As the last of them slipped out of her grasp, Jacque let out a scream that rose and shook until the edges of the worlds shook with it. The silvery bubble of the Grey collapsed with the sound of a gong reverberating across the water and the last impressions of the ghosts vanished into the darkness of the natural sky thickly spread with stars and smeared here and there with the smudges of summer clouds still holding the ruddy tinge of the sun that had already slipped below the horizon. It hadn’t felt like fifteen minutes had elapsed. . . .
But, against my hope, the sea witch was still here, or, more to the point, not there. The gateway had collapsed but she was here in the world—the normal world—and I didn’t have the ghost receptacles, which meant she still had power. I didn’t know why she was still here and not locked away again in her bubble of Otherplace, but I’d have to worry about it later as my mind threw out a stream of curses I didn’t have the breath to vent.
The sea witch threw herself at me, no words this time, no declarations of hate, only action meant to bring me down. As long as the other ghosts remained unclaimed she still had power, but she seemed too angry to use it and turned to her fists and teeth instead.
I dropped the bell and fought back, but I was slow and dizzy from the pain in my chest that seemed to be shutting down my ability to breathe, to focus, to see. . . . I struck back more by instinct than anything else, blind and desperate and flailing.
I managed to duck her next blow, diving to the deck and rolling forward, but the cost in black agony was high and I staggered, trying to rise again. I turned around as she flung herself at me with taloned hands outstretched, jaws opening improbably wide to bite at my face. I hopped sideways, falling as much as anything, and turning to get behind her, but she still managed to gouge a bit of waterproof nylon and flesh from my left arm as she whirled around.
I stifled a cry as the yellow slicker shed tears of my blood. She turned back and grinned as I lost my footing and landed hard with one knee against the wet dock boards. Then she darted forward again, swooping lower this time, knowing I could only go down to avoid her.
I knew Solis was somewhere behind me but I wasn’t sure how far away or if his hands were full. I couldn’t spare the attention to find out. I’d have to fend for myself. My vision was unfocused through tears that welled with the agony in my side and arm but I could still see her coming. I shoved my right hand into my pocket and hoped I wouldn’t pass out. . . .
She raked her hands toward my throat, scoring lines in my skin.
I fell flat backward, clutching the gun in my pocket and tilting it upward. I squeezed the grips and trigger, feeling the jolt and burn as the bullet ripped through the fabric, scattering burning residue and jetting hot gas against my hand in the confined hollow of my coat pocket.
She made a guttural sound as she passed over me, kicking, then turning with a jerk, unharmed. She was laughing. She stomped at my head and I rolled aside but she still connected. I screamed as her foot dug into my unbroken ribs, jarring the rest of my body and heaving me a short distance forward, where I folded into a half-fallen heap, unable to breathe or move out of her path, barely staying as upright and conscious as I was. I squeezed my eyes against the pain and tried to rise past my knees—I did not want to die again. Not now and especially not crushed down like a broken toy.
I could hear her moving closer, speaking, her voice rising with a wind that came to her call. Electricity hummed and crackled in the air, raising the hair on my neck and arms and prickling across my skin. I didn’t know any counters to this but to shut her mouth, and though I struggled to point the gun at her again, I couldn’t see her well enough between my pain and tears to be sure I would hit her.
There was a scrabbling sound behind her and the sea witch gasped, lunged down against me, then squealed and went limp, her weight shoving me all the way to the deck. I pushed her weakly aside and crawled away, turning my head to see why she had collapsed.
Panting and wiping red fluid from his face, Solis backed away from the crumpled, still body of the sea witch. The karambit, clutched in his fist, dripped blood from its claw-shaped blade.
Fielding yelped behind him and rolled onto his side, his shape shifting toward otter. Solis spun, the knife low and ready to take on whatever came next. Then he dropped it to the decking and dove after the mutating dobhar-chú. It eeled out of his grasp and bounded for the seaward end of the dock. Solis scrambled to catch the creature but the odds seemed to be in Fielding’s favor.
I managed to pull my pistol out of my inner jacket pocket and from my prone position it wasn’t so hard to fire into the wooden planking just ahead of the fleeing otter. Pure dumb luck, I assure you, because I was shaking too hard for it to be anything else. Fielding skidded to a stop and looked around for another escape.
I gulped in a breath. “Don’t try,” I warned him. “I will shoot you. Next time. And damn to Father Otter.” I felt like I’d been steamrollered, but I must have been terrifying: still dangerous even flattened to the deck.
Fielding stayed, cringing, where he was and slowly shifted back to his human form. “I’m sorry. Please don’t shoot me. I won’t run.”
I glanced up at Solis and watched him turn to collect Fielding and bundle him into the boat.
I put my head down for a moment and lay on the wet dock until Solis returned to help me up. “That wasn’t fifteen minutes,” I whispered. “We failed.”
He shook his head and kept me moving forward. “Not yet.”
I staggered with him to the boat as he dragged the bell along. I tried not to look weak as a newborn until it was too late for Fielding to change his mind, but maybe no one cared, since I was sure I looked as helpless as I felt. I needed to stop making a habit of this sort of bravado, especially when my head was reeling and I was barely keeping my feet under me. I figured my luck was nearly over.
I oozed into the dinghy and literally sat on Fielding to keep him from shifting form all the way back to Mambo Moon.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The waters of the cove fell still and silent as Solis guided the little boat back to the larger one. The surface no longer churned and there was no sign of the battling creatures of fur and fin, though I was sure they were somewhere. As we maneuvered to come next to Mambo Moon’s steps, I thought I heard a woman’s voice from the deck just out of view. Quinton, seeming prescient but probably just hearing the engine, leaned over the side and caught the line Solis tossed to him to help us tie up and come aboard. I needed a lot more help than I had when we left, and keeping Fielding in line had to be put in the hands of another.
The other being Father Otter, who jumped down into the dinghy as we left it and hauled Fielding out, fairly chasing him up on deck with sharp pinches and snaps of his teeth, reminiscent of the way he’d bitten and shaken the other dobhar-chú earlier when they were both in otter form. I was so startled to see Father Otter that I stared in bold silence as Quinton and Solis helped me on board and along the deck. But there was more yet to shock me: As we rounded the side and came onto the aft deck and into the glow of electric light shining from the cabin, I saw Shelly Knight standing beside the fish hold and talking to Paul Zantree—who was holding a slender, curved sword that was certainly not a pirate-show prop.
Shelly’s pale green hair swirled around her as if she were floating in water rather than standing on the deck in plain air. She was the same woman I’d seen in the photos and a few minutes before on the dock and yet she had changed dramatically—she glowed now and had a regal air, seeming taller and moving with ineffable grace. It appeared Zantree had lent her a bathrobe and that seemed a faintly ridiculous cover for such arresting beauty. Her skin reflected the light from the cabin like the surface of a pearl—a sheen of rose, green, and blue hovering over her exposed limbs and face. Her voice was very low but it cut through the creaking of the boat and the lapping of waves with the clear, quiet sound of water trickling over rocks, softly, gently wearing them away.