They had just passed the dunes and reached the level beach when the demon caught up; Pendergast turned to face him with the knife, warning Constance to keep going. But instead she stopped and turned to see Pendergast and the demon come together with a violent clash, locking in a fearful embrace: Pendergast with the knife raised, Morax — missing two fingers now — struggling to disarm him, the whole ghastly scene illuminated in the predawn light of morning. The storm had abated but the surf remained violent; great rollers leapt up with blowing spume, then crashed down and swept their way up the beach. The air was full of atomized seawater.
She stared, unable for the moment to react. She saw with horror that Pendergast had been badly hurt. His shirtfront was torn, and one side of his face was cut and bleeding. The demon twisted and turned, the two struggling for dominance; but the huge demon prevailed and finally tore the stiletto away from Pendergast, throwing it into the sea. He swung at Pendergast with a great ropy arm; Pendergast dodged the blow but, clearly weakened by his injuries, was thrown off balance. The demon raked him cruelly with a massive hand, tearing through his clothing and reducing it to bloody tatters.
Pendergast retreated and the two parried and thrust, the fight driving both of them into the swash zone. Pendergast backed into the water, almost as a deliberate strategy, seeking some kind of advantage. But the strategy failed; with a mighty blow, Morax knocked Pendergast down into the surging water. As he struggled to regain his feet, the demon reared above him and raised a massive hand, preparing to deal the deathblow.
Constance lost her mind. In silent fury, she raced down the wet sand into the swash and sprang onto the demon’s back, grabbing his skull with her fingers and sinking her teeth into his neck. The foul, rubbery taste of flesh filled her mouth. The creature, surprised by the ferocity of her attack, let out a scream and, swinging away from Pendergast, spun around and around, scrabbling at her, ripping at her clothes, trying to free himself. But she hung on tenaciously to his craggy brow; with a twist of her head she ripped the hunk of flesh free and spat it out, then bit down again, trying to reach the carotid artery. The demon, roaring with pain, staggered into the surf zone. A green roller reared up, then fell upon them; in a moment they were both engulfed in fierce, icy water. The shock of the water loosened her grip and tore her free from the demon. Unable to swim, she thrashed frantically in the boiling surf until she felt sand sucking under her feet and realized she was being carried onto the beach by the dying wave. She gripped the sand in the backrush, struggling to prevent herself from being dragged back into the maelstrom. Just as she felt the sand slide out from under her, strong arms gripped her and pulled her to her feet — and there was Pendergast, staring at her, a look of horror on his face. It took her a moment to understand why: in her terror, she had not realized she was still gripping a second gobbet of flesh between her teeth.
Meanwhile, Morax was struggling up from the surf, coming at them, face distorted in pain and fury. Pendergast rushed to put himself between Constance and the demon and, once again, the two came together with a bone-cracking thud. With a huge effort, Pendergast drove the demon back into the breaking surf, and in an instant both were engulfed in a gigantic, breaking wave.
The boiling white water swept Constance off her feet; she clawed at the sand to keep from being sucked back in the undertow, and this time managed to hold herself in place as the wave receded. Temporarily freed from the backwash, she crawled up the beach in the lull between waves and managed to get past the surf zone.
The sun was just breaking over a blood horizon, throwing pallid light onto her face. She blinked her eyes groggily. All she could see were great crimson rollers coming in, one after the other, crashing and thundering up the beach, then withdrawing again with a vast, dreary roar. And there, standing in the surf, was the demon. He had abruptly ceased all struggle and was staring into the rising sun in wonder, a twisted smile appearing on his face, arm outstretched as if to touch it, finger pointing, the swirling water around his legs reddening with arterial blood.
Where was Pendergast?
Where was Pendergast?
Constance rose, screaming: “Aloysius! Aloysius!”
She strained to look into the blinding orange surface of the sea — and then she saw him, his pale face rising and falling just beyond the break zone. His arms were barely moving.
“Aloysius!”
She took a few tentative steps into the water. He was struggling desperately to swim, but he was obviously weakened, gravely wounded, and the currents were now carrying him rapidly away from shore.
“Aloysius!”
Somewhere, vaguely, she heard the baying of a dog.
Morax collapsed into the bloody surf.
She stumbled down into the onrushing water, wading toward the struggling Pendergast despite her inability to swim, the torn, heavy dress impeding her progress.
“Stop her!” a voice cried from behind.
Suddenly there were people on both sides. One burly man seized her around the shoulders; another around the waist. She tried to twist away, but they hauled her out of the surf.
“Let me go!” she cried.
A male voice spoke out: “There’s nothing you can do.”
She fought like a banshee, screaming and twisting. “Can’t you see him? He’s too weak to swim!”
“We see him. We’re calling a rescue boat.”
She struggled afresh, but there were too many of them. “He’s drowning! For the love of God, save him!”
“No one can go into that surf!” said the same male voice.
“Cowards!”
She tried to rush back into the water herself, but more men appeared and, despite her wild struggles, they managed to drag her out of the breaking surf and onto the dunes. Four more men in military fatigues appeared. Together, the group managed to hold her fast as she thrashed, spat, and kicked.
“I’ll kill you! Let me go!”
“Jesus, what a tomcat! I can’t believe it’s taking half a dozen of us just to hold her down—!”
“We don’t have time for this. Get the medical kit.”
They wrestled her to the sand. She found herself pinned, face downward, cuffed and restrained, felt the sting of a cold needle on the back of her thigh... and then everything became far away and strange.
Epilogue
November
Quietly, Proctor eased open the double doors of the library to allow Mrs. Trask to pass through with a silver tray laden with a tea service.
The room was dim, lit only by the fire that guttered low in the hearth. Before it, in a wing chair, Proctor could see a motionless figure, indistinct in the faint light. Mrs. Trask walked over to the figure, placed the tray on a side table beside the chair.
“I thought you might like a cup of tea, Miss Greene,” she said solicitously.
“No thank you, Mrs. Trask,” came Constance’s low voice.
“It’s your favorite. Jasmine, first grade. I also brought you some madeleines. I baked them just this afternoon — I know how fond you are of them.”
“I’m not particularly hungry,” she answered. “Thank you for your trouble.”
“Well, I’ll just leave them here in case you change your mind.” Mrs. Trask smiled maternally, turned, and headed for the library exit. By the time she reached Proctor, the smile had faded and the look on her face had grown worried once again.
“I’ll only be gone a few days,” she said to him in a low tone. “My sister should be home from the hospital by next weekend. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Proctor nodded, then watched her bustle her way back toward the kitchen before returning his gaze to the figure in the wing chair.