by Krista Walsh
Tugging his coat collar closer around his neck, Gabe widened the rift and stepped through the doorway onto the dock. The wind whipped at his face, and he winced as ice pellets chipped at his cheeks. The snow fell in heavy gusts that blocked his view beyond the length of his arm. Carefully, he stumbled his way through the knee-deep banks toward where Sam Davidson’s body had been found.
Against the dim gray light of the storm, the red and blue lights that suddenly flashed into view stood out like a beacon. Gabe ducked behind a stack of empty shipping crates, their thin wooden slats making it easy for him to stare through at the scene beyond.
Through the gaps in the wall of icy flakes, he made out a group huddled together in the middle of a circle where the snowbanks had been cleared away. He counted ten people, most of them in blue crime scene coveralls, with two in black parkas. Three plows were parked nearby, their engines still running.
He was a bit surprised that so many people had braved the weather just to hunt for evidence that was probably long lost under the snow.
Unless this is something new.
A burning curiosity overcame the prickly hum of Gabe’s anxiety about being near the river. He created a rift in the air the length of his thumb to close the distance between him and the two people in black parkas, and their voices filtered through.
“…fourth this week,” a woman said, confirming Gabe’s suspicions about a new murder. “Added to the three we found last week. What is going on here, Hunter? Is the weather going to people’s heads? The snow comes down and suddenly everyone’s going crazy for drugs and prostitutes?”
The man named Hunter chuckled, a dry sound with little humor. “I doubt we’re lucky enough for it to be so simple. You saw the security video. Remember all that stuff about ‘strange and unusual’?”
The woman groaned. “No. Please, don’t say it. I’m not ready to step into that world again.”
“The weather’s enough of a clue that we’re in the middle of something bigger than a couple of muggings, don’t you think, Meg? I don’t care what the weather guy on the six o’clock news says, this isn’t just some freak event. The storm ends at our city lines. Not even Mother Nature is that organized.”
“Unless she is and we just never took her seriously,” Meg said, her tone lightening, but not quite reaching amused. “Maybe this whole storm is because someone in New Haven flipped her off one too many times.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what happened,” the man replied, and his gravity made Gabe lean forward with interest.
These detectives sounded like they knew something of his world, and their suspicions about the case made him eager to find out what they had discovered. He wondered what kind of encounters they’d previously had with the “strange and unusual.” Would their experiences help them solve the case, or were they in way over their heads? Based on Meg’s obvious reluctance to accept the truth of the situation, Gabe suspected they were scrambling to find some solid footing.
“Before we bring in the local psychic, let’s try to solve this our way, all right?” said Meg.
“She’s not a psychic,” Hunter replied, and by the quickness of his response, Gabe guessed this wasn’t the first time he’d clarified the distinction.
“Whatever. The point is, we can handle this. We’re better off than we were yesterday now that we know it’s not…a usual case.”
A hesitation, then a breath of air. When Hunter spoke again, it was with a frustrated edge. “So many days following useless leads. I don’t think we can wait to ask her for help. We need answers. At this rate, we’ll blow through the captain’s budget just getting the plows out here. We might have to buy one of our own, then there goes your trip to Maui.”
“Just a day, Hunter. I don’t want to bring her into this if we don’t have to.”
“One day. It would be irresponsible to wait any longer than that.”
A stretch of silence and then Meg spoke again. “The weather has a couple of perks, at least.”
“What’s that?”
“It keeps the press away, which means no awkward questions about monsters coming out of the river, and no one can mess with our crime scenes.”
More dry laughter. “All right, let’s go wait in the car for Hugh to show up. No point in us freezing our asses off out here.”
Their footsteps crunched through the snow, and Gabe peered around the crates. The technicians had spread out around the edges of the circle, the color of their coveralls sharp against the whiteness of the snow, but he kept his eye on the detectives as they passed by.
Hunter was handsome enough in a rugged, ginger kind of way, but Meg was the true looker. Her shoulder-length brown hair blew around her face with the wind, and she brushed it back with gloved hands. A crease had settled between her brows and the corners of her lips were tugged down, but the lack of permanent lines told him the frown wasn’t her usual expression. He guessed she was quick to smile given the right motivation.
He imagined stepping out from his hiding place and introducing himself to her and her partner. He would hand her his card, explain that he was a half-breed Gorgon-Fae, and express his interest in helping the two of them solve this bound-to-be-supernatural case.
Considering what he’d just heard, he doubted either of them would laugh him off the docks.
But then he’d be accountable to the authorities, and he and authority rarely got along well.
He waited until they disappeared from view, then widened the thumb-sized rift to get a better look at what the cops had found. Gabe remained hidden by the stack of crates, but through the rift, he could view the crime scene that now lay at his feet. Complete with a dead body in the middle of the circle. Number seven.
He heaved out a breath and forced himself not to look away.
The dead man was naked and lying on his back in the snow, just like Sam had been at the end of the security video feed. His green eyes were open and bulging. Frozen crystals clung to the whiskers around his parted blue lips.
If Gabe had to name the expression on the man’s face, he would go with awestruck. There was no trace of fear etched into the lines around the man’s eyes, no sign of horror. His death had likely been quick and painless, which would be good for the victim’s family to know, even if it didn’t change the fact that their partner, father, or son was never coming home.
Gabe shook his head and ran his hand through his hair.
Poor bastard.
Grimacing at the necessity of what he had to do next, he crouched down and scanned what he could see of the circle to make sure the technicians’ attentions were elsewhere. Once he confirmed they were all engrossed in their own tasks, he reached his arm through the rift. Even if one of the techs turned toward him now, Gabe doubted he would say anything. Humans rarely saw what didn’t make sense, and when they did, they usually kept it to themselves. No one wanted to be that guy. In fact, the avoidance of being that guy was what had kept the otherworld a secret for so long.
Banking on that blindness to shield him now, Gabe pressed his fingers into the bare skin of the dead man’s arm. Not only frozen, but stiff. A layer of frost cracked along his bicep like vines, a few flakes chipping off to drift to the ground. Gabe stared into the man’s eyes. Bloodshot as well as bulging. He tucked the tip of his finger into the man’s mouth and eased down his bottom lip. Water dribbled over his chin.
Drowned.
Gabe jerked back, his heart thrashing against his ribs. As though the water had drained from the dead man’s mouth into his own, he couldn’t breathe. He spat into the snow and gasped until the cold air filled his lungs.
The rift sealed shut behind him, leaving him alone with his panic on the other side of the dock. The murmur of voices still reached him from the crime scene, but the tunnel of his focus left them distant. Unreachable.
When his heart finally slowed, he sagged against the crate behind him and stared into the snow swirling across the ice. The temperature range had held to the minus thirties since
the storm started — how could the river have thawed enough for someone to fall through?
His heart rate picked up again, the beats working at time and a half. He tried to tell himself that he should be more afraid of the unknown creature that had killed seven men — including a fire elemental — than the river, but not even a murderous monster could overwhelm his courage as much as the memories that haunted his steps.
He squeezed his eyes shut and walked through what he had to do next.
You came out here to find out what happened to these men. You know they fell into the water. Now it’s time for you to follow their footsteps. You don’t need to go for a swim of your own, just find out where they took the dive.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to get up. His legs trembled as he got to his feet, but he squeezed his hands at his sides and swallowed his fear. He had battled a hellhound, for the gods’ sakes. He was a creature of nightmare for some people, and here he was, afraid of a bit of water?
Don’t be a coward.
His Gorgon rage sizzled in his blood in a self-directed attack, and he grabbed hold of the heat, using it to fuel himself as he pushed through the snow.
With one hand raised in front of his waist in case he needed to jump back to his apartment — he was in no place to go up against such a creature ignorant and unarmed — he started toward the river. He headed in the opposite direction of the police, relying on the curtain of falling snow to keep him hidden.
The banks reached his knees, and twice he tripped on objects hidden beneath the surface. Both times he considered using the excuse of the obstacle course to turn back and try again when the weather was better, but he pushed on, his tracks disappearing as quickly as he walked.
Eventually he made it to the edge of the dock. His foot slid under the snow as the ground changed from frozen wood to frozen water, and his insides twisted. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it as he stepped onto the ice.
Although the falling snow still blew in the same blustering clouds around his face, the snow at his feet tapered off with each slow, steady step onto the river, the wind pushing the drifts back toward the shore. Soon, he was walking without any hindrance at all, the snow just thick enough to keep the ice from being too slippery underfoot. He took his time, feeling his way forward.
Four yards out from the docks, Gabe turned back and stared at the crime scene. He made out the shadows of the ambulance and the rotating blue and red lights reflecting off the snow. Dark shapes moved around where the body must be, but he couldn’t make out any details, even with his sharp vision.
Confident that if he couldn’t see them in detail, they couldn’t see him at all, he squeezed his hands at his sides and continued his walk. He kept his gaze glued to the ice ahead, looking for where the man might have fallen through so he could avoid being the next person to take the plunge.
His foot caught on something, and he tripped and fell to his knees. His hands pressed against the ice to keep his balance and his skin burned with the cold. Tears stung his eyes in another wave of panic, and for a moment, no tough love he shouted at himself could make him open his eyes and regain his footing.
When he finally pushed through the nausea, he tugged his palms away, wincing as bits of flesh clung to the ice. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to thaw them out, but the sharp movement made his balance wobble again. Cold water splashed over his knees and froze, each droplet soaking through his pants deep into his bones.
Gabe’s stomach dropped. He’d stepped off the edge of the ice onto a long, wobbling floe. His heart beating a percussion solo in his chest, he crawled backward onto the solid surface. Water seeped over his hands as he passed over the crack, and he forced himself not to flinch.
“What in the sacred stone?” The sound of his trembling voice did nothing to cast out the fear that had gripped him. He breathed slowly to steady himself, then eased to his feet.
Keeping a safe distance from the edge and gliding the soles of his boots across the ice, he followed the path along the cracked surface. The wind picked up, obscuring his vision, and when he stumbled again, he stopped.
His skin prickled with the energy of something nearby — something very much not human.
He curled his hands into fists and stared across the water, waiting for the wind to die down and the scene to clear.
The wind tore through his thick hair and snow and ice pellets blasted his cheeks. Then, for a breath, the storm eased. The snow steadied into a straight downward flurry, and Gabe’s mouth went dry.
Bewilderment whirled through his thoughts like the snow on the wind, and he dropped into a crouch to better understand.
Through the drifts, he made out where the ice had cracked. The side he stood on remained flat and smooth, but the other side had lifted and flipped back on itself, as though something had pushed it up from underneath like a trapdoor, then crumpled the edge like paper. Gabe gauged the ice to be around eighteen inches thick, yet something had torn right through it, leaving a gap just large enough for a man to slip through and get lost in the current.
Bile crept up the back of Gabe’s throat as a shiver tickled his scalp along the roots of his hair. He rose to his feet, taking his time to avoid slipping into the watery tomb.
He had no doubt that if he fell into that frozen pool, his heart would stop before he could try to climb out again.
So how did these men get out of the water? he wondered. And what made them come out here in the first place?
He stared into the snow and the hair on the back of his neck rose. As though some unseen presence had heard his unspoken question and turned its attention toward him, he sensed something watching him, calling to him from the storm. Whatever was out there was waiting for its next victim, and he doubted it was willing to wait long.
4
Gabe opened a rift into his apartment and lurched through. His legs wobbled, and not even his Gorgon-Fae blood was able to cut through the chill created by the water soaking through his pants.
As the rift closed behind him, he kicked away his boots and peeled off his snow-crusted coat. He threw the coat over the kitchen table and shuffled to the futon to grab his comforter, which he wrapped tightly around his shoulders. After dropping onto the lumpy mattress, he stared into the dim reflection of his dark laptop screen and watched his performance of the Shaking Huddled Mass of Wishrock Harbor.
He didn’t want to go back out on the ice. Alone, in the safety of his apartment, he admitted to himself that his shakes came as much from fear as from the cold. The lofty peaks of his panic made Clare’s check and desperation for answers irrelevant, and his anger surged that she had put him in this position. He’d survived for over a decade without stepping near any large body of water, and without thinking of his brother as anything more than a passing memory. All that effort thrown away because some woman didn’t want to wait for the police to find her answers?
Bitch, his anger cursed.
A grieving widow with a case the police won’t be able to solve, his rational mind reminded him. Plus how could she know my particular brand of crazy? Clare’s issues weren’t making him feel like a feeble animal. Nope, that was all him.
Gabe shoved his hands through his hair and wrangled his temper back into its cage, but the fear remained. He’d have to give the money back. He couldn’t go out on the river again. Especially not when whatever had broken through the ice was luring its victims into its darkness.
He’d been twelve years old the last time he’d seen a river as a place to play and relax. The day Rick had slipped and fallen, gotten caught up in the current and drowned — that had been the end of it for Gabe. He’d been strong enough to save himself, but not to save his brother, and no matter how many times he tried to reason with himself, he could never shake the belief that his failure had destroyed his family. Not long after Rick’s death, his father had disappeared without a word of goodbye, leaving his mother a heartbroken shadow of herself to the day of her death when Gabe was
twenty-five.
If the water claimed him again, he was secretly afraid that his strength wouldn’t be enough to fight against the weight of his guilt. He knew it was a crazy thought — he liked being alive, thank you very much — but that didn’t stop the fear from taking control of him.
From a more rational perspective, he didn’t know how wise it would be to go back out there on his own. Whatever had come to the surface and killed all those men had to be strong and large, and the thought of facing a creature like that unprepared was enough to turn Gabe’s warm blood into tiny red ice chips that sliced his veins and left him numb.
He hugged the comforter tighter. The cotton and polyester had already begun to do its job, and the warmth was leaching back into his skin. Away from the wind and the shock, his hands stung, and he pulled them free to get a look at the damage.
The skin on three of his fingertips and the heels of his palms was missing in patches. Blood stained the top of his palms where his hands had curled in on themselves, and the sting sharpened under the cold draft coming in through the open window.
His immune system was strong enough to prevent the scrapes from getting infected, so he spared himself the pain of pouring alcohol over them and chose to fill his stomach with the stuff instead.
Keeping the comforter around him, he went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Sure, it was barely past ten o’clock in the morning, but how often did he come across a sign that maybe some kind of leviathan had woken from its slumber beneath the Haven River?
He chugged the first three gulps and tumbled back on his futon, propping the balls of his feet on the edge of his coffee table on either side of his laptop. The alcohol burned away his shock over what he’d discovered on the ice, and as his body thawed out and his nerves steadied, his curiosity over the case started to overcome his fear of the river.
I’m still not going back out there, he told himself. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to think this through.
The compromise soothed another layer of his prickling panic, and he sagged into the lumpy mattress.
