One Salt Sea

May shook her head. “Never a moment’s peace around here, is there? Go. Do your job. Also, hi, Connor. I’m glad I’m not the one who opened the door.”

“Hi, May.” Connor smiled at her, letting go of me. “Don’t worry, I can tell the two of you apart.”

“You have no idea what a relief that is. Now make sure she comes home.” May turned her attention to Jazz, who was looking sleepily around the room. Dating a day-dweller isn’t easy. I did it when I was with Cliff, and I didn’t envy May the challenge.

The situation was getting away from me again. “I’ve got time,” I said. “The Queen doesn’t expect me until dusk tomorrow. Let’s go.”

“I’m coming,” announced Quentin. “I’m her squire.”

Connor blinked. “Okay, wow, I missed that memo. Sure, whatever. No one’s going to separate you from your knight.” He offered me a quick smile. “I brought a car.”

“Great. We’re definitely going to die.” I stepped onto the front porch, adding, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” May waved after us, and Quentin closed the door behind himself as he followed us outside.

Connor’s car was a boxy white rental, the sort of thing even the tourists try to avoid. Even better, it was illegally parked in front of a fire hydrant. He unlocked the doors with a click of the keys, and all three of us got in.

I fastened my seat belt, checking it to make sure it was tight. Connor’s not the world’s worst driver—that honor’s reserved for May—but that doesn’t make him good. “Where are we going?” I asked, once I was sure I wouldn’t fly out of the moving car.

“Ghirardelli Square.”

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“We’re meeting Duchess Lorden at a secure location just down the street,” he said, and started the engine.

San Francisco is a city full of people who like it when our desserts come with a floorshow, and that makes Ghirardelli Square a San Francisco institution. Where else can you get expensive chocolate and the amusement of watching tourists try to eat sundaes bigger than their heads? Unfortunately, that means the Square gets filled to capacity with people who think it’s “quaint.” Driving in that area is a nightmare. It wasn’t likely to be as bad at four in the morning, but after living in the city as long as I have, I’ve developed a natural aversion.

I got increasingly tense as we drove toward the wharf area where Ghirardelli Square is located. Connor’s driving wasn’t helping. I closed my eyes after the third time he turned the wrong way on a one-way street. That was when Quentin started popping his knuckles, producing a nerve-grinding sound that made my teeth itch. Every time I thought he was finished, he started over again, as Connor drove us jerkily toward our destination.

I was starting to think there’d be a homicide before we got there, and I wasn’t sure which one of us was going to be the killer.

The car pulled to a halt, and Connor said, “We’re here.”

I opened my eyes.

We were parked on the street outside the Square, where the slope of the hill was shallow enough to make parallel parking only somewhat dangerous, rather than actively suicidal. The lights in the surrounding shops were off, and the running lights of distant ships reflected off the smooth obsidian surface of the San Francisco Bay.

“Come on,” said Connor.

We went.

He led us down the empty, fog-shrouded street, heading for the patch of captive ocean on the other side. Instead of continuing down to the beach, he stopped at the bus shelter. Quentin and I stopped behind him, waiting for him to wave his hands and open some hidden entrance to an Undersea knowe. He did nothing of the sort. He just leaned up against the pole that marked the stop, waiting.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

Connor smiled. “Waiting for the bus.”

“Why did we leave behind your perfectly good car if it means we have to take the bus? If you say it was for the fresh air, I hit you.”

“You can’t find the place we’re going in a car. The bus stop, on the other hand, will work. I didn’t design the spell, but I’ve given up trying to work around it.” Connor shrugged as a bus pulled up. Grinning at my expression, he stepped backward, toward the opening doors. “My lady’s chariot awaits.”

“Whee,” I deadpanned, and followed him.

Connor boarded first, paying all three of our fares with a handful of quarters that would probably turn into sand dollars at sunrise. The driver grunted acknowledgment and waved us toward the back, not waiting for us to sit before he pulled away from the curb. I caught myself on one of the metal posts, swinging my ass into a seat. Quentin and Connor sat to either side of me.

There are always a few people on the all-night buses. They viewed our arrival with everything from exhaustion to mild suspicion, but didn’t say anything. Connor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and started talking, voice pitched low and urgent.

“You have to play nice. The rules she follows aren’t the ones you know, and the penalties for screwing with her are big. They don’t play games where she comes from.”

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?”