One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

I nodded. He was speaking in generalities; anyone overhearing us would think we were going to meet his dealer or something. His advice was likely to be good. He’s always known how to play the system, and he’s a lot more political than I am. Then again, that’s how he wound up married to Rayseline Torquill. Maybe there are advantages to being politically inept. “So what do we—”

“Here’s where we get off.” Connor hit the signal button, bringing the bus shuddering to a stop. The other passengers watched in silence as we rose from our seats and filed out the rear doors.

The bus stop was about five blocks and a hell of a lot of hill from where we’d started. Looking down gave me a view of the ocean from a practically vertical angle. “Now where?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the dizzying drop.

“This way.” Connor pointed at a dingy storefront whose guttering neon sign identified it as “Bill’s Seafood.” It was the only thing on the block that looked open. A menu was taped to the window, next to a sign that offered a ten percent discount for anyone who wore a shirt and shoes but no pants. Cute. And risky, at least in San Francisco, where people would probably be more than happy to take the management up on their offer.

“Well, Quentin,” I said, “it looks like we’re having dinner.” He offered an uneasy smile, and the two of us followed Connor inside.





THIRTEEN


THE DINER WAS SMALL ENOUGH to be claustrophobic, and the state of the floors and windows told me the owners weren’t particularly worried about the Health Department. The smell of hot grease and fried fish was so thick that breathing it was probably enough to clog the average man’s arteries. Pixies hovered above the counter, occasionally diving to seize chunks of deep-fried something from a platter that seemed to have been set out for that express purpose.

The man working the grill was portly, balding, and blue-skinned, with fringed gills ringing his neck. This had to be a purely fae establishment, like Home used to be—a business on the borderline between worlds, owned and operated without mortal intervention.

I glanced at Connor. “Could I find this place without you?”

Connor grinned. “Not unless Bill wanted you to.” He raised a hand in greeting to the man behind the counter. “Hey, Bill.”

Bill looked up, jerking a thumb toward the door at the back of the diner. “She’s waitin’ for you.”

“Got it,” said Connor. “Toby, come on.”

“Private room?” I asked, following. Quentin was only a step behind me, although his attention was diverted by the fish on the counter. Daoine Sidhe and knight-in-training or not, he’s still a teenage boy. “Do they serve food back there?”

Quentin shot me a grateful look. Connor nodded.

“Sure.” Looking back over his shoulder, he called, “Bill! Three seafood stews and a fish and chips platter to the back.” He glanced at Quentin and added, “And a chocolate milkshake.”

“Large,” said Quentin.

“Got it,” rumbled Bill. “Herself has already been here for a while. I’d move it if I were you.”

“We’re moving,” said Connor. He pushed open the door to the back, shooting me a pleading look before stepping inside. I’d have had to be blind to miss the “please behave” in his expression.

I rolled my eyes, following him into the room, and stopped dead. “Holy . . .”

We could have been standing in the main dining room of a five-star restaurant, the sort that tourists would sell kidneys to get reservations with. The opposite wall consisted of three sets of massive sliding glass doors, leading out to a balcony that might, on a warmer night, have been a pleasant place to nurse a cocktail or two. They were open, letting a breeze blow in to circulate the air. The other walls were varnished redwood, and the tabletops were gray slate shot through with veins of white. An appetizer in a place like this would cost me a month’s rent. Maybe two.