Praise for the October Daye Novels
“Rosemary and Rue will surely appeal to readers who enjoy my books, or those of Patricia Briggs.”
—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“McGuire opens a new chapter in the wonderful and increasingly daring adventures of October Daye, offering her a challenge that tests her physically, mentally and emotionally and is sure to keep readers riveted. Toby’s narrative voice is increasingly self-assured in this ninth installment, and that confidence shows just how far she has grown and evolved, and just how capable a heroine she has become.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The plot is strong, the characterization is terrific, the tragedies hurt . . . and McGuire’s usual beautiful writing and dark humor are present and accounted for. This has become one of my favorite urban fantasy series, and I can’t wait to find out what happens next.”
—FantasyLiterature.com
“An urban fantasy detective series featuring a resourceful female detective . . . [October Daye] should appeal to fans of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files as well as the novels of Charlaine Harris, Patricia Briggs, and similar authors.”
—Library Journal
“It’s fun watching [Toby] stick doggedly to the case as the killer picks off more victims and the tension mounts.”
—LOCUS
“A Red-Rose Chain is romantic, hilarious, and just the right balance of peril and triumph. There seems to be no end to McGuire’s magical world of faerie, and I can’t wait for my next opportunity to adventure with Toby and her gang.”
—All Things Urban Fantasy
“These books are like watching half a season of your favorite television series all at once. . . . More than anything else, it’s the fun of it all that’s kept me returning to McGuire’s books, and to this series, long after I’ve stopped reading other mainstream titles.”
—SF Signal
“I love that Toby is a strong, independent—yet still vulnerable—heroine. I love that this is a world where people die, where consequences matter. I love the complex world-building and mythology. I love the almost film noir tone of the series. I love that each book leaves me wanting more. If you dig urban fantasy, this is one of the best out there.”
—CC2K
DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy from Seanan McGuire:
InCryptid Novels:
DISCOUNT ARMAGEDDON
MIDNIGHT BLUE-LIGHT SPECIAL
HALF-OFF RAGNAROK
POCKET APOCALYPSE
CHAOS CHOREOGRAPHY
MAGIC FOR NOTHING*
SPARROW HILL ROAD
October Daye Novels:
ROSEMARY AND RUE
A LOCAL HABITATION
AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT
LATE ECLIPSES
ONE SALT SEA
ASHES OF HONOR
CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT
THE WINTER LONG
A RED-ROSE CHAIN
ONCE BROKEN FAITH
THE BRIGHTEST FELL*
*Coming soon from DAW Books
Copyright © 2016 by Seanan McGuire.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Chris McGrath.
Cover design by G-Force Design.
Interior dingbat created by Tara O’Shea.
Map by Priscilla Spencer.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1734.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.
Version_1
This book is for Margaret.
There are many books in the world, but this one is hers.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
It’s sometimes a little surprising for me to realize that we’re ten books into this adventure, but here we are, and here we go, and we’ve traveled so far, and we have so far yet to go. Thank you for coming along with me. I promise I’ll do things to make sure you get back safely.
A novel is never a solo undertaking, no matter how much it may feel like one. My thanks go to the Machete Squad, for their tireless attempts to make me better, and to the entire team at DAW, where they take excellent care of me. Thanks to the Agora, for hosting me, and to the staff of Disney’s Old Key West resort, where chunks of this book were written. (Fun fact: the last book partially written at the Old Key West was Late Eclipses.)
Thank you Vixy, for continuing to be the star I steer by; Amy, for being ready to defend me at the crossroads; Brooke, for keeping me from destroying North America in a fit of pique; and Shawn, for cheering when I say I’m going to write the X-Men someday. Thanks to Alexis and Mary, for math and music, and to Randy, for grilled cheese and Target.
Sheila Gilbert remains the best of all possible editors, Diana Fox remains the best of all possible agents, and Chris McGrath remains the best of all possible cover artists. While we’re on this track, my cats are the best of all possible cats. So are yours, if you have them. All hail the pit crew: Christopher Mangum, Tara O’Shea, and Kate Secor.
My soundtrack while writing Once Broken Faith consisted mostly of After It All, by Delta Rae, 1989, by Taylor Swift, the soundtrack of Hamilton, endless live concert recordings of the Counting Crows, and all the Ludo a girl could hope to have (barring a new album). Any errors in this book are entirely my own. The errors that aren’t here are the ones that all these people helped me fix.
It wouldn’t be a party without you.
OCTOBER DAYE PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
THROUGH ONCE BROKEN FAITH
All pronunciations are given strictly phonetically. This only covers races explicitly named in the first nine books, omitting Undersea races not appearing or mentioned in book ten.
ORN
Afanc: ah-fank. Plural is “Afanc.”
Annwn: ah-noon. No plural exists.
Bannick: ban-nick. Plural is “Bannicks.”
Barghest: bar-guy-st. Plural is “Barghests.”
Blodynbryd: blow-din-brid. Plural is “Blodynbryds.”
Cait Sidhe: kay-th shee. Plural is “Cait Sidhe.”
Candela: can-dee-la. Plural is “Candela.”
Coblynau: cob-lee-now. Plural is “Coblynau.”
Cu Sidhe: coo shee. Plural is “Cu Sidhe.”
Daoine Sidhe: doon-ya shee. Plural is “Daoine Sidhe,” diminutive is “Daoine.”
Djinn: jin. Plural is “Djinn.”
Dóchas Sidhe: doe-sh-as shee. Plural is “Dóchas Sidhe.”
Ellyllon: el-lee-lawn. Plural is “Ellyllons.”
Gean-Cannah: gee-ann can-na. Plural is “Gean-Cannah.”
Glastig: glass-tig. Plural is “Glastigs.”
Gwragen: guh-war-a-gen. Plural is “Gwragen.”
Hamadryad: ha-ma-dry-add. Plural is “Hamadryads.”
Hippocampus: hip-po-cam-pus. Plural is “Hippocampi.”
Kelpie: kel-pee. Plural is “Kelpies.”
Kitsune: kit-soo-nay. Plural i
s “Kitsune.”
Lamia: lay-me-a. Plural is “Lamia.”
The Luidaeg: the lou-sha-k. No plural exists.
Manticore: man-tee-core. Plural is “Manticores.”
Merrow: mare-oh. Plural is “Merrow.”
Naiad: nigh-add. Plural is “Naiads.”
Nixie: nix-ee. Plural is “Nixen.”
Peri: pear-ee. Plural is “Peri.”
Piskie: piss-key. Plural is “Piskies.”
Puca: puh-ca. Plural is “Pucas.”
Roane: row-n. Plural is “Roane.”
Satyr: say-tur. Plural is “Satyrs.”
Selkie: sell-key. Plural is “Selkies.”
Shyi Shuai: shh-yee shh-why. Plural is “Shyi Shuai.”
Silene: sigh-lean. Plural is “Silene.”
Sluagh Sidhe: sloo-ah shee. Plural is “Sluagh Sidhe.”
Tuatha de Dannan: tootha day danan. Plural is “Tuatha de Dannan,” diminutive is “Tuatha.”
Tylwyth Teg: till-with teeg. Plural is “Tylwyth Teg,” diminutive is “Tylwyth.”
Urisk: you-risk. Plural is “Urisk.”
Contents
Praise for the October Daye Novels
DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy from Seanan McGuire:
Title Page
Copyright
October Daye Pronunciation Guide
Acknowledgments:
Map of the Kingdoms of Westlands
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
An Exciting Preview of DREAMS AND SLUMBERS
ONE
June 5th, 2013
For trust not him that hath once broken faith.
—William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part III
QUENTIN AND RAJ were in the living room arguing about who got to pick the first movie of the night. Loudly. The walls and doors between us were thick enough to blunt their voices—mercifully—but I could still hear more than enough to know that I didn’t want to get involved. I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter, casting a wry look at the kitchen door.
“All right,” I said. “Somebody remind me again why we’re doing this, and why I’m not drowning them both in the bathtub.”
“Drowning Quentin would be an act of treason against the Westlands, and you’d probably be executed,” said May. “Also, you’d miss him.” She never took her eyes off the tray of cookies she was removing from the oven. My Fetch had been baking since she got out of bed. She hadn’t slept much since she’d been elf-shot during our visit to the Kingdom of Silences—she got better, thanks to alchemical intervention—and that meant we had a lot of cookies. We didn’t have anything near enough for the nightmare that was to come, but still. A lot of cookies.
The oncoming disaster didn’t keep Jazz from snatching a cookie from the tray and retreating to the kitchen table, juggling her purloined treat from one hand to another the whole time. “Drowning Raj would be an act of treason against the Court of Dreaming Cats, you’d miss him, and Tybalt would look all sad and noble right before he put you through a wall.”
“Actually, I think if Toby drowns Raj, she’s just proving he was unfit to rule, which means it’s not treason, it’s natural selection. Sort of like you burning your mouth on that cookie is your punishment for stealing it. Tybalt would still probably be pissed, though.” May began shifting the remaining cookies to the cooling rack. Jazz stuck her tongue out. May laughed.
I stayed where I was, avoiding the danger of molten chocolate chips, and grinned to myself. “Oh, right,” I said. “I remember why I agreed to this.” After months—after years—of chaos and life-threatening situations and people stabbing me for no good reason, we’d somehow managed to find a moment to breathe. That didn’t just deserve to be enjoyed. It deserved to be celebrated, held up as proof that the world was a good place and didn’t actually need to be destroyed in order for me to have a nap.
It used to be that I could have all the naps I wanted. Of course, back in those days, I had few friends, no prospects, and the life expectancy of a stray dog. These days, I have plenty of backup, and no time to sleep. As a knight errant and hero of the realm, any time something goes wrong, it’s likely to become my problem. I’m the go-to girl for terrible adventures, whether I like it or not. Usually not. But things had been pretty calm since my allies and I returned home from overthrowing the puppet government of the Kingdom of Silences. Sure, we’d only been back for six weeks, but I’d take it. It was a hell of a lot better than nothing. I was safe and healthy, my chosen family was safe and healthy, and it was time to stop and smell the flowers.
Just not the roses. I have a bad track record with roses.
The argument in the living room was starting to get really heated. I was considering the wisdom of intervention when the doorbell rang. There was a moment of startled silence before both boys shouted, “I’LL GET IT!” in perfect unison. Then they started sniping at each other again. I pushed myself away from the counter.
“Let’s see if I can answer the door before they finish deciding which one of them gets the honor,” I said.
May snorted. “The future leadership of the Westlands, ladies and gentlemen.”
I left the kitchen and walked down the hall, laughing all the way. Maybe most people don’t have dueling princes in their houses, but this is my life, and I’ve had time to get used to it. I’ve even had time to learn to appreciate it. After all, the princes in question were my squire—Quentin Sollys, who will one day be the High King of the Westlands, the fae Kingdom that encompasses North America—and my fiancé’s adopted nephew, Raj. Since I can’t imagine the world without both those boys in it, I can put up with a little shouting.
My name is October Daye. My father was a human; my mother was, and is, a Firstborn daughter of Oberon, making her one of the more powerful people among the fae, and a definite pain in my still-mortal changeling ass. I was born and raised in San Francisco, which explains my willingness to stay in a city that’s historically been full of people who insist on trying to kill me at the slightest provocation. Faeries are real. Magic is real. My tendency to greet dangerous situations by plunging in headfirst and seeing how long it takes to get myself covered head to toe in blood is also real.
I live an interesting life.
The front door was warded to the point of redundancy. Had whoever was on the porch been human, the warnings about their identity would have reverberated through the house, giving the rest of us time to get any necessary illusions in place. May was the most human looking of our weird little band, and she’d be the one answering the door when the pizzas showed up. In the meantime, since the warnings hadn’t sounded, I was able to unlock and open the door without messing around trying to spin a passable disguise.
My friend Stacy was on the porch with her middle daughter, Karen. At fourteen-going-on-fifteen, Karen no longer looked much like her mother; in fact, the resemblance seemed to decrease year on year. Her skin was milky pale, in contrast to Stacy’s healthy peach, and her hair was the color of birch-bark, save for the tips, which looked like they’d been dipped in ink. Her ears were dully pointed, more like a bobcat’s than a Daoine Sidhe’s, and tufted with fluffy puffs of hair that followed the same black into white pattern as the hair on her head. She was clutching a pillow to her ch
est. In the interests of expedience, she was already wearing her pajamas, thin cotton patterned in colorful dinosaurs and flaming comets. She was also wearing a bra. That was still relatively new, and hence relatively unsettling. For me, Karen would always be the eleven-year-old I’d saved from Blind Michael’s lands.
Stacy beamed. Karen glanced upward through the fringe of her hair, flashed a shy smile, and went back to looking at her feet.
“Do I smell cookies?” asked Stacy.
I laughed and leaned forward to steal a quick hug before ushering both of them inside. “May’s been baking like a mad thing for hours. I think she’s afraid we’ll be stripped to the bone by a mob of wild teenagers if she doesn’t generate enough unhealthy snacking material.”
“Oh, she’s right,” said Stacy gravely. “I’m just glad you’re the one hosting the slumber party for a change. The last time Anthony played host, I wound up with an empty fridge and two broken windows.”
“I don’t understand why you always call them ‘slumber parties,’” said Karen, glancing up again. “You’re picking me up at dawn. That’s hours before bedtime.”
“Blame our terrible human upbringings, and enjoy the free cookies,” I said. “Do I get a hug?”
Karen smiled, less shyly this time, and moved to hug me. “Hi, Auntie Birdie.”
“Hey, puss,” I said, and kissed the top of her head.
Fae kids are like human kids in many ways. They need love, approval, protection, and occasionally to be sent to their rooms to think about what they’ve done. That doesn’t mean they are human kids. For one thing, fae kids tend to be nocturnal. Karen wasn’t shining a light on bad parenting when she said dawn was hours before bedtime: she was making a statement of fact. Like most of her contemporaries, she probably went to bed around eight or nine in the morning, and then slept for the normal teenage ten to thirteen hours before getting up and starting her “day.”
Karen’s hair smelled of off-brand shampoo, which I dismissed as irrelevant, and of the cottonwood and quince signature of her magic. The notes had only been becoming really clear over the past few years. Her father, Mitch, was a halfblooded changeling—human mother, fae father—and her mother, Stacy, was a quarterblood, which meant Karen had started with less than the normal percentage of fae blood. It made sense that her magic was weak enough to have taken a long time to clarify. What didn’t make sense was the fact that Karen was an oneiromancer, a dream-walker—one of the first to be seen in Faerie for centuries.