One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

“Actually, I think they’re upset because I’m here.” The Luidaeg stood, dropping May’s new Entertainment Weekly on the coffee table as she stepped away from the couch. “They don’t seem to like me.”


I froze and stared at her, my jacket slipping out of my suddenly nerveless fingers and falling to the floor with a thump. I’ve always known that my wards wouldn’t stop anything big, but I’d never seen proof before.

The Luidaeg watched me levelly, waiting for the shock to fade. Finally, unsteadily, I said, “Luidaeg. You’re . . . here.”

“Good catch. You should go into detective work.” Her amused tone was underscored with bleakness, like she was making jokes because it was easier than screaming. Somehow, that was even scarier than finding her in my apartment.

The Luidaeg isn’t scary on the surface—most days she looks more human than I do, like the sort of plainly pretty woman you probably pass on the street every day. She stands about five-six, tan verging into sunburned, with freckles on her nose and the ghosts of old acne scars on her cheeks. Today she was wearing battered khaki pants and a gas station employee’s shirt with a nametag that read “Annie,” and her curly, shoulder-length black hair was pulled into pigtails tied off with electrical tape.

Her eyes were brown. That was encouraging, anyway. The Luidaeg’s appearance is unnervingly variable. The more irritated she gets, the more her humanity slips, usually starting with her eyes. When the Luidaeg’s eyes go strange, I look for an escape route.

The Luidaeg raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you need to do before you can pay attention to me?”

That was my chance to take control of the situation. I pounced on it. “I need coffee,” I said, picking up my jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee’s fine. Do you have any sour cream?” The Luidaeg followed me to the kitchen and sat down at the table, pushing a pile of junk mail out of the way. Spike and the cats followed her.

“I think so.” I grabbed the half-full pot of coffee from the warmer and filled two mugs. I’ve always belonged to the school of thought that says coffee improves with age. Give me a pot of three-day-old diner coffee, and I’ll prove that sleep is an unnecessary luxury.

“I’ll take mine with salt and a spoonful of sour cream,” said the Luidaeg. She gave the cats a thoughtful look. They looked back, unblinking. She nodded. “I thought so. You can go. Nothing I have to say is yours to repeat.”

The cats didn’t move.

The Luidaeg raised an eyebrow, asking, “Do you really think your King will hurt you worse than I will?”

That got through. Cagney and Lacey bolted from the room, their ears pressed flat and their tails sticking straight up in the air.

Spike stayed where it was, eyeing her warily. The Luidaeg smiled. “You can stay. Your loyalties have shifted.” She glanced toward me. “You know the fleabags are spying for Tybalt, don’t you?”

“I’ve been assuming.” I opened the fridge, rummaging until I found a container of sour cream. May and Jazz both like to cook, and with Jazz spending more and more time at the apartment, our fridge has been acquiring actual food. I never knew there were so many kinds of bread. Or that you needed so many knives for purposes beyond stabbing people. “Is that why you made them leave?”

“He’ll get the details soon enough. I don’t feel any need to stroke the man’s ego by telling him things he doesn’t need to know yet.”