by Sharon Lee
“Here we go,” he said. “Turn around.”
Meekly, I put my mug down, and did as I was told. I felt him fiddle with my braid, and tie off the string. His hands settled, big and warm, around my shoulders.
I felt his lips against the nape of my neck.
Molten power shot up my spine; I moaned, knees suddenly soft, gasped—and gasped!
“Wait!”
He let go of me immediately, even as I extended my will to banish the rush of jikinap back where it belonged, only to be met by—nothing. I did the metaphysical equivalent of the stagger-and-snatch you do when a surface you expect to be firm gives—
And began to laugh.
“Kate?” Borgan definitely sounded careful. Well, who could blame the man?
“Wait,” I said again, gasping, one hand raised. “I don’t—” I lifted my face to his. “I—I thought it was my power, rising…” I said, unsteadily. “I—that felt really good. By the way.”
I love Borgan’s laugh; it’s deep and rich and generous.
“Don’t remember a time I had a better recommendation,” he said at last, raising a hand to wipe his eyes. He shook his head. “You want to go topside? Nice night to drink coffee and look at the stars.”
“Sounds great,” I said, truthfully.
* * *
The waning moon had risen; the tide had hit dead low and turned.
What I’m saying is, it was late. Or really, really early, depending on your referents.
We leaned against the rail. I was tucked under Borgan’s arm, snug in the curve of his chest. The coffee was long gone, and we’d done some more kissing, though it must be noted that Borgan stayed strictly away from the back of my neck.
Have to do something about that, I thought drowsily, looking down at the dark water.
Something moved in the depths, and I half-stirred—but it was only a harbor seal, breaking the surface in a lazy roll and vanishing again, below. I resettled with a sigh. Sadly, though, I couldn’t quite settle back into mindless contentment.
“Borgan?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me about the ronstibles.”
“Thought I did that a couple days ago.”
“Well, bare bones, sure. But if they were the old Guardians, and you displaced them—how did that happen, exactly? And why are they around to hold a grudge? And—”
“Mercy, woman.” I heard his laughter rumble in his chest. “All that, right now?”
“Right now, I’ve got the upper hand,” I pointed out.
“You do at that,” he agreed, deadpan. “No sense to wastin’ an advantage.” He took a deep breath, and sighed it out.
“So…ronstibles.”
He was quiet for a minute or two—organizing his thoughts, maybe. I snuggled closer, content—and content to wait.
“Some claim Lorelei for a ronstible, and the Siren sisters, too,” Borgan said conversationally. “So far’s I know, though, those ladies took shape from the terror of mariners and the cunning of rocks. The ronstibles—the ones I know, and Nerazi does—they might be as old as the sea itself.”
“Sea witches, ronstible—whatever you might call them, they’re of the sea and for the sea. If a man should sin against the sea, then they made his life payment for the sin.
“Not all the sea’s waters hold a witch; not every witch born of the sea’s genius thrived. The ronstible of the Gulf of Maine, they weren’t the worst; they didn’t tempt men to drowning, though they had no pity for those who died on their waters.”
Borgan paused, took another breath, and pulled me closer to him. He rested his cheek on my hair and sighed softly. When he spoke again, his voice was low and slow, like he was talking in his sleep.
“The sea is older than any man, and the sea has her own ways and meanings. It’s in her nature to be bountiful, and it’s in her nature to be deadly. The people of the land, they fear what might kill them. The people of the land feared the sea, though she fed them, but they feared the ronstible more.
“The sea, she might kill them, but the ronstible were cruel.
“That’s how it was, and that’s how it stayed, until, like everything, it changed.
“Change was a man. Warrior, Hunter, Fisherman. The man, this man, he loved the sea, and all the creatures within her bounty. The sea noticed. The sea became interested in the man.
“The man, this lover of the waters, he took from the sea’s bounty, but only enough, and never more. He took a loon chick from Old Man Turtle’s mouth, and gave Turtle fish from his own net. That loon, he raised him like a brother.
“The sea fell in love; she granted favors to the man. The ronstible did not love the man.
“And, then…it changed a second time. The man went away.”
“The sea mourned her loss, and the ronstible had their way.”
He paused then, and I kept very still in the shelter of his arm, not wanting to disturb him until the story was done.
“For a third time…it changed.
“The man returned to the sea. He was a chief, now, with people to protect from the sharp knives of a rival.
“He wanted to take his people to the islands. It was an easy trip by canoe, on a fair day.
“The day the man came back, it was not fair. He and his people, they were closely pursued.
“As dirty as it was, they could not wait for the weather to turn. If his people fell into the hands of their enemies, they would all die. If his people put themselves onto the sea, they might, most of them, survive.
“The canoes took the women, and the children, each with a warrior to paddle. The chief and three of his best warriors stood on the land to guard their retreat.
“Their enemy arrived, and the battle was terrible. The chief, once beloved of the sea, prevailed. At the end, he alone remained standing among all who had fought there. Bleeding from many wounds, he turned to see what progress his people had made across the water.
“It was then that he saw the ronstible, attacking the canoes, flinging his people into the cold, stormy waters—his people who could not swim.
“The man cried out to the sea, begging that his people be spared, and offering himself in their stead.
“The sea heard him. The sea…remembered him.
“The sea extended her power.
“A great wave gathered in the gray waters, and sped toward the shore. The chief saw it, and straightened, even as a loon—his very own loon, that he had rescued so many moons past—settled between his feet. The wave sped toward him; beyond it, he could see his people—his people…
“His people, swimming gracefully toward the islands, changed by the sea’s mercy—into seals.
“The last thing he saw, before the wave took him to the sea, were the ronstible being drawn beneath the waters, wailing.”
I took a very, very careful breath.
“Borgan?”
There was no answer.
“Borgan,” I said again, slightly louder.
“Kate,” he answered, and raised his head.
“Was that you?” I asked; “the warrior on the shore?”
But I knew the answer to that—I had seen him, in his leathers, with his loon nestled by his foot…
I heard a sharp intake of breath.
“I told you that story?”
“If that story is how the ronstibles fell into disfavor with the sea, and Strand and Blunt Islands came to have seals—yes.”
He closed his eyes.
“Why didn’t the sea unmake them?” I asked, eventually, and hoping I wasn’t venturing onto unwelcoming waters.
“Well.” He opened his eyes. “The sea can’t unmake a part of herself, and the ronstible are just that; a part of her nature.”
The piece clicked into place.
“And that’s the reason there wasn’t anything to clue me—or anybody—into the fact that everything wasn’t perfectly fine. The ronstible are part of her nature, and you were with her.” I drew a breath. “How long could they have kept
you…subdued?”
He sighed.
“I’m thinking the longer they have me, the easier it is to have me, if you take my meaning.”
I shivered.
“Kate, they’re weak and—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “You built wards, and that ought to hold them. Unless something weakens you again, and they slip the leash.”
“This is getting ’way too serious,” Borgan said, and turned, bringing me with him, so he could kiss me, an exercise I entered into with enthusiasm.
“It’s late,” he murmured some little while later, nuzzling my throat, and I had just enough wit online to realize that was a question.
Well, Kate, I asked myself kindly; staying what’s left of the night, or not?
“I think,” I said slowly, holding onto his braid. “I think I’d better go home.”
He raised his head. “If that’s what you think, I’ll walk with you.”
* * *
We walked empty streets, under a sky already beginning to lighten. Hand in hand by mutual choice, not talking; there wasn’t really any need to talk. Just holding hands, and walking…that was good enough. No. It was as near to perfect as made no difference.
We turned the corner from Grand and I could see the porch light glowing like a moon at the top of Dube Street. Home again, not quite the same day.
The steps being narrow, I went up first, Borgan coming after. The key was in the lock before I realized that I had another decision to make. After all, Borgan had made me free with his space. It was only, and at the very least, polite, to reciprocate.
I turned toward him.
“Do you—” I began and got no further, because he’d pressed his fingers gently against my lips.
“No need to do anything rash,” he murmured. “You hardly know me, after all.”
I laughed against his fingers. He smiled, and moved his hands to cup my face. Holding me still, he bent down and kissed me.
Thoroughly.
“Hey!” a familiar voice hollered. “Get a room!”
Borgan broke the kiss in an eventual sort of way, and I turned my head.
Peggy the Fixer stood at the bottom of the flight, Felsic’s arm around her waist.
“You drunk, Jersey?”
“She’s not,” Felsic said quickly. “Only danced-up a little, G-Kate. I’ll see to her.”
The land swore Felsic was as steady as they went, as trustworthy as the tides. I took that as absolutely true, with one caveat.
Felsic was trenvay.
And Peggy…wasn’t.
I went down the steps, nodded to Felsic, put my hands on Peggy’s shoulders, and looked into her face. Her eyes were wide, her color high; she was animated and burning so bright I could feel her on the land, almost as if she was trenvay.
I looked back at Felsic.
“I think I’d better take it from here,” I said, courteously. “Thank you for your care, and your service, Felsic.”
There was a small pause as Felsic looked over my shoulder, and nodded politely. “Cap’n Borgan.”
“Felsic. Good to see you. ’Morning, Peggy Marr. You’d best let Kate get you in to bed.”
“Kate’s busy,” Peggy announced, purple eyes very bright, “in case you hadn’t noticed. Besides, I can get myself to bed.”
“Sure you can,” I said, taking her arm and guiding her to the studio’s door. “Where’s your key?”
“Right here.” She fumbled it from her pocket, and held it out. I used it and let us in, shoving the door closed behind. Peggy was showing a tendency to break into dance, which was probably why Felsic had taken firm hold. I got my arm around her shoulders, left the key on the kitchen counter, and steered her into the bedroom.
“You bi?” she asked, doing a little heel-and-toe in place.
“Straight as a pine tree,” I told her.
“Damn, my luck’s lousy,” she said, feet stilling for a moment, and shoulders drooping, just a little.
I took a chance and let her go while I yanked the blankets down on the bed.
“Take your shoes off, Jersey, and get under the covers.”
She obediently toed out of her sneakers and slid, fully dressed, even unto the purple sweatshirt, into bed.
I pulled the covers over her, and she crossed her hands on top.
“I won’t sleep a wink. I’m too full. So much energy. I could dance to the moon…”
Under the covers, her feet were shifting in what looked like the heel-and-toe. This would not do. It was possible to draw too much from the music; a mundane human might even—according to the old stories—dance themselves to death.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my hand over Peggy’s, folded on her breast.
She smiled at me. “You’re cute when you’re worried, Archer.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
“If I wasn’t so, so—I’d be worried. Gotta work tomorrow. Today. Whatever.”
“You do, and you will,” I said, and made the request of the land, feeling its willingness come back to me.
“Go to sleep, Peggy,” I murmured, the land’s gift flowing through me, to her. “Wake up well rested, full of joy and energy.” But not, I added, just between me and the land, too much energy.
Peggy’s errant feet stilled beneath the covers, her eyelids drooped, and her breathing smoothed out. I kept my hand on hers for a long count of ten, then rose, checked to make sure the alarm was on, and tiptoed out.
Borgan was sitting on the steps when I came out, locking the door behind me.
“Where’s Felsic?”
“He thought he’d better go ’long home, too. Said to tell you, you was right—he didn’t mean her no mischief, but he’s a little danced-up himself.”
“Him, is it? Peggy says her.”
Borgan looked unsurprised. “What’s Kate say?”
“Kate’s not sure,” I confessed, and he nodded.
“I’m thinking that’s the right of it.” He tilted his head toward Peggy’s door. “She’ll be all right?”
“The land put her to sleep. She ought to wake up rarin’ to go, in about—” I winced, remembering the tale told by Peggy’s alarm clock—“four hours.”
“And you’ll do the same for yourself,” he said, rising easily.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “One way or another. You, though—”
He put his hands on my shoulders and smiled down at me, softly. My heart flipped over in my chest. I swallowed, hard, and Borgan’s smile widened.
“I’ll just go back the sea route,” he said; “that’ll set me up for the day. You—you’d best go in, now.” He bent and kissed my forehead.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kate,” he said, and stepped back, clearing my path to the stairs.
He was leaving. Suddenly and very badly, I wanted him to stay. I wanted to throw myself on his chest and kiss his chin, his ear, the corner of his mouth…
“Kate?”
“Right. Bedtime.” I nodded, sharply, and forced myself to go up the stairs, slide the key into the lock, and push the door open.
I paused then, and looked down. Borgan was standing at the foot of the stairs, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his face tipped up and bathed in light.
My heart flipped again. I wondered if that was going to become a habit, and whether I’d eventually get used to it.
“See you tomorrow, Borgan,” I said, feeling the promise resonate in the land.
Then I stepped inside and shut the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wednesday, June 21
Midsummer Day
High Tide 8:02 a.m.
Sunrise 5 a.m. EDT
I woke refreshed, with no assist from the alarm, from a sleep so sound it seemed as if a cat had guarded my dreams.
That was an odd fancy, I thought, lying there and not exactly in a hurry to rise. It’d been years since I’d lived with a cat—Gran’s big old Maine Coon, that would have been—Bowditch, by name.
&
nbsp; I’d been wounded when I arrived, suddenly and without warning, long years ago, on Gran’s doorstep. Not just your garden variety gunshot wound, either; I’d been elfshot, and I should’ve died, because that’s what people who’ve been elfshot do.
Gran said that I hadn’t died because Zephyr had gotten me across the world wall almost immediately after I’d been hit. The poison had changed, said Gran, before it had a chance to kill me.
As guesses went, it was as good as any.
Though it hadn’t killed me, being elfshot didn’t made me any stronger, either. I was sick for months, needed a lot of feeding up, and sun, and sleep. Bowditch, being a past master in the art of napping, had guarded my sleep by day. At night, I’d had Snow, the wolf-dog, beside me. Bad dreams got past Snow—she wasn’t anything like as resty as Bowie—but I never feared that anything but a dream would get past her.
That’d been important, in those days.
Well, I thought idly; maybe I should get a cat.
I stretched, and threw the covers back, glancing at the clock as I did.
Seven forty-five. Perfect.
I went downstairs to take a shower.
* * *
The day’s agenda took shape while I showered. I had to relieve Vassily at four, naturally, but before that, there would be low tide. After sleeping on it, my back-brain had decided that the better part of valor was the immediate closing of the wild gate at Goosefare Brook.
I considered that idea narrowly as I shampooed my hair, but—aside from the fact that I had no idea how I’d go about closing a working that had literally knocked me on my ass—the concept seemed sound. Sort of implicit in protect the land was the notion that there shouldn’t be random mystery gates spotting the landscape.
They say that water’s therapeutic, that there’s something about taking a bath or a shower that stimulates the creative process. That was certainly true for me, today at least. By the time I’d turned the water off and was toweling off, I had figured out one possible approach to my problem.
If that didn’t work, I promised myself, I’d apply to Mr. Ignat’ for high-level assistance.
In the meantime, and before either low tide or gate-crashing, came breakfast, which was fortunate, because I was starving.
