One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

by Seanan McGuire

I couldn’t bring myself to answer that. I swallowed hard, and nodded.

  “I . . . I want . . .” She stopped for a long moment before saying, rapid-fire, “I want you to take it all back. I want you to have never left us. You’re magic, right? Like a Fairy Godmother? Can you do that? Can you make it so you never went away?” Even her tears smelled like primroses.

  “Nobody has that much magic, baby. I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too.” She kept crying as she slid her hands into mine. “I love you, Mom. I wish you’d never gone away. I want to go home now. Please let me go home now.”

  “You have to say the words, Gillian. You have to tell me what you want.”

  She sighed. “I want to be human. I just want to go home.”

  “All right, honey. If that’s what you want, you can go home.” I let go of her hands, gathering her into a hug. It felt good, and right, and like it was everything I’d been missing since I came back from the pond. “This is going to hurt, okay? But it has to hurt if you want to go back to your dad.”

  “Okay,” she said, sniffling, and buried her face against my shoulder.

  I closed my eyes, the smell of grass getting stronger, the smell of copper overwhelming the primroses. Even with my eyes closed, I could see everything she was, every trace of her heritage. And I reached out, still holding her close to me, and grabbed hold of everything that wasn’t human—including the poison that was struggling to kill her. Wipe away one, wipe away the other.

  Set her free.

  Her screaming was the worst thing I’d ever heard—but if I stopped, she’d die, so I kept going, changing and twisting and wiping away, until the screaming stopped, giving way to silence. And I opened my eyes.

  THIRTY-TWO

  GILLIAN WAS STILL UNCONSCIOUS on the floor, but the wound in her shoulder had closed. That seemed to be the only immediate change. Her fae blood was thin enough that removing it hadn’t visibly altered the shape of her face; she still looked like my little girl. And she still wasn’t breathing.

  “Move,” said the Luidaeg, pushing me roughly to the side as she moved to put her hands on my daughter’s chest. She looked up, pupils expanding until her eyes were consumed by blackness. “Go to your Selkie,” she said. “You don’t need to watch this.”

  I nodded numbly, climbing to my feet. I swayed there for a moment, and then I turned and ran to Connor.

  He was lying where he’d fallen, motionless, save for the shallow, strained rise and fall of his chest. The arrow was still in place, sticking out of his body like an accusation. See? it seemed to say; see what happened because you let him love you?

  “Oh, Connor.” I knelt, letting my fingers brush against his cheek. “You idiot. You wonderful, stupid, beautiful idiot.”

  Gillian whimpered. I didn’t let myself turn around.

  “I love you,” I whispered, and leaned down to kiss Connor’s cheek. My lips left a bloody print behind. “Sleep well.”

  Something was wrong. The blood in the room was trying to tell me what it was, but I was tired, and everything was so jumbled that I couldn’t tell what was happening anymore. I stood, wiping the tears from my eyes and the blood off my lips and chin. “Come on,” I said, to no one and to everyone who was listening. “Let’s go bring those damn kids home.”

  The room only had two doors. We entered through the first, and so I walked toward the second, not looking to see who followed me. I was exhausted. My head ached from the strain of what I’d just done to my little girl—a thing I would have said was impossible a year ago. “Impossible” no longer seemed to have much place in my life. Connor was . . . Connor was asleep. I refused to admit to anything more than that. As for me, I was somewhere past “done” and accelerating toward “completely finished.”

  “Toby?” asked Quentin. He ducked ahead of me as I opened the door into the next section of the shallowing, revealing a long, dark hallway. The pixies flew ahead of us, lighting it. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” I said, stepping past him. A blue-winged pixie landed on my shoulder, providing a dim but steady local light. “We’re looking for two teenage boys. They’re probably scared, so try not to startle them.”

  “Are we quite sure Rayseline had no other little helpers?” asked Tybalt. I glanced back to see him making his way through the doorway.

  “No,” I said. “But if she did, they were probably more hired thugs, and they’ll run when they realize they’re not going to get paid. There’s no way she paid them enough to stay—Dugan could never have stolen that much from the Queen’s coffers without getting caught, and Raysel didn’t exactly have resources of her own.”

  “You have such a generous view of fae nature,” said Tybalt mildly.

  “I’ve earned it.” The pixies illuminated the hall, showing doors lining the walls. “From what Bucer said, I don’t expect the shallowing to be huge. Let’s stay together. I don’t want to be surprised by something nasty.”

  “Your wish, our command,” said Tybalt, falling into step behind me. Quentin fell in beside me, and together, the three of us walked silently on.

  The smell of blood followed us from the main room, but every step we put between us and it made it a little fainter, and a little easier to ignore. That was good; that wasn’t the blood I was looking for. Tybalt had his sense of smell to depend on. I had something similar. Dean bled when they cut his finger off. If he was here, I’d find him.

  Tybalt cleared his throat before beginning, uncertainly: “October, I’m not sure—”

  “Are you going to say something useful, or are you just going to see how hard it is to get me to punch you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The words were offered quietly, almost as if he was apologizing for saying them as much as he was apologizing for everything else. Tears jumped to my eyes, blurring my vision and making it briefly impossible to see. I shook my head, dragging my hand across my eyes as fiercely as I could.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, voice sharp.

  “I understand.”

  The worst of it was, he probably did. As King of Cats, he’d buried more subjects than I could imagine losing. And that didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Connor was going to sleep for longer than I’d been alive, and no apologies were going to change that. Nothing ever was.

  We walked in silence, the pixies periodically darting ahead to keep lighting our way. Tybalt and I stopped almost at the same time, both turning toward the same door.

  “Do you smell that?” I asked.

  “There,” he said.

  “What?” asked Quentin.

  “It smells like . . . wet stone and eucalyptus.” I stepped closer to the door. A new note introduced itself underneath the others: blood. My eyes widened. “Dean’s in here.”

  Quentin frowned. “How do you know?”

  “I can smell him.” I was going to have to ask the Luidaeg what this new level of sensitivity meant—and whether it was going to go away. It was a lot easier to cope with the smell of blood when it didn’t bring a person’s entire history with it. “Okay. Both of you, stay behind me.”

  I opened the door, revealing a small room with a stone floor and stained wooden walls. Dean’s memories were right: it smelled like something had died in here, a very long time ago. I didn’t want to guess at what it might have been. At least the scent of blood was covering up the worst of the decay.

  The source of the blood was huddled in a corner of the room, clearly feigning sleep. He had his body turned so that his back was to the door. I knew that trick; we used to use it on Devin. If they can’t see your face, they can’t tell that you’re crying.

  “Hi,” I said, moving about halfway into the room before crouching down and resting my elbows on my knees. “Dean, right? I’m Toby Daye. These are my friends, Tybalt and Quentin. We’re here to rescue you.”

  Dean didn’t move.

  “Your parents sent me,” I said. “They’re really worried about you. Helmi’
s really worried about you, too. She thinks it’s her fault you were kidnapped.” Dean didn’t say anything, but he shifted, changing positions very slightly. That was a good sign. He was listening, waiting for us to prove that we were who we said we were. “We don’t have Cephali here on the land, so I thought she was a little funny-looking at first. All those tentacles.” He shifted again, still not saying anything. I decided to try another tack: “You know that wheelchair your mother uses when she wants to go on land without having legs? Well, I rode it—and her—down a large hill to get away from a bunch of Goblin archers who were trying to hit us with elf-shot.”

  That worked. Dean lifted his head, turning to stare at us with wide, baffled eyes. “You’re really here,” he said, in a voice that was rusty from disuse. “I can’t be dreaming you. My dreams make more sense than this.”

  “I get that a lot,” I said. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

  Dean looked from Quentin to me and back, still huddled in his corner, looking utterly unconvinced. “Where’s Peter?”

  “We’re going to go find him now that we’ve found you.” A bright orange pixie zipped into the room, ringing excitedly as it circled my head. “. . . actually, I think one of our friends just found him for us. Tybalt?”

  “On my way,” he said. He bowed to Dean, said, “It is a pleasure to see you safe,” and followed the pixie out of the room.

  “What are we waiting for?” Dean scrambled to his feet, almost toppling over before he caught his balance again. He kept his hands balled into fists, probably to both hide and protect the stump of his severed finger. “Let’s go get my brother!”

  I smiled. “Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.”

  We had to walk slowly as we made our way down the hall; Dean wasn’t willing to be assisted, but he wasn’t steady enough on his feet to move at a normal pace. Quentin walked behind him, trying not to look like he was there to catch Dean if he fell. He was a damn good squire. Probably better than I deserved.

  We were barely halfway down the hall when a joyful, unfamiliar voice called, “Dean! Dean, I’m here!”

  Dean perked up, life coming back into his eyes. “Peter?”

  For a moment, it looked like he was going to bolt. I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He looked at me with bewilderment, and I shook my head. “Don’t run. They’ll be here in a moment.”

  Tybalt proved me right by walking out of the dimness up ahead, carrying a dark-haired boy with a slate gray fishtail where legs would more customarily have been. He was as dirty and thin-looking as Dean, but he was rocking up and down in his excitement, flukes slapping rhythmically against Tybalt’s side. Tybalt was doing his best to bear up stoically, but amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Peter!” Dean did break into a run when he saw his brother. This time, I didn’t try to stop him. There were enough of us that someone would catch him if he fell. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

  “They threatened a lot. They didn’t give me much water—just enough so my scales wouldn’t start cracking.” Peter stilled his thrashing as he leaned down to put his arms around his older brother’s shoulders. “They said they’d kill you if I was bad.”

  Tybalt’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything. Quentin was less restrained. “We should wake Raysel up so we can beat her up some more.”

  “I’m a bad influence on you,” I said. “No one is waking anyone up just to beat on them. Peter?” The younger of the Lorden boys raised his head. He had his father’s eyes. “I’m Toby. Your parents sent me to find you. Can you have legs?”

  “No,” he said mournfully. “I haven’t had any saltwater in days.”

  “That’s okay. Tybalt?”

  “I will gladly carry him as far as is needed.”

  “Then let’s go tell your parents that you’re okay.” I forced myself to smile as I led the way back to the door connecting to the room where we’d left the Luidaeg with my now-human little girl. Peter babbled the whole time, holding tight to his brother’s hand.

  Gillian was still on the floor when we stepped back into the main room. The Luidaeg, on the other hand, was pacing, her eyes back to pseudo-human brown. She turned at the sound of our footsteps, a smile splitting her face. “You found them!”

  “We found them,” I agreed wearily. “Now all we have to do is get them down to the water. I think their parents would like them back.”

  “They’re not the only ones.” She looked meaningfully toward Gillian. I finally allowed myself to look in that direction. Her chest was rising and falling in a steady, even rhythm. I couldn’t stop my sigh of relief. The Luidaeg shook her head. “Yeah, Toby, she’s alive. I fuzzed her memory enough that she won’t remember this outside of her dreams.”

  “You mean outside her nightmares,” I said quietly.

  The Luidaeg shrugged. “I did what I could.”

  I didn’t want to ask the question. I had to ask the question. “And Connor? How long before he wakes up?”

  “He won’t.”

  My head snapped up again. I stared at her. “What?”

  The Luidaeg shook her head, looking defeated. “I did what I could. We should have taken the arrow out faster. I’m sorry.”

  It felt like the bottom dropped out of the world. “What . . . what do you mean? It was elf-shot, Luidaeg. Purebloods don’t die of elf-shot.”

  “No, they don’t. But they do die of arrows to the chest.” She met my eyes, expression sad. “I didn’t realize how badly he was bleeding until it was too late. None of us did. There was so much blood already . . . I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “Oh.” That tiny sound seemed to be all I was capable of. I wiped my eyes again, and asked, “Will the night-haunts come soon?”

  The Luidaeg nodded.

  “Then we . . . we should go. We should get Gillian out of here before she wakes up.” That was something I could focus on: getting my little girl back to humanity before she saw something that would remind her of Faerie all over again.

  “I know what to do,” said Quentin.

  We all turned to look at him, even the Lordens, who probably had no real clue what was going on. Quentin’s ears reddened, but he pressed on.

  “Have Tybalt take her to somewhere in the city, like Ocean Beach or maybe the Park. If he puts her down, calls the police, and keeps an eye on her until they arrive, they’ll take her back to her dad. That’s what the police are for, right?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yeah. I guess it is. Good idea, Quentin.”

  He smiled halfheartedly, clearly pleased by the praise, and just as clearly aware of how much this whole situation was destroying me. I moved to kneel next to Gilly and bent to kiss her forehead.

  “You’re going to go with a friend of mine now, baby,” I whispered. “He’s going to take good care of you, and make sure you get home. I love you. You can forget everything about tonight, but never forget that. I love you.”

  Tybalt put his hand on my shoulder. “October?”

  “Yeah.” I stood, wiping my eyes before I turned to face the others. The Luidaeg was holding Peter, who was still holding tight to Dean’s hand. “She’s ready. Don’t let anyone see you.”

  “I’ll be back.” Tybalt bent to scoop my daughter off the floor, cradling her gently to his chest. Then he stepped forward into the shadows, and he was gone.

  I took a shaky breath, swallowing my tears, before forcing a smile and pulling the second of Dianda’s messenger bottles out of my pocket. “Come on, you two. Let’s get you back to your parents.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  WE EMERGED FROM THE SHALLOWING in a cloud of pixies that whirled around us like an honor guard of Christmas lights, their wings illuminating the night. The Luidaeg led the way, carrying Peter in her arms like the fishtailed boy weighed nothing at all. He nestled against her chest, flukes swaying, utterly at peace with the world. Even Dean looked calmer. The words “I’m the Luidaeg” clearly had some talismanic power in the Undersea that they lac
ked on the land.

  The sky was dark and clear, lit by what seemed like uncountable pinprick stars. I stopped to look up at it, blinking hard as I tried to make myself stop crying. It wasn’t working. The tears hadn’t stopped since Tybalt took Gillian away. I wasn’t sure they ever would.

  “October?”

  The sound of Sylvester’s voice should have been surprising. I was too tired to be surprised anymore. I turned to see him coming up the path from the woods, with a dozen of his guards close behind. I didn’t hesitate. I just started sobbing and ran the few yards between us, flinging myself into the safety of his arms.

  Sylvester gathered me close, making a soft shushing sound as he looked past me to the others. I couldn’t see them, but I could imagine their expressions, Quentin looking a little lost, the Luidaeg shaking her head in quiet negation.

  “Ah,” Sylvester said. “I see. Etienne? Tavis?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Etienne. He walked past us, followed by the hulking shape of Sir Tavis, the only Bridge Troll in Sylvester’s service. Raj came close behind them, stopping at the outside edge of my range of vision.

  “We came as fast as we could,” he said. “I had to get there, and then . . .”

  “It’s all right, Raj.” I pulled away from Sylvester, taking a shaky breath, and wiped my eyes. I wanted to fall apart. I was going to fall apart. I just couldn’t do it yet. “You did good. You couldn’t have gotten here any faster.”

  Whatever Raj was going to say died on his lips as he looked past me to the door into the shallowing. His eyes widened, pupils expanding. “What happened?”

  “War,” I said, and closed my eyes for a moment, willing myself not to cry. “This is why it’s bad, Raj. Remember this, for when you’re King someday. People get hurt.”

  “I’ll remember,” whispered Raj.

  “So will I,” said Quentin.

  “Good.” I opened my eyes and turned to see Tavis standing next to the Luidaeg, Rayseline’s body hanging limply in his arms. Peter Lorden was staring at him with undisguised awe. I guess they don’t get many Bridge Trolls in the Undersea.