Late Eclipses

by Seanan McGuire

  “Does that mean I’m free to go, Your Highness?”

  She glared at me even as she nodded. “Yes, you are.”

  I paused. It probably wasn’t worth it, but. . . “Your Highness?”

  “What is it?” she snapped. Great. Trust me to push my luck with an angry, half-crazy queen.

  “My knives, Your Highness.”

  She stared at me, then clapped her hands and disappeared. My scabbard appeared in front of me, hitting the floor before I had a chance to catch it. I stooped to pick it up, checking to see that both knives were where they belonged. They were. I could feel the iron knife, even through the leather of the scabbard. That was going to be a problem.

  And then May and Quentin were there, swinging me into an embrace that was half joy, half relief. Quentin was laughing, and May was grinning through her tears. I barked a laugh that was almost a sob and hugged them back.

  Sylvester walked over, moving at the head of a slightly more sedate wave of people. He nodded to me. “I told you not to worry, didn’t I?”

  I stepped away from Quentin and May. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “And had you mouth off to the Queen more than you already were?”

  He had a point. I do tend to get cocky. “It was still sneaky.”

  “Agreed.” I leaned over to hug him, ignoring the way my scabbard dug into my belly. That seemed to be some sort of cue, because Stacy, Cassandra, and Raj hit us from the left, while Walther, Mitch, and Connor came from the right. Someone in the middle of that massive, relieved embrace was laughing; after a moment, I realized it was me.

  We weren’t finished. Raysel was missing, and Simon, wherever he was, wasn’t going to be happy about Oleander’s death. The Queen of the Mists hated me, and Goldengreen was full of Lily’s former subjects. Luna was recovering, but weak. And for the moment, none of that mattered. We were here, we were alive, and somehow, things were going to work out. I was sure of it. Things have to work out in the end, even if it takes throwing yourself at them until something gives way. Most of the time it’s you, but sometimes, when you get lucky, it’s the world.

  “Satisfied now?” asked Sylvester, shouting to be heard over the crowd.

  I grinned, shaking my head. “You bastard.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.” We weren’t done yet—the world probably still needed to be saved. The world almost always needs to be saved.

  The world could wait.

  Closing my eyes, I leaned forward and hugged Sylvester more tightly, letting the laughter of the people around me chase away the fears of the last few months. It would be all right, because we would make it that way. We had to. Wait and see.

  Coming in September 2011 the fifth October Daye novel from

  SEANAN MCGUIRE

  ONE SALT SEA

  Read on for a sneak preview.

  THE DINER WAS SMALL ENOUGH TO BE claustrophobic, and the state of the floors and windows told me the owners weren’t particularly worried about the Health Department. The smell of hot grease and fried fish hung in the air, so thick that breathing it was probably enough to clog the average man’s arteries. Pixies hovered above the counter, occasionally diving to seize chunks of deep-fried something from a platter that seemed to have been set out for that express purpose.

  The man working the grill was portly, balding, and blue-skinned, with fringed gills set deep into his neck. This had to be a purely fae establishment, like Home used to be��a business on the borderline between worlds, owned and operated without mortal intervention.

  I glanced at Connor. “Could I find this place without you?”

  Connor grinned. “Not unless Bill wanted you to.” He raised a hand in greeting to the man behind the counter. “Hey, Bill.”

  Bill looked up, jerking a thumb toward the door at the back of the diner. “She’s waitin’ for you.”

  “Got it,” said Connor. “Toby, come on.”

  “Private room?” I asked, following. Quentin was only a step behind me, although his attention was diverted by the fish on the counter. Daoine Sidhe and knight-intraining or not, he’s still a teenage boy. “Do they serve food back there?”

  Quentin shot me a grateful look. Connor nodded.

  “Sure.” Looking back over his shoulder, he called, “Bill! Three seafood stews and a fish and chips platter to the back.” He glanced at Quentin and added, “And a chocolate milkshake.”

  “Large,” said Quentin.

  “Got it,” rumbled Bill. “Herself has already been here for a while. I’d move it if I were you.”

  “We’re moving,” said Connor. He pushed open the door to the back, shooting me a pleading look before stepping inside. I’d have had to be blind to miss the “please behave” in his expression.

  I rolled my eyes, following him into the room, and stopped dead. “Holy . . .”

  We could have been standing in the main dining room of a five-star restaurant, the sort that tourists would sell kidneys to get reservations at. The opposite wall consisted of three sets of massive sliding glass doors, leading out to a balcony that might, on a warmer night, have been a pleasant place to nurse a cocktail or two. They were open, letting a fresh breeze blow through and circulate the air. The walls were varnished redwood, and the tables were elegant and expensive-looking, made from deep gray slate shot through with veins of white. An appetizer plate in a place like this would cost me a month’s rent. Maybe two.

  Dianda Lorden sat alone at the room’s sole occupied table. A half-empty plate of seafood linguine was pushed to one side, and she was sipping from a wineglass of cloudy liquid. Whatever she was drinking was probably heavily laced with salt. Merrow shunt salt almost as fast as they take it in—that’s how they can survive in salt water without getting poisoned. Normally, just breathing underwater would replenish her body’s supply. Up here, she needed to find other ways to take it in.

  The other local Duchess of my acquaintance, Luna Torquill, nearly died from salt poisoning not that long ago. The irony didn’t escape me.

  At first glance, I thought Dianda was wearing a long blue dress and sitting in a low chair. Then I realized it was actually a short blue blouse, and she was sitting in a wheelchair, which would let her retain a certain amount of mobility on land without the strain of being bipedal. Where her legs had been, she now had a classic mermaid’s tail, scaled in jewel-toned blue, green, and purple. Her flukes trailed to brush the floor, flipping upward every few seconds in what looked like an involuntary motion. She couldn’t have been mistaken for human, or even for Daoine Sidhe . . . but oak and ash, she was beautiful.

  She looked up, gaze going from me to Quentin, and finally to Connor, before she raised her eyebrows in silent question.

  If anyone was going to justify Quentin’s presence, it was me. “He’s my squire, Your Grace.” On land, any invitation issued to knights automatically includes their squires. I didn’t know if things worked differently in the Undersea, but Connor hadn’t said anything, and I trusted him to keep me from sticking my foot too far into my mouth.

  Dianda’s attention swung to me. “Countess Daye,” she said, raising her wineglass for another sip. “Patrick couldn’t join us. He was afraid you’d decide to knock him over again.” A slight quirk of her lips told me she was joking. Possibly.

  “I could have decided not to, Your Grace, but then he’d probably be out cold until sometime next century.” Elf-shot won’t kill a pureblood, but it’ll put a major crimp in their social life. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”

  “When the Luidaeg asks me to do something, I try to oblige her.” She set her glass aside. “Besides, I know you. You’re Sylvester’s changeling knight, or you were, until they decided to give you the Winterrose’s County. You’re the one who killed Blind Michael. The Undersea owes you a debt of gratitude for that. He took from us, too.” She paused before adding, more quietly, “You’re Amandine’s daughter.”

  “All true,” I admitted, walking over to her
table. “May we sit?”

  Dianda looked at me appraisingly before turning to Connor. “Take the kid to the front and feed him. Feed yourself, too. Those landers let you get way too thin.”

  “Quentin, go with Connor,” I said, still facing Dianda.

  “But—”

  “You’ll be between us and the door. Now go eat your fish. We’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Come on,” said Connor. Quentin doubtless wanted to stay and argue more, but his training won out; arguing with me in front of a Duchess would have been inappropriate. Two sets of footsteps moved away.

  Dianda’s flukes slapped the floor as the sound of the closing door echoed through the room. “Now you may sit.”

  “Good.” I took the chair across from her. “Nice, um, fins.”

  “Legs are tiring when the water is distant. I need to save my strength.”

  “Right, about that . . . I want to find your sons. I need your help for that.”

  “Why don’t you try asking your Queen?” she asked, mildly.

  “Because I don’t think she has them.” I shrugged. “Everyone knows the Queen of the Mists hates me. She wouldn’t let me anywhere near this investigation if she had your sons, because she knows that if I find them, you’ll get them back. Not her, not anyone else, you. They won’t be bargaining chips.”

  Dianda reached for her wineglass, picking it up and turning it slowly. She seemed to reach a decision, because, without looking up, she said, “Their names are Dean and Peter. Dean’s older—he’s almost eighteen—and he’s less willing to trust strangers. He lost his best friend to a fishing boat a few years back, and it’s made him cautious.”

  “There’s no way he’d have gone willingly?”

  “Not unless it was someone he knew, and my demesne has been searched. We deal with conspiracies quickly and permanently in the Undersea. If it were one of my people, the boys would be home by now.”

  “What’s Peter like?”

  “Innocent. Sweet. He’s twelve.” Dianda’s expression was pained. “He likes the sun. Says it’s pretty. He takes more after my side of the family.”

  “Takes after . . .” Dianda was Merrow, but Patrick was Daoine Sidhe. Daoine Sidhe can’t breathe water. “How do you keep Dean alive?”

  Her wince told me I’d guessed right. “The Court alchemist brews a special potion for him and for his father.”

  “How often does the dosage need to be refreshed?”

  “Once a day.”

  If Dean was being held underwater, he was either dead already or would be soon. The son of a mermaid, drowning. There was a sort of horrible poetry to the idea. “So we don’t have much time. Do you know anything that might help me find them?”

  She paused, studying me as she put her wineglass down again. “You mean it, don’t you? This isn’t some crazy attempt to stall for time. You’re serious.”

  “Even if you said that proving the innocence of the land Courts wouldn’t make you call off the attack, I’d look for your kids.” I shook my head. “Children aren’t pawns. They deserve better than this.”

  She smiled hesitantly, offering her hand across the table. “That’s what I needed you to say.”

  “Good.” I took the offered hand. Her skin was chilly; almost cold. I let go. “I’d like your permission to visit Saltmist. I need to see the place the boys were taken from.”

  Dianda nodded. “How, exactly, were you planning to manage that?”

  “I’d say ‘scuba gear,’ but I have something a little better.” I opened my jacket, showing her the pin. “The Luidaeg made this for me; she says it should let me visit your land safely. Well. Assuming we count ‘capable of surviving’ as safety. I guess you could still have me shot on sight.”

  “The Luidaeg gave you that?” said Dianda. Her expression was torn, half-dubious, half-hopeful.

  “More like made it for me, but yeah. She used my blood, her blood, the blood of the local King of Cats . . . it was a production. Things with her generally are.”

  “I . . . she said I should meet with you. She didn’t mention that.” Her flukes slapped the floor again before she nodded. “All right. You are welcome in my waters.”

  It was a ritual phrase, and that meant it carried the weight of law. I nodded the thanks I couldn’t give her. “Good. Now, I was wondering if—” I paused, eyeing the glass doors with sudden suspicion. The fog outside reduced visibility to mere feet. I was getting real sick of fog. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “I’m taking that as a ‘no.’” I rose, starting for the wall. “Stay where you are.”

  “Why?” She pushed herself back from the table.

  “No, really, I—” She was already wheeling herself in my direction. I sighed. “Suit yourself.”

  I stepped cautiously onto the balcony, noting the gate and three broad steps connecting it to the sidewalk below. The wood had been treated with some sort of varnish that kept it dry despite the fog, and made it easier for me to keep my footing. There are advantages to being in an establishment owned by the Undersea. Nothing gets wet unless they want it to.

  The angle was all wrong, and the surrounding buildings were unfamiliar. It took me a moment to realize why; I was facing away from the direction my internal compass told me I should be facing. Somehow, the balcony was oriented entirely in opposition to the rest of the building. If I squinted, I could make out the word “Leavenworth” on the nearest street sign. I shot a glance back at Dianda. “Leavenworth? That’s a mile from where we came in. And on the other side of the street.”

  She shrugged. “We like our privacy.”

  A lot of people like their privacy. Few like it enough to put the front and back rooms of a diner several streets apart. I was considering the geography when I heard the sound again, more clearly this time: a short, crisp snap, like a branch breaking . . . or a crossbow bolt being slotted into place.

  “Your Grace?” I took a step back. “Do you have any guards here?”

  Dianda stiffened, expression registering mild alarm. “Just Bill and Connor. I was trying to be subtle.”

  Bill and Connor were up front, which meant—issues of geography aside—they were probably distracted by Quentin, the appetite that walks like a squire. “You managed it,” I said, smothering my irritation. The fog was getting thicker. “Can you please stay where you are?” This time, she did as I asked. That was a small mercy . . . or maybe it was just that she was starting to pick up on the growing air of something not quite right.

  My only warning before the shot was fired was an eddy in the fog to my left, a swirl of motion that could have been natural if not for the light glinting off something at its center. I hit the deck—literally—as the arrow whizzed through the space where my head had been a moment before, burying itself in the wall. Dianda gasped. I lunged to my feet and ran back to her, scanning the room.

  The corners were full of fog, too thick to be natural. There were three more small snaps from the room behind us, as more bolts were slotted into place.

  “Right,” I said, and leaned over to grip the handles of Dianda’s chair. “Your Grace, I just want you to know that I’m really, really sorry about this.”

  “What?” she asked. Another snap sounded behind us. There wasn’t time to explain. I started to run.

  Dianda was shouting for me to let go and stop acting like a crazy woman when we hit the balcony. I turned the chair to face the room while I fumbled for the latch on the gate, and her shouting got even louder, turning frantic. I glanced up to see what she was yelling about, and swore, redoubling my efforts to find the latch as four Goblins stepped out of the fog. They weren’t wearing the colors of any fiefdom I knew, but that mattered less to me than the loaded crossbows in their hands.

  The damn latch wasn’t there. I kicked the gate as one of the Goblins opened fire. Dianda shrieked and ducked to the side of her chair, letting the bolt embed itself harmlessly in the padding. I boosted myself up and hit the gate with both
feet as hard as I could. Something popped inside my left knee. The gate swung open.

  “Brace yourself!” I shouted, and stepped off the edge.

  Going down a short flight of stairs is easy. Doing it while pulling a wheelchair full of agitated mermaid is a little harder. We thumped hard down to street-level, and I danced rapidly backward to keep Dianda from overbalancing. She was clinging to the arms for dear life, barely keeping her head from knocking against the back of the chair.

  Shouts from the balcony told me we didn’t have long. I backpedaled into the middle of the street. Dianda twisted around to stare at me, face white, eyes wide.

  “Hold on,” I said, and grabbed the handles on her chair.

  She must have realized what I was doing, because she shouted, “Are you insane?!” as I started to run, pushing her along in front of me.

  Like many major streets in San Francisco, Leavenworth runs up one side of a hill and down the other. It’s at an angle sharp enough to discourage all but the most dedicated walkers, and joggers regard it as one of the lesser circles of Hell. Even hampered by my knee, we picked up speed at an impressive pace. The sound of feet behind us told me our lead was getting narrower, despite momentum and gravity combining to keep us moving ever faster.

  The marina stretched out at the bottom of the hill, sparkling dimly in the darkness. I only saw one way we were going to reach the water alive. I just had to hope Dianda would forgive me for the indignity. Still clinging to the right handle of the chair, I stepped to one side and sped up until I was running alongside it.

  Dianda stared at me, demanding, “What are you doing? This thing doesn’t have any brakes!”

  I didn’t have the breath left to shout. Leaning over her, I grabbed the left arm and hoisted myself onto her lap. Freed from the drag of my feet, the wheelchair started to accelerate, plunging straight down Leavenworth. Crossbow bolts zinged past. I folded my arms over Dianda’s head, keeping her down, and ducked my own head as low as it would go. If we could avoid getting shot until we reached the bottom of the hill . . .