One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel (9 page)

“I encounter this reaction frequently.” April brushed slightly pixelated hair out of her eyes. “I really am not sure what is expected of me if this comes to conflict. I doubt the Undersea has DSL lines for me to disconnect, and my range of movement is limited by my hardware.”

“To be honest, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, either.” The Luidaeg’s shell chilled briefly, reminding me that one way or another, I was going to be doing
something
.

April tilted her head, looking between us, and asked, “When did you get married?”

Connor choked on his wine. I coughed into my hand, getting my breath back before asking, “Uh, what?”

“Is that incorrect? I am sorry.” April looked annoyed. “I assumed your mutual attendance signified something, given the disappearance of my cousin Rayseline. I really am terrible with this ‘interpersonal relationships’ thing. Elliot says I must find a man and attempt to have children if I wish to validate my rule.”

“Does he, now?” I asked, barely following her apparent change of subjects. Connor was still struggling to breathe. It was almost amusing, in a sadistic sort of way.

“It seems both silly and biologically improbable to me, but . . .” April shrugged, encompassing in a gesture how silly she found most social traditions. “If you will excuse me, I believe I see my Uncle Sylvester. I must say hello.” Her dress shimmered back into blue jeans and a sweater before she vanished, leaving the air to rush into the place where she’d been standing.

I gave Connor a sidelong look. “Normally this is where we’d go bother Sylvester, but for the moment, I think she can have him.”

A voice from my other side asked, “Is she like that all the time?”

“Mostly,” I answered automatically. “Other days she’s a little weird.” Then I paused, realizing the voice didn’t belong to anyone I knew. Wincing, I turned. “I’m sorry. We haven’t been properly introduced.”

The man beside me laughed with what sounded like sincere amusement. I didn’t know him. I would have remembered. He was Daoine Sidhe, but sturdier than the average, built more like a sailor than a nobleman. A light patina of verdigris covered his bronze hair, and his eyes were dark blue. His features were pleasant without being spectacular. That alone was unusual: the Daoine Sidhe seem to make a habit out of unnaturally refined beauty.

He also looked exhausted. Thin worry lines were etched into the skin around his mouth, and he had the haggard complexion of a man who hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly for days, if not weeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s nice to hear a little honesty around here. I don’t think we’ve met, although you do look familiar.”

“This is my first major diplomatic event.” Connor had recovered from his coughing fit and was tugging on my elbow, trying to get my attention. I couldn’t think of a way to stop the introduction without being rude, so I barreled on, saying, “That was Countess April O’Leary of Tamed Lightning. I’m Countess October Daye, from Goldengreen. You can call me Toby. This is my escort—”

“Connor O’Dell,” said the stranger. Connor let go of my elbow. “We’ve met. But you . . . you’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you? The one who killed Blind Michael.”

Sometimes I think I’ll never live either of those things down. “That’s me.”

The stranger nodded. “They say you’re a hero.”

“They say a lot of things.” I looked at him blandly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Patrick.” He smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I shot Connor an apologetic glance. Well, that explained why he’d been trying to get my attention. “Patrick
Lorden
?”

“The very same.”

“You’re married to the Duchess of Saltmist, aren’t you?” Leave it to me to strike up an informal conversation with one of the people we were gathered to pacify.

“That would be me.” Patrick didn’t sound offended. That was something. “Dianda’s yelling at the Queen, and I’m staying as far away as I can. My wife can be . . . forceful . . . when she gets going. Hello, Connor. Cute date.”

“Your Grace,” said Connor. He sounded mortified. I guess this wasn’t how he’d pictured introducing his girlfriend to his liege.

“Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace, but you seem more relaxed than I expected,” I said carefully. “I’d heard there were some issues.”

“By ‘issues,’ you mean the kidnapping and threatened murder of my sons?” His smile held neither warmth nor humor. “My current calm is a facade, I assure you, but as I can’t do anything to help Dianda negotiate their return, I’m staying out of the way.”

“That’s very reasonable of you,” I said. “If something happened to my daughter, I’d be a lot less capable of being sensible.” And a lot more powerless—but in the end, that wouldn’t matter. If something happened to Gillian, I’d rip the world down to save her, even if she spat in my face when I did. That’s what parenthood means.

Patrick tilted his head. “You’re a parent?”

I used to be,
I thought. Aloud, I said, “Yes. Her name is Gillian. She recently turned eighteen.”

Something in my voice must have told him not to push the point. Patrick nodded instead, and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Silence fell between the three of us, no one quite sure what to say or how to say it. I tried to cover my awkwardness by raising my glass for another drink, and stopped cold.

The candles were throwing hundreds of tiny, flickering shadows across the surface of my wine . . . everywhere but one small section at the rim of the glass, where the reflection of the room was crisp and perfectly clear. Everything but that one spot was distorted, like . . . like . . .

Like the loophole in a personal invisibility spell.

“Patrick?” I said casually, tilting my glass to get a better fix on the reflection. Now that I was really
looking
, I could make out the outline of a human-sized person on the balcony behind me, raising something that was either a gun or a small crossbow. The loophole wasn’t quite good enough to let me make out any details, like what kind of weapon was being aimed in our direction. If it was a gun, there was no way to guess whether the bullets would be iron. If it was a crossbow, it was probably loaded with elf-shot. Not a call I wanted to make from the other side of a ballroom.

“Yes?”

“I realize we’ve just met, and you’re probably going to think I’m insane, but I need you to do exactly what I say, okay? Don’t look surprised, don’t yell, just nod if you understand.”

I glanced to the side long enough to see Patrick’s nod. His shoulders were suddenly tense. I hoped our shooter wouldn’t notice. I was happier with them trying to line up “the perfect shot” than I was with the idea of an early shot that might get lucky.

“Good. I’m going to hand Connor my glass, and then I’m going to tackle you. Don’t fight me, don’t try to pull away. Connor, when I move, hit the floor. Don’t turn, just dive.”

“Toby, what—”

“Trust me.” I plastered a smile across my face as I turned to press my glass into Connor’s free hand. Then I launched myself into Patrick, knocking us both to the floor.

I heard, rather than saw, Connor following us down. He dropped the wineglasses as he fell, and they shattered when they hit the marble, sending glass shards flying in all directions. There was another, far more ominous sound at the same time: the zing of an arrow passing over my head. Someone screamed, and the ballroom dissolved into chaos.

People scattered, putting distance between themselves and us as quickly as they could. I ignored them, holding Patrick down and counting to ten. When no further shots were fired, I pushed myself back to my feet, letting Patrick and Connor get up on their own while I turned back to the balcony.

It was empty.

“Root and
branch
,” I snarled.

“Toby?”

“Alert the guards. That was an assassination attempt.” I stalked over to the arrow, crouching next to it.

It was only a few feet from where we’d been standing, the arrowhead buried in the marble floor at a depth many mortal bullets couldn’t have managed. Fae munitions may be old-fashioned, but they’re frighteningly effective. The shaft was polished, black-stained mistletoe—the generic option for elf-shot. The stain might been a clue if it had been any other color, since most noble houses keep a limited range of wood dyes on hand, but black is an assassin’s color, and there’s no noble house that doesn’t occasionally feel the need for one of those. It wasn’t going to do me any good at all.

I reached for the arrow, and stopped as the Luidaeg’s shell suddenly burned cold, telling me that touching the wood with my bare hands wasn’t the best idea. “Anybody got a shirt I can borrow?”

“Here,” said Patrick, shrugging out of his leather vest and offering it to me. I nodded the thanks that Faerie etiquette wouldn’t let me offer aloud before leaning over and carefully wrapping the vest around the arrow’s shaft.

“You may want to step back,” I said. “This thing could be rigged to explode.” On that cheery note, I gripped the arrow with both hands, and pulled.

The arrow came loose immediately—not what I’d been expecting from something that traveled with enough force to bury itself in solid stone. I staggered backward, barely managing to keep from toppling over. Once I was sure I was stable, I raised the arrow to my nose and sniffed, looking for any lingering traces of magic. The wood smelled acrid; it was a bottled spell, and, unfortunately, it was a familiar one.

“Elf-shot,” I said, disgusted.

Connor was suddenly behind me, the air crackling with the salty scent of his magic as it gathered in response to the potential threat. “Are you all right?”

I stood, giving him a reassuring nod before turning to Patrick. I shifted the position of the vest so as to expose as much of the arrow as possible without actually touching the thing. “This is fletched with owl feathers,” I said. “Does it match any design you recognize?”

“No.” He was pale but standing, and he looked like he was staying reasonably calm; that was good. The last thing I needed was a hysterical Ducal consort. “It’s nothing I’ve seen before.”

The crowd was continuing to shrink. Many of them were already gone, pouring out the doors in a panic. I just hoped the Queen’s guard would be smart enough not to let them leave the knowe.

Speaking of the Queen’s guard . . . “Where the hell are the guards?” I asked. “They should be here by now.”

“Better question: who the hell are
you
?” The questioner shoved herself between us, expression challenging me to give her something to get pissed off about. I didn’t have to know who she was to know that wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s not a good idea to bait anyone who looks that ready to take your head off.

She was black-haired and dark-eyed, with skin the color of clean sand and delicately pointed ears that weren’t shaped quite right for her to be Daoine Sidhe. Narrow slits that I recognized as closed gills ran along the sides of her neck. Her dress was deep blue velvet over white samite, trimmed with pearls and bits of polished shell, and she wasn’t wearing shoes. That, as much as the way she reached for Patrick’s hand, told me who she had to be.

“Duchess Lorden.” I bowed, holding it just long enough to be polite. The Merrow are one of the few purely Undersea races that can take a bipedal form, even if it’s difficult for them to maintain it for long. It made sense that she’d want to meet the Queen on equal footing, so to speak. “I’m Toby Daye.”

“What she’s failing to mention is that she’s the new Countess of Goldengreen, and that I’d be sleeping for a hundred years if not for her,” said Patrick, letting Dianda take his hand. “Please keep that in mind, Di.”

“I thought you’d prefer him unventilated,” I said. Perhaps ill-advisedly, but I’ve never been good at keeping my mouth shut.

Dianda’s eyes narrowed. “How did you become Countess of Goldengreen? I thought that knowe was sealed upon the Winterrose’s death.”

So the Undersea didn’t share the aversion to admitting death existed? That was a nice change. If it weren’t for the water part, I might have been tempted to start attending their ice cream socials. Or whatever it was they did down there.

“It was a royal appointment. I killed Blind Michael, and they couldn’t give me a medal for murder, so they slapped me with a County instead.” I started to fold my arms, and stopped, remembering the arrow.

Dianda kept glowering as she looked from my face to the arrow in my hand and back again. “How did you know?”

“The reflections in my wine were wrong.” She looked at me blankly. I explained, “Personal invisibility spells can be tailored to work on specific surfaces, but that won’t stop them from throwing reflections on things the spellcaster didn’t think to block, like liquid. I noticed something out of place, and I’m a little paranoid about that sort of thing. Connor, you okay over there?”

“I think so.” He bowed to Dianda. “Your Grace.”

“Connor,” she said frostily.

I cleared my throat. “Your Grace, I’m sorry I had to tackle your husband, but I’m glad to have been of service. I was . . . hoping to . . .” My voice trailed off. The Queen of the Mists was storming up behind Dianda, moonstruckmad eyes bright with fury. She had the skirt of her white silk gown clenched firmly in her hands, creating a sea-foam froth of fabric around her feet. I swallowed and tried my statement again, hoping to finish it before the Queen reached us. “Your Grace, not everyone here is against you.”

Dianda never had a chance to answer. The Queen stepped between us, turning her back on Dianda and Patrick. “Countess Daye, what is the
meaning
of this?” she demanded, ignoring the Undersea nobles.

I’ve never been one of the Queen’s favorite people, but I try not to piss her off. True anger lends her voice a dulcet shriek that can’t help reminding me of her part-Banshee heritage—or of the damage she could do if she ever got really mad.