One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

Tybalt frowned, sniffing the air. “It smells . . . wrong,” he said slowly.

I can weigh the balance of a person’s blood by breathing deep and rolling some intangible part of their fae heritage across my tongue. I hadn’t tried it at a distance before. I opened my mouth, tasting the air, and felt myself go cold.

“We have to run.”

Tybalt looked at me, questioning but not doubtful. “What is it?”

“Goblins.” As if that were some sort of sign, the veil of illusion that had been concealing the alley across from us shattered, revealing a cluster of Goblins. For an instant, we could only stand and stare.

Goblins are the shock troops of Faerie, and they represent the worst of what our world can be. I’ve met representatives of almost half the races in our world, and none of them have ever had a good thing to say about the Goblins. Most go into mercenary work, selling their services to the highest bidder, and they have little respect for the sanctity of Oberon’s Law. Goblins kill the immortal without looking back.

Twenty of them charged toward us, cloaked in a blurry haze that hid them from human eyes; if they caught us, no one would see us die. They were armored in uneven patches of beaten metal and leather that looked suspiciously like human—or fae—skin. Their ranks bristled with swords and spears, and they screamed at the tops of their lungs as they charged. It was meant to intimidate. It was working.

Tybalt’s lips drew back from his teeth, and he snarled, a low, guttural challenge that cut through the howls of the Goblins. Their front ranks faltered, perhaps rethinking the wisdom of charging a Cait Sidhe.

“There’s too many of them!” I shouted, drawing my knife.

“I know!”

Then the Goblins were upon us, and talking ceased to be a priority.

Goblins are cheap labor; that was the one thing we had going for us. They had the advantage in terms of numbers and weaponry, but most of them were young and too inexperienced to have faced many real fights. An old Goblin is a retired Goblin. These were all young Goblins, and they didn’t realize what they were in for when they faced a cornered Cait Sidhe and a changeling knight with nothing left to lose.

Tybalt fought like an animal, all teeth and claws and tearing fury. My own efforts were more restrained; I blocked and slashed with careful precision, aiming for throats and eyes. The Goblins laughed at my lack of armor until they felt the bite of silver across their faces or knuckles. They learned fast. They started coming at me with spears and longer swords, forcing me back.

A spear slipped past my guard, stabbing into the scar tissue on my shoulder. I screamed, slashing harder, and my attacker fell back, another immediately stepping up to take his place. It wasn’t until the first crossbow bolt whizzed past my head that I realized they were equipped for more than just hand-to-hand combat.

“Tybalt!” I shouted. “Elf-shot!”

He glanced over his shoulder at me, eyes wide and startled in a surprisingly pale face. Then he lunged, grabbing me around the middle and hauling us both backward, away from the closest tier of Goblins. An arrow zipped through the spot where I’d been standing only seconds before.

“What are you—” I began.

“Save your breath,” he hissed. “I’ll come for you.” Then his mouth was covering mine in a kiss as heated as the battle cries of the Goblins rushing up behind us. Everything seemed to slow for that one brief second, and I was all too aware of the heat from his skin, the press of his chest against mine, the faint pennyroyal scent of him. I started to kiss him back—