the mockingbird's song pouring over us, as if happiness could have a sound.
Sholto kissed me back, hard and thorough, leaving me breathless. Then he handed me back, not to Frost, but to Doyle. "I will return so I can bring the rest of the guards who wish to come into exile with you."
Doyle cuddled me in against his body and said, "Beware the queen."
Sholto nodded. "I will be wary." He began to walk back the way we had come. Somewhere before he vanished from sight I saw the white shine of a dog at his side.
"Everybody remember that the glamour is supposed to hide the fact that we're naked, and bloody," Rhys said. "Anyone who doesn't have enough glamour to pull it off, stand next to someone who does."
"Yes, Teacher," I said.
He grinned at me. "I can cause death with a touch and a word; I can heal with my hands for tonight. But damn, conjuring this many taxis out of thin air - now, that's impressive."
We walked up to the line of waiting taxis, laughing. The drivers all seemed a little puzzled to find themselves in the middle of nowhere, waiting beside an empty beach, but they let us get in.
We gave the taxis the address of Maeve Reed's Holmby Hills house, and they drove. They didn't even complain about the dogs. Now, that was magic.