Seawitch

myself sink down a bit into the Grey, where they had more substance and appeared as a group of half-formed human shapes rather than an amorphous mass of shadow. They obviously had some freedom here that they didn’t have away from Seawitch.

They were individuals but still connected in a writhing knot of blackness that muttered of misery and horrors beyond death. I reached out for one of them, certain that engaging one engaged them all. “You are the ghosts of Valencia,” I started, knowing it’s always better to present knowledge before you start asking for favors.

“Harper Blaine,” they whispered, nodding collectively.

I was a little taken aback. It’s rare for a ghost to know who I am—it’s not as if they have the ectoplasmic Internet to look me up on. I dropped deeper into the Grey, to a level where the ghosts began to have more individual substance and the hull of the boat faded to mist. Strange shapes rose with the ghosts: twisted metal, glimmering rods that seemed to fall from the sky, broken steel spars and cables that whipped the air in an unseen gale. I touched one of the rods and felt icy wetness; the rods were streamers of rain and fog catching momentary lights in the storm. They had brought Valencia’s last moments with them. I shuddered and pulled back my hand, chilled.

“We came to you,” the mass whisper said.

“How did you know of me . . . ?”

“The water hounds.”

“The dobhar-chú? Those otterlike creatures?”

They sighed assent. I wanted to turn to Solis and see his reaction, but he was masked by the mist and memory the ghosts had brought with them. I wasn’t touching him this time so he wasn’t anchored to my experience of the Grey. I hoped he could see or hear any of what was happening, but I wasn’t sure—his ability to see the Grey seemed extremely limited outside my influence, and I felt lucky he was going on trust as much as he was.

“They have hidden us from the water folk and their witch in the cove. We helped the otter man, who offended the siren, but can do no more. Now is the time we can flee.”

“Flee? How did you get here? What are you fleeing?”

“The witch. The otter man brought us here. But we are tired and the gap in the world is narrow. Bring us forth from our enslavement!” The boat shook with their sudden roar. “Bring us forth!”

“How?” I demanded, but they’d spent their allotted energy and they seemed to implode, crushing into a dark point at the center of a ripple of outward-rolling force that shoved me out of the Grey and rammed me back against the nearest hard surface. A sharp pain snapped across my back as one of my ribs cracked against the sudden stop of falling. Breath rushed from my lungs and I doubled over, slumping forward as I rebounded from the hit.

The engine room was shadowed, lit only by the floor-scanning swing of Solis’s pocket flashlight as he crossed to me. We hadn’t even had time to turn on the lights. . . .

Solis started to stoop and help me up, but I waved him off, sipping at the air, trying to refill my lungs without hurting so badly that I spent all my new breath on crying. If I gave it a moment’s thought I’d notice I’d banged my knees and elbows a bit, too, but they didn’t hold a candle to the spiking discomfort of my rib. I hoped it wasn’t really broken, but that was probably a forlorn hope. I was ridiculously happy I had left my pistol in my coat pocket instead of putting it in the usual low-back holster, where it could have broken more than one of my ribs.

I managed to get enough breath to tell Solis I was OK, which was true enough since I wasn’t dead, dying, or catastrophically broken this time. But, damn, it hurt!

“I saw you fall,” Solis said. “I heard something, like someone muttering, but I could not understand all the words. What happened?”

“Ghosts are . . . really angry,” I panted. “Blew their budget . . . to yell at me.”

“Yell what?”

“Later,” I said, waving off his question. I was too uncomfortable to linger and tell the tale that minute.

“How badly are you hurt?” he asked, putting out a hand for me to grab if I wanted the support.

I did and accepted the boost all the way back to my feet. I forced myself to stand straight in spite of the ache in my side and back. “A little dented. I think . . . I cracked a rib.”

“Ah,” he said. “Left side?”

“Yes,” I hissed.

He picked up the bag full of bell and came around to my right to give me something to lean on if I wanted it. I did and we worked our way back to the door. Moving away, I realized I’d fallen against one of the engines. They were built as sturdily as the proverbial brick outhouse. No wonder I’d bent a part of myself.

“You need a hospital,” Solis said, as we negotiated the doorway.

I snorted and regretted it. “They won’t do anything but tell me to take painkillers and rest,” I panted. “I can do that at home.”

“First tell me what they said. The ghosts.”

“You didn’t hear it?” I asked, starting carefully up the steps, trying not to twist my body, move too fast, or bang into the close walls of the stair shaft. Every step jolted a bit and I clenched my teeth, drawing breath in hasty snorts through my nose. I regretted my height that gave me the sensation I was about to bash my skull on the low ceiling and thus compelled me to bend forward even when I knew I shouldn’t.

“I heard something. I prefer to know what you heard before I claim I understood any of it.”

I cleared the stairs and stepped out into the main salon. I drew a careful breath, straining it through my teeth as the rib protested the expansion of my left lung. Not caring how decayed the upholstery was, I sat down on the edge of the nearest chair and worked on catching a proper breath before I replied.

“Does this mean . . . you believe?” I tried to make it light, but it just came out thin.

Solis worked his lips between his teeth a moment before he nodded. “I do.”

“All right, then. They do seem to be the ghosts from Valencia—they brought the set dressing with them.” My words came out in little rushes between flinching and taking small, nibbling breaths. “Lots of them, but kind of one unit. Tied together, I’d say. They said the water hounds told them I could help them . . . and have protected them from seafolk—not sure what they mean there. The water hounds—or one of them—brought them here in the boat. They said ‘otter man’ for that one. They indicated . . . that time is relevant. They said, ‘Now is the time.’ And something about a narrow gap closing—I had the impression . . . they meant both time and space. They said they are fleeing from a witch in a cove and the otter man is involved. They also used the word ‘siren.’ I think they mean . . . like a mermaid? Not sure. They’re very angry and scared. No, they said . . . they helped the one . . . who offended the siren. And now is the time to flee. From the seafolk’s witch. That’s right.” It was harder to keep things straight in my head when I had to breathe so raggedly. Just sucking in air took more concentration than I had imagined it could and broke up my thoughts almost as much as the stabbing feeling from my rib broke up my breathing. “That sounds . . . like total gibberish, doesn’t it?”

Solis was looking at me askance, his head tilted as if he were trying to see me in the Grey. His brows were quirked into uneven Vs and he appeared unnerved. “That is what I thought I heard.”

“Good ears. Now, aspirin? Rib is killing me.”

“Could this cove be the one the logs mentioned? Where Fielding was taking the boat?”

“That would be my guess.”

“I would like to know where that cove is.”

“Me, too. Whatever is going on with the ghosts . . . it’s there.”

“Was Seawitch hidden there all this time?”

“I don’t know but I think we’ll find the answers there, even if it wasn’t. Get Zantree . . .”

“Do you suppose Mr. Zantree might be able to tell us where the cove is?”

“Maybe. I can look up the lat and long online . . . but what we really need is a navigator . . . someone who knows the waters and the lore—I don’t know much about what creatures we’re dealing with. . . . Zantree had a crush on Shelly. He has a stake in finding out what happened to her. He knows the area and he knows the legends. Stories . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut against a sudden welling of nausea tears brought on by talking so much against the prodding pain of my rib.

I could feel sweat break on my face and the world reeled a bit while I tried to swallow down the urge to puke or pass out. “Stories sometimes tell the truth,” I muttered.

Solis dug into his coat pocket and offered me a tube that rattled with ibuprofen capsules.