Salty Dog

by Shayne Silvers

  I continued running, so close now I could practically reach out and flick Mabel’s ponytail, even yank on one of Alby’s ears. Then, in the space of a breath, I was running between them. Alby turned to stare at me in utter shock, the black fur around his face matted with sweat and coated in sand. Mabel barely glanced at me, but when she did, I thought I caught the faintest glimmer of satisfaction. But I didn’t have time to question it. The shoreline was just ahead. So close I could practically taste victory.

  Something silver shimmered in the distance, and I thought I heard voices whispering behind me, but figured that was merely the blood pumping in my ears, the light nothing more than sweat running into my eyes. At this point, I was so close I could taste it. I kicked that much harder, puffing out my chest, willing the others to fall back. And that’s when Alby made his move, leaping in front of me, hoping to use my Gateway to his advantage. Except he never made it; Mabel crashed into him from the other side, veering left so quickly she almost took us all out. The two tumbled into the sand, rolling away. I grunted, utterly confused, but kept running, letting my Gateway wink out of existence as I took those last few steps, whooping for joy.

  I crossed the finish line.

  And fell into a sea of blood.

  5

  I came up flailing, coughing and spitting, completely disoriented for the second time in as many hours. By the time I recovered enough to tread water, my every muscle screaming, I knew I wasn’t in Scotland anymore—not unless Scotland had a blood-drenched loch out there I’d never heard of. In truth, it wasn’t so much the water was red as it was illuminated from far down below, the waves stained crimson by whatever was down there. I kicked in slow circles, taking in the moonless night sky, panic making my beating heart race that much faster even as faint, distant memories tugged at my subconscious. I’d been here before, somehow.

  The Scarlet Sea.

  The voice inside my head, my constant companion, my wild side, spoke with more authority than I’d heard in months. It was like someone had cranked up the volume, turning the knob until her voice was somehow louder than my own. Of course, that voice wasn’t really a her. If anything, she was me, if only a part of myself I couldn’t trust. The part of me that acted without thinking, the part that always got me into so much trouble. The part of you that you won’t forgive.

  I shook that off, my body leaden, weighted down by the clothes I wore, including a heavy and currently impractical sweater. I slipped out of it, peeling its limp mass off my upper body to leave me in nothing but a black tank top to go with my jeans. Oh, and no shoes. For some reason that felt familiar, too.

  No shoes. The Scarlet Sea. A memory tugged at me…an old, blind man covered in bloody bandages. An impossible island city. A golden boat and a horse with a seafoam mane—perhaps the loveliest creature I’d ever seen.

  And all beneath the ruins of a blood red sea.

  Had I traveled back to Fae after all this time? But how? Before I could begin to dwell on either of those questions, however, I spotted something from the corner of my eye. I twisted as fast as I could and saw the prow of a dinghy not far from where I swam, the craft carving its way smoothly through the water. Something trailed after it, spilling behind the stern like motor oil, except whatever it was painted the passing waves in monochrome shades of grey as if sucking the very color from the water.

  It took me exactly ten seconds to make up my mind and paddle towards the boat. The voice inside my head hissed a warning, sensing the potential for danger, but I ignored it. It wasn’t that I disagreed, but at this point a boat was a boat; if I stayed out here much longer, I’d be too exhausted to swim, and end up at the mercy of whatever lived in these waters.

  Soon, it became clear that no one was steering. That, in fact, there was no one aboard at all, which only intensified the warnings blasting inside my head. I gritted my teeth and swam until I was alongside the hull, then reached out, wrapping a hand around the gunwale. A sensation so slight I hardly noticed it rode up my arm, sort of like the low thrum of electricity, but too faint to do more than raise the hairs on my arm. I almost jerked away all the same, but the sensation was gone in an instant, leaving me with nothing but the feeling of wood beneath my hand. I took a deep breath, drew my body up against the boat, and then, very gingerly, dragged myself out of the water, doing my best not to capsize the damn thing in the process.

  And that’s when I noticed the body.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  I released the boat and kicked away, heart pounding, but nothing chased after me. Instead, the row boat righted itself and continued inexorably forward as if I’d never touched it. Told you so, the voice whispered. I grunted, then hurried to keep pace with the craft, kicking up water in my wake. Once I caught back up, I repeated the process I’d begun a minute ago, careful not to disturb the body this time as I clambered into the boat, accounting for the extra weight as best I could. The instant I was sure we wouldn’t capsize, I scrambled as far from the body as possible, still prepared for something, anything, to go wrong.

  When it didn’t, I began squeezing water out of my tangled hair, letting the crimson liquid splash over the side as I studied my fellow passenger. The body belonged to a young man. At first, I’d have said he was simply sleeping—his face flush with color, long, copper-colored hair cascading over one muscular arm. The rest of him was like that, too. Muscular, full of life. Hell, that’s why I’d fled the first time I saw him; I’d half expected the bastard to leap up and attack me for trying to hitch a ride on his boat. But he hadn’t. In fact, now that I was close enough to notice, I could see he wasn’t even breathing. And yet he looked pretty good for a dead man; he wore clothes woven from gold cloth, sturdier than silk, and yet somehow more vibrant. Around his arms were thick gold bands with silver inlay, pressed against the flesh of his biceps so snug it was as if they’d been made for him. Oh, and he was beautiful.

  Like, really, stupendously beautiful.

  “If I kiss him, and he wakes up, do I get to be Queen, ye t’ink?” I asked aloud. The voice in my head purred, daring me to give it a try. I sighed, visions of the last man I’d kissed dancing in my brain. Well, not dancing. What Max did inside my head was rarely so choreographed. Of course, those were just fantasies; we’d only ever shared the one kiss. I still vividly recalled the instant our lips had touched—how he’d lit up like the Fourth of July, veins throbbing with iridescence, with unbridled, inexplicable power. Unlike Sleeping Beauty here, Max was handsome. Like so masculine it hurt handsome. The kind of guy who you let crawl naked under the covers of the bed he’d built with his bare hands after he kindled a fire from scratch.

  “Bad luck, boyo,” I said, admiring the quiescent creature for the beauty he was, but feeling not even an ounce of the attraction I’d felt in the circle of Max’s arms that night, “no kisses for ye.” I sighed for a second time and turned my attention to the horizon and its unfamiliar sky, wondering how the hell I’d ended up here of all places. The boat continued on, seemingly unhindered by my added weight, though towards what destination I could only guess. “Unless, ye know, we run out of options,” I added, under my breath.

  At some point, I fell asleep. I’d have loved to blame the exhaustion of running a breakneck race only to find myself in another realm, stranded in an impossible boat on an inexplicable sea, but the truth was probably simpler than that: I was jet-lagged. After being thrown forward a few hours into Scotland’s time zone, I’d been shoved into a plane of existence that probably didn’t even have time zones. My circadian rhythms had been hijacked, swerving from the easy bounce of jazz to the raucous clash of punk music so fast it’d given me the mental equivalent of whiplash.

  I had no idea how long I slept—mere minutes, maybe, though it felt like hours. Either way, by the time I woke, the sun hung high in the sky. Well, a sun, at least. This celestial body was both smaller and brighter, casting harsher shadows than those I was used to. I groaned as I shaded my eyes from it, my body stiff and aching, the mus
cles I’d used so casually during the race protesting my every movement. I sat up, though I made sure to check on Sleeping Beauty first—had to make sure the bastard hadn’t been playing possum this whole time. Once I’d confirmed he hadn’t so much as twitched, I sighed and stretched, squinting as I scanned the horizon before us; I was pleased to note the waves had returned to a familiar shade of blue.

  Had we left the Scarlet Sea behind? How long had I slept? Taking stock, I realized I wasn’t hungry, yet. Or thirsty, for that matter, though I wasn’t sure how that was possible since it’d likely been hours since I’d last had anything to drink. Did hunger not exist here? If so, at least I wouldn’t die of starvation or thirst. Not that it mattered; my body might survive here, but my sanity wouldn’t hold up under the pressure of being lost at sea forever.

  “I will not start talkin’ to meself and callin’ ye Wilson,” I muttered to my fellow passenger. Before I could note the irony of that assertion under the circumstances, however, a shadow fell over our boat from behind. I spun, mouth ajar, to find the skyline of an ancient city looming over us—I recognized it as the old man’s island, the one I’d visited in what had felt like a dream.

  And it was getting closer.

  The boat was going backwards, I realized, which put me at the stern. I moved gingerly, twisting around to study the decrepit island metropolis, still awed by the sheer gargantuan size of the place; statues so large their proportions were difficult to make out rose among the skyscrapers, some so tall they rivaled those found in major cities. In fact, at times I felt I could almost recognize their shapes. In a way, the whole island reminded me of a necropolis, each building or edifice honoring something, or someone, by standing vigil. But wait…if we were here, then that meant I hadn’t been transported to Fae at all.

  It meant I’d crossed into the Otherworld.

  Except that was inconceivable; home to the forsaken Tuatha de Danann—the Fae gods—the Otherworld was supposed to be nearly impossible to reach, like Mount Olympus or Valhalla, a locked realm, inaccessible to all but those few mythological champions featured in songs written by long-dead bards. How had I ended up here? And, more importantly, why?

  Someone waited for us on one of the docks—several of which seemed to spread out from the island like spokes on a wheel—a cool sea breeze tugging on the ragged ends of the bloody bandages which obscured most of the man’s face and throat, leaving only his stubbled chin and chapped lips bare. He wore a tattered shirt and breeches, exposing his sun-kissed skin and a body that had long since been whittled to nothing but bone and sinew. Still, I knew better than to get within his reach; the old bastard had whipped me around like a ragdoll the last time I was here, and I wasn’t interested in a repeat performance.

  After what seemed like an eternity, during which I could do nothing but watch, the boat finally bumped into the dock, mooring itself as though that were the most natural thing in the world. The old man, meanwhile, stared out at the waves as though we weren’t even there, seemingly lost in thought. That, or maybe he was blind, after all. I bit my lip, trying to decide if I should make a run for it, or wait things out. Before I could make up my mind one way or the other, however, the body at my feet stirred.

  Sleeping Beauty’s eyes fluttered open as he drew first one breath, then another. The rise and fall of the man’s chest tugged at the fabric of his shirt, almost as if he’d outgrown it. He raised himself onto one elbow, face slack, bleary-eyed and groggy, and met my eyes. I shied away, disturbed by what I saw reflected there—a fierce and deliberate intelligence to match that almost indescribable beauty. In some ways, I had to admit, I was attracted to the man, if not drawn to him. But there was something there, something brutish and alien about the man, that set off alarm bells in my head. I waited for him to speak, holding my breath, all of the sudden dreading what he’d say, what he’d ask me to do, because I knew I’d have to listen and obey. But then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, a wrinkled, knobby hand pressed against the man’s forehead.

  “Sleep, me son,” the old man whispered, his voice deep and resonant, yet somehow soothing. In a way, it reminded me of the wave settings on those white noise machines, and I felt my own body responding to his command, my eyelids suddenly inexplicably heavy. “Not yet, Lugh. Not yet,” he said.

  I flinched at the name, surprise alone keeping me from curling up for a nap of my own. Lugh? The Lugh? As in Lugh of the Long Arm, the spear-wielding hero of the Tuatha de Danann? I’d been sharing this tiny rowboat with a freaking god this whole time? And wait, had this old buzzard called him son? Feeling entirely too exposed and completely out of my depth, I shook off what little lethargy remained, saw my opening, and scrambled out of the boat onto the dock just as Lugh’s head fell back into the crook of one arm, face peaceful, chest unmoving.

  I made it halfway down the dock before I felt someone grab my arm.

  I froze, memories of the old man’s strength as he tossed me around making me hesitate. Should I try to fight him off? But then it occurred to me that—while he’d tossed me around like a child the last time we’d met—he’d also sent me back to Fae. Could he, would he, do it again? I turned, slowly, and faced the senior citizen, noting the wisps of grey hair that he’d missed while shaving, and opened my mouth to ask—politely—for a one-way ticket home.

  “Could ye—” I began.

  “I’ve been waitin’ for ye,” the old man interrupted. “Come on.” He released my wrist and started hobbling down the dock, his movements stiff. I simply stared after him, a growing sense of dread building in the wake of what he’d said.

  Waiting…for me?

  That didn’t sound good.

  “Well, are ye just goin’ to stand there for all eternity?” he called over one shoulder, then chuckled as if he’d made some sort of joke.

  “And why’s that so funny?” I yelled back, still unsure whether to follow after the old bastard or cut my losses and make for the boat. Sure, I’d be risking my sanity in the process, but—staring at the sprawling, dilapidated skyline ahead of us—I wasn’t sure it’d make much of a difference.

  The old man halted, cocking his head to look back at me, staring at me through those bloody bandages, his stick-thin arms folded behind his back. “Because, if ye don’t come with me now, that’s exactly how long you’ll be standin’ there for.”

  6

  Eventually, I followed the damn geezer. Together, we moved slowly among the ruins, the old man brushing his hands over the worn stone and rusted steel as he went, murmuring under his breath. At first, I’d considered confronting him, demanding that he tell me what I was doing here, but something about the patient way he strolled among the dilapidated remains of a once sprawling metropolis gave me pause, as if I were being ruled by the same instincts that led me to whisper in a library or stay silent at a funeral. Soon, the questions roiling about inside my head faded, momentarily forgotten against the intimidating backdrop of the island city.

  “Where are we?” I asked, at last.

  “This is the Gate,” he replied, matter-of-factly, though he didn’t elaborate further.

  At least he was answering my questions.

  “The Gate to where?” I asked.

  The old man chuckled. “To everywhere. A few different whens, as well, in fact.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Few do.” He waved a hand as if none of that mattered. “If it helps, t’ink of this place as a waystation. A realm between realms. A port of call for wayward travelers.”

  “And what would that make ye, exactly?”

  “Me?” The old man shrugged, angling towards a smaller, less decrepit building in the distance. “Depends. Sometimes I’m the doorman. Sometimes I’m the bouncer.”

  I grunted. “Aye, that bit I remember,” I admitted, rubbing at my aching wrist where he’d grabbed me, the memory of his inexorable strength last time we’d met still fresh.

  The old man glanced back at me over one shoulder, frowning. “Pardon?”r />
  “When ye kicked me out, last time I was here. Although, truth be told, I was t’inkin’ it might be right nice of ye to do it again,” I said, hopeful. “I promise I’ll go quietly, this time,” I added.

  The old man was already facing me, shaking his head. “Afraid I’ve never seen ye before in me life.”

  “What d’ye mean you’ve never seen me before in your life?” I asked, exasperated. “Ye dragged me off the island, threw me in a boat, and told your horse to throw me out!” I raised my hands skyward, my voice getting louder and louder until I was practically screaming at the doddery git. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down, even as the voice inside my head egged me on, demanding we make sure the old man never forget us, ever again.

  My would-be guide paused, hands planted on his hips, studying me carefully despite the bandages wrapped over his eyes. He pursed his lips. “Oh, right. You’re the one I sent off with Enbarr. Have ye done somethin’ different with your hair?” The old man tapped one of his fingers against his lips, then held it up. “Wait, nevermind. Ye went and changed your soul, that’s it. Clever.” He abruptly spun round on his heel and continued weaving between structures. “Like mother like daughter,” he added, sounding amused. “Should’ve known.”

  “I did what?” I yelled before hurrying after him.

  “Changed your soul. Don’t ye worry, it’s common enough, even among our kind. Though we tend to reflect the change a bit more, generally.”

  “Wait, who the hell are ye, really?” I asked, a small migraine building just behind one eye, making it twitch sporadically. But again the geezer avoided answering. Instead, he jerked his chin towards the doorway of a squat, blockish building even as he shuffled through it himself. I hesitated, then followed him into the dim recess beyond, determined to find some answers now that I’d gone this far. Changed my soul? What the hell had he meant by that?