out who did this before they decide to try it again?”
He nodded, somewhat reluctantly, and let his hand fall to his side. I felt a surge of relief mixed with remorse, and took a deep, slow breath. Oberon’s bones, what had I been thinking?
I cast a sidelong glance his way. He was studying one of the carvings on the wall, carefully not looking at me. The answer was simple: I hadn’t been thinking at all. I’d just been reacting. I didn’t love him, but there was a time when I might have, and that was enough to move me forward. I needed to be needed. This wasn’t the right way.
“Toby?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you looking for?”
His tone told me he wanted to move on. I seized the opening. “I don’t know—something useful. Answers, maybe.”
“Are answers usually that easy to find?”
“After the week I’ve had, the world owes me some easy answers.”
“Are you finding any?”
That ranked high on the stupid questions list. “Not yet. Just some empty halls and you.” I turned in a circle, scanning the room. There were shadows in the corners, even with the lights on. There were no bodies, and the ghost of Hamlet’s father didn’t seem likely to show up, but it was bad enough. I almost thought I could hear faint noises drifting down the center hall.
“Welcome to the haunted halls of Elsinore,” I muttered.
Connor glanced at me. “What was that?”
“Shakespeare.”
“Why?”
I paused, and in the silence of that moment, I heard the sounds from the hall again. They were real, and they were getting louder. “Did you come alone?”
“What?” He blinked. “Of course. Who would I have brought with me? Sylvester has people checking every place you might’ve gone.”
“Right.” I stepped backward. Whoever was coming down the hall was too quiet to be Manuel or Dare. “Not to be alarmist or anything, but there are people trying to kill me right now, which means staying here might not be the best plan.”
“What?”
There was a clean snapping noise from the direction of the hall. It’s hard to mistake the sound of a bullet being chambered, especially when people have recently decided shooting you is great fun. I grabbed Connor’s hand and bolted for the nearest door, hissing, “Run!”
There was a muffled snarl from the hall, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Sometimes I hate being right.
The door didn’t want to open. I yanked the key out of my pocket and shoved it against the lock, shouting, “Open, dammit! In Evening’s name!” Nothing happened. The steps were getting closer. Not letting myself look backward, I shouted, “In Oberon’s name! In
The lock released and the door slammed open, sending Connor and me tumbling into a narrow hallway. I paused long enough to kick the door shut and throw the lock before taking off down the hall. I didn’t know where it would take us, but I knew what would happen if we stayed where we were, and in this case, I preferred the unknown. Connor stumbled, and I caught his hand as I ran, hauling him behind me.
Connor was already starting to strain to keep up—Selkies are built for endurance in water, not on land. “Where are we going?” he gasped.
“Away!” I heard the door smash behind us, and the sound of running feet. I didn’t know how much of a lead we had, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. We’d escape, or we’d die. Even odds.
“We don’t know they want to hurt us! We don’t even know who they are!”
“Pardon me if I don’t wait around to find out!” The strain of dragging Connor was making my shoulder throb in earnest, but I didn’t let go. He’d die if I did.
“But—”
“They have guns! Now shut up and run!”
A dim light was starting to fill the hall, illuminating rough stone walls. The floor shifted under our feet, going from raised cobblestones to hard-packed sand. Connor stumbled again, but I kept dragging him, picking up speed as we went. “Come on, we’re almost there!” I had no idea where “there” was, although I was betting against popping out of a magic wardrobe. The sand made me think of beaches: that was fine. There are plenty of beaches in San Francisco—there was even one right next to the museum.
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised when the ground dropped out from under our feet and we ran out into the open air.
There was time to glimpse the face of the cliff behind us, and the narrow mouth of the cave we’d just run out of. Then we were falling, and there was no more time for anything but screaming. Being dropped a hundred feet above the Pacific has a tendency to bring out the worst in me. Connor’s hand slipped out of mine as we fell. I strained to catch it. Then it was too late: I hit the water feetfirst, knocking the air out of my lungs. The waves closed over me like a fist, and the world went dark.
TWENTY-TWO
I DRIFTED, EYES CLOSED, head down, until the pressure in my chest snapped me awake and I started to thrash, looking for the surface. I hadn’t panicked, but it was only a matter of time, and if I didn’t hit the air before I lost control, I was going to be another red mark on the Coast Guard’s already checkered record. Everyone has something they can’t handle. For some people it’s tight spaces or heights. For me, it’s water. I can’t take baths anymore, much less go swimming: it’s showers and polite excuses all the way. It’s too much like going back to the pond.
The sea around me was getting darker. It was light when Connor and I hit the water; the sun should have been visible. Unless I was swimming the wrong way.
I flipped myself around, pushing as hard as I could in the opposite direction. The waves weren’t helping—but then, oceans aren’t known for helping stranded swimmers, especially not ones foolish enough to dive from great heights while fully clothed. I was amazed that I hadn’t broken my neck.
It was getting harder to keep swimming: exhaustion, oxygen deprivation, and my wounded shoulder were conspiring with terror to slow me down. Just to make matters worse, the taste of roses was tickling the back of my throat. I was weak, and the curse was getting stronger; I couldn’t defend myself. If it grabbed me before I reached the air, the threat it represented was going to become a self-fulfilling prophecy, because there was no way I’d survive.
Something hit me from below. I kicked down, suddenly fueled by a new brand of panic, and was rewarded when my heels hit something soft. That would teach the local wildlife not to mess with a drowning changeling. I continued to flail upward until it hit me again. My answering kick was weaker this time. I was running out of energy; I couldn’t tell which way I was going, and the lack of oxygen was starting to blur my vision. The something hit me a third time, and I went limp, giving up. The sharks could have me.
Whatever it was grabbed the back of my shirt and started swimming upward, towing me easily to the surface. I gasped for air, and it held me up until I started treading water. The waves were fairly mild; once I could breathe again, I started looking for shore. If I could reach it before—well, there were a lot of “befores” to worry about. Before the curse hit, before I panicked completely, before I drowned . . .
Something barked behind me, and I turned, coming face-to-muzzle with a harbor seal. I was startled enough that I dipped below the surface for a moment before bobbing back up again, coughing. The seal barked merrily, seeming amused by my surprise.
Selkie. I’d fallen off a cliff into the ocean with a Selkie, and I’d been worried about drowning. I would’ve been
