by Sharon Lee
“Borgan,” I gasped, but he overrode me—
“. . . voice mail box for Andre Borgan. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can.”
Fuck.
“Never mind,” I said, and thumbed the phone off.
All right, Kate, I said to myself, shoving the cell into my pocket, think. The cavalry is not going to arrive—what’re you going to do?
Good question.
The sand at my feet stirred, swirling, struggling, shapeless—collapsing. I stared—and gasped a laugh. Well, why not?
It wasn’t as if I had a better idea.
The sand stirred again, and a form took shape in a fog of swirling particles.
Half a dozen steps ahead of my position against the rock, a White Dog stood, with a wolfhound’s sharp muzzle and long fragile legs, ears pricked to attention, tail down and held close.
It wouldn’t last long, right here on the boundary, where the land’s power was weak. But it might last long enough.
The Black Dogs howled—two strides from the far side of the rock, no further—and I heard the White Dog growl.
“Good girl,” I murmured, and braced myself against the stone, knife held at ready. If the White Dog could take one, I might be able to take the other, though even with help it was going to be nip and—
They came ’round the rock silent and fleet, their great paws throwing up gouts of sand. Ears flat, the White Dog crouched, all but invisible. She let the first one by, and leapt for the throat of the second.
I held my ground, though what I wanted to do was shrink back into and become one with the rock. Black Dogs are only a simpering shadow of the great hunting hounds of the Land of the Flowers. I reminded myself of that, swallowed and waited for my moment while the Dog displayed its teeth in a snarl.
Behind it, the White Dog and the Black were locked in mortal combat, eerily silent, now it was come down. As I watched, they broke, rolling to their feet, and backed away from each other. The Black Dog was bleeding from a dozen superficial wounds. The White Dog . . . was diminished, melting as I watched, crumbling into bits of sand . . .
My particular Dog leapt, teeth flashing. I met it with the knife, scoring a glancing hit on a broad shoulder, and the Dog fell back, tongue lolling.
I felt heavy where I stood, unbearably sleepy and slow. What was I doing here, out in the cold night, wounded and stupid, standing against a creature I had no hope of defeating? Best to just put the knife down, submit—
The land screamed at the back of my head and I snarled, my fingers tightening on the knife I had almost dropped. The Black Dog saw my snarl and raised it a long, belling howl. My heart shriveled up inside me.
In spite of it, I held onto the knife, and kept my back firm against the rock.
“You want me,” I panted through a miasma of despair. “Come get me.”
Behind its shoulder, the White Dog was little more than a sluggishly moving pile of sand. Its opponent raised a leg and peed on it, washing the sand back into the beach, and turned its lantern eyes on me.
Not good. Oh, so very not good, with my blood like molasses in my veins and my head heavy and thick. What was I trying to prove here, anyway? The nearest Dog inched forward, stiff-legged; the second went out to the left, moving to box me in.
The nearest Dog growled, low in its heavy throat. I hefted the knife, and got myself firm on my good leg, while despair clawed my spirit.
“Not without a fight,” I told the Dogs, my voice cracked and shaking. I lunged.
The ankle screamed blue murder. I ignored it and pitched forward into a maw full of fearful, rusty teeth, got an arm around that broad, loathsome neck and plunged the knife down. The Dog screamed, pain and plunder filled the world, and the land showed me the second Dog, leaping for my back, jaws gaping . . .
I wrenched my knife free—and went flying as my Dog shook me off. The sand cushioned my landing, and I rolled to my knees, foreknowing my doom—
A scarecrow figure in a swirling black overcoat, pale hair fogging the air, crouched between me and the Dogs, arms spread, holding two at bay with nothing more than his naked fingers.
I tried to get up; the ankle folded on me, and I went down again. My benefactor kicked sand at one of the Dogs, simultaneously lunging at the second, starlight finding an edge in his hand in the instant he struck. The Dog backed up, stunned, wavering . . . pointed its nose to the darkling sky and howled to curdle the blood of the damned.
Its mate launched itself at the man’s unshielded back.
I flipped my knife, caught it by the tip and threw—which was stupid and useless and lost me my only weapon. Glooskap, or St. Jude, or some other Higher Power that loves idiots guided the steel; it sunk into the leaper’s throat. The Dog’s dead weight hit the man, knocking him to his knees, but it was already dissipating by then, the other Dog curling like black smoke into the night sky.
The man came to his feet slowly, as would someone who had to mind his knees, plucked my blade from the sand and walked over to where I lay. He hunkered down and pushed the limp fedora back off his forehead with the tip of the knife. His face was long and bony, his mustaches drooping and pale, his eyes light blue and as candid as a child’s.
“Good morning, Katie dear,” he said in the warm, comfy voice that had soothed away many a childhood terror. “How’s my favorite black-hearted pirate?”
Despite pain and the creeping horrors, my lips twitched toward a smile.
“Mr. Ignat’,” I said, shakily. “What’re you doing here?”
NINETEEN
Sunday, April 23
“Taking a walk in the fair morning, the same as you, yourself,” Mr. Ignatious answered, and waggled his shaggy brows conspiratorially. “No other reason to be out on the beach at such an hour, now is there?”
I giggled, distantly registering it as too high. “No other reason that I know of,” I agreed unsteadily, and pushed myself into a sitting position, gasping when the ankle sued for damages, tears starting to my eyes.
“Say!” Mr. Ignatious put a cool, dry hand under my chin and raised my face like I was twelve years old, and I let him do it, sitting still and soothed under his pale, dreamy gaze. He smiled slightly and took his hand away, patting me lightly on the cheek.
“You don’t look so good, Katie. Bad night?”
I felt my mouth waver into a grin. “You could say.”
“Well, then, I’ve just the thing!” He raised his left hand dramatically, plunged it into the copious pocket of his overcoat, and with a stage magician’s flourish pulled out a flask, silver flashing in the starlight.
“Hair of the dog,” he said, with a solemn wink. I felt laughter bubbling, and bit the inside of my cheek, hard.
Mr. Ignatious shifted to his knees in the sand, blinked at the knife in his right hand, and blinked at me.
“Is this yours, Katie?”
“Is now,” I said. “I took it off somebody who didn’t appreciate it.”
“And its name?”
Name?
I looked it, held with careless grace between long bony fingers. The blade gleamed—no, it glowed, gently—and it was absolutely clean, no stain of ichor or blot of blood marring the smooth surface.
Where had Joe Nemeier’s boy gotten such a thing?
“Mam’selle,” I said, the name sweet on my tongue.
Mr. Ignat inclined his head, and offered her to me, hilt first, across his forearm.
“A blade any buccaneer should be proud to wear!” he proclaimed. “She becomes you, Katie.”
I took Mam’selle solemnly, and touched her hilt to my chest, above my heart. “My thanks for the return of my weapon, sir,” I said, hamming it. “I’ll let you live.”
“Well, now, that’s spoken like a gentle pirate indeed,” he allowed.
Back when I was a kid, telling tales out of the fire, Mr. Ignatious had gotten to calling me Kate the Pirate, in honor, so he’d said, of my black, wicked heart. It should’ve stung, but such was M
r. Ignat’s charm that it only made me smile, even then, when my smile was as rare as snowfall in August—and it somehow made being part of a race that pillaged and robbed as a way of life . . . easier to bear.
I looked down at . . . my . . . knife, saw the shadow of my own face in the glowing blade. A gentle lady, I thought, and not one to bite the hand that held her. As she had demonstrated amply during the late hostilities.
I inclined my head—courtesy to an ally—and slipped her away into the sheath at the small of my back.
When I looked up, Mr. Ignat’ had the flask uncorked.
“Hair of the dog,” he said again, pressing it into my hand. “Drink up, matey; this draught’ll make a man of ye!”
I laughed, shakily. “Could be that’s just what I need.” I knocked back a good swallow, expecting the fire of cheap whiskey. Instead, I got a smooth, butterscotch-y flavor that warmed the throat gently and only ignited when it struck the heart.
“Wow,” I said reverently, and passed the flask back.
While Mr. Ignat’ was having his dram, I sat myself up, teeth grit as I straightened the wounded ankle, and reached to the land again. Immediately, the pain lessened, and it seemed to me I could feel the bones being re-knit.
I sighed, looked up and found the flask being offered again.
“Hair of the dog,” Mr. Ignatious murmured, shaking it temptingly. “Just what a weary warrior needs, black-hearted pirate though she be.”
I took the flask and had another hit. The stuff tasted even better this time, burning away the creeping horrors and the chill of sitting on damp sand in the cool pre-dawn.
“Ah!” Mr. Ignatious smiled beatifically. “Just the thing, just the thing!” He slipped the flask out of my gloved fingers and had himself another swallow.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A shy little home brew your grandmother and I concocted. I’ll tell you, Katie, it’s a crying shame what they’re selling for strong drink in the stores today.”
“Hope it’s not too strong,” I said, accepting the flask when he passed it to me again. “I’m going to have to walk home, eventually.”
“Now, now. A medicinal dose, only.”
Another sip. There couldn’t be that much more left, I thought, but my sip turned into two and there was still liquid sloshing in the flask when I handed it back.
“Mr. Ignat’.”
He looked at me from beneath shaggy golden eyebrows. “Katie-my-love?”
“Where’s Gran?”
Pale blue eyes blinked. “Gone away on a spot of business, dear. That’s what she told me.”
“It’s what she told Nerazi, too. And the letter she left said if I was reading it, she’d been away too long and it was all gone to hell. Whatever that means.” I touched his hand, lightly. “If you know where she went, please tell me, Mr. Ignat’. I’ve got—I’ve got some trouble only she can help me with.”
“Hmm.” He had himself a good, long swallow from the flask before passing it to me again.
“Katie, you know your gran doesn’t confide her deep secrets to old Ignat’,” he said, as serious and as sensible as I’d ever in my life heard him speak. He sighed and nodded at the flask.
“Drink up, Katie. It’s a shame to keep good whiskey waiting.”
Obediently, I drank, the liquid sweet and seductive in my mouth; and sat holding the flask in my hand. It was no lighter now than it had been when I’d taken my first draught.
“Mr. Ignat’—”
He shook his head. “I don’t know where she’s gone, dear. I wish I did—or I think that. Maybe it’s best I don’t know—seems Bonny believed so.” He shrugged, a rumple of thin shoulders beneath the overlarge coat. “She’s gone away before, and she’s always come back. That’ll have to do for the likes of us, tipsy, black-hearted knaves that we be.”
He nodded at the flask. “Have another sip, then it’s up with the pair of us and back to town.”
I shook my head, holding the flask against my thigh. “Can’t. I’ve got to see Nerazi.”
“Not tonight, Katie dear. She’ll wait ’til the sea has cleaned the sand.”
I looked around, seeing the dark blotches of ’gaster blood, and the churned, gouged sand. It occurred to me to wonder what might have happened, if I hadn’t come along and disturbed the peace. The snallygaster, at least, had been waiting for—someone . . .
“I don’t mean to be rude, Katie, but there are some of us here who are thirsty.”
“Sorry.” I raised the flask and drank, this draught sweeter than the first, and passed the flask back. He drank while I gave attention to my ankle. Good to go, I decided. Beside me, Mr. Ignat’ stowed the flask and rose in a billow of coattails, holding his hands down to me.
I wrapped my fingers ’round his wrists, and he pulled me up, then stood looking down at my hands.
“Nice gloves, Katie. Worthy of your station.”
“Funny, that’s what Nerazi said.”
“Now, there’s a woman both wise and deep,” Mr. Ignat’ said. “If I had any secrets to hide, and your grandmother not to hand, I’d give them to Nerazi for keeping.” He stepped back, and I let go his wrists, taking an experimental step forward.
Good, but not great. It was going to be a long walk home.
Mr. Ignat’ offered his arm, the wind making free with his coattails.
“Lean on me, Katie, and we’ll go together. It’s a splendid morning for a walk.”
TWENTY
Sunday, April 23
High Tide 7:30 a.m.
Sunrise 5:46 a.m. EDT
“Sure you don’t want to come in?” I asked Mr. Ignat’.
He smiled, sweet and vague, and shook his head. “It’s a fine, pleasant morning. Now that you’re safe home, I believe I’ll continue my walk.”
I hesitated, not particularly liking that, not with there being a couple hours still until dawn, and the critters from across the Wall apparently having a field trip . . .
“I’ll be careful, Katie.” He raised a hand to trace an extravagant cross over his heart. “Pirate’s honor.”
It’s hard to argue with pirate’s honor, and what was I going to do, anyway? Hit him over the head and drag him inside?
“All right, then,” I said reluctantly. “Remember what I told you about Marilyn wanting the Knot ready by Wednesday.”
“I remember everything you tell me, Katie,” he replied gallantly. “Go now and take your rest.” He smiled again and went down the stairs, soft-footed on the old wood, turned right at the bottom and headed for the dune path, coattails flapping.
I sighed, opened the door, and went inside.
* * *
My clothes were a loss. If there’s any stain remover in the Changing Land capable of removing ’gaster blood, I’ve never heard of it, and it was with a certain feeling of ill-use that I shoved the Google sweatshirt, my jeans, Gran’s sweater, my favorite denim shirt, and much-abused sneakers into a black plastic trash bag and tied it shut. Half my wardrobe destroyed inside of a day. Not that it was all that much of a wardrobe, but dammit, I’d liked that shirt, and jeans don’t exactly grow on trees.
At least the cell phone had survived. A damp paper towel took most of the blood off the plastic clamshell; and the screen was untouched. A thorough inspection of Mam’selle the knife found her edge intact, which pleased me more than it maybe should have.
Grumbling, I stepped into the shower, turned on the water as hot as I dared, and stood under the moderate deluge, eyes closed, thoughts chasing each other inside my head like a team of particularly energetic gerbils.
Eyes still closed, I reached out and grabbed the soap. Despite tonight’s—last night’s—unscheduled adventure, I was no closer than I had been to locating my grandmother. The prisoners were bound precariously at best; the Wall between the Worlds had apparently thinned to the thickness of Kleenex; Gran’s tree was sickening—oh, and a megalomaniac with a lawn fixation wanted me maimed.
I might just as well have s
tayed in Albuquerque, for all I’d accomplished here.
Oh, cut yourself some slack, Kate, I thought as I lathered shampoo through my hair for the second time. If you hadn’t come back, Anna wouldn’t have been attacked by the unicorn and gotten ’way too close to dead.
And if I didn’t figure out a way to bind those six desperados right now, there was more, and worse, mayhem in the Beach’s very near future.
Dammit, Gran, what were you thinking?
The water was getting cold. I turned it off, wrung out my hair, and reached for a towel.
* * *
Some minutes later, nattily attired in my last, and rattiest, pair of jeans, a Miskatonic University T-shirt, and cowboy boots that had seen better days, I dumped water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir, shoved the pot onto the hotplate and punched the “brew” button.
It was four-fifteen in the morning, according to the clock on the stove. No sense going to sleep for a couple hours, supposing I could sleep, which I doubted. Better just to caffeinate and move on.
While the coffee brewed, I built myself a Swiss cheese sandwich on whole wheat, with butter and a sprinkle of salt, and ate it standing up, staring at nothing in particular while the gerbils ran ’round and ’round inside my head.
Dammit, the woman left a letter. Why couldn’t she have said something useful, while she was going to the trouble?
I stopped in mid-chew, blinking.
Who was to say, I thought, carefully, that she hadn’t said something useful, and granddaughter Kate was just too blockheaded to understand?
I put the half-eaten sandwich down on the counter and went into the living room.
The manila envelope was on the coffee table, half hidden under the laptop. I carried it back to the kitchen, opened it, and pulled the contents out in a handful, dropping them to the tabletop.
I pushed the deeds and the bank book aside, took up the folded piece of stationary, and flipped it open. The leaf that had been pressed between the folds fluttered to the floor.
