One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

“I realize we’ve just met, and you’re probably going to think I’m insane, but I need you to do exactly what I say, okay? Don’t look surprised, don’t yell, just nod if you understand.”


I glanced to the side long enough to see Patrick’s nod. His shoulders were suddenly tense. I hoped our shooter wouldn’t notice. I was happier with them trying to line up “the perfect shot” than I was with the idea of an early shot that might get lucky.

“Good. I’m going to hand Connor my glass, and then I’m going to tackle you. Don’t fight me, don’t try to pull away. Connor, when I move, hit the floor. Don’t turn, just dive.”

“Toby, what—”

“Trust me.” I plastered a smile across my face as I turned to press my glass into Connor’s free hand. Then I launched myself into Patrick, knocking us both to the floor.

I heard, rather than saw, Connor following us down. He dropped the wineglasses as he fell, and they shattered when they hit the marble, sending glass shards flying in all directions. There was another, far more ominous sound at the same time: the zing of an arrow passing over my head. Someone screamed, and the ballroom dissolved into chaos.

People scattered, putting distance between themselves and us as quickly as they could. I ignored them, holding Patrick down and counting to ten. When no further shots were fired, I pushed myself back to my feet, letting Patrick and Connor get up on their own while I turned back to the balcony.

It was empty.

“Root and branch,” I snarled.

“Toby?”

“Alert the guards. That was an assassination attempt.” I stalked over to the arrow, crouching next to it.

It was only a few feet from where we’d been standing, the arrowhead buried in the marble floor at a depth many mortal bullets couldn’t have managed. Fae munitions may be old-fashioned, but they’re frighteningly effective. The shaft was polished, black-stained mistletoe—the generic option for elf-shot. The stain might been a clue if it had been any other color, since most noble houses keep a limited range of wood dyes on hand, but black is an assassin’s color, and there’s no noble house that doesn’t occasionally feel the need for one of those. It wasn’t going to do me any good at all.

I reached for the arrow, and stopped as the Luidaeg’s shell suddenly burned cold, telling me that touching the wood with my bare hands wasn’t the best idea. “Anybody got a shirt I can borrow?”

“Here,” said Patrick, shrugging out of his leather vest and offering it to me. I nodded the thanks that Faerie etiquette wouldn’t let me offer aloud before leaning over and carefully wrapping the vest around the arrow’s shaft.

“You may want to step back,” I said. “This thing could be rigged to explode.” On that cheery note, I gripped the arrow with both hands, and pulled.

The arrow came loose immediately—not what I’d been expecting from something that traveled with enough force to bury itself in solid stone. I staggered backward, barely managing to keep from toppling over. Once I was sure I was stable, I raised the arrow to my nose and sniffed, looking for any lingering traces of magic. The wood smelled acrid; it was a bottled spell, and, unfortunately, it was a familiar one.

“Elf-shot,” I said, disgusted.

Connor was suddenly behind me, the air crackling with the salty scent of his magic as it gathered in response to the potential threat. “Are you all right?”

I stood, giving him a reassuring nod before turning to Patrick. I shifted the position of the vest so as to expose as much of the arrow as possible without actually touching the thing. “This is fletched with owl feathers,” I said. “Does it match any design you recognize?”

“No.” He was pale but standing, and he looked like he was staying reasonably calm; that was good. The last thing I needed was a hysterical Ducal consort. “It’s nothing I’ve seen before.”