One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

“Good.”


I pulled around the last corner between us and the designated parking area and hit the brakes, swearing as I saw the gate blocking the entrance. Heavy chains held it shut. According to the posted sign, the park closed at sunset.

“Wait here,” said the Luidaeg, and climbed out of the car.

“What’s she doing?” asked Quentin.

“At this point? I have no idea.”

The Luidaeg walked to the locked gate and lifted the padlock that held the chains in place. She tapped it twice with her index finger, and it popped open, letting the chains fall loose. The Luidaeg unhooked them and swung the gate open.

She smiled into my window as I drove slowly past her, commenting, “Once you’ve pried open the gates of Tirn Aill with nothing but a headache and a stick, padlocks are surprisingly uncomplicated.”

“Uh, sure,” I said. She waved me to the nearest parking space, following the car as I pulled in and killed the engine.

I stretched as I got out of the car, taking a deep breath of the clean, redwood-scented air. I still wasn’t wearing a human disguise. In a place like this, where humans have done their best to step lightly and leave few traces behind, that felt appropriate. Connor and Quentin did much the same, even as they started scanning the woods around us.

Too bad we weren’t there to sightsee. “Quentin, I have a baseball bat you can use,” I said, brushing past the Luidaeg as I moved to open the trunk. “Connor, I don’t actually have any weapons for you—”

“That’s quite all right,” said Tybalt, from a point immediately behind my right shoulder. “I assumed that would be the case, and brought extra.”

I jumped, but managed not to embarrass myself by shrieking like a girl. Instead, I turned, finding myself eye-to-eye with Tybalt. He smiled with his usual easy arrogance, but I could see the concern in his eyes.

“Raj found you,” I said. My voice was lower than it had been when I was shouting to be heard by the people still getting out of the car. It felt like louder words had never escaped my lips.

“He did,” Tybalt agreed. “I was with my subjects, searching for our missing mice, and the rats that stole them.”

“Did you find anything?” I asked.

His expression darkened. “More, and less, than I wanted to,” he said. He dipped a hand into his pocket and produced what looked at first like a children’s toy—a bunch of dried sticks tied together with ribbon and string. I frowned at it, not sure what I was seeing.

Then the Luidaeg gasped. Her eyes went black from one side to the other as she pushed her way between us, grabbing the bundle and clutching it against her chest. Her sudden fury would almost have been amusing, if the air around us hadn’t been getting steadily colder. “Where. Did. You. Get. This?” she demanded, biting each word off into its own separate sentence.

“From the hand of a slain Goblin soldier,” replied Tybalt. He held his ground, somehow managing to meet the Luidaeg’s eyes without flinching. “He told me it had been given as a sign of faith by those who hired him.”

“Does somebody want to tell me what it is, since we’re all getting upset about it?” I asked.

The answer came from a surprising quarter: Quentin, who was standing off to one side, staring at the artifact with a look of nauseated awe on his face. “It’s a hand of bones,” he said. “Someone gave the Goblins a hand of bones?”