The Unkindest Tide (October Daye, #13)

by Seanan McGuire

Life is never simple, period. All we can do is hang on and hope for the best.

Sadly, knowing where trauma comes from doesn’t magically heal it. Only time and effort can do that.

“It’s sort of like going on vacation, except for the part where it’s not going to be restful and we’re all going to die.”

“Does anyone ever really know anyone else, or do we act like cartographers, drawing maps of unfamiliar shores, pretending it teaches us their secrets?

“We’re all supposed to be gone now, you see, lies and legends and bones at the bottom of the sea,”

“My mother wasn’t a megalomaniacal bitch who thinks of her kids as useful pieces in a century-spanning game of chess, but that didn’t make her a great communicator, and sometimes she’d make children out of random stuff when Dad was away. When

This explains a lot?

“Not like this,” snapped Pete, and for a moment, her scales were darker, like stormlight on the water, and I didn’t want to look at her too closely, for fear I’d somehow drown in her mere presence.

“There’s no one in this world you can trust all the time. Not even the people you love, not even the people who love you.”

“I’m the motherfucking sea witch. I don’t have to answer your question.”

She was unspeakable, a deepwater dream of drowning and despair, and her skin radiated cold. I didn’t know her with this face. But I recognized my friend in the downturned corners of her mouth and the tension of her shoulders, and I didn’t pull away.

Sir October Daye, hero of the realm, at basically anyone’s service but yours.”

The spell would wear off soon. Until it did, I’d have to live with gills in my throat and the occasional twinge from a skeleton that was no longer sure it loved the land the way it always had before.

“A drink a day keeps the crushing weight of the universe away,” said Liz, with something that actually resembled good cheer.

“Oh, offense taken,” I said. “You don’t get to decide where the offense goes. But, please, continue.”

You don’t like being by yourself. I don’t think many people do. Your family died or left you or turned out to be assholes, and that sucks, I can’t even start to say how bad that sucks, but Luidaeg—Annie—there’s a lot of different ways to make a family. We’re your family, too. All of us.” I waved a hand, encompassing Quentin and Tybalt. “We’re your weird, dysfunctional, foundling family, and we love you, and I think you love us. So you’re not going to turn my intestines into eels or my heart into an octopus. You’ve spent too much time grieving to do that to someone you’d have to mourn.”