A Red-Rose Chain
(The ninth book in the October Daye series)
A novel by Seanan McGuire
For Brooke.
I am so lucky to have you in my life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
Every new Toby book is an adventure for me as a writer just as much as it (hopefully) is for you as a reader. A Red-Rose Chain was a surprise from start to finish, and that’s the best kind of book for me, as a writer. I learned things that excited me, and I’m so glad that you’re still here.
As always, there are people who need to be thanked. Thanks to the Machete Squad, for tireless support and editorial assistance, and to the entire team at DAW, without whose faith in me this book would not exist. Thanks to Talis, Teddy, and Amal, for hosting me at various spots around the United Kingdom while I finished this book, and to my entire Parisian crew, for not drowning me in the hot tub located in the basement of our Murder Palace.
Thank you Vixy, for continuing to put up with me; Amy, for continuing to love me; and Shawn, for clicking on all those axolotl pictures I send you. Thanks to Patty, for understanding that sometimes I am just going to become God’s problem, and to Robert and Rachel for emergency staffing duties.
Sheila Gilbert remains the best of all possible editors, Diana Fox remains the best of all possible agents, and Chris McGrath remains the best of all possible cover artists. While we’re on this track, my cats are the best of all possible cats. So are yours, if you have them. All hail the pit crew: Christopher Mangum, Tara O’Shea, and Kate Secor.
My soundtrack while writing A Red-Rose Chain consisted mostly of Songs About Teeth, by Cake Bake Betty, Caffeine & Big Dreams, by Kira Isabella, the soundtrack of Ghost Brothers of Darkland County, endless live concert recordings of the Counting Crows, and a really awesome playlist made for me by Amal. Any errors in this book are entirely my own. The errors that aren’t here are the ones that all these people helped me fix.
Welcome back.
OCTOBER DAYE PRONUNCIATION GUIDE THROUGH A RED-ROSE CHAIN
All pronunciations are given strictly phonetically. This only covers races explicitly named in the first nine books, omitting Undersea races not appearing or mentioned in book nine.
Afanc: ah-fank. Plural is “Afanc.”
Annwn: ah-noon. No plural exists.
Bannick: ban-nick. Plural is “Bannicks.”
Barghest: bar-guy-st. Plural is “Barghests.”
Blodynbryd: blow-din-brid. Plural is “Blodynbryds.”
Cait Sidhe: kay-th shee. Plural is “Cait Sidhe.”
Candela: can-dee-la. Plural is “Candela.”
Coblynau: cob-lee-now. Plural is “Coblynau.”
Cu Sidhe: coo shee. Plural is “Cu Sidhe.”
Daoine Sidhe: doon-ya shee. Plural is “Daoine Sidhe,” diminutive is “Daoine.”
Djinn: jin. Plural is “Djinn.”
Dóchas Sidhe: doe-sh-as shee. Plural is “Dóchas Sidhe.”
Ellyllon: el-lee-lawn. Plural is “Ellyllons.”
Gean-Cannah: gee-ann can-na. Plural is “Gean-Cannah.”
Glastig: glass-tig. Plural is “Glastigs.”
Gwragen: guh-war-a-gen. Plural is “Gwragen.”
Hamadryad: ha-ma-dry-add. Plural is “Hamadryads.”
Hippocampus: hip-po-cam-pus. Plural is “Hippocampi.”
Kelpie: kel-pee. Plural is “Kelpies.”
Kitsune: kit-soo-nay. Plural is “Kitsune.”
Lamia: lay-me-a. Plural is “Lamia.”
The Luidaeg: the lou-sha-k. No plural exists.
Manticore: man-tee-core. Plural is “Manticores.”
Mauthe Doog: mwa-th doo-g. Plural is “Mauthe Doog.”
Naiad: nigh-add. Plural is “Naiads.”
Nixie: nix-ee. Plural is “Nixen.”
Peri: pear-ee. Plural is “Peri.”
Piskie: piss-key. Plural is “Piskies.”
Puca: puh-ca. Plural is “Pucas.”
Roane: row-n. Plural is “Roane.”
Satyr: say-tur. Plural is “Satyrs.”
Selkie: sell-key. Plural is “Selkies.”
Shyi Shuai: shh-yee shh-why. Plural is “Shyi Shuai.”
Silene: sigh-lean. Plural is “Silene.”
Tuatha de Dannan: tootha day danan. Plural is “Tuatha de Dannan,” diminutive is “Tuatha.”
Tylwyth Teg: till-with teeg. Plural is “Tylwyth Teg,” diminutive is “Tylwyth.”
Urisk: you-risk. Plural is “Urisk.”
ONE
March 11th, 2013
Thus he that overruled I oversway’d,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey’d,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
“SO HOW LONG ARE you and the kitty-cat plannin’ on doing this whole ‘engagement’ thing?” Danny punctuated his words with a sweep of one heavy hand. The motion neatly swatted the enormous black dog that had been leaping for my head out of the air, sending it crashing to the ground. It yelped. Danny pointed at it, saying sternly, “Stay down, ya big mutt!”
“Could we focus on the Mauthe Doog for right now, and talk about my engagement later?” I asked, as I swung my sword at another of the shaggy canines. It dodged easily. They all had. I wasn’t as good with a blade as Danny was with his hands, and in the end, I was just too slow. “I don’t want to be torn to shreds because you’re planning floral arrangements!”
I would normally have felt bad about attacking dogs with swords. I like dogs. Most dogs aren’t feral teleporters the size of small ponies. Human animal rights groups have very different problems than fae ones. For one thing, most human animal rights groups don’t have to worry as much about being eaten.
“I’m just sayin’, maybe you need to start talking about dates.” Danny grabbed another dog by the tail, scolding, “No. Bad. We don’t eat people.”
The dog snarled and snapped at him, not quite managing to twist around enough to sink its teeth into his arm. That was a pity. Danny’s a Bridge Troll, with the solid, concrete-like skin to prove it. If the dog had tried to take a bite out of him, it would have probably broken several teeth, and made itself a lot less dangerous to me.
With most people, it’s unfair for me to expect them to play shield. I heal faster than anyone else I’ve ever met, to the point where if I watch closely I can actually see my skin knitting back together—and trust me, that’s even more unnerving than it sounds. Danny is one of the few exceptions to this rule. He’s huge, imposing, and virtually indestructible. He heals slower than I do, but that doesn’t matter, because there’s almost nothing that can actually injure him. All of this makes him uniquely well-suited to being my partner when I have to do something ridiculously dangerous—like, say, clearing out a pack of Mauthe Doog that should never have been roving the salt flats of Marin.
Not that we were out there alone. My squire, Quentin Sollys, and my boyfriend-slash-fiancé, Tybalt, were about fifty yards away, dealing with their own contingent of black dogs. Quentin had his sword, and was handling his share of the problem with a grace and finesse that I will probably never possess, even if I live to be a thousand—although he hadn’t managed to land a hit, either. The dogs were just too fast for something as clumsy as a sword. Tybalt was having better luck. He had shifted far enough into his feline mien that his hands had become heavy with claws and his mouth bristled with teeth, and he was taking out his share of the Mauthe Doog in the classic cat-meets-dog fashion. I could hear his feral snarls, and the dogs’ pained yelps, all the way down the beach.