The Unkindest Tide (October Daye #13) - Seanan McGuire Page 0,139

shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Having solid ground beneath my feet again was a silent reminder of how very far we were from home, and how much farther I’d have to go in order to return to the comforting and the familiar. I stood at the center of the open space in front of Pete’s chair—which was less a “throne” and more “a large, ornate, excessively gilded prop that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Disney World”—and tried not to squirm.

It wasn’t easy. There were things about the situation that helped, like my being back in my own fully blood-free clothes, including my leather jacket, and my allies being in eyeshot, even if they weren’t all standing with me. Tybalt and Quentin flanked me. The Luidaeg and Patrick stood nearby, the one looking faintly bored, the other stone-faced and silent. Everyone else was at the edge of the crowd, watching. Waiting to see what was going to happen next.

And it was quite a crowd. What seemed like everyone in the entire Duchy of Ships had turned up, summoned by some silent signal to gather on all sides. There were people in the rafters and perching on the windowsills. Poppy and her Aes Sidhe friend were sitting together on one of the higher perches, their wings half-open, so that they became almost tangled. It was an interesting form of intimacy, and one I’d have to think about more later.

Pete herself was nowhere to be seen, having peeled off shortly before we took up our places in front of the dais. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying not to look at either Torin or the empty space where Pete should have been.

Torin was looking somewhat the worse for wear. His former guards had been given the task of standing guard over him, and whatever Pete had said when she ordered them to do it, they were taking her seriously. They had untied his feet, but his hands were still firmly bound behind his back. His gills were still red and raw. Even if he transformed back into his fishier form, I somehow doubted he was going to be swimming easy for a while.

Something wet touched my foot. I glanced down. A runnel of water was snaking its way across the perfectly level floor, moving like something with purpose and intent. I danced to the side, almost stepping in another runnel. It was joined by another, and another, until tiny streams were pouring in from all directions, pooling together at the base of the dais.

They flowed into a small pond, shimmering silver as it accumulated. Then, as if gravity held no relevance at all, the pond flowed up the dais steps, joining with still more runnels that had come down the walls and through the open windows. I glanced to the side. The Luidaeg was smirking, seeming tolerant and . . . amused?

If she thought this was funny, it was probably nothing to be too alarmed about. Probably. She found some pretty upsetting things funny, but she liked Quentin, and she was very firm on the idea that she’d eventually be the one to kill me. It was going to be okay. It was.

The water on the dais pulsed once, twice, and finally twisted upward into a column. I realized what was happening just before it started sculpting itself into the vague outline of a woman, naked and statuesque and gorgeous, from her broad hips and swelling bosom to the sturdy pillars of her thighs. The water surged upward and then burst, cascading down over the form of Captain Pete—of Amphitrite—in a final mighty wave.

Because this wasn’t the pirate queen, no, not at all; this was no figure from a storybook or play. This was one of the Firstborn, standing revealed with no illusions, no constraints. Her dress, such as it was, was a sheet of dark and living water, wrapped around her like a lover and slithering as sinuously as an eel, giving us glimpses of scaled, shark-belly skin, enough to tempt, enough to terrify. Her hair was braided with black pearls and small white beads that I suspected were bone, and her throat was exposed, revealing the gills I’d suspected she hid behind her hair.

There was a soft thudding sound as two of Torin’s former guards lost consciousness and tumbled to the floor. Amphitrite smirked and settled in her chair. At least the way she moved hadn’t changed. She still swaggered, still sauntered, still walked