* * *
The fortress waited above him in the dark like a sleeping dragon. Baleful. Breathing.
Dylan twisted water from his shorts before he put them on. Anticipating ambush, he had slipped ashore in seal form, his black dive knife in his teeth. He retrieved the blade— salvaged years before from the wreck of a Navy boat— and hung it from the waistband of his shorts. Firearms were not reliable weapons against the children of fire.
Besides, Dylan couldn’t swim with a gun in his mouth.
He bundled his sealskin under a rock at the water’s edge, trusting night and the fog to hide it. He straightened from the surf, wrapping a glamour around him like a cloak to shield himself from demon eyes. A breeze whistled over the rocks, a sharp and sneaky little wind that tugged at his disguise and raised the hair on the back of his neck.
He froze, expecting something to spring at him out of the dark. A guard. A jailer. A demon.
But there was only the breeze, carrying the cold notes of mold and wet ash, drowned fires and small, dead things.
Releasing his breath, Dylan climbed the rocks.
And walked into a wall of fire.
Pain. Heat.
It seared the tissues of his mouth and throat, sucked the moisture from his eyeballs and the oxygen from his lungs.
But he was selkie. The power of the sea coursed through his blood, and a human purpose deep and wide as the ocean drove him. He would not fail Regina. He would not fail. His own power rose to the flood. The making of the warden’s mark on the restaurant wall had changed him, as if his gift had burst its banks and found new channels, new rivers within him.
The fire was not real fire, he realized dimly. It was a flash of power, a wall of illusion, intended to repel. Squaring his shoulders, he walked through the flames without burning, and they died in his wake.
He drew a shaky breath. Only the faintest demon taint stained the air. Maybe they were . . . gone? In hiding. Or maybe their magic fire had fried his sinuses.
He studied the fortress squatting less than fifty yards above the waterline, its roof topped with grass like a hill. It stank of death and disuse.
And something else.
His heart pounded.
Nick.
He felt the boy trapped within those rough dark walls like a grain of sand in an oyster. So close.
Dylan pulled his knife. Crouching, he crept over the rocks, trying not to crash through bushes like a bear, awkward as a seal out of water. He should have worn shoes. When he reached the fortress, he stopped and sniffed the air again. Nothing.
It shouldn’t be this easy.
It must be a trap.
He drew a deep breath and eased along the wall, searching for an entrance.
He found one tucked under the shadow of the hill and a white swirl of graffiti, the sign of human vandals, not of demons. He waited, listened, and slipped inside.
The windows piercing the thick walls had been designed for cannon, not for light. The feeble moon lay in faint, square puddles on the broken floor. The damp walls gleamed.
Dylan did not need the moonlight. His eyes were made for darkness. But the need for caution hampered him like a blindfold. Small sounds echoed in the enclosed space. The rasp of his breath. The scuff of his feet.
No other footsteps.
Where was Nick?
He heard a scrape from the lower level and a stifled whimper.
He looked down through the rotted floor that must once have covered a store room and saw Nick, his face as pale as a rag and his eyes closed, huddled and bound at the bottom of the staircase like a goat tethered to trap a tiger.
Dylan’s heart squeezed. Ah, shit. Be alive, he thought. Please be alive.
“Don’t move,” he called down the stairs. “I’m coming to get you.”
And then he realized maybe those weren’t the most reassuring words to hear from a man with a knife at the top of the stairs if you were a little boy tied up in the dark.
Assuming Nick could hear.
“It’s Dylan,” he added.
Like that would make him happy.
The railing had rotted along with the floor. The steps were solid brick. That didn’t mean they were safe. The demons might have rigged things so that somebody got hurt. Nick could get hurt. Dylan still had that back-of-the-neck, deep-in-his-bones instinct that something was wrong. But he couldn’t see anything, and he couldn’t smell anything, and he for damn sure couldn’t leave the kid lying alone at the bottom of the stairs for the next hundred years or so while he figured it out.
He inched down the steps. Easy, easy . . .
He frowned, again with that moth-wing brush on his neck. Maybe too easy?
But then he got close enough to see the shudder of Nick’s breath and the faint pulse beating beneath his jaw. Dylan dropped to his knees, shoving his thoughts about demons aside to concentrate on the child.
He used his knife to cut Nick’s bonds, sliding the point carefully under the latex ties. Latex. Bastards.
He scowled. Who uses latex?
The boy’s hands were cold. Dylan sat on the bottom step and pulled Nick onto his lap to chafe his swollen hands.
The boy’s head rolled on his shoulder. “Dylan?” he asked sleepily.
“Yeah. You all right?”
Nick began to tremble, still in Dylan’s arms. “What are you doing here?”
Dylan had to clear his throat before he could answer. “I came to see if you still had my marker.”
Nick’s hand crept into his pocket. He pulled out the silver dollar, glowing faintly with a blue light. His hand shook. His lower lip trembled. “Do I have to give it back?”
“No,” Dylan said hoarsely. “Why don’t you hold on to it for me for a while?”
Nick nodded. And then he threw his arms around Dylan’s neck and hung on as if he’d never let go.
Well, Dylan thought, wonder and relief blooming in his chest, that was easy. He held the boy tight.
Nick was safe. Dylan had done it. He’d fulfilled his promise to Regina.
And it was all so . . . easy.
As if the demons had determined they’d made a mistake and decided to let the boy go. Or as if they’d never really wanted him in the first place.
Dylan frowned. In that case, why go to the trouble of taking him?
He patted the boy’s bony back, his mind racing. Unlesshis kidnapping was just a diversion. Unless Nick wasn’t their true target at all.
Unless . . . Dylan’s blood ran cold. Unless they’d wanted to remove him from the scene so they could go after Regina.
And the baby.
19
“IF YOU DO NOT TAKE THE PILLS, ” THE DEMON said in Donna Tomah’s patient, instructive voice, “I’ll give you an injection.”
Regina tightened her hand on the paper cup, dread curdling her stomach. “I thought you couldn’t hurt me.”
The demon’s smile showed all its teeth, its resemblance to the doctor fading. “Your wards protect you from possession. And from death. A shot in the arm or the ass will not kill you.”
Just her baby.
Tension knotted Regina’s gut. She met the devil woman’s gaze. She was running out of time. How long had Dylan been gone? Two hours? Three? How long since Nick went missing? Four?
“I’ve always hated needles,” she said, trying to buy time.
“Then take the pills.” Impatience licked the edge of the devil’s voice like a flame on paper.
She needed a distraction, Regina realized. She needed to get out of here. She took a deep breath. Clenching the cup of water, she threw it full in the demon’s face.
Donna Tomah did not, as Regina half hoped, melt away like the Wicked Witch of the West. She didn’t flinch. She did not wipe her face. The lack of that simple human gesture stuck like a knife in Regina’s chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
They stared at one another as the water streamed down Donna’s cheeks and dripped from her nose onto her white lab coat. Beneath the sprea
ding blotch, she wore a pretty patterned shirt of blue flowers.
The devil blinked once, a lizardlike flicker of eyelids. “I’ll prepare the injection.”
The instant her back was turned, Regina bolted for the door.
Locked.
Regina fumbled with the doorknob. Kicked the door. There was no bolt. No visible lock. But the knob slid uselessly under her hand. The door didn’t budge.
She glanced over her shoulder as the devil woman turned, syringe in hand.
Oh, shit, Regina thought as the doctor lunged at her with the needle.
* * *
Dylan held Nick’s hand as they walked up the hill to the restaurant. He needed the touch as much as the boy did.
The sense of wrongness had been building since they left the island bunker. It throbbed like a headache at the base of his skull, tightened his gut, drove at his heels.
Beside him, Nick stumbled.
Dylan gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to scoop him up and run with him like a football. The kid had been jounced around enough for one night. “You all right?” he asked for what must have been the fifth or fiftieth time in an hour.
Nick stuck out his chin in a gesture that reminded Dylan poignantly of Regina. “Sure. I’m tough,” he boasted.
That was what Dylan had told him on the boat. “Pretty tough kid,” he’d said, and the boy had grinned and relaxed against him.
Now Dylan ruffled his hair, adjusting his stride to the boy’s much shorter steps. “A regular hero.”
Nick scuffled his feet along the road. “I didn’t see anything, though,” he said to his shoes in the dark. “I didn’t do anything to stop them.”
Dylan had saved the crime scene questions for his brother, the police chief. But he’d heard enough to guess that Nick’s abductor had laid some kind of sleep on the boy from the moment of his capture. It was a mercy for the boy, Dylan considered. And a damned inconvenience for the rest of them. If somebody out there was still possessed, was still a threat, he had to be dealt with.
“Nothing you could do,” he said, nudging the kid forward. Not much farther now. “Hard to put up much of a fight when you’re unconscious.”
Nick slid him a sideways glance. “Was it Jericho?”
Dylan heard the fear in the boy’s voice and tried to reassure him. “No. Jericho’s in jail.”
“Will whoever did it . . .” Nick’s voice trembled. “Will he come back?”
Dylan tightened his hold on the boy’s small hand. “No,” he said, flat and sure.
Not if he had to ward every building, rock, and tree on the island. He could be stuck here for months. Years.
The prospect didn’t bother him as much as it should have.
They reached the center street of town, parked cars, silent storefronts, and flower boxes spilling fragrance in the dark. Dylan could see the red awning of the restaurant and Regina’s apartment windows glowing like the promise of home. He lengthened his stride again.
“It was my fault,” Nick mumbled from beside him, interrupting Dylan’s pleasant fantasy of Regina demonstrating exactly how grateful she was for the return of her son. “Getting kidnapped.”
Dylan frowned down at the top of his head. Okay, they really didn’t have time for this. “No, it wasn’t. The kidnappers were bigger than you and stronger than you.” Immortal. Inhuman. “There wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.”
“I shouldn’t have gone outside without telling.” Nick’s voice was miserable as he tugged his hand away. He stopped and turned to meet Dylan’s gaze, his eyes brave and determined. “I was mad at Mom.” He swallowed and admitted jerkily, “And you.”
The way Dylan had once been mad at his own father.
Dylan closed his eyes a moment, the pounding in his head threatening to split his skull. He should have seen this coming. He really wished this moment could have waited until he got the kid home to his mother.
But when he opened his eyes, the boy was still staring at him, waiting for his response, searching for judgment or absolution.
He had to say something. Do something.
Please, God, don’t let me fuck this up. “Sometimes,” he said carefully, “when you’re growing up, you do stupid stuff. Stuff you regret. But you can’t keep beating yourself up over it. You’ve got to learn from your mistakes and move on.”
Nick cocked his head curiously. “Did you ever run away?”
Dylan nodded. “When I was a little older than you are. But I’m not going to anymore.”
Nick snickered. “You can’t run away anymore. You’re a grown-up.”
“Yeah.” Dylan cleared his throat. “That’s my point.”
They started up the road again, side by side. Almost there, Dylan thought.
“But you ever scare your mom like that again, I’ll whip your ass,” he said.
Nick looked at him, wide-eyed.
“If I can catch you,” Dylan added thoughtfully. “You’re a quick little bastard.”
Nick grinned and tucked his hand into Dylan’s, increasing his pace to an almost trot. They walked like that, hand in hand, the rest of the way up the hill.
* * *
Regina struck the demon’s arm, knocking aside the gleaming needle, and dodged out of range behind the exam table.
Her heart thundered. Dylan was coming. She had to believe that. She just had to buy him time. Time to rescue Nick. Time to find her. Time to save their baby.
The demon darted forward. Regina lashed with her foot at her attacker’s knee. The devil blocked the blow with her thigh. Regina drove her heel down on the soft instep of the doctor’s sensible shoe and Donna yelped. She struck out with the loaded syringe, and Regina jumped back to avoid the plunging needle.
They circled like boxers searching for an opening, the table in between.
“You’re being very difficult,” the devil woman panted.
“The most difficult woman I’ve ever known,” Dylan had called her.
Regina grinned savagely. “You bet your ass.”
* * *
“Gone,” Dylan repeated blankly. He stood between the restaurant booths, staring at Antonia over Nick’s head. “Gone where?”
His heart drummed in his chest, thundered in his ears. Outside the restaurant, was all he could think.
Beyond the protection of the ward.
All his earlier fears and misgivings grabbed him by the neck and shook him like a terrier shakes a rat.
Antonia looked up from cuddling her grandson, her face deeply wrinkled and tired. “There were . . . problems,” she said, not quite meeting Dylan’s eyes. “She went to see Donna Tomah at the clinic.”
Dylan scowled. “The doctor?”
And remembered, with a clarity that left him cold, the thin, bearded man in the hooded sweatshirt passing them at the clinic door. Christ.
The clinic. Ten minutes on foot. Two minutes by car.
“I need to borrow your car,” he said.
Antonia pursed her lips. “Van’s out back. Can you drive it?”
Dylan’s jaw set. He hadn’t been behind the wheel since he’d steered his father’s truck up and down their driveway twenty-five years ago.
Ten minutes on foot. Two minutes by car.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he said grimly and caught the keys on the run.
* * *
Regina’s cheek burned from the devil woman’s nails, her back hurt, and her belly was on fire. She faced the demon, her breath escaping in shallow sobs, dismally aware of the heavy flow between her thighs.
Donna Tomah’s nostrils flared. “You’re bleeding again,” the demon observed. “Why don’t you give it up?”
The doctor’s neat braid was frayed and torn, her jaw was swollen, and her left wrist hung at an awkward angle. But her voice was calmly conversational. “It’s still not too late to save Nick.”
Regina hated, hated, the doctor’s voice. But conversation gave her a chance to get her breath back. To get her strength back. She wa
s thirty years younger than Donna, but the doctor was impervious to pain and fought with the strength and quickness of the possessed.
“Nick will be fine,” Regina said shortly. Please, let him be fine. “I’m saving this baby.”
Sea Fever Page 23
