by James, Ella
Even when we’re elbow-to-elbow, she moves at a snail’s pace. Our shoes slosh through the runoff, and she ducks her head, holding her jacket hood with one hand. When we’re back up level with the plateau where I landed underneath the arch, she hefts her pack onto her back.
I put a hand on it. “Let me.”
She snorts. “Did I just tumble down the slope?”
“No, but—”
“Thank you. Now proceeding.”
I shake my head, immediately regretting it when struck with a bullet of pain, and follow her under the archway. She starts down the slope’s back side; I stop to absorb the view. I can see the village off to the northwest: a few pinpricks of light beside the dark blanket of the sea. Pale pink clouds have covered up the moon, but even in the darkness, that huge volcano can’t be missed; it looms over to our right, its wide base rising from the steep valley in front of us, its massive slope tilting up into a thick blanket of fog.
Thunder booms, reminding me that I should get my ass in gear. Half a second later, lightning splinters the sky, gleaming off Finley’s raincoat. As if she can feel my gaze, she looks over her shoulder. I give what I hope looks like a friendly wave.
I’m at her side a minute later, watching my footing as we move through a sea of baseball-sized stones that make our descent tricky. A few times, Finley wobbles. Once, my hand darts out to grab her, but I manage to rein in the impulse. She seems prickly…or maybe it’s prideful. Hell, maybe she just hates me. Better not to piss her off again—yet.
The rain falls harder than it has since I’ve been on the island, like someone in the sky is emptying a bucket over us. The water racing down the slope-side hits my ankles and my calves from behind—hard enough to threaten my balance—and as I step forward, I’m riding blind, because the moonlight’s glaring off the runoff, making it impossible to gauge the angle of the slope.
Near the bottom, my foot comes down on a stone that rolls under my shoe. I pinwheel, and when I get my balance again, I find Finley smirking. Our eyes meet, and she arches her brows.
“That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” I shout.
“Most definitely!”
I can’t be sure that’s what she said—the rain’s too loud—but the tilt of her lips as good as confirms it.
“Siren.” I grin.
That’s the last thing I process before the sky rumbles, a few octaves too low and loud to be thunder, and the ground under my feet gives way.
Eight
Finley
It’s like a film reel with a bit clipped from the middle. One moment, I’m working my way down the slope alongside the Carnegie, wondering what’s making me feel squirmy: his gaze on my rear end or my own antsy self-consciousness. Then that thought is overlaid by a horrible rumble.
The next scene opens with me lying somewhere dark and him over me. I squint, and when I try to move my head, a thunderclap of pain bursts behind my eyes.
“Oww.”
“Finley? Are you okay?”
Too loud.
I bring a hand to my face, surprised to find my arm feels weak and…heavy. And— “My head.” My voice is scratchy, near inaudible, so I try to swallow, struggling while my throat remembers how to work. I crack my eyes open again and find his wide as he leans, dripping, over me.
I look around, and dread slams through me. It looks dark and…cave-like. My eyes are blurry, but I see the dark walls and ceiling in the dim light.
Tears fill my eyes as my throat tightens. What happened?
He moves slightly in my frame of vision, shifting away from me as he sits back on his heels. “There was a mudslide. Rockslide. I don’t know.” He blows a breath out. “Maybe an earthquake. When it happened, we got knocked off our feet. I grabbed you and took off down the hill, and…I don’t know.” He shakes his head, not meeting my eyes. “There was a fucking ton of rock. Like part of that peak fell. It came down so fucking fast. I threw you over my shoulder and just ran…until it got right on us.”
“Where are we now?”
I sit up—or try to. I feel weak and strange, and can’t seem to coordinate my limbs. He leans in and helps me. The cave spins slightly as I feel his hands on my upper arms. A cold sweat sweeps me, and I wonder if I’m going to be sick. “Where are we?”
I look around, my stomach churning. I don’t recognize this place, and my head feels odd and foggy.
I watch as his mouth tightens. He shakes his head once. “I don’t know.”
I look around again, gauging the space. It’s bigger than the living room at Gammy’s house, but probably not as big as her living room plus kitchen. The walls are damp, the air smells dank as caves do, and the curved ceiling is not far overhead—maybe just six or seven feet above the cool stone floor. I hear the tinkling of water, likely from a stream, as most caves on the island are intersected by small rivulets of water.
“I don’t think I understand. How did we get in here?”
He looks as confused as I feel. “I ducked underneath some rocks and—” he exhales, shaking his head— “into here.”
I feel ill as he looks away, trying not to meet my eyes. “What’s it like now outside?”
He blinks, and I know the truth by the roundness of his eyes, the stillness of his features. In the space between that look and his words, I turn my head and see a pile of rubble rising from the cool floor into the ceiling. It’s perhaps a meter and a half away, this six-foot-tall rubble pile that’s mud and grass and rock.
My stomach bottoms out as I look at it.
“Listen—don’t be worried. I know it looks like we’re blocked in, but I can get us out. You woke up pretty fast. I haven’t had a chance to start, but I can get the rocks and mud moved quick.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. My chest aches as if it’s cracking.
“Does your head hurt? I think a rock hit you right here.” His fingertip brushes my forehead, near my hairline, and I struggle not to recoil.
I nod, and despite my still-shut eyes, I feel his body brush mine. When I peek my eyes open, I see a swatch of his wet shirt; he’s sitting right beside me…quite close. I feel him shift again and get the sense that he’s moved back a bit.
“Talk to me.” His voice is low and soft—a pleasing voice accompanying a pleasing physique.
A shudder ripples through me, then another. A trough of fear and horror makes me feel as if I’m sinking. This cannot be happening. It cannot be.
“Hey now…it’s okay.” He scoots closer—close enough that I can feel his knee brush my thigh. “Those rocks aren’t that big. Just watch. I can get them moved in half an hour. Then we’re outta here.”
I press my lips together, inhale slowly through my nose. We will not get stuck here. I will not be stranded—never again. If he can’t dig us out, the village will come for us.
I lift my head and find his face more earnest than I’ve ever seen it. Contrite, I hope. I raise my eyebrows, telling him with my face to sod off. His mouth twitches at the corners. Message received.
A few feet away, a familiar lantern flickers. It’s set beside my pack, which looks lumpy and rumpled. “I see you took the liberty of going through my belongings.”
He brings his palms together in a praying pose, raising his brows in a look of definite contrition, and gets up without a word.
The spineless knob.
I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. With my back to the rear of the cave, where I believe the stream is, I watch as the Carnegie walks to the rubble pile. Underneath his drenched clothes, his body looks impossibly chiseled. A bit like a superhero, actually. There’s not a soft spot to be found on him, except the lump of clay between his ears.
He steps around the rubble pile, which I note again extends from floor to ceiling—signifying that the cave’s mouth must be there in the ceiling’s slant.
The opening is likely not large—I’d guess a meter or so, most. If it were bigger, I’d know of this place. Glancing around the area again, I decide it’s more burrow than cave. I
wonder if its entrance is masked by a tree or hidden beneath a crest of rock or grass, further disguising it from plain sight.
My throat cinches. I’m stuck in a burrow with Sheep Whisperer Carnegie.
He’s now poking at the rocks near the top of the pile, causing several to thud to the floor. The dull sound echoes off the walls. Then he steps back, hands at his hips. He remains that way, unmoving for a few long moments before pacing back to me.
“Here’s the thing, Siren. I’m not feeling a lot of water dripping through. But you can hear it raining out there, right?”
I look up at the ceiling. Now that he says so, I notice the low hum, but prior to now, I hadn’t. I nod quickly, as if to say of course.
“That tells me one of two things: either there’s a larger stone up top, blocking the rain, or it’s a pile of smaller stones that’s pretty thick.”
My belly flip-flops.
“Don’t worry. We can figure out which one is true, and we can do it faster if you’ve got something like a long antennae or some tent joints in that pack of yours. I can use something long and straight to poke up through the rocks and see if I can tell where the pile-up seems to end. If it’s stacked pretty thick above us, might make sense to wait till daylight to start digging. See if any sunlight can get through, and if so, where.”
I shut my eyes and use some of the Lamaze breathing Anna and I learned for Kayti’s birth. When I open them, he’s crouched down just in front of me, rubbing a fingertip over the damp floor.
“What I’m hearing,” I say sharply, “is you’d like me to sleep here inside this…burrow. With you.”
His somber face transforms as his lips twitch into a tiny smile. “With me? You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I snort. “Oh, I wonder why that is.”
He shakes his head once. “Listen, Siren—I’m the one who’s gonna dig you out of here. I just helped you heard a bunch of sheep, and then I saved you from ending up under a ton of rock. I was a dick the other night, but that was then, and it was a one-time thing. You caught me at a bad moment. From this point on, I’m your partner.”
I can’t help myself—I howl. “My partner!” My head is thrown back as I cackle evilly, trying to decide which of his comments is the most offensive. Is it the notion that I couldn’t dig myself out, or his seeming assurance that I’ll simply move on from what happened last night and be his “partner?” When I recover—my head is pounding—I find him standing with his big, thick arms folded in front of his chest, peering down his nose at me.
“My partner…” I throw my head back once more, wiping pretend tears from my eyes. “Quite the comedian, are we?”
His lips twitch in a smirk—or stifled smile—as he shakes his head. “I get the feeling that I’m not appreciated.”
“How astute of you.”
His mouth rounds into an “o” of mock offense. “I’m wounded.”
“If only.” His jaw drops even as he’s laughing, and I aim an awful look his way. “I’m not your siren, so let’s get that bit settled. We’re not friends or family, therefore no pet names shall be required. Thirdly, I suspect what you are actually saying is you’re worried that the pile of rocks may collapse, and if that happens wrongly, we’ll be stuck here.”
Cold sweat glimmers through me even as I go on in a steady voice. “I agree that seems a danger. Other things for you to know: I don’t need you to dig me out.” I hold my hands up. “I’ve got these, and they both work quite nicely.” I tap my head. “This is full as well, and although I concur we should perhaps wait for some sunlight—and to see if rescuers arrive—before we poke the beast, and that means technically you and I agree, I don’t want to be partners. I’m not forgetting how you behaved before because it’s relevant to who you are.”
He gives a low whistle that echoes through the burrow. “Ouch.”
“I doubt quite a bit that anyone is ever honest with you, Homer.” I hold up my hand, as if I’m pledging. “I will be. My hands work well enough, but I’d prefer you dig us out with yours while I sit back and think up a new knitting pattern. My service to you in return can be my honesty.”
One of his cheeks curves, a dimple appearing near his mouth. “I’ve always been a fan of English accents. Got a couple friends from England. But yours is different. A little Scottish sounding, maybe a little bit of Welsh. I like the softness of it.”
I roll my eyes. “I do so value your assessment.” A bit of Welsh; is he brainless? “I’ll do you the favor of not commenting on your accent.”
Again, I’m rewarded by a widening of his eyes and a small part of his lips before he grins as if he’s pleasantly surprised. “Are you insulting my accent?” He tilts his head, folding his arms again.
I smile back cheekily. “Not yours specifically.”
“I think I get it. You’re an American-hater.”
“Whatever gave you that impression?”
His brows furrow. Then he shakes his head, smiling like he thinks I’m quite the rogue. “Could it be a lewd encounter with a shameless interloper?”
“Dammit, woman. What does a guy have to do to say he’s sorry?”
I stretch my fingers out in front of me, peering critically down at the dirt under my nails. “Oh, I don’t know. For behavior like that, it might take two or three apologies…especially when the offender has got the innocent party trapped inside a burrow.”
He sighs as he crouches back down. “Last night was a shitty night for me. That’s no excuse. I was a dick, and I regret it. You might not believe me, but that’s not how I usually am. I’m…I don’t know. Honestly, I’m kind of a nice guy.”
I pick at my cuticle, and he gives a soft laugh. “C’mon, Finley.” I look up to find his hand in his hair. That must be his nervous habit, and I find I like it. I like that he’s nervous, that he feels sorry for his knob-headed behavior.
I like it enough that I say, “How about a deal? A sort of truce? I’ll extend to you the benefit of the doubt as well as my prized honesty if you promise you’ll improve quite a bit. Should you violate the truce’s conditions, I reserve the right to exact revenge.”
He grins, shaking his head. “What sort of revenge?”
“You should hope you never find out. We Tristanians know a lot of very odd things. I have ways to make you pay that you’d never expect.”
When his brows rumple, I wiggle mine. “Have you ever smelled a yellow-arsed penguin’s egg?”
He laughs at the name of my fictional penguin, and I find myself smiling—an error that I quickly remedy. I purse my lips, looking at the floor so I’ll avoid his too-familiar gaze. “Is that it, then? You truly want to wait here until daylight?”
He rubs his hands together, then exhales audibly, as if he’s got the weight of the universe on his wide shoulders. “I could start digging now, but I’d rather know a little better what’s up there above us.”
“A night in the burrow, then.”
He presses a palm against the floor, then looks up so our eyes meet. He doesn’t speak or make a face, but simply stares at me—until I want to scoot away.
“Are you having a seizure?”
He laughs. “Jesus.”
“Is not an expletive I tolerate.”
One big hand covers his face before he gives me a pointed look. “You feel okay? Do you feel dizzy or sick?”
“I believe I’d know if I had a concussion. I’m the fill-in doctor after all.”
His lips purse. Bastard. But he doesn’t change his tone. “You think you can stand okay?”
Weren’t we in reverse positions just a bit ago, when he rolled down the slope? I run my fingertips over my soaked pants leg, finding I don’t want to look at him as I say, “Of course.”
He’s crouching too close for me to breathe properly, so I do stand and pace around a bit. I don’t want to see that awful pile of rock and mud, so I wander toward the rear of the burrow, where I find a stream that’s perhaps a foot and a half wide, burbling from a stone on one
side of the cave and flowing across its back wall into the other side. I crouch down to examine its point of exit, hoping perhaps there’s a hole there to another cave—one whose entrance isn’t blocked—but no such luck.
I wonder if the water’s good and dip my hand in like a ladle. It tastes fine, which means it’s likely safe to drink. Exactly nothing on the island is polluted. We’re so isolated, we are largely shielded from humanity’s idiocy.
When I stand back up, the Carnegie is beside me—so close I flinch as he holds out a water bottle.
“Rifling through my bag again, are we?”
“Oh yeah. Pillaging the good stuff.” He gives me a sidelong glance and a funny little look, as if he’s humored by me. I have a long swallow of water and rub my fingers over my palm. My hands are prunes from being in the rain for so long. My head aches from where I hit it, and my body feels achy and sluggish.
I lock my gaze onto the stream and wonder when he’s going to walk off.
“You can get a blanket from my bag,” I tell him. “There should be two thin sleeping bags packed tightly near the bottom.” I sometimes unzip them and use one as a mattress and the other as my blanket; since they’re waterproof, I also sometimes sleep in one and use the other as a makeshift tent.
“Sounds good, Siren.”
As he turns back toward the burrow’s “front,” where my pack is, I release a held breath. Best for him to stay as far away from me as possible. Of all the myriad things I need at present, friendship with a wicked American sports star isn’t one of them. I’d go so far as to say it’s at the very bottom of my list.
Why does he have to play faux nice guy now that we’re stuck in here? I’m fair at assessing people, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t—nice. I’ve not read much about him, but Holly sought out information on the world wide web, and read that he’s a self-pleased playboy, dressing up for parties he attends with models on his arm. Besides the desperate plan that I’d considered, I’m not quite sure why I’d looked so forward to meeting him.
I take another long swallow from the bottle. How much do I have to drink before I’ll need to relieve myself? That’s sure to be barrels of fun.
