One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

“You’d better hurry before they shred the towel for loincloths.”


“I know. Sorry about this. Lunch is served.” She bobbed an awkward curtsy and took off running, following the trail of glittering pixie-sweat hanging in the air.

I turned to the others. “Well?” I asked. “Anybody hungry?”

“Starving,” said Quentin. He led the way into the kitchen, where a meal of cold chicken, tossed salad, and apple cake was waiting for us on the worktable. One definite advantage to having my own knowe: I was eating better, since Marcia seemed to have an almost preternatural ability to know when she’d be able to shove a fork into my hand, and her fae blood is just strong enough to grant her some basic hearth magic—like preparing meals at triple speed. Coffee is still a primary part of my diet, but it no longer has to play the role of multiple food groups.

May’s phone rang while we were eating, and she waved a distracted good-bye before running out of the knowe to meet her girlfriend in the museum parking lot outside the mortal entrance. Sylvester, Quentin, and I finished our lunch in comfortable silence.

I was in an excellent mood by the time I escorted Quentin and Sylvester out of Goldengreen. It was a crisp, dry night. The air tasted like summer, and the sky was free of clouds, leaving the stars to glitter brilliantly against the darkness. We were having the sort of June that people write bad love songs about, all perfect weather and clear skies. Nights like this reminded me why I love living in the Bay Area.

A lone cloud skidded in front of the moon, briefly hiding its face, and I shuddered. It had been less than a year since I was held captive in Blind Michael’s lands, being groomed to take his wife’s place and become his new consort. He’d been dead for almost eight months. I killed him. That didn’t make the memory of him sit any easier.

Sylvester’s vehicle for the evening was a classic Cadillac, painted a dark blue that almost blended with the shadows at the parking lot’s edge. Not that the museum’s human employees would have been able to see the car if it were bright red and parked in the rose garden—Sylvester’s don’t-look-here spells are things of beauty. He hugged me, saying, “You’re doing well. Soon, we can start the real lessons.”

I was still groaning theatrically when he and Quentin got into the car and drove off, leaving me to walk to my battered old Volkswagen Bug alone. I performed my usual check of the back before unlocking the door. Call me paranoid, but I only needed to find one assassin lurking in my car for that to become a lifetime habit.

Turning up the radio to ear-busting levels, I sang loudly—and badly—along with song after song as I drove back to my apartment. Even with traffic, I made it home in record time. The wards around my door were intact, meaning that my night might stay decent. Miracles never cease.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” I chanted. “With thorny stings and other things that make it a bad place to go.” I snapped my fingers. The wards dissolved, leaving the scent of copper hanging in the air. Piece of cake.

Wards are easier for me these days, since they’re constructed and removed with brute force, and I hit harder than I used to, magically speaking. Sure, sometimes my spells go horribly wrong and things get scorched, but it’s better than a ten-a-day Tylenol habit, right? I was never that attached to my security deposit, anyway.

Spike and the cats mobbed my ankles the second I got inside, meowing and chirping irritation over some perceived indignity. “Settle down, guys,” I said, laughing as I squirmed out of my jacket. “I’ll feed you in a second.”