“My arm—” he began, then broke off because she already had his sleeve up, the stained bandage off. But his skin was whole and unmarked, like he’d never been hurt.
He was searching for something, needed something, didn’t know where to find it. Hot sun. Burning feet. Thirsty. The world tunneled down, blackening at the edges and withering inward until all he could see was Sasha’s face, her eyes wide and worried, her lips shaping his name. Then dust washed across his vision and he coughed, fighting for breath, fighting the hands that tried to hold him, take him captive.
“The spell is linking to something, but I can’t follow it,” she said, her voice nearly lost beneath the howling noise of a sandstorm. “Rabbit, get in here and—”
Blackness.
Somewhere off Virginia Beach
Voices washed over Cara Liu, unintelligible at first and then slowly coming clear, followed by other sensations: a cool, wet deck beneath her, the gentle roll of waves, the smell of the ocean, the humid air that was at odds with her parched-dry mouth.
“Give her some room,” said an older-sounding woman, the kind with the built-in cluck in her voice. “Let the poor dear breathe!” The tone brought the image of a weathered sixty-something in a crazy pink sun hat as Cara’s brain came back on line—sort of—and worked to match the voice with one of the forty-three passengers on the Discovery III.
Right. She was doing the naturalist thing. Or rather, doing the “ex-journalist pretending to be a naturalist” thing. Out at sea. Whale watching.
“What happened?” The voice belonged to a man, and sounded more excited than worried. Probably one of the three bored husbands who had congregated by the snack bar.
“She was talking about migration patterns and just fainted,” clucked Crazy Hat Lady.
“We should sit her up.” Another voice, young and piping, female. One of the dozen interchangeable bouncy teens who had taken the trip together. Gymnasts, maybe, or cheerleaders.
“Wait. No, don’t move her. She might’ve hurt her spine. Someone should call the Coast Guard!” That was Bored Husband, far more interested in a possible medical emergency than humpbacks. Or maybe he just wanted to hitch a ride back to shore.
“She passed out,” said Captain Jack, having apparently descended from the pilothouse to restore order to his little kingdom. “She didn’t go overboard.”
“But—”
“I’m fine,” Cara croaked, cracking her lids and forcing herself to pull it together before Bored Hubby had her strapped to a backboard and being winched aboard a rescue chopper.
Flamingo pink straw eclipsed the sun. “Are you sure, dearie?”
“Positive. I just . . .” Cara trailed off, not sure what had happened or why. One second she had been talking about humpbacks traveling north from the Bay of Fundy, and the next, click. Lights out.
Captain Jack—fiftyish, grizzled, and straight out of central casting—eased Crazy Hat aside and held out a hand to help Cara up. “On your feet. No napping on the job, girlie.” But his eyes were kind and concerned, telegraphing: You okay?
She had been on the Disco for only a month, but he had a daughter her age who was too busy to call, and Cara had daddy issues. They had bonded instantly.
“Sorry,” she said aloud, giving him a nod. I’m okay. But she wasn’t, really. She felt like unholy crap—woozy and tired, as though she’d been up for a week. Was last night’s takeout coming back to bite her? Ugh, hope it’s not another flu.
For the past few years she had gotten every sniffle and cough within a fifty-mile radius, to the point that some of her friends joked that she might as well teach kindergarten or work at a hospital. The doctors hadn’t been able to find any real reason for it, had advised her to wear a mask. Since she couldn’t bring herself to go out in public looking like something out of a disaster movie, she lived on Airborne, vitamin C, and echinacea, and took her sick days and then some. It had cost her several good jobs. Oh, her bosses hadn’t said it directly, of course—it wasn’t kosher to can people for health problems these days. But whatever the reasons that had gone into her files, her health had been the problem. She hadn’t been able to put in the hours, and there had been a waiting list of junior reporters who could work ridiculous hours for pennies, and wouldn’t call in.
That was one reason she loved working on the Disco: Not only had Jack still hired her even after she had warned him about being a sicko, but it had turned out that the sea air was good for her—she hadn’t had to miss a single day so far. Sigh. Guess it was too much to hope that would last.
“You need to lie down?”
She shook her head at Jack’s question. “God, no.” Her sea legs were great when she was up and walking around or when the boat was moving, but she didn’t do so well with sitting—never mind lying—down for long with the boat stationary and rolling beneath her in long, undulating waves. The sway was already getting to her: A low churn of nausea checked in to join the fatigue and deck spins. She needed to get up, breathe the salt spray, feel the wind in her face, and remember that she had come a long way from who she used to be.
Summoning a bright smile for the crowd that was still gathered around her, she said, “Thanks for your concern, everyone, but I’m good. I’m great. Let’s get this show back on the road.”
“Take it easy for a few minutes,” Jack said. “I’ll need to hunt up a new whale.”
A glance over the railing showed that the gently swelling waves were cetacean-free. “Shoot. That was a good sighting.” She sighed. “Sorry.”
“No biggie. Won’t be hard to come up with another.” Meaning that there were plenty of big contacts on the fish finder or some chatter on the informal network of whale-watching boats and local fishing vessels that traded info in an effort to keep the cash flowing as the winter season got under way.
“Thanks.” Taking Jack’s hand, Cara boosted herself up and made it to the rail, where she breathed deeply, lungs aching when she tried to inhale all the way.
She let Crazy Hat press a lukewarm bottle of water on her and fuss about dehydration and sunstroke, even though it was only in the high fifties and she’d eaten and drunk the same thing she did every day. The clucking reminded Cara of better days, back before her mom died.
“Cluck, cluck, cluck . . . dehydrated. Unless, of course, you’re pregnant.”
Those last two words brought Cara’s head whipping around so fast that a few white strands from her skunk stripe escaped from her ponytail and draped in her face. “No.” When the older woman recoiled, Cara exhaled. “Sorry. But no. No chance of that.”
She might believe in magic, but she didn’t believe in immaculate conception.
As Crazy Hat fussed, winding down, she chugged the rest of the water, which felt lumpy, like it was catching on something lodged in her throat. Beneath her, the Disco’s engines thrummed as they got back under way.
The others had dispersed, Bored Husband no doubt to the snack bar, most of the others to the railing, where they elbowed each other and scanned the horizon, competing to be the first to “thar she blows” it. Usually, Cara found the thrill of the hunt infectious; it was another of the reasons she had taken the job. That, and the surprising discovery that she, a born-and-raised Midwesterner, freaking loved being out at sea. Now, though, she couldn’t summon any enthusiasm. What was more, she suddenly felt out of place, like she didn’t belong there. Or, rather, like she needed to be somewhere else, right now.
Images flashed through her. Urges. She saw herself boarding a plane. Renting a car. Moving fast and traveling light, heading southwest, to where ancient pueblos overlooked wide-open canyons and the sea was a distant memory.