One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel (20 page)

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“We’re meeting Duchess Lorden at a secure location just down the street,” he said, and started the engine.

San Francisco is a city full of people who like it when our desserts come with a floorshow, and that makes Ghirardelli Square a San Francisco institution. Where else can you get expensive chocolate
and
the amusement of watching tourists try to eat sundaes bigger than their heads? Unfortunately, that means the Square gets filled to capacity with people who think it’s “quaint.” Driving in that area is a nightmare. It wasn’t likely to be as bad at four in the morning, but after living in the city as long as I have, I’ve developed a natural aversion.

I got increasingly tense as we drove toward the wharf area where Ghirardelli Square is located. Connor’s driving wasn’t helping. I closed my eyes after the third time he turned the wrong way on a one-way street. That was when Quentin started popping his knuckles, producing a nerve-grinding sound that made my teeth itch. Every time I thought he was finished, he started over again, as Connor drove us jerkily toward our destination.

I was starting to think there’d be a homicide before we got there, and I wasn’t sure which one of us was going to be the killer.

The car pulled to a halt, and Connor said, “We’re here.”

I opened my eyes.

We were parked on the street outside the Square, where the slope of the hill was shallow enough to make parallel parking only somewhat dangerous, rather than actively suicidal. The lights in the surrounding shops were off, and the running lights of distant ships reflected off the smooth obsidian surface of the San Francisco Bay.

“Come on,” said Connor.

We went.

He led us down the empty, fog-shrouded street, heading for the patch of captive ocean on the other side. Instead of continuing down to the beach, he stopped at the bus shelter. Quentin and I stopped behind him, waiting for him to wave his hands and open some hidden entrance to an Undersea knowe. He did nothing of the sort. He just leaned up against the pole that marked the stop, waiting.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

Connor smiled. “Waiting for the bus.”

“Why did we leave behind your perfectly good car if it means we have to take the bus? If you say it was for the fresh air, I hit you.”

“You can’t find the place we’re going in a car. The bus stop, on the other hand, will work. I didn’t design the spell, but I’ve given up trying to work around it.” Connor shrugged as a bus pulled up. Grinning at my expression, he stepped backward, toward the opening doors. “My lady’s chariot awaits.”

“Whee,” I deadpanned, and followed him.

Connor boarded first, paying all three of our fares with a handful of quarters that would probably turn into sand dollars at sunrise. The driver grunted acknowledgment and waved us toward the back, not waiting for us to sit before he pulled away from the curb. I caught myself on one of the metal posts, swinging my ass into a seat. Quentin and Connor sat to either side of me.

There are always a few people on the all-night buses. They viewed our arrival with everything from exhaustion to mild suspicion, but didn’t say anything. Connor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and started talking, voice pitched low and urgent.

“You
have
to play nice. The rules she follows aren’t the ones you know, and the penalties for screwing with her are big. They don’t play games where she comes from.”

I nodded. He was speaking in generalities; anyone overhearing us would think we were going to meet his dealer or something. His advice was likely to be good. He’s always known how to play the system, and he’s a lot more political than I am. Then again, that’s how he wound up married to Rayseline Torquill. Maybe there are advantages to being politically inept. “So what do we—”

“Here’s where we get off.” Connor hit the signal button, bringing the bus shuddering to a stop. The other passengers watched in silence as we rose from our seats and filed out the rear doors.

The bus stop was about five blocks and a hell of a lot of hill from where we’d started. Looking down gave me a view of the ocean from a practically vertical angle. “Now where?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the dizzying drop.

“This way.” Connor pointed at a dingy storefront whose guttering neon sign identified it as “Bill’s Seafood.” It was the only thing on the block that looked open. A menu was taped to the window, next to a sign that offered a ten percent discount for anyone who wore a shirt and shoes but no pants. Cute. And risky, at least in San Francisco, where people would probably be more than happy to take the management up on their offer.

“Well, Quentin,” I said, “it looks like we’re having dinner.” He offered an uneasy smile, and the two of us followed Connor inside.

T
HE 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 was 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 ringing 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-in-training 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 with. 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 breeze blow in to circulate the air. The other walls were varnished redwood, and the tabletops were gray slate shot through with veins of white. An appetizer in a place like this would cost me a month’s rent. Maybe two.

Dianda Lorden sat alone at the 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. Normally, just breathing underwater would replenish her body’s supply. Up here, she needed to find other ways to add it to her diet.

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

Dianda seemed to be wearing a long blue dress and sitting in an oddly low chair. I looked again and realized that it was actually a short blue blouse; she was sitting in a wheelchair. That made sense. The wheels would give her a certain amount of mobility out of the water without the strain of being bipedal—and she was definitely
not
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 a knight 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. Maybe.

“I could have decided not to, Your Grace, but then he’d probably have been 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.” 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 in her hand. 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.”