Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
ONE - June 30th, 2011
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
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
DAW Books Presents Seanan McGuire’s October Daye Novels:
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
“The brisk pacing, the effective mix of human and magical characters, and the PI ambience all make this an excellent choice for fans of Butcher’s Harry Dresden series. . . . Toby’s unusual heritage and her uneasy relationships with her mother’s family will remind readers of Brigg’s Mercy Thompson series, and Thompson fans will appreciate Toby’s tough and self-reliant character. This outstanding first novel is a must for fans of genre-bending blends of crime and fantasy.”
—Booklist starred review
“McGuire successfully blends Robert B. Parker-like detective fiction with love and loss, faith and betrayal—and plenty of violence. . . . Rosemary and Rue will have readers clamoring for the next genre-bending installment.”
—www.bookpage.com
“Well researched, sharply told, highly atmospheric and as brutal as any pulp detective tale . . . sure to appeal to fans of Jim Butcher or Kim Harrison.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Second in an urban fantasy detective series featuring a resourceful female detective, this sequel to Rosemary and Rue 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
“An Artificial Night . . . is wildly and beautifully descriptive, with scenes that will simply take your breath away. If Hollywood doesn’t snatch up the rights to this book, they are even crazier than Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean III. That being said, the third installment in the October (Toby) Day series is even better (if that could be believed) than the prior two. Author Seanan McGuire seems to have hit her stride and should enjoy a long career.”
—sacramentobookreview.com
“The world building is vivid and realistic, whether it’s the human world or one of the fae realms. . . . if you’re a fan of urban fantasy, this whole series should be in your library!”
—freshfiction.com
DAW Books Presents Seanan McGuire’s October Daye Novels:
ROSEMARY AND RUE
A LOCAL HABITATION
AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT
LATE ECLIPSES
ONE SALT SEA
ASHES OF HONOR
(Available September 2012)
Copyright © 2011 by Seanan McGuire.
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.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54760-1
First Printing, September
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
S.A.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Chris.
Thanks, bunny.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
One Salt Sea is the fifth Toby Daye book, and like those that came before it, it has been guided along the way by many hands. My thanks go out to my faithful Machete Squad, whose tireless efforts to make these books better is a joy and a delight. These people pull my books apart and staple them back together, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Special thanks go out to Jeanne Goldfein, who put up with my using our trip to Australia as an excuse to field-test Undersea biology, and to Chris Mangum, who supplemented his heroic webmaster duties with a tolerant willingness to listen to me go on and on and on (and on and on) about the way my version of Faerie functions. I have the best Machete Squad in the world.
As always, my agent, Diana Fox, made sure I had the space and sanity to keep writing, while my editor, Sheila Gilbert, showed an unerring ability to go straight for the heart of my story. They have my thanks and my eternal gratitude, as does the rest of the crew at DAW. My cover, which knocked my socks off, was created by Chris McGrath, and my interior dingbat was designed by Tara O’Shea. Special thanks to Joshua Starr, for his tireless devotion to SCIENCE!, especially when that science means I’m calling him with another weird request.
My website team of Chris Mangum and Tara O’Shea kept things rolling smoothly here at home, while my mother played roadie for every book event in driving distance. Michelle Dockrey provided the stability I needed to keep me anchored as I threw myself at the wind, and Amy McNally was always there to pull me back to solid ground. Thanks to Amy Mebberson, for helping to make some images clearer, and to Kristoph Klover, for helping to spread my music a little further. Deborah, Cat, Lauren . . . I couldn’t have done it without you. And of course, thanks to my cats, Lilly, Alice, and Thomas, for allowing me to stop paying attention to them long enough to write a book.
My soundtrack while writing One Salt Sea consisted mostly of House Rules, by Christian Kane, Lungs, by Florence and the Machine, endless live concert recordings of the Counting Crows, and all of the soundtracks to Glee. 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.
Thank you for reading. I’m glad that you’re here.
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
LAND FAE:
Bannick: ban-nick. Plural is Bannicks.
Banshee: ban-shee. Plural is Banshees.
Barghest: bar-guy-st. Plural is Barghests.
Barrow Wight: bar-row white. Plural is Barrow Wights.
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.
Cornish Pixie: Corn-ish pix-ee. Plural is Cornish Pixies.
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.
Hob: hob. Plural is Hobs.
Kitsune: kit-soo-nay. Plural is Kitsune.
Lamia: lay-me-a. Plural is Lamia.
Manticore: man-tee-core. Plural is Manticores.
Peri: pear-ee. Plural is Peri.
Piskie: piss-key. Plural is Piskies.
Pixie: pix-ee. Plural is Pixies.
Puca: puh-ca. Plural is Pucas.
Satyr: say-tur. Plural is Satyrs.
Silene: sigh-lean. Plural is Silene.
Swanmay: swan-may. Plural is Swanmays.
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.
Will o’ Wisps: will-oh wisps. Plural is Will o’ Wisps.
SEA FAE:
Asrai: as-rye. Plural is Asrai.
Cephali: she-fall-li. Plural is Cephali.
Cetace: sea-tay-see. Plural is Cetacea.
Hippocampus: hip-po-cam-pus. Plural is Hippocampi.
Kelpie: kel-pee. Plural is Kelpies.
The Luidaeg: the lou-sha-k. No plural exists.
Merrow: meh-row. Plural is Merrow.
Naiad: nigh-add. Plural is Naiads.
Nixie: nix-ee. Plural is Nixen.
Roane: rone. Plural is Roane.
Selkie: sell-key. Plural is Selkies.
Undine: un-deen. Plural is Undine.
ONE
June 30th, 2011
As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark;
As many ways meet in one town;
As many streams meet in one salt sea;
So may a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.
—William Shakespeare, King Henry V
THE SWORD SWUNG FAST AND HARD toward my face, leaving me with barely enough time to raise my own sword into position to parry. The force of the blades colliding knocked me back a step and made my wrists ache even more than they already did.
“Oberon’s balls, Sylvester!” I snapped. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”
“That’s generally the point of hitting someone with a sword,” he said, almost cheerfully, and swung at me again.
Having Sylvester Torquill—Duke of Shadowed Hills, pureblooded Daoine Sidhe, and most importantly, my chosen liege—swinging a sword at my head wasn’t getting less unnerving, or more fun. Not even the knowledge that our blades were magically blunted could stop my atavistic “oh, hell no” response. I blocked this stroke marginally faster than the last, shoving his sword aside and sliding my own blade under his arm. Theoretically, this should have let me hit him.
Reality wasn’t that forgiving. Sylvester twisted his sword underneath mine and slammed the flat of his blade against my fingers, causing them to open involuntarily. My sword dropped to the ballroom floor, clattering on the polished marble.
The sudden disarmament startled me enough that I forgot to dodge. Sylvester grabbed my arm, spun me around, and slammed my back into his chest, pressing his sword against my throat. “Dead again,” he said conversationally. “Can you tell me what you did wrong?”
I swallowed, trying to ignore the blade pressing against my skin. It wasn’t easy. “I didn’t run away the second you suggested I learn to use a sword?”
“You left an opening.” He let me go, stepping back. “You need to watch that.”
“I’m sticking with my first answer.” I took a moment to wipe the sweat from my forehead before bending to retrieve my weapon. Cold moonlight flowed in through the windows above us, filling the ballroom with shadows. “Are we done yet?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re done. Now, on my word . . . begin.” Sylvester fell into a defensive position. I mimicked it as well as I could. At least he’d managed to teach me that when someone’s about to swing a sword at you, you should be prepared to stop them. Not that I ever seemed to succeed, but hell, I was trying. That was something, right?
We started circling. Sylvester was annoyingly cheerful, as always, making supposedly helpful comments about my form as he watched for the chance to hit me again. I didn’t really care about hitting him. I just wanted to take his damn sword away, since that would make him stop hitting me. It didn’t look like I was going to be getting what I wanted any time soon.
It had been a month since King Sollys—the highest fae authority in North America—pardoned me for my role in the death of Blind Michael. With my so-called crimes forgiven, the Queen of the Mists was forced to let me go, rather than setting me on fire like she really wanted to. Her life is so hard. A month was sufficient time for me to do a lot of laundry, take a few freelance jobs, pay some bills, assume control of the knowe I semi-inherited from Evening Winterrose, and learn more than I ever wanted to know about the proper use of a sword. Sylvester Torquill’s an excellent teacher, blessed with a degree of patience I’ll probably never have. Patience isn’t one of my strong suits.
I was starting to think swordsmanship wasn’t a strong suit either. He’d swing at my head and I’d duck instead of blocking; he’d move in quick and I’d fall over my own feet getting away. I was, in short, hopeless.
Sylvester aimed for my torso. I already had three bruises on my ribs, and I didn’t want another one. Bruises hurt, no matter how fast I heal. Maybe that was the motivation I needed, because I managed to bring my sword around in time to block him. Sylvester beamed. “Good!”
“Right.” I feinted, trying to hit his left leg. He parried and turned the blow aside. “I still don’t see why I need to learn this.”
“You have a talent for getting into trouble.” Sylvester pushed his advantage, keeping me off-balance with a series of quick thrusts. The bastard wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’d like you to continue getting out of it again.”
“And you think giving me a sword is the answer? I could hurt somebody with this thing. Probably myself.” I scrambled to keep my guard up, watching to see where he’d go next. I needed to keep him from pushing me back to the wall. If that happened, it was all over. Goldengreen may be my home ground, but that doesn’t actually give me any advantage I’ve been able to find.
Sylvester just laughed.
The thing was, he was right: I do have a talent for getting into trouble. I’m just not sure giving me a weapon I can barely use is the solution. I guess it’s better than nothing, but I’d still feel safer with something more my speed, like my knife. Or maybe a brick in a burlap sack.
Sylvester feinted for my ankle. I parried, bringing my blade down on the wrist of his off hand before a sharp hit from his pommel forced my hand to open. My sword hit the floor. Again.
I stepped back, breathing heavily. “Jerk,” I said, between gasps.
“You’re getting faster. I would have lost that hand if your blade weren’t blunted.” He picked up my sword and offered it to me, hilt first. “Shall we take a break?”
I glared and snatched the sword from his hand, sheathing it as gracefully as I could before I bowed. He bowed back a heartbeat later, doing his best to conceal a smirk. The session wasn’t over until we exchanged bows, and walking away without observing that little formality would leave me open to an ambush. He’d managed to hit me upside the head three times before I caught on, but now I wouldn’t turn my back on Sylvester without seeing him bow. He was sneaky. He also hadn’t taken a student in a long time, and he was positively glorying in the chance to beat me around the block.
“Fifteen minutes, and then it’s back to work,” said Sylvester, straightening. “Let’s get something to drink. You look terrible.”
I groaned. “Fifteen minutes? You’re killing me.”
“You’re only complaining because you’re used to being lazy.” Sylvester sheathed his sword as he walked. If I tried that, I’d probably stab myself. “This will be easier when you’re in better shape.”
“Says you.”
What Sylvester was carefully
not saying is that I’m in better shape now than I’ve been in for years, if ever. I was born a changeling, half-human, half-fae. My heritage made me slightly faster and sturdier than the human norm, but it was still nothing to write home about. I got tired. I got broken. I nearly died—several times. A little fae blood doesn’t make you immortal. All it does is make you slightly harder to kill.
All that changed when a paid assassin hit me with elf-shot, a type of enchanted arrow that puts purebloods to sleep for centuries and kills changelings. It should have killed me. Instead, my mother emerged from her private madness and saved my life by changing the balance of my blood, burning out part of my mortality in the process. What Amandine did was impossible . . . for everyone but her.
I grew up knowing my mother was the best blood-worker in Faerie. I also grew up believing she was Daoine Sidhe, which meant that I was, too. That’s just one of the lies my mother told me. It turns out that Mom is Oberon’s daughter, making her just as much Firstborn as the Luidaeg or Blind Michael. The normal rules don’t apply where she’s concerned, and her descendants—namely me—aren’t Daoine Sidhe at all.
Some things started making sense after Amandine’s little parlor trick. My crappy illusions, for one; Daoine Sidhe are supposed to be great illusionists, and mine, frankly, suck. Titania is the Lady of Illusions, and I’m not hers. Everything else just got more confusing.
According to the Luidaeg—Firstborn daughter of Maeve and Oberon, which technically makes her my aunt—I should have always been this way. Amandine didn’t want a changeling daughter, so she tried to turn me human when I was too young to understand. She didn’t succeed, but she did weaken me enough that for years I believed her when she said that I was just a low-powered Daoine Sidhe. All she really did when she changed the balance of my blood was restore me to my original state. Too bad it was entirely new to me.