One Salt Sea
Page 40
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?”
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.
Dianda Lorden sat alone at the sole occupied table. A half-empty plate of seafood linguine was pushed to one side, and she was sipping from a wineglass of cloudy liquid. Whatever she was drinking was probably heavily laced with salt. Merrow shunt salt almost as fast as they take it in. Normally, just breathing underwater would replenish her body’s supply. Up here, she needed to find other ways to add it to her diet.
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?”
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.
Dianda Lorden sat alone at the sole occupied table. A half-empty plate of seafood linguine was pushed to one side, and she was sipping from a wineglass of cloudy liquid. Whatever she was drinking was probably heavily laced with salt. Merrow shunt salt almost as fast as they take it in. Normally, just breathing underwater would replenish her body’s supply. Up here, she needed to find other ways to add it to her diet.
