Page 68 of The Unkindest Tide

Tybalt sighed, sounding exquisitely put-upon—and slightly relieved at the same time. If I was doing this with him, I wasn’t going to be tempted to run away and do it without him. “As you wish,” he said, and folded forward and inward at the same time, the scent of musk and pennyroyal filling the air as he landed on all four feet in the sand, a tabby cat instead of a nearly-human man. One of his ears was tattered, the artifact of some fight long before we’d come to know each other. His eyes were the same. I would always, always know him, by those eyes.

Tybalt sauntered over to wind himself around my ankles once, twice, three times before stepping more delicately toward the circle of disturbed sand, his tail low and twitching behind him, his nose pressed close to the ground and his whiskers fanned forward as far as they would go. He sniffed, sneezed, and then began slinking toward the far end of the sand, toward the place where the artificial land dropped away and became all too real ocean.

At the very edge, he stopped, yowled, and looked back over his shoulder at me. I knew a cue when I saw one. I walked over and looked down . . .

. . . and there, floating in the tangled kelp that matted around the pylons, was a gray sealskin without anyone to wear it, cast aside like so much garbage. My stomach churned, threatening to bring up my last several meals for a repeat engagement.

“René, stay back.” My voice was remarkably steady. I wanted to be proud of that. I couldn’t quite manage it.

Isla’s killer hadn’t been content with ripping the skin off her shoulders and pushing her into the sea to die. They had thrown her skin in after her. I wanted to believe they’d thrown them both in at the same time, giving her a fighting chance, even if she hadn’t been able to stay alive long enough to benefit from it. I couldn’t. I knew, without any proof beyond the gnawing in my gut, that her killer had waited until she went under before they threw her skin after her. Selkies learned to swim while they were still human. They had stood here, skin in their hands, watching her drown. Only when there was no chance the sea could still be kind had they thrown her skin in after her, willing to let it be lost forever.

Maybe that had been the plan for Isla and her skin alike. Let the leader of one of the Selkie clans disappear the day before the Luidaeg’s long-delayed judgment was finally to be passed, and see what that did to the rest of them. Could any of the Selkies resist the urge to run, if they believed Isla had been able to get away clean?

And if they had run, if they had believed . . . who would have benefitted from that? Who would have stood to gain from having the Luidaeg’s oaths broken?

René moved to stand next to me. I gave him a careful sidelong look. He was staring at the skin with open avarice, and I had to wonder at the coincidence of it all. The murdered clan leader was the sister of another clan leader’s husband, one who had been seen publicly questioning the Luidaeg. If he got his hands on his sister’s skin, would we ever see it again?

The chain of evidence matters, even in Faerie. I shrugged out of my jacket, offering it to Quentin, who had appeared—as expected—by my shoulder. “Keep René up here,” I said. “Whatever you do, don’t let him into the water.”

“What are you—”

His question cut off mid-sentence as I did the only thing I could do and leapt off the edge of the dock, arms pinwheeling wildly as I plummeted toward the waiting sea. Two immersions in one day. Three, if I counted entering and leaving the knowe at Saltmist as separate incidents. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

The wind whipped at my face as I fell. I barely had time to close my eyes and hunch my shoulders before I slammed into the water like a stone flung through a window. The impact knocked the air out of my lungs and shoved me well below the surface. I gasped, unable to help myself. Water filled my mouth and throat, and for a moment, I knew what it had been like for Isla when she drowned, betrayed by a world she had believed would always, always love her.

The Luidaeg’s magic flared around me, and my body changed without my urging it to do so, acquiring fins and scales and most importantly, gills. I took a grateful breath, feeling the water fill me as a source of life, not death. It seemed lighter now, more welcoming. I turned over, getting my bearings back, and flicked my tail to drive me toward the surface.

Isla’s sealskin was there, tangled in the kelp. I took it in my hands, and nearly let it go again as it began singing through my skin, offering me the waves, the world—an escape.

Put me on, and you won’t have to worry about the prophecy made for your mother’s sake, it whispered. Only a child of Amandine’s line can be so bound. You could be free. You could be with your daughter forever, for eternity, for always. Put me on, and be remade.

It was tempting. Of course it was tempting. The skin wanted to be worn. Whether it was a compulsion charm or simple self-preservation, the skin wanted to be worn, and I was the closest available wearer.

No wonder the Selkies had always worked so hard to make sure their skins were passed hand to hand, and not left to sit fallow on a shelf, waiting for a worthy bearer. An unworn skin was a skin seeking a shoulder to wrap itself around.

Well, it wasn’t going to be mine. I knew how Selkie skins worked, thanks to the Luidaeg tying one around my daughter. If I draped it over myself, even for a second, everything I was would be remade, Dóchas Sidhe replaced by Selkie-maid forevermore. It would be a way for the Selkies to save themselves: without me, the Luidaeg wouldn’t be able to resurrect the Roane. My place in Amandine’s line would end, leaving only Mom, and August, to play whatever role Faerie intended for our messed-up little family.

“They have to be taken voluntarily,” I muttered to myself, tightening my grip on the skin, resisting the urge to cast it aside as fiercely as I could. “They aren’t leeches, they can’t just latch on.” For all that the skin felt hot and vital in my hands, it wasn’t moving. It couldn’t grab me.

Now there was just the question of how I was going to get back up. I twisted in the water, looking toward the edge of the dock high above me. Tybalt and Quentin were both leaning over the edge. Tybalt was back in his human form, making no effort to hide his displeasure as he glowered down at me. I raised one hand in a small, sheepish wave.

“Hi,” I called. “Either of you got a rope?”

SEVENTEEN

THEY DID NOT, in fact, have a rope. Or a ladder, or even so much as a pool floaty. What they did have was a traumatized Selkie who wanted his sister’s skin back, and was perfectly happy to jump into the water after me. Since that wasn’t currently an option, a bunch of yelling followed, while Tybalt and Quentin tried to restrain him without looking like they were restraining him. Fun for the whole dysfunctional family.

After consulting with René, it was determined that the fastest way to get me back into the Duchy of Ships without causing a panic among the rest of the Selkies would be to swim around to the merchant docks and hitch a ride in a fishnet. Surrounded by fish. Because that wasn’t going to give me nightmares for the remainder of my semi-immortal life.

“I hate water,” I muttered, kicking along with my head just above the surface. Several enterprising waves had already slapped me in the face, but it was better to be able to see my people pacing me on the dock above than to potentially get myself lost somewhere under the Duchy and be stuck there when the Luidaeg’s spell wore off.

Another wave slapped me, as if in response to my comment. I spat out saltwater and glared at the ocean, which was generally unimpressed.

“I hate water, I hate waves, I hate fish, I hate everything about this.” I spat again for good measure, trying to get the salt out of my mouth. It didn’t work. Everything tasted like brine, and probably would until the next time I ended up with a mouthful of blood.

I would have preferred that at the moment, and that alone was a terrible statement about my situation.

Quentin and Tybalt didn’t look any happier than I felt. Tybalt kept casting sharp looks in my direction, and had twice caught Quentin before he could throw himself over the side. I understood why Quentin wanted to—the Luidaeg had enchanted us at the same time; if I was safe in the water, so was he—and was still thankful Tybalt was stopping him. The spell was due to wear off at any time. I could drown and recover from it. Quentin couldn’t. For him, dead was dead, and I did not want to try explaining that to his parents.