One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

Connor was right. Daoine Sidhe can use even a small amount of blood to ride the memories and experiences of the person it was drawn from. My mother and I—the Dóchas Sidhe—make them look like amateurs. Blood clings to flesh, no matter how carefully it’s been drained; even the fae who drink the stuff can’t completely remove it from a body. More importantly, I could confirm that Dean was alive when his finger was cut off.

Maybe I could even use it to find the underground room that smelled of spices. The one where a Selkie died, and a war truly began. Raj was right, too—blood magic is dangerous for me. I have power, but very little training, and the only woman who could train me is insane. And none of that mattered anymore. This might be the only way to stop the war.

This might be the only way to bring Gillian home.

“I said I’d do whatever I could,” I said. I stood again, stepping down from the dais. Quentin and Raj moved to follow me. I gestured for them to stay where they were. There were things they didn’t need to see.

Patrick stared at me for a moment, like he still wasn’t quite willing to let himself believe. Then his composure slipped, just enough to let me see the rawness beneath it. “They have my children,” he said. “I don’t care about war. I don’t care what we have to do to get them back. They could be hurt worse next time, they could be—”

“Whoever it is has my daughter, too, and they’re alive.” The certainty in my voice stunned the entire room into silence. I kept my eyes on Patrick. “I called the night-haunts to me. They hadn’t seen your sons. The night-haunts hadn’t seen them. Wherever your boys are, they’re alive.”

A new quality crept into Patrick’s expression: hope. It was painful to see, because it illustrated how bleak he’d looked, and how bleak I knew I still looked. He had hope for his sons, and I was running out of hope for my daughter. Rayseline had reason to keep Dean and Peter alive, at least for now. I couldn’t come up with any good reasons for her to spare Gillian.

“Could they . . .” He licked his lips. “Could the night-haunts have lied?”

“Night-haunts don’t lie,” said May, her voice loud in the hush. We all turned to look at her. She tipped her chin up, very slightly, and looked me in the eyes as she said, “The night-haunts never lie. They could, if they wanted to, but they don’t really see the point. The truth is so much more dangerous than a lie.”

I blinked at her for a moment before shaking my head and looking back to Patrick. “There you go,” I said. “The night-haunts didn’t lie.”

“They’re alive,” said Patrick, sounding stunned. One of the Merrow burst into tears, burying his face against the shoulder of the Selkie next to him. It was a moment of private elation. I should have looked away. There wasn’t time.

“Now we just need to make sure they stay that way,” I said. The room’s air of relief faded, cold reality intruding on their momentary joy. They didn’t like it. That was okay, because neither did I.

Patrick nodded, glancing at Connor. “Connor was right to bring us to you. He has my thanks.”

Connor stared at him, visibly trying to frame a response.

Patrick ignored him, turning his attention to the box, instead. He tapped all four corners with his thumb before kissing his forefinger and touching the latch. The gold ring dissolved into mist, leaving the air smelling of steel as the chains fell to dangle uselessly. Patrick held the box out to me. “I was raised in the land Courts. I remember your mother.”

“I’m just a changeling,” I cautioned. “I’m not in her league.”

“I’ve heard the stories—Connor alone tells enough to give your skills away, and you invoke the Luidaeg when you give your references. Even my wife likes you, as much as she likes anyone.” He smiled slightly. “You’re a lot of things, but ‘just a changeling’ isn’t one of them.”