One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

That was probably long enough. “Open up and let us in, Bucer,” I called, loudly enough that he’d have to hear me, given his proximity to the door. “This isn’t the way Devin taught us to treat members of the family, now, is it?”


A few more seconds ticked by. The steps approached the door again, and Bucer said, “Devin’s dead.”

“True,” I agreed. “But I’m not, and you’re not, and we can either be family, or we can be enemies. Don’t you have a preference?”

This time, the answer was immediate: “Friends is better. But you said I should let ‘us’ in. Like people, plural. I’m not . . . ah. I’m not decent right now.”

I smiled almost despite myself. If there’s one thing Bucer O’Malley has never been in his life, it’s decent. “None of us is human, Bucer,” I said, pitching my voice lower to keep his neighbors—if he had any in this pit—from hearing me. “Now open the door, or I’ll start to think you don’t love me anymore.”

I heard the sound of locks being unfastened. After the third deadbolt was undone, the door creaked cautiously open, Bucer’s narrow face peeking through the gap. He wasn’t wearing a human disguise, and I could see the hairy edge of one goatlike ear curving upward from the side of his head.

More importantly, I saw that there was no chain holding the door in place. “Hi,” I said, brightly. “You going to let us in?”

Bucer hesitated. I could see him playing out the situation in his head: first he’d slam the door, and then he’d run for the nearest window, planning to escape to the street. Under normal circumstances, that might have been amusing enough for me to let him get away with it, at least until I chased him down and knocked his head against the pavement a few times. Sadly, I really didn’t have time to play around. I stuck my foot in the door before he could finish his thought.

“We’re coming in, Bucer,” I said, all brightness leeching from my tone. “We can do it as your guests, or we can do it as your interrogators. You want to pick one? Because I’m low on time, I’m low on patience, and I haven’t had nearly enough coffee.”

Amusingly, it was the last item on the list that made his eyes go wide. “Oh, uh, hey, October! Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you—sorry.” The door was pulled fully open, revealing Bucer in all his scrawny, unwashed glory. He was wearing cut-off shorts, revealing the point where his human thighs gave way to goat legs. Julie and I used to call him a bargain basement Satyr when we were all still living at Home. I’d never say anything like that now, but we were only half-kidding then. Satyrs are half-goat, half-man. Glastigs are three-quarters man, one-quarter goat—and, in Bucer’s case, one hundred percent craven scum.

“Good call,” I said, gesturing for the others to follow me as I stepped past Bucer into the apartment. Quentin and Raj were right behind me, surveying the condition of the hall with imperial disdain. Connor brought up the rear.

There was a moment, right after Connor passed the threshold, where Bucer visibly considered making a run for it. I raised an eyebrow, staring at him. Bucer’s shoulders slumped, and he shut the door.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked. The cheap carpet was thick enough to muffle the sound of his hooves, which probably kept his neighbors from reporting him for keeping livestock. These are the concerns of coexisting with humanity.

“I had a few questions for you, and this seemed more efficient than calling.” I let my gaze sweep lazily through the living room, taking in the half-filled boxes and the hasty piles of personal belongings. “Going somewhere?”

“Actually, yeah, so if you don’t mind—”

“How much did she pay you, Bucer?”