Fury's Fire (18 page)

He took a deep breath, trying to shake the ugly feeling that had settled over him last night and stayed with him through his dreams. He was still angry.

But why? Why?

Rationally, Will understood why Carl hadn’t told him about Ezekiel Worstler. God, who would? It sounded crazy. Except that it didn’t sound crazy. Perhaps because he’d been looking for signs of a seekrieger everywhere, evidence of mermaids and Sirens. Perhaps because he’d seen Gretchen set a body of water on fire.

It was as if the walls that had held the structure of his life, the boundaries of his existence, were melting away, or at the very least becoming less like walls and
more like windows that allowed him to see new realities beyond.

The maple-sweet smell of his mother’s baking still filled the house, and Will thought of all the mornings that he and Tim had sat together at the breakfast table, joking and laughing. Tim always liked to have sausages in the morning—“Meat for breakfast is manly,” he’d said—and he would cook up an extra one for Will, which Will would then drown in syrup, much to his brother’s delighted disgust.

His chest felt hollow, like an empty barrel. He missed his brother. He had lost so much—his dog, Asia—but losing his brother was like losing a leg. It was like losing part of himself.

Will pulled on his jeans and a faded old sweatshirt. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and avoided the mirror. Shoving his feet into his shoes, he scuffed down the hall and clattered into the kitchen.

It was empty, so Will grabbed a muffin and sucked down a glass of milk in peace. He didn’t want to admit how relieved he was not to see Gretchen. Will knew he owed her an apology, but he didn’t think he could choke it out. Not yet. It was strange to be so close to someone—in proximity as well as emotionally—and yet to be overcome by your separateness.

Happiness is fleeting
, he thought.

Will placed his dishes in the sink and walked out the back door. He stopped at the barn to feed the pygmy goats with their long, shaggy fur and strange eyes. Will spread some grain before the chickens and watched as they fought over the kernels. The rooster
preened and strutted, too busy with his vanity to bother with the feed. Will aimed a few extra kernels in front of him. The rooster—with his glossy black feathers and long, gleaming green tail—amused him.

“You’re an idiot,” Will told the bird, who finally pecked at something. “But you’ve got it with the ladies.”

Mud sucked at and clung to his sneakers as he went to the greenhouse to water the lettuce. His chores finished, Will headed back to the garage for his motorcycle. He cleaned off his shoes with a stick, then walked into the tidy space. His bike was reclining in a corner, and Will grabbed a helmet, then stroked the smooth leather of the seat. He remembered how Tim had helped him earn enough money for the bike. Whenever an odd job had come up—landscaping, grocery delivery, whatever—Tim would recommend his brother. And Tim had gone with him to help haggle over the bike. “Just let me do the talking,” Tim had advised, and Will had, his heart hammering as his brother made an offer that was just a hair’s breadth from being insulting. At one point Tim had threatened to walk on the whole negotiation, and Will had nearly screamed, “Wait! Wait!” but eventually the owner had come around. Tim had made sure Will got the bike at a price he could really afford, considering insurance and maintenance costs. It had been hard to trust him, but if he hadn’t, Will wouldn’t have the bike.

Jamming the helmet onto his head, Will kicked the bike to life. He roared out of the garage and rode up the road toward town. Even though Will was always
careful behind the wheel of a car, he often drove fast on his motorcycle. He didn’t know why. A few white clouds scudded across the sky, and a band of dark clouds—the rain from this morning—blocked the edge of the blue horizon.

Will parked at the marina and headed down to where his sailboat—the
Vagabond
—was moored. Tim’s boat.

The water lapped gentle as a cat’s tongue at the sides of the boat, and the
Vagabond
swayed slightly as he stepped aboard. He untied the rigging. The day had grown warm enough for Will to take off his sweatshirt, but the marina wasn’t crowded. It was early October, after all, and the weekenders were finished for the year. He saw two boats under full sail out on the water, but both were coming in.

Will pulled up sail and turned the rudder starboard, guiding his boat through the narrow marina opening. It took only a few moments for him to reach the open water.

Will had always been a decent sailor. Nothing compared to his brother, of course, but he could manage a boat with ease. He remembered the scrappy “yacht club” Tim had helped put together when he was twelve. Tim, Will, Gretchen, and their two neighbors, Arnie and Jill, would meet at the tumbledown dock at the edge of the bay, at Arnie’s house. Arnie and Jill were older—thirteen and fourteen—and each had access to family boats. Once Tim had actually organized a regatta. He’d challenged the kids at the Walfang Boating Club to a race. Those rich kids had been
so surprised when they got to the “club” that they’d refused to race. But Tim talked them into it, implying—then outright stating—that a refusal to race meant a forfeit.

Naturally, they had raced.

Naturally, the rich kids won.

But Tim was undeterred. He was proudly enthusiastic about their efforts and talked eagerly of the next regatta. But then the summer ended, and the next year Jill and Arnie lost interest.

But Tim recalled those days with nothing but exuberance. He was proud that they had taken on the Boat Clubbers, as he called them. And in the retelling, Tim and Will always won the race.

Tim had loved the water.

Will looked out over the long horizon. It was impossible for Will to imagine heaven the way his Sunday school had taught him, angels and all that crap. But when he looked at the brilliant blue that dipped down to touch its darker shadow, he could imagine that Tim was somewhere on the other side. Will imagined him on a sandy shore, looking out. Watching, waiting for Will.

Maybe Asia was there, too.

Although when he thought of Asia, he thought of her still below the waves. He imagined her biding her time, living underwater, looking up at the light that filtered from above. He could almost see her brilliant green eyes glowing in the deep, her long dark hair floating around her like a cloud.

The sun had passed its height, and Will tacked to
port. In the distance, he could see a lighthouse on a rocky promontory. Regal houses stood guard along the sandy shore, their haughtiness daring anyone to come near. Tim had always dreamed of living in a beautiful house with a sea view.

“We live in a beautiful house with a sea view,” Will would insist, but Tim just rolled his eyes.

“If you call that beautiful, I should be taking you to the optometrist. More like run-down. Oh, well. I guess we’re keepin’ it real.”

Will had laughed. “Oh, it’s real, all right.”

It’s real, all right
.

Will lay back and closed his eyes, letting the small waves rock him. He tried to conjure an image of Tim and was alarmed to find that he couldn’t quite do it. He caught a flash of dark hair, of laughing dark eyes, but what he got was a feeling more than a picture. He remembered what it was like to be with Tim, but the exact lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the large hands, were fading.

Tim was disappearing from him, dissolving even in recollection.

Will had always taken for granted that Tim would be the other half of his memory. He would be there to recall the Christmases and the name of the doctor the time they’d had to go to the hospital because Tim had accidentally broken Will’s nose in a brotherly wrestling match. He would be there to share stories about their parents when they were gone. But Tim had left him alone, the sole guardian of their shared history.

The boat jolted suddenly, and he opened his eyes.
A cloud had passed over the sun, and the sea had grown dark surprisingly fast. The cumulonimbi were rolling in quickly, and the water was choppy. Will hadn’t gone far, but he would have to make it back to the marina quickly if he wanted to avoid the onset of the storm.

Cursing himself, Will tacked to starboard, heading back to the safety of the marina. Overhead, the clouds strove to close their dark curtain at the edge of the horizon as the breeze picked up, blowing the waves to whitecaps. The wind was in his favor, and the sails caught the breeze, the boat racing across the water. The rigging clips clinked, and overhead a single gull cried as she raced him to shore.

Dim through his damaged ear, Will heard the wind begin to rise, shrieking like a single note. The note rang on, growing louder, and a feeling of foreboding stole over Will.

He looked out to the edge of the dark horizon. There, small as a speck, was a figure—a human head half out of the water.

It’s a buoy
, he told himself, but he didn’t believe it, and fear tore at him like a steel hook. A wave grew between him and the figure, and when it passed by, the seekrieger had disappeared.

The waves were growing wild, and Will raced to the mainmast. The
Vagabond
crawled up a tall wave, then plunged. A raindrop splattered his cheek, then one caught him in the eye, and in a moment it was raining fiercely, lashing him and the boat. Will had never seen a squall come on so quickly, although he had heard
stories from fishermen and other boaters that it was possible. His heart pounded in his ears, and he felt as if he were pressed against a wall of panic, having the air squeezed from him.

The
Vagabond
tipped drunkenly as a rogue wave plowed into the port side. Will’s feet slipped on the waxed wood surface, and he clung to the mast to stay aboard. He hauled himself to his feet, but a moment later another wave dealt a punishing blow. The boat tipped and capsized.

Will dove into the water, trying to avoid the timber. With the wild weather, he had to be careful to avoid a head injury.

When he came up, the rain lashed at him like a beast unleashed. He only had time to gulp a mouthful of oxygen before being smacked with a merciless wall of water. He struggled toward the surface, but couldn’t seem to work his way into the open air. His chest felt tight, he needed to breathe—

Something grabbed his shoulder, and bubbles burst from his mouth in a silent scream. It was the thing. The seekrieger. The dark thoughts of his dead brother had called her to him.

He kicked and struggled as he felt himself being pulled up, up by an iron arm. He was still fighting as they broke through the surface, screaming as the waves assaulted them.

“Will!” In his delirium, Will imagined that the thing was calling him by name. The grip encased him so that he was completely paralyzed.

“Will!” the creature said again, this time distinctly. “Will, stop.”

And the voice did make him stop. Anyone would have stopped for the rich, velvet texture, the sweet tones as clear as a silver bell. But Will stopped because he recognized the voice.

There, before him, were a pair of brilliant green eyes. Porcelain skin, long dark hair.

The seekrieger was Asia.

A branch scraped against the window, pressing inward like an unwelcome neighbor. The sun had winked out behind the dark clouds, and even the barn, which was not twenty paces from the house, disappeared in the driving rain. It was late afternoon, and Gretchen was making herself a cup of tea. The gloomy chill had begun to sink into her bones, but she felt safe in the cozy kitchen.

The Archer kitchen was different from her own. One entire wall was given over to hooks that held cast-iron pots and pans. Stoneware jugs held a motley collection of spatulas, ladles, and wooden spoons. The Archer house was old and drafty and in places felt in need of repair, but the kitchen was airy and modern, with a top-of-the-line commercial oven for Mrs. Archer’s work. The sink was a vintage 1930s enamel-ware with two basins and a built-in drying rack—the same sink that Mr. Archer’s grandmother had
installed. The enamel had partially worn away in one spot near the drain, and Gretchen loved the gritty slate texture revealed underneath. The long farm table, too, dated from the time of Mr. Archer’s grandparents. Made of heavy oak, it felt solid and permanent beneath Gretchen’s spread palms. There were scars in the wood from years of use, a deep gouge from a foolish moment when Tim and Will had placed a heavy air-conditioning unit on the surface, but it was still beautiful. Mr. Archer had torn up the ugly linoleum that his parents had added and unearthed wide pine planks, which he’d sanded and refinished, and which now shone up at Gretchen with a cheerful brownish yellow. In many ways, this was Gretchen’s ideal kitchen, just as Will’s family was the ideal family. Or had been, until Tim died.