by Sharon Lee
It flashed up my spine, burning, searing every cell, filling me with light so heavy I crashed to my knees. I gasped, gagging on peach-tainted air as thick as cream. Heart pounding, half-strangled, I thrust the power back to the base of my spine with the strength of pure panic, filled my lungs with salt-soaked air—
And the burning flare of jikinap came roaring back, knocking me flat to the floor, my mouth clogged with too-thick air.
Instinctively, I snatched for the land, but the land couldn’t help me, not with this.
Or—
I brought the land . . . close, and I whispered into its distressed, doggy ear: I need help.
Every trenvay in Archers Beach would hear that message. Which begged the question of what they might do, that the Guardian herself could not.
In the meantime, the situation had gone from bad to worse. My lungs were burning; it felt like my blood was burning, while the weight of the light ground me into the floor.
If I didn’t do something, I was going to die. Right here.
Right now.
I gathered my fragmented will, dark spots swirling before my eyes, and pushed.
The punishing power retreated, just a little.
Just enough.
I could breathe.
One breath. Two.
Again, I gathered my will.
. . . and the door in the storm gate, that I had so carefully locked from the inside, blew open.
“Kate!”
A wave of blessedly cool water lifted me above the agony, my skin tingled with salt, and the air was fresh, bracing, and plentiful.
I slammed my will against the burning power. It gave, but not much. I hit it again, but it was like punching a rhinoceros; my puny efforts were only making it mad. A little tongue of flame tickled the center of my chest; my heart cramped; I lost my concentration, and the rogue power flared.
I think I screamed.
“Kate!”
I was . . . somewhere else. If I had a body, I couldn’t feel it. The only thing I could feel was Borgan, holding me—holding me in his strength, inside his power—and if I exploded, or ignited, would I poison the sea?
“No . . .” Somehow I struggled; felt Borgan’s grip tighten.
“Kate. Listen to me, now. Let it go.”
Well, there was a simple solution. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Oh.
“Don’t know how.”
“Relax,” Borgan told me. “Open your will and just—don’t fight. Do it now.”
And he thrust me back into my body.
I couldn’t have screamed if I’d tried, though I surely wanted to. As for relaxing my will . . .
The best I could manage was to curl into a ball, there inside my burning body, and hide.
It seemed that the attack abated; that the enemy within me withdrew somewhat to survey this new situation. In that moment of withdrawal, I heard the land whimper, and I reached out to comfort—
A blast of heat blew up my spine, exiting through the top of my head, like a lightning strike in reverse. The shock wave knocked me out of my protective curl, and I felt a tug, as though my soul, loosened by torment, sought to follow the lightning.
I embraced the land, and breathed in. My soul hesitated . . . and settled back into place.
At which point, I do believe that I blacked out.
I opened my eyes and looked up into Borgan’s face, no more surprised to see him than to be lying against his chest, his arms supporting me.
“Timing,” I said, my voice hoarse, “is everything.”
“Lucky I came by,” he agreed with a lightness that was belied by his eyes. “What happened?”
“You saved my life.”
“Before that.”
“I was trying to seal the carousel so the Ozali who tried to blow the Gate open earlier today doesn’t get a second chance.”
It was ridiculously hard to lift my hand and curl my fingers ’round his braid. I managed it, though. Cool comfort spread through me, and I pressed my forehead against his chest, so he wouldn’t see the tears.
“Before that,” I said hoarsely, “I ate something I shouldn’t’ve and it was causing all kinds of hell.”
“It was that.” His arms tightened. “You’re good, now.”
“If only. Peggy saw me glowing, and I just used the land to broadcast the fact that, as a Guardian, I’m kind of a fuck-up.”
“What I heard you say,” Borgan said, “was, I need help. I might’ve decided not to come in past the lock if you hadn’t, and gone on home with my feelin’s hurt.”
I laughed, which made my chest hurt—and turned my head toward the shredded metal wall. Nobody could accuse Borgan of not being thorough.
A shadow hovered at the edge of the wreckage. I couldn’t quite see—but the land knew who it was.
“Gaby?” I said, knowing that she’d hear, despite my voice being so weak.
The shadow shifted, and she stepped through the hole in the wall, stopping just inside the enclosure.
“Heard a whisper, that the Guardian needed help,” she said, with dignity. “Others’re comin’, but I was closest.” She looked at Borgan, long and hard. “He ain’t the problem.”
“No, he’s not the problem.”
“What sort o’help, then, Guardian?”
I looked up into Borgan’s face.
“Got to seal the carousel.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Borgan said.
I shifted, meaning to stand up and let the man work—and realizing at that exact moment that there was no way my legs were going to hold me.
His arms tightened, not so much to keep me in place, I thought, but to prevent my falling.
“No need to go anywhere,” he murmured. “Won’t take a minute.”
I smelled salt, and a rich, effervescent tang—Borgan’s magical signature. His power rose around us, silky and cool; as unpretentious as the tide. Mist formed, alive with color, like sunlight seen through sea spray.
The mist expanded, rippling like spun-glass curtains, and draped itself ’round the carousel, peak to floor. I could see it still, but as if from a distance, filmy and not quite real behind the spray.
“That’ll hold ’er,” Borgan murmured, his power spiraling away, leaving us sitting dry and content on the gritty cement floor.
I looked over to Gaby, who’d been waiting, if not with patience, then at least without fuss. I thought I saw other shadows behind her, and outside the wall.
“If there’s those among you who can repair the door, and lock up for the night, that would be a welcome service,” I said.
Gaby tipped her head as if listening, then nodded.
“We can do that, Guardian. No cares.”
“Good,” I said, truly grateful. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Whereupon Borgan stood up, holding me in his arms as if I weighed exactly nothing, and was too fragile to go on my own two feet down the land of which I was Guardian . . .
. . . and I let him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Saturday, June 24
Low Tide 4:39 A.M.
Sunrise 5:01 A.M. EDT
Fun Country’s gate being locked, Borgan carried me out the back way, over the dunes to the beach.
He kept on carrying me, too, all the way to the surf line, and I kept on letting him.
The waning moon hadn’t risen yet, and the tide was going out. The night was clear; the stars so bright even the lights from the Pier couldn’t take their shine. Neptune’s was open, naturally, with live music, too—one guy accompanying himself loudly on electric guitar. The song was either “Crimson and Clover” or “The Star-Spangled Banner”; I couldn’t really be sure.
I’d almost died, I thought, and I shivered in Borgan’s arms. If I’d had the energy, I might’ve laughed, too.
Ten weeks ago, I’d been well on my way to dying, and had made my peace with both the reality and the process. Or so I’d thought. Now, I wanted to hold on to life with both ha
nds.
That’s called irony.
“I’m taking you home,” Borgan said, his voice a growl deep in his chest. And he waded into the sea.
“Deep breath,” he commanded, and I managed it, holding the air in my lungs as a wave broke over our heads.
There was a moment, not unpleasant, and not long, where I was just floating, cool, fluid, and bodiless, surrounded by Borgan’s power even though I was not aware of his arms.
Then my body returned, cradled in strong arms. I heard the crash of a wave, looked down to see foam curling ’round booted feet as Borgan strode up the beach.
We were both perfectly dry, and I was still hanging on to his braid like it was a lifeline.
He carried me over the boardwalk, and up the steps to my front door.
“Key,” I muttered.
I raised my free hand, trying for the pocket, and the key in it, but it was too much effort, the pocket light-years away.
“May I enter?” Borgan asked, and his voice had changed again; it almost had a physical weight, and a resonance that brought tears to my eyes.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Please enter and be welcome in my house, Borgan.”
There came a click, distinct and sharp. Then the door—the same door that tended to swell and stick against the frame, and then required a firm kick to open—the door swung open and Borgan carried me into Gran’s—into my—house.
The door closed behind him and I heard the snap of the lock engaging.
“Bedroom?” he murmured.
“Porch,” I cleared my throat. “I don’t want—to be locked in.”
He paused, then turned to the right. The french doors swung open before him, and he carried me onto the summer parlor, and there he paused, where we could both overlook the sea.
“How d’you feel, Kate?”
“Like I’ve been poisoned, and had half the life choked out of me,” I said, too exhausted to be anything but completely truthful. “Like I’d fall down if I tried to stand up.”
“Do you need to go uptown?”
To the old Archer homestead, he meant: a place of power and renewal for those of the blood.
“This’ll do fine,” I assured him. “I’ll—I just wish I had a cat.”
“Cat?”
He sounded bemused, and who could blame him?
I made an effort to explain. “To keep the dreams away.”
“Right.”
He dropped smoothly to one knee; then, without jarring me in the least, arranged himself cross-legged on the deck. Carefully, he settled me on his lap. I lay against his chest, fingers twisted in his braid, a boneless thing, almost without will.
“Call the land,” he murmured, his voice a comforting rumble in the ear I had pressed against his chest. “Heal yourself. There’s no dream that’ll get by me.”
“You don’t need to stay here.”
“It’s too late to get you a cat tonight. Go to sleep, woman.”
Plainly, there was no arguing with him. I settled my cheek against his sweater, eyelids drooping, opened myself fully to the land . . .
. . . and went to sleep.
I stirred, and half-opened my eyes, seeing Borgan’s face above me in the gray predawn.
His arms withdrew and I realized he had carried me inside to the couch and thrown the old afghan over me.
“Hush,” he said, though I hadn’t said anything. “I’m gonna go fish. You go back to sleep, Kate. And you call me when you wake up, all right?”
“All right,” I said, still two-thirds asleep.
I felt his lips against my forehead, and closed my eyes, the land cuddled close, like a teddy bear.
The last thing I remember hearing was the lock snapping shut.
At 7:30, I woke again, fully this time, and fully healed, to a room overflowing with sunlight from the wide-open French doors, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. I took a deep breath, and for long moment could do nothing but marvel at how well I felt, and consider what a precious gift life was.
Then I remembered that I was supposed to call when I woke, and I pitched back the afghan and came to my feet, digging in my pocket for my cell phone . . .
. . . which, despite its dunking in the Atlantic Ocean early this morning, functioned just fine.
“Kate?” His voice was sharper than I was used to; I could feel the tension coming through the airwaves.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’m awake, I’m rested, and I’m starving.”
The sense of tension eased considerably.
“That sounds encouraging. How else do you feel?”
“Perfect,” I told him honestly.
Relief positively flowed through my phone.
“I’m sorry I worried you,” I said truthfully.
Borgan laughed. “I’m thinking that’s going to be the state of things,” he said ruefully. “From how you tell it, I’m not exactly a worry-free proposition. What’re doin’ today?”
“First thing after a shower and breakfast? Buying a lock.”
“Good plan. This is your night off, right? Want to have dinner?”
I smiled. “Sounds great.”
“Good, then. I’ll be by your place around five-thirty.”
“See you then. Be careful.”
“Always.”
The call ended.
I stood there, just holding the phone for a couple of heartbeats before I put it, with the rest of my pocket things, onto the coffee table, and skipped down the hall to take a shower.
Peggy hadn’t come to breakfast. As near as I could tell, she hadn’t come home last night.
While I walked up the hill, I tried to figure out if worrying about that was a sign of a control freak, or just normal concern for a friend who might be getting into something trickier than she knew.
Not to say that Peggy wasn’t competent; she was damn’ competent, and she’d obviously been taking good care of herself for a number of years. Except not in Archers Beach, which had peculiar dangers—not so much for plain vanilla folk, as for those who could hear the music on Midsummer Eve.
So, then: she was a competent woman who could take of herself . . . until she couldn’t. Which pretty much put her on even footing with everybody I’d known, at home and Away, even as far as the Land of the Flowers.
That knotty problem settled, I swung into the hardware store.
Ernie Travis was pulling the shades up on the big front window; I gave him a nod and a brisk “Good morning!” and headed for the back of the store.
A couple minutes later, I met him at the counter, carrying a Mul-T-Lock C padlock.
“Good lock,” Ernie said, aiming the scan gun at the bar code.
“Hope so,” I answered. “Somebody got around the one on the carousel yesterday.”
He frowned, and shot a quick look into my face. “Everything okay?”
“Nothing broken or defaced. Still, it seems like a message from the universe about changing the lock.”
He nodded. “It’s a wonder how communicative the universe can be, sometimes. You’re gonna be wanting extra keys for that?”
“Three, if you could.”
“No trouble, just take a few.” He punched keys on the register. “With the keys, that’s one-thirty-two.”
I offered my credit card, he swiped it and gave it back, then broke open the blister pack, extricated the key and moved to the other end of the counter, where the key machine crouched like a rust-colored tarantula. I broke the lock the rest of the way out of the packaging while Ernie fitted a blank onto the cutting surface, lined up the live key on the tracer, and hit the button.
There came a brief scream of metal; a spark flashed from the edge of the blank, and another. Then Ernie liberated the new key, gave it a quick grind on both sides, and tossed it onto the counter in front of me.
“Give that a minute, then see if it does what it oughta,” he directed, and got busy fitting another blank onto the board.
I tried the new key in the padlock; it turned sm
oothly, tumblers clicking, and the shackle snapped open.
Excellent.
Keys number two and three speedily appeared; they also performed as they ought.
“Thank you!” I said, tucking them into the pockets of my jeans.
“Say, Kate?” Ernie said, his voice pitched a little lower than it had been.
I looked at him over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
Ernie frowned slightly, glanced down at the counter, then met my eyes.
“I’m wonderin’ if you noticed anything . . . funny ’round town.”
Let it be said that Ernie Travis is not trenvay; furthermore, he has my vote for the man least likely to hear the music at Midsummer Eve. So it was with considerable care that I repeated, “Funny?”
“Yeah . . .” He looked aside, like he was embarrassed, which he probably was, poor normal. Funny didn’t have any place in Ernie’s life. Nerazi in all her opulent nakedness might walk past him of a moonlit night, and the only thing Ernie’d see would be the moon.
“You’re gonna think I’m nuts, maybe, but it’s just—some of these guys—?” He waved a hand toward the front windows, by which I understood him to mean the summer people and tourists.
I nodded.
“Some of these guys ain’t—they ain’t havin’ fun. It’s like they’re lookin’ real hard at everything an’ everybody, like—well, hell, like we’re all under suspicion.”
Well, here was something. And I was willing to bet that Ernie was as little inclined to see undercover cops as he was to see selkies. I thought about the heeterskyte’s Man Business, and the three undoubted cops at the Boundary Stone; and I shook my head.
“I didn’t notice anything this morning,” I told Ernie, with perfect truth, “but they might not like merry-go-rounds. I’ll keep an eye peeled. Anybody else notice?”
Ernie nodded.
“Beth up at Play Me. She’s the one brought it to me. I hadn’t noticed, but once you start lookin’, it sorta stands out.” A faint smile. “Like when you get a new car, suddenly the only thing you see on the road is your model.”
So far as I knew, Beth Abernathy was an observant, no-nonsense, down-to-earth woman. Not the kind of person to start seeing boogeymen among the nice tourists.
