Carousel Tides

by Sharon Lee

  Tourists to the left of me, tourists to the right of me; the rail and the ocean ahead. I swerved, more willing to take my chances with the crowd than the sea, felt a bite in my left shoulder. I skidded on beer dampened planks right before the freight train slammed into me, and I pitched over the rail, a strong arm around my waist.

  “Deep breath,” Borgan said into my ear.

  I dragged air down into the bottom of my lungs, saw heaving green water lacy with foam rushing up—

  We hit like a cannonball, plunging deep. The water bubbled and hissed, sand and weed obscuring everything, Borgan writhed, the support of his arm abruptly gone, leaving me to tumble for an ageless moment, until a long, sleek body bore up from below, and I flung my arms about it, lungs burning as we broke water, and I gasped for air, flinging the soggy mass of my hair out of my eyes.

  We were not, as I had supposed we would be, heading out, toward the islands. Instead, Borgan was swimming strongly for shore, and there were—things, pellets, like hail, striking the surface of the water around us.

  “Go out! They’re shooting at you!” I yelled, but I might’ve been riding an ordinary harbor seal for all the attention he spared me.

  Right into the surf line he swam, caught a wave and rode it to the water’s edge. I rolled free, came to my knees and hurled myself Sideways.

  A glassy green blob pulsated above the Pier, its structure something like a willie wisp, but instead of sucking in memory, it was spinning out illusion.

  There was no time for finesse. I threw power against power, spending recklessly, not caring if the effort drained me dry. The blob shredded under my attack, and I fell back into the real world.

  A line of bewildered faces peered over the edge of the Pier, while bullets continued to sheer through the water, and Borgan was out there, somewhere—

  “Seal!” I screamed, dragging power out of the land to be heard above the music and the racket of the surf. “They’re shooting at a seal!”

  “What!” I heard one of the women yell. “Shooting a—Henry! Those men are shooting at a seal!”

  There was movement on the Pier, the bullets stopping abruptly as I craned for a glimpse, a sign—

  And saw a seal roll in the green water at the far end of the Pier, under the Sea Change. Heading for the islands.

  Finally.

  I closed my eyes in relief, then got clumsily to my feet. I was feeling a little lightheaded, which was probably just the adrenaline. Best thing to do would be—

  I heard a clatter on the Pier’s security stairs and turned my head just in time to see Domino jump the last four steps and race across the wet sand to me, blanket under one arm.

  “Jesus, Kate! What the hell were you trying to pull? You coulda—”

  “There’re guys up there shooting at a seal!” I yelled back at him. “You need to call the cops!”

  He shook his gleaming head. “There’re at least three retired cops up there partying. They took care of the situation real slick, and then stood by to protect the suspects from the old ladies who wanted to rip them arm from leg for shooting at ‘the dear thing.’ Kirsten radioed the cops and they—”

  Sirens wailed right on cue—two sets, from the sound of it; one coming down Grand, and the other right out of the cop shop at the top of the hill.

  “Right,” I said and sighed, shaking my hair back from my face. A third siren tore the air, singing the distinctive song of an ambulance.

  I sent a quick glance at Domino. “Somebody get hurt?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Woman jumps off the Pier into the ocean to get between bullets and a seal, you think they’re gonna send the Rescue down? Just in case?”

  I sighed. “I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are,” Domino said. “That’s why there’s blood leaking out of that hole in your shoulder.”

  “Hole in—” I raised my hand, touched my left shoulder experimentally. “Ow.”

  “Ow, she says.” He shook out the blanket and draped it around me. “Just take it easy and wait for the Rescue, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, suddenly and completely exhausted. I cuddled the blanket to me with one hand, took a step toward the stairs—and pitched face-first into the sand.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Monday, April 24

  Southern Maine Medical Center

  13 Industrial Park Road

  Saco, Maine

  The name on the trooper’s badge was “C. Poulin” and she was as serious and respectful a law enforcement officer as you could wish for. Not that I had wished for her, well-behaved as she was, but apparently when you get shot, a law enforcement officer is what the state of Maine sends by way of a get well present.

  “Ms. Archer, did you know the men who were shooting at you?”

  We’d already been through the easy questions—name, age, address, employment—and now we were getting to the meat of the matter. I shifted irritably beneath the thin hospital blanket, which made my arm hurt, despite the copious amounts of painkiller I’d been given prior to the doctor digging the bullet out.

  “I had a run-in with one of them a couple days ago,” I said. “I don’t know his name, but he told me he works for Joe Nemeier, who has a house up on Heath Hill, next to the woods.”

  C. Poulin nodded and made a note. “Now, Ms. Archer, can you tell me the circumstances of your previous meeting with this person?”

  The painkillers were making it hard to track. I took a second to work out which “this person” we were talking about, and shifted again. It was too quiet in the curtained off cubicle; I couldn’t feel the land, couldn’t be sure if the ripples of color at the edges of things were the results of the shock and the drugs, or if the place was dangerously steeped in jikinap.

  “Ms. Archer?”

  I sighed. “Sorry ’bout that. The man I recognized had contacted me previously to register a complaint his employer thought he had with me.”

  “That would be Mr. Joe Nemeier?” C. Poulin asked, pen poised over her pad.

  “Right.”

  “I see. And the nature of the complaint that Mr. Nemeier . . . thought he had with you?”

  “He’s under the impression that I poisoned his grass,” I murmured, watching with a sort of detached horror as the privacy curtain shimmered prismatically. That much wild energy on the prowl, hungry, like jikinap is always hungry . . .

  “Did you?” asked C. Poulin.

  With an effort, I pulled my eyes away from the curtains and the fluctuating energy states. “I’m sorry, lost track. Did I what?”

  “Did you poison Joe Nemeier’s lawn?”

  “Not necessarily. Or only sort of.” That hadn’t come out right, at all. I moved my head irritably on the flat pillow. “My lawyer was going to talk to his lawyer.”

  “I see. And your lawyer is?”

  At least that was easy to answer. “Henry Emerson on Grand Avenue in Archers Beach.”

  Another note, and another question. “Ms. Archer, would you be able to identify the man you say you recognized from a photograph?”

  “Sure,” I said, and she nodded, made a note, then flipped the pad closed.

  She stood up and looked down at me pensively while she stowed the pad and her pen.

  “I may need to talk with you again, Ms. Archer. In the meantime, I hope you understand that what you did—jumping into the ocean in order to save a harbor seal—while brave, was also very foolish and dangerous. You might easily have been hurt far worse than you were, while the seal escaped any injury. It’s not particularly easy to hit a moving target—and even less easy when the target’s medium is also moving. Bullets ricochetting off the water and striking bystanders, however . . .”

  She let it drift off. I shifted again beneath the blanket, and thought about losing my temper, but I was too tired.

  “I understand,” I said mildly. “It was an impulse. I really do know better.”

  She nodded, settled her hat, and ducked through that horrifying curtain, releasing neither lightnin
g bolts nor other killing rays. I began to form the hypothesis that the prismatics were an artifact of the painkillers, but the nurse arrived before I’d gone very far down that road, rustling importantly.

  “The doctor will be here in a few minutes. After he talks to you, you’ll be free to go home. Is there someone here to drive you or would you like us to call a taxi?”

  “I’ll be taking her home,” a deep voice said. The curtain twitched aside and Borgan stepped into the cubicle—black jeans, black boots, black crew neck sweater, hands tucked comfortably in the pockets of his jacket.

  “Hi, Kate,” he said cordially. “You look like hell.”

  “And who are you?” the nurse snapped. He shifted his gaze to her.

  “Andre Borgan. I’m a friend of Ms. Archer’s. I came to give her a ride home, like I said.”

  “That’s right,” I said to her questioning glance. She sniffed and departed, and I gave Borgan what I fully intended to be a smile.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said, which was nothing but the unvarnished truth. He shook his head, eyes serious, and sat down in the chair lately occupied by C. Poulin.

  “How long’re we supposed to wait for this doctor?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Not long at all!” The overly-cheerful voice of my emergency physician announced. He pushed the curtain back with a flourish and stepped inside the cubicle, lab coat flapping. “It’s official,” he told me. “The hole in your arm was caused by a bullet.”

  I blinked at him. “Imagine.”

  He shook his head, pulled two pieces of paper from his clipboard and brandished them under my nose. “Prescriptions. One for painkillers. One for antibiotics.” A third piece of paper came off the clipboard and was duly brandished. “A list of terrifying possible symptoms and side effects, and if you display any of them, even the teensiest little bit, I want you back in this emergency room pronto. Copy that?” He gave me a stern stare, then turned his head to give Borgan a stern stare, too.

  He nodded, extended a long arm and twitched the papers out of the doctor’s hand. “I’ll make sure she does what’s needful.”

  “Good.” The doctor turned to go, then turned back. “One other thing you might find interesting, Ms. Archer.”

  I paused in the act of pushing the blanket back and blinked up at him.

  “What’s that?”

  “That bullet we dug out of your arm at great personal pain to yourself?” he said.

  “Yah?” I agreed warily.

  He gave me an owlish look.

  “It’s silver.”

  * * *

  “The sea,” Borgan said conversationally, while we waited for the red light at the end of Industrial Park Road to go green, “will eat them.”

  The painkillers were still fogging up my brain, which was working hard to accommodate the fact that Borgan owned a red GMC pickup that was waxed to an inch of its life. The leather passenger seat cuddled me like we were very good friends, and I had a feeling that I’d nodded off for a second there. I shook my head and sat up straight.

  “Would that give the sea indigestion?” I asked. “Remember there’s an Ozali in the soup.”

  Borgan flicked an unreadable black glance at me, eased the truck into gear and turned onto Route 1.

  “I know you said the woman this morning was wearing a nice, custom-fitted spellcoat, but do we know that it just isn’t her?”

  “You said none of the trenvay can touch any of Nemeier’s crew,” I reminded him. “Also? You wonder why nobody on the Pier cared that we were about to get shot, stabbed, and stomped on? Big, fat illusion generator right over top. I went Sideways after you dumped me on the beach and got a real good look at it.”

  “Hmm. What happened to it, by the way?”

  I sighed muzzily and leaned my head against the back of the seat. “I ripped it up. Shoulda taken time to study it, but I had to hurry before one of ’em got lucky and shot you.”

  Borgan steered the truck casually into the night, quiet coming off him so forcibly it was almost a weapon. I closed my eyes and let the upholstery have its way with me.

  “Non-resident magery used in the service of mischief and spite,” Borgan said eventually, his voice very soft. “Would that be in violation of that Law the Wise like so much?”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, not bothering to open my eyes. “Oh, baby, is it ever in violation.” I sighed.

  Borgan didn’t say anything. Quiet filled up the cab and settled inside my ears like cotton wool. It was ’way, ’way too quiet—and suddenly not quiet at all, as the land whooped into my consciousness like an exuberant six year old; vitality flowed through me, and I sat up, biting my lip when the wounded arm complained.

  “Take it easy,” Borgan murmured, his eyes on the road. “A gunshot doesn’t heal all at once.”

  “At least it was a silver bullet,” I said, and shook my head. “Honestly. Do I look like a werewolf to you?”

  He gave me a considering glance. “Might be the eyes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Borgan smiled, and pressed the brake for the stop sign at the top of Archer Avenue.

  “Where’s good?” he asked.

  I waved my right hand sloppily, meaning to indicate the whole of town. “Anyplace’ll do.”

  He nodded. The headlights scraped vacant storefronts as we turned onto Archer Avenue, and then the dark windows of houses as he took the left onto Seavey and pulled in front of the old Archer homestead. He put the truck into park, and turned the key.

  I released the seatbelt, and reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Welcome,” he said, unsnapping his seatbelt and popping the door. “Wait ’til I’m around there.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but he’d already closed his door. I sighed sharply, and pulled up on the handle. Honestly, I thought crabbily, you’d think I was an invalid. I’m perfectly fine now that . . .

  Maybe I swung out a little too energetically. Despite that my feet were on the land, my head went light, my eyesight went drifty, my knees turned to rubber, and—

  “Do you ever do anything sensible?” Borgan asked, swinging me up against his chest.

  I put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said again, but I didn’t even sound convincing to myself. Borgan didn’t bother to answer. He carried me into the park and settled me on the rickety bench.

  “Now, stay there. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  Nice and obedient, I sat on the bench, the land singing hosannas all around town. I was too tired to enforce quiet, and besides, it was sorta comforting.

  I looked down the hill. Fun Country’s big sign was lit up, and the fence, but the rides were dark and quiet, which meant—

  “It’s after ten?” I asked Borgan, who was spreading a blanket on the grass near the sundial.

  “Little past midnight,” he said, coming over to the bench. “Sit with me, eh? We can tell each other stories.”

  I looked up at him, a big-shouldered silhouette against a spangled sky. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “That’s right. I don’t. You walking or am I carrying you?”

  There was a certain temptation to being carried, but a woman has her pride.

  “Walk,” I said firmly.

  “Good enough.” He held out a hand. I took it, not too proud to accept help getting up. As soon as our fingers touched, the land quieted, though I could still feel its joy at my return quivering at the back of my head.

  I made it over to the blanket without falling on my nose, though I was shivering and soaked with sweat by the time I had gotten myself seated. Borgan shook out another blanket and draped it over my lap, then dropped down lightly beside me.

  “You’re going to miss the tide,” I said, muzzy again. I should, I thought, raise a little bit of power and burn the damn’ painkillers out of my system. The only problem being that I felt like I didn’t have a real good handle on “little bit.”

  “Finn�
��s fishing for me,” Borgan said, and lay down on his back, arms under his head. “Pretty night.”

  “ ’Morning,” I said, just to be contrary, and he laughed quietly.

  “ ’Mornin’ to you, too. Who tells the first story?”

  I shook my head, looking down the hill at the dark town. “I don’t know any stories.”

  “Woman as gifted with a tale as you are? I don’t believe that.”

  I closed my eyes. “Hey, listen—I figured out how come the tourists could grab onto Joe Nemeier’s little crew of merrymakers when the trenvay can’t.”

  “How’s that?”

  I half turned toward him, leaning on my uninjured hand. “The spells’re built to repel magic—like that lightning bolt bouncing off my girl this morning.”

  “Hmm. And why would that make it so I can’t touch ’em?”

  “Because you’re a supernatural being,” I said impatiently, “and so’s Nerazi and Gaby and Bob and—”

  “I take your point,” he interrupted, turning his head to look at me. “It’s a nice theory, Kate, but it doesn’t explain why you don’t have any trouble grabbing onto these boys and girls.”

  I blinked at him. “How do you mean?”

  Silence for the beat of three. “Aren’t you a supernatural being?” he asked.

  I sighed, exhausted again, and lay down facing him, my good arm crooked under my head. “I don’t know what I am.”

  “Well.” Borgan turned onto his side, head propped on his hand. “Tell me how you came here from your grandad’s place.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to hear that story.”

  “Actually, I do.” He grinned at me. “After all, it’s got a happy ending.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Tuesday, April 25

  Low Tide 3:17 a.m.

  Moonrise 3:32 a.m. EDT, Waning Crescent

  “My mother sold her soul to the Ozali Ramendysis,” I said slowly. “The price was—me. I was to be put into the care of the Ozali Zephyr, who’d been my father’s friend. Zephyr was supposed to take me to my grandmother in the Changing Land.”