One Salt Sea

TWENTY-FIVE

“THE ASRAI SAY THEY CAN FEEL pain when they look into the box,” said Patrick, dull misery surrounding every word. “They say it’s likely he was still alive when it was removed.”

Quentin made a small, dismayed sound. I didn’t blame him. A gnawing anger was uncurling in the pit of my stomach. How dare they? Whoever was helping Raysel with this—Dugan or someone else—how dare they? Children are the most precious thing Faerie has. Cutting pieces off of them to make a point is beyond wrong. As far as I’m concerned, it’s actively evil.

“I . . . Oberon’s bones, Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to find your sons, I swear.” I shook my head, trying to shake away the idea of someone doing something like that to a child. “Why did you bring it here?”

“I asked him to,” said Connor. I turned to stare at him. “I reminded him of who your mother is, and what you can do. You can do it, can’t you?”

“Why can’t he?” asked Raj.

“Raj!” I said. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t understand—”

To my surprise, Patrick actually laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, and there was no humor behind it, but it was laughter. “He’s Cait Sidhe. He doesn’t need to understand, now, does he? That’s been the rule since time immemorial. I can’t do it myself, young squire, because my blood magic was never that strong, and I’ve spent too long in the water. What power I had has been long since diluted, and all that’s left for me is illusions.”

“Oh,” said Raj. Then: “So you really want her to . . . ?”

“They want me to ride Dean’s blood,” I said.

Raj made a disgusted face. “Ew. Isn’t that dangerous? And icky?”

I took a shaky breath. “I’m not sure that matters.”

Connor was right. Daoine Sidhe can use even a small amount of blood to ride the memories and experiences of the person it was drawn from. My mother and I—the Dóchas Sidhe—make them look like amateurs. Blood clings to flesh, no matter how carefully it’s been drained; even the fae who drink the stuff can’t completely remove it from a body. More importantly, I could confirm that Dean was alive when his finger was cut off.

Maybe I could even use it to find the underground room that smelled of spices. The one where a Selkie died, and a war truly began. Raj was right, too—blood magic is dangerous for me. I have power, but very little training, and the only woman who could train me is insane. And none of that mattered anymore. This might be the only way to stop the war.

This might be the only way to bring Gillian home.

“I said I’d do whatever I could,” I said. I stood again, stepping down from the dais. Quentin and Raj moved to follow me. I gestured for them to stay where they were. There were things they didn’t need to see.

Patrick stared at me for a moment, like he still wasn’t quite willing to let himself believe. Then his composure slipped, just enough to let me see the rawness beneath it. “They have my children,” he said. “I don’t care about war. I don’t care what we have to do to get them back. They could be hurt worse next time, they could be—”

“Whoever it is has my daughter, too, and they’re alive.” The certainty in my voice stunned the entire room into silence. I kept my eyes on Patrick. “I called the night-haunts to me. They hadn’t seen your sons. The night-haunts hadn’t seen them. Wherever your boys are, they’re alive.”

A new quality crept into Patrick’s expression: hope. It was painful to see, because it illustrated how bleak he’d looked, and how bleak I knew I still looked. He had hope for his sons, and I was running out of hope for my daughter. Rayseline had reason to keep Dean and Peter alive, at least for now. I couldn’t come up with any good reasons for her to spare Gillian.

“Could they . . .” He licked his lips. “Could the night-haunts have lied?”

“Night-haunts don’t lie,” said May, her voice loud in the hush. We all turned to look at her. She tipped her chin up, very slightly, and looked me in the eyes as she said, “The night-haunts never lie. They could, if they wanted to, but they don’t really see the point. The truth is so much more dangerous than a lie.”

I blinked at her for a moment before shaking my head and looking back to Patrick. “There you go,” I said. “The night-haunts didn’t lie.”

“They’re alive,” said Patrick, sounding stunned. One of the Merrow burst into tears, burying his face against the shoulder of the Selkie next to him. It was a moment of private elation. I should have looked away. There wasn’t time.

“Now we just need to make sure they stay that way,” I said. The room’s air of relief faded, cold reality intruding on their momentary joy. They didn’t like it. That was okay, because neither did I.

Patrick nodded, glancing at Connor. “Connor was right to bring us to you. He has my thanks.”

Connor stared at him, visibly trying to frame a response.

Patrick ignored him, turning his attention to the box, instead. He tapped all four corners with his thumb before kissing his forefinger and touching the latch. The gold ring dissolved into mist, leaving the air smelling of steel as the chains fell to dangle uselessly. Patrick held the box out to me. “I was raised in the land Courts. I remember your mother.”

“I’m just a changeling,” I cautioned. “I’m not in her league.”

“I’ve heard the stories—Connor alone tells enough to give your skills away, and you invoke the Luidaeg when you give your references. Even my wife likes you, as much as she likes anyone.” He smiled slightly. “You’re a lot of things, but ‘just a changeling’ isn’t one of them.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, and reached for the box, only to jerk my hands away as soon as I touched it. I could feel Dean’s blood through the wood, still as connected to Faerie as when it was running through his veins. There was a time when I could have held the finger in my hand and not felt anything, and now I could hear the blood calling me through sealed, enchanted wood. Just one more thing to thank my mother for.

Slowly, more prepared this time, I grasped the box again. For a moment, I thought Patrick wasn’t going to let me take it from him. Then he sighed, unlocking his fingers. “Find them?” It was closer to a plea than a request, filled with a parent’s need to have his heart returned. I’ve heard that tone in a lot of voices, including my own.

“I’ll do what I can,” I repeated. I wanted to make wild promises and swear that it would all be okay, but I couldn’t do that to him.

“Thank you,” he said, voice solemn. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank you” is a binding contract in Faerie. For once, I didn’t flinch when I heard it. “You’re welcome,” I said, and glanced around the Undersea delegation. Connor knew what came next. He blanched. None of the others seemed to have a clue. Shaking my head, I turned back to Patrick.

“You know what it takes for me to get answers from this,” I said.

Patrick nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“I can do it here, or I can leave you here while I take care of things. It’s up to you. I won’t make you watch.”

“I need to see,” said Patrick. “I appreciate you trying to spare me, but—”

“I understand. I’d feel the same. But do your people need to see this?” He paled. I continued, “Let’s take the third option. They stay here, and you come with me.”

He hesitated before nodding, slowly. The Roane woman gave his arm another reassuring pat.

“There, there, my lovely one. She’ll steer you sure enough. Just never let her near the silver. Line of thieves, hers is, and they’d rob even royalty blind.” She turned a mad, serene smile on me. “I know you’ve not stolen half a heartbeat from a stolen child as yet, but you will, given time. You will.”

I frowned. “May?”

“Yes?”

“Take care of the delegation. Quentin and Raj can help with the refreshments. Your Grace, if you’ll come with me?” I didn’t wait for an answer before turning on my heel and walking toward the hall. The box was starting to vibrate in my hands. The blood knew I was there; it wanted to be heard.

Patrick followed me down the hall to the room where I’d gone to summon the night-haunts. It was the only space I could be sure we’d have entirely to ourselves, and there was something fitting, somehow, in going there to ride the blood of someone I desperately hoped was still alive.

He didn’t say anything about the furniture cluttering the hall. That was a definite point in his favor. He did, however, look deeply discomforted when I led him into the solarium and closed the door. Maybe he was just now realizing the reality of what I was about to do.

I walked to the center of the room and sat, cross-legged, in the circle of blood I’d drawn there earlier. If Patrick wondered why I had a circle of blood ready and waiting, he had the good manners not to ask. The vibrations from the box were getting stronger. The blood wanted my attention, and I had to either give in or get it away from me. I glanced back to Patrick, watching him sit across from me. He winced when he bent his knees. Then, meeting my eyes, he nodded.

I opened the box.

The interior was cushioned in dark blue velvet, with Dean’s severed finger resting in the middle like a macabre parody of a woman’s finest jewels. I looked up at Patrick one last time.

“You really don’t have to be here for this,” I said quietly.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

I hesitated before reaching into the box, scooping up the finger. It was almost obscenely light, and the blood was nearly screaming now that it was so close to me. I gave Patrick a final glance, and turned my attention to the task at hand.

Dean’s finger had been severed at the joint without splintering the bone. I could analytically respect that—it would have made it easier to stop the bleeding—even as I wanted to kill the people responsible. Closing my eyes, I raised the finger’s severed end to my lips, and drank.