“I thought maybe I did you in. I expected merwifs to be more durable than that. Then again, you are city stock.”
Immanuel’s chest ached as he swallowed against the knot in his throat. “What do you want with me?”
“Answers and a bit more.”
More? With a flick of Quince’s wrist, the tip of the harpoon jabbed Immanuel’s side hard enough to make him hiss the words through his teeth. “What sort of answers?”
“The kind that will save this island and you, if you play your cards right.”
Immanuel’s pulse pounded in his temples as he blinked in hopes it would clear the damaged side of his eye. The lighthouse keeper circled him slowly with the harpoon only inches from Immanuel’s waist. At each glint or flick, Immanuel blenched only to receive a satisfied huff from Quince. His eyes surveyed Immanuel’s form, lingering on his hands and finally on his scar.
Anger bubbled deep in his chest at the man’s probing eye. “I— I telegraphed my employers. They will be here shortly to deal with Jacobs’ murderer. If any harm comes to me, they will know it was you.”
“It will take days for them to get here. You would be amazed how easily a body can disappear in a place like this. Help me, and we can discuss your release.”
Immanuel’s hands shook, but he clasped the them behind his back and stood. “Go on.”
“All right. My first question is if you’re a merwif, then how are you able to live away from the water without getting the sea sickness?”
“I don’t know what a merwif is, but I don’t think I am what you think I am.”
“A selkie, a sea wife. There’s no word for what we are, but there’s never been a man who could get away without suffering for it. Some go so mad they throw themselves to their deaths rather than be apart from the water. Do you get an itch in your brain when you’re away from it? Do you dream of the sea until you awake to find yourself drowning?”
“No,” Immanuel said, his voice faltering against his will.
“You said you’re from Germany. My mother told me there were tribes of selkies up that way. They shared a lot, them and our selkies, but maybe not sea sickness. I couldn’t get out to those parts when I went away, but you could. I want to know what makes you different from us.”
“I’m— I’m not a selkie,” he whispered, hoping it wouldn’t be the last thing he ever said.
Without looking at him, Immanuel could sense Quince’s probing gaze upon him as if searching for something. The harpoon grazed his back. “A liar, like all the rest of them.”
“I am not,” Immanuel cried. Oh god, not here, not in this horrid place. He had promised Adam. “I’m—”
Quince ducked as the electric bulb over his head blew out in a shower of glass. Scrambling to catch the magic, three more bulbs burst in rapid succession before the last fizzled in its socket and blinked out. As the hall fell into shadow, Immanuel released a tremulous breath. Quince brushed the glass from his shoulders, his nicked hand leaving a thin trail of blood over his jacket and neck.
“Then, how can you do that? I saw what you did at Byron’s shop. It certainly ain’t natural, stopping water with your mind.”
What could he say to make him believe or even understand when he could scarcely convince Adam of his powers? Adam. The idea that he was back at the cottage worrying about him stung worse than any injury he sustained in the fall. Why had he gotten them into this? Immanuel silently prayed to any god that would listen that Adam stayed out of harm’s way.
“Well?” Quince prodded him with the blunt side of the harpoon.
“They call me a witega. I can manipulate energy, but that’s it. I’m not a selkie.”
“Then, I guess we’re done talking.”
As Quince raised the harpoon, Immanuel cried, “Wait, wait! Maybe if you tell me what you want, I can help you.”
“I want to cure the sea sickness.”
In Quince’s voice, Immanuel thought he heard a hint of desperation, and desperate men were sometimes willing to listen. He swallowed hard. “All right. I can try.”
“We need to take out where the devilry lies.”
Immanuel stiffened at the word.
“I have tried to find it myself, but I couldn’t.” Quince’s eyes flashed like a knife in the dim light. “I’ve tried so long.”
“Is that why you have all of those books?”
“Yes, but they didn’t help. I thought going to a university would teach me enough, but I couldn’t stand it,” he said, his hand instinctively reaching for his head. “I kept hearing the sea like a bloody siren song. When I ignored it, the whole world felt hopeless and dim, but that’s how it feels here! We’re all trapped on these blasted islands while they go off and leave us behind.”
“Have— have you thought of going to the mainland in search of a wife? There is a theory that we inherit all of our traits from our parents. Perhaps, a mainland woman wouldn’t give sea sickness to her children.”
“I tried. I took out ads for a wife, but not even penniless spinsters want to come out here. That’s why I wrote to the papers about Byron’s inventions. I thought people would hear of them and come flocking to see, but no one cares about us out here. No one. We may as well be a different species to people like you. I even sent a merwif to some royal something or other society. People came flocking to see that Fiji Mermaid, but they couldn’t care less when a real one turns up on their doorstep. They sent you, didn’t they? And the other one?”
“He merely came to write an article. He has nothing to do with the selkie.”
“But you studied her when she arrived at the society.”
The breath hitched in Immanuel’s throat before he could stop himself.
A smug smile crossed Quince’s lips. “I heard your conversation with Hilda last night. You have notes, and I want them.”
“I have them here,” Immanuel peeped, reaching into his pocket. His fingertips brushed cold steel and parchment.
Quince snatched the papers from his outstretched hand and stared down at the anatomical drawings and tight lines of notes. His eyes darted between Immanuel as he flipped through each page, his face darkening until finally he folded the papers into his pocket.
“Let’s go,” he ordered, gesturing toward the door behind Immanuel with the tip of his blade.
“But I gave you all—”
“I want you to find the magic for me. I don’t care how long it takes. You will do it.”
Immanuel raised his hands, his breath tight in his throat as the tip of the harpoon angled toward the soft flesh of his neck. “I— I don’t know where it is. No one does.”
“Then you had better find it now. I have one of them ready for you. I nearly did it myself, but after seeing you with them yesterday, I had other ideas.” At Immanuel’s sudden pallor, he snapped, “That a problem for you?”
He shook his head as the bulbs down the hall flickered.
“And don’t try anything funny, or you’ll be next.”
Immanuel’s throat thickened at the thought of what awaited him. An autopsy could only last so long, and when he couldn’t find the magic or soul of the creature, Quince would kill him. Immanuel desperately tried to cobble together a plan, but his head ached and his mind lagged unbearably. When the metal door creaked open, the wreak of decomposition and alcohol sent a wave of bile up his throat. Clinging to the doorway, Immanuel vomited over Quince’s oaths as the other man dragged him inside. Immanuel coughed and wiped the tears from his eyes, immediately regretting it when he saw the studio of death. Following at Quince’s heels, Immanuel stared at the man’s back in hopes of blocking out the horrors in the periphery of his vision.
The lighthouse keeper stopped at a wooden bench, turning on heel and looking between the stacks of junk. “Where… where is she? I—”
As Quince ducked between the tables, Immanuel caught a flash of red in the shadows of the still. Pressed into the narrow gap between the vat and the wall, Adam Fenice watched him. Relief and nausea
broke over Immanuel as a smile died on his lips before it could bloom. Their eyes locked and the twang of the bond echoed between them. Adam tipped his chin toward the door, but Immanuel gave a quick shake of his head and mouthed, Get help. Slowly reaching into his pocket, Immanuel kept an eye on Quince and pulled out the calling stone. Throwing the chain toward Adam, Quince turned at the sound but Immanuel loudly wretched, grabbing the edge of the table for balance to block Quince from walking in Adam’s direction. When Immanuel looked up, Adam was gone and the knot in his chest loosened a fraction.
His voice low with anger and disbelief, Quince muttered, “I could have sworn I— No matter, I’ll get another.”
“No.”
When Quince turned, he stared into the barrel of a revolver. Immanuel’s hand shook as he held the gun aloft. He wanted to keep it’s alien heft as far away as possible, but his muscles trembled under its weight. The lighthouse keeper looked between Immanuel’s mismatched eyes and the gun, his hands tightening on the harpoon’s handle.
“Please don’t make me use it,” Immanuel whispered. What would his brave Adam do in this situation? He kept the gun trained on Quince’s face and narrowed his eyes as he pulled back the hammer with a satisfying click. “Back out slowly.”
***
Adam hurtled down the hall, heedless of the echo his pounding feet left in their wake. Wrapping his arms around Jenny’s prone form, he hefted her higher and ran as fast as he could without tripping over the uneven bricks lining the floor. He had to get back to Immanuel. Quince had killed Jacobs and how many other selkies. Hell, he could have murdered half the women on the wall after seeing his collection of specimens. The calling stone bounced in his grip, a whisper cloying at his mind. Eying the woman half-conscious in his arms, Adam knew what he had to do.
As he hurried past the thundering engines and out the powerhouse door, Jenny lifted her head. Her eyes had lost their sheen and the wound on her forehead bled freely into her mop of hair until it matted against the crook of his arm. Adam ran over the dunes to the shore, his feet sliding in the wet sand, nearly sending him and Jenny face-first into the tide. Dropping to his knees in the surf, Adam held her in front of him with his arms tight across her middle to keep her from toppling over. Her breathing had become labored, and as he tried to put the calling stone into her hand, she hissed and blindly nipped at his arm.
“Jenny, I need you to call the others,” Adam said, putting the stone into her cold hand and wrapping his over it to keep it in place. “Call them to help you. They’ll listen to you.”
Her head lolled to the side, revealing a shock of white. A word escaped her lips Adam couldn’t understand. For a moment, Adam feared he had lost her at her sudden stillness, but then her hand closed around the stone. A vibration passed through his arm and into his chest. It rumbled through him like the metro, but this struck something far deeper and older within him. The sensation grew stronger until it ceased, leaving him hollow. Jenny slumped in Adam’s grip. While her face had turned a sickly grey, breath still whistled in her throat.
Adam released a relieved breath when a shot rang out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Creatures and Monsters
Immanuel barely saw the blow coming. The moment he stepped through the laboratory door, Quince swung. At the last second, Immanuel caught the motion in the darkened side of his eye and ducked back. The harpoon’s heavy shaft whacked Immanuel’s arm instead, sending the Colt skittering across the cobblestone floor. Pain rang through Immanuel’s arm as he scrambled for the gun, but when his fingers brushed the pearl handle, Quince knocked it away with the blade of the harpoon. Immanuel stumbled, falling to his knees and sending waves of pain through his bruised arms. Quince snatched the gun from the floor and pointed it at Immanuel’s head. His heart thrummed as he waited for the fatal blow. He had survived so much that he secretly hoped he possessed some semblance of immortality, but when the bullet aligned with his temple, he realized how foolish he had been.
“Get up.”
Swallowing hard, Immanuel tried to suppress the tremor in his voice. “I can still—”
“Get up.”
Immanuel rose slowly, keeping his eyes low. Seizing him by the shoulder, Quince shoved him up the steps toward the surface. His body ached with each step, and as he dragged his feet up the narrow stairs, his mind never left the intermittent press of the gun on the small of his back. At the top of the basement stairs, Immanuel paused, his gaze lingering on the front door. Could he outrun— But before he could finish the thought, the muzzle of the gun pressed into his spine. Immanuel shut his eyes against the sound of the shot and the possibility that the pain wouldn’t even register.
“Up,” Quince commanded, urging him down the hall to the lighthouse.
Immanuel’s stomach lurched as his footfalls rang against the spiraling metal stairs. He had to get out. He had to do something, anything. As they reached the third story, he pictured himself shoving Quince down the steps as he had done to him earlier, but he would only have one shot at that and Quince would have been a fool not to put a bullet in him the moment he turned. By the time they reached the hatch on the uppermost landing, Immanuel’s calves burned and his chest constricted with fear as the lighthouse keeper opened the hatch and motioned for Immanuel to climb. Immanuel froze on the ladder as the wind sent a pebble from the floor above soaring past him. It disappeared into the abyss before landing seconds later with an echoing clunk. If he died, would Adam come home to a dead cat too? The thought sickened him, but he banished the vision of Adam’s face falling.
At the top, Immanuel kept his hand firmly on the glass enclosing the beacon. He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea at the sudden sensation of gravity dragging him back to earth. He had never been so high. Slowly turning, he found the whole of Seohl-wiga Island laid out before him with its verdant hills and curling waves and, somewhere beyond it, the dim suggestion of land. If he had gone up with Adam, the limitless sky would have been beautiful. They would have stood there for hours taking in the view. Hands, maybe even lips, touching far from prying eyes. Adam. He had promised to never leave him. Immanuel hung his head. More than anything he hoped Adam had gotten somewhere safe, yet a little piece of him still hoped he would appear at the hatch to save him.
Quince’s deep set eyes gleamed in the rising light as he twitched the gun toward the door leading to the narrow catwalk. Stepping onto the rickety metal lip, Immanuel bit back tears. Wind whipped his hair into his eyes and snapped his coat until his pounding pulse was drowned beneath the wail of air sailing past his ears. Clutching the rail, Immanuel turned to face his captor.
“Jump,” Quince commanded, keeping the gun pointed at Immanuel’s chest. “You can do it yourself or I can blow you over.”
“But I—” Immanuel had forced the thought from his mind the entire march up the steps, but as he looked over the side at the rocks and grass below, he knew he had nowhere to go. Wind cupped his cheek and swept over his hands. “I can’t. They’ll know I was pushed. I wouldn’t—”
“Lots of men do it. You wouldn’t be the first.”
He needed to think. He needed time. “May— may I say a prayer first?” Immanuel asked.
Quince’s face twitched and his hand dropped a fraction. “Fine, make your peace and get on with it.”
Keeping his head bowed as if in prayer, Immanuel knelt before the rail and closed his eyes. It couldn’t end this way. It had been a year since his abduction, and he refused to squander his life by going quietly. Perhaps, once or twice in fleeting desperation, he would have considered dashing himself into the rocks, but since he had been freed, he learned things got better. Pain faded, he made peace with his scars, even the remaining memories of his captivity were slowly being pushed out by holidays and late nights with Adam. A tear slipped from his eye and spattered on the metal beside his hand. Life only grew brighter, and he wouldn’t let someone steal the light from him again. With the next gust, the panes of glass enclosing the lantern
rattled in their frames.
Wind.
Without Adam at his side, the magic would be harder to maintain. Immanuel exhaled slowly. He had to focus. His little finger worked frantically against the metal, twisting his stray tear into a convoluted sigil until his mind caught the unseen lattice. Gripping the railing, Immanuel gathered the wind. The air grew heavy with salt and sea until the energy grew taught as a bowstring. In the space of a heartbeat, the breeze transformed into a missile of air. It sailed over Immanuel’s head, forcing him down as it rammed into the glass. Bracing his head against the rail, Immanuel clenched his jaw at the force of the air bearing down. The metal groaned beneath his feet until the glass at his back cracked like ice and shattered inward.
Heedless of the glass jutting from the metal frame, Immanuel scrambled over the low wall and made for the hatch. A shot rang out an instant before the beacon exploded in a hail of shards. Immanuel flinched and sucked in a breath at the seer of hot glass piercing through his coat, but he couldn’t stop. Forcing open the hatch, he jumped down the ladder and ran. His lungs seized and his head pounded with each step, but he couldn’t stop. As he hit the first landing, a bullet hit the wall over his head by the time his mind registered the shot. Immanuel stumbled forward, gripping the hand rail tighter for fear of falling over the side.
He staggered back, ripping his hand from the rail as a bullet blasted through it and embedded in the bricks at his side. Rising to his feet, a shot whizzed past his head, coming within a hand’s breadth from his nose. Quince’s footsteps echoed through the silent lighthouse as Immanuel’s eyes swept behind him, catching a flash of grey and brown. Taking the remaining steps three at a time, Immanuel sprinted as fast as his long legs would carry him.
As he rounded the final flight, Immanuel froze as a man stepped from the shadows. He raised his gaze only to have the air squeeze from his lungs. Adam dropped his weapon and trotted toward him with open arms.
Selkie Cove (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 5) Page 28
