Page 19

Edgar throws me a look of betrayal and rage before spinning back around to face Heathcliff. “No. You’re leaving.”

“Make me.”

“Oh, I will.” Edgar clears his throat. “ We will. Won’t we, guys?” He rakes the group with frantic eyes, searching out Lazar, Thomas, and the other guys.

Thomas nods and Lazar takes a half step forward, which pisses me off. They were all too happy to drink Heathcliff’s beer, and now they’re ready to kick him out just because Edgar says so?

Fuck that.

“No!” I dart forward, pushing Lazar back. “No. If Edgar wants Cliff to leave, he can make it happen himself. No one else interferes.”

Lazar opens his mouth, but I give him my most savage glare.

“ No one interferes. Got it?”

“You can’t be serious, Cathy,” exclaims Edgar.

Isabella starts to cry—or more accurately, wail. She could rival a banshee, I swear.

“Shut up,” Heathcliff and I snap at her at the same time.

“Go on, Edgar.” I clench both fists, my heart racing, blood pounding. “You want him to leave…make him leave.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Edgar says breathlessly.

“He’s like twice my size. If he were a decent man, he’d go of his own accord, but he’s clearly not decent.

Isabella, you and I are going to have a serious talk later about the kinds of people who are appropriate for church gatherings.

And you, Cathy…I don’t know what’s going on between you and this guy, but I’m disappointed in you. I thought you were better than this.”

Heathcliff chuckles. “He’s right, Cathy. You are better than this. And you deserve better than a milk-blooded coward who can’t even—”

Edgar wheels around and smashes his right fist into Heathcliff’s face. Then he grunts with pain, shaking his fingers.

Heathcliff staggers back a step. Blood drips from one nostril, a glistening, ruby line over his full lips.

He hauls back for a blow that will level Edgar and possibly break his jaw—or his neck.

I can sense the power behind that punch, and my whole body vibrates with a sudden, horrible understanding—an overwhelming tidal wave of grief and the devastating urge to scream.

If Heathcliff lands that blow, he will kill Edgar Linton.

“Stop!” I shriek. But it’s not just a word, it’s a long scream, an air-raid siren of eardrum-shattering, wave-bending power.

I feel the concussive force of it ripple through the air.

I hear the sudden change in the wave patterns on the beach, the rolling splash as the force of my cry shoves back the tide itself for a second.

Heathcliff freezes. The others in the group cringe, covering their ears.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, choking on another scream. The moment of danger has passed—Edgar isn’t going to die now, so I don’t have to mourn him, but I’m still being wracked with convulsive waves of grief and confusion. I can’t stay here. I need to go.

The act follows the instinct, and I’m running, running out of the firelight, down the dark beach, under the inky sky and the glittering stars.

The others call for me a couple times, but their voices fade quickly—I’m not really one of them, and they’re more concerned about Edgar and Isabella, more interested in gossiping about what just happened.

I run, run, run. And when I can’t hold my mouth shut any longer, I veer into the surf, slogging through waves until the rush of the sea fills my ears, and then I scream.

The screams rip from my lungs, retched out in huge spasms that convulse my whole body.

They slash my throat raw, scour my tongue, wring tears from my eyes.

The sea takes the tears, the screams, the pain—all of it. Absorbs everything I have to give, until slowly, slowly, I come back into myself.

I’m standing shoulder deep in freezing waves, shivering. I gag out one last sob for what nearly happened to Edgar, to Heathcliff—to us all.

It’s over. No one died. I’m okay, and more importantly, so is Heathcliff. I need to calm down, I need to breathe—

The wave comes without warning, huge and black, towering over me. It slams me down like a giant’s icy fist, and for a second, I could swear it’s even shaped like a fist.

Water glugs in my ears, fills my brain, crushes me down. I flail, struggling for the surface, but it’s all dark, and I can’t get out, I can’t get out—

My face breaks free for a second, and I gasp, gulping air.

Another watery fist rises and smashes over me again, slow and ponderous, forcing me down to the bottom, pinning me to the sand.

This isn’t normal. There’s something else going on here—something supernatural. In my ears, a voice resonates, and it’s unnaturally clear, not distorted by the water at all: “Child of the Morrigan, abomination. Perish.”

I thrash, wriggle, and use my scant lungful of air to scream.

The fist disintegrates, and I bob to the surface, desperate for breath.

“Banshee,” the voice hisses through foam and darkness. “Enemy of the gods, diviner of death, offspring of Cernunnos, the rejected one. I am the god Manannán. Worship and die.”

Manannán.

The god Daisy and Gatsby mentioned, who was raised up recently. God of the sea, apparently.

I have no capacity to process that right now. Scanning the black water, I realize that I’m terrifyingly far from land. I suck in a breath right before another hand-shaped wave sweeps along the surface toward me.

When I go under, I scream again. And once again, the watery hand shatters at the sound.

The god’s voice rolls through the deep. “If I were at my full power, I could destroy you easily. But no matter—you will perish soon enough. Your tiny human limbs are no match for my strength. I will keep you here until you drown.”

I drag in another breath, ready to shriek through my anguished throat as many times as I have to. I’ll fight the water and struggle toward land until my strength gives out. I won’t let this fucker take me down easily.

When he submerges me again, I release another shriek. But I’m slower getting back to the surface, and I barely manage a sip of air before the god’s hand reforms and shoves me back under.

My lungs are cracking, my chest ready to explode. My heart pounds frantically against my ribs, hammers in my head—

Something brushes against my hip. Then an arm wraps around my back, under my shoulders, hauling me up and dragging me to the surface.

A shiver races through the water, and the voice speaks again, all around us, deep as the ocean, wild as the wind itself: “Son of Juventas.” And I could swear it sounds surprised. “Why do you assist this abomination?”

“Fuck off!” roars Heathcliff. Through his bravado, I can hear his terror—I can feel it in the hard tension of his body as he fights to drag us both closer to the beach. “Let her go, you big bastard! You can’t have her.”

“Do your duty,” intones the god. “Destroy the cursed offspring of Death and the Morrigan.”

“Eat shit.” Heathcliff’s muscles surge, and the strength that carried me through the woods for hours now propels us both toward shore. He’s clinging to me with ferocious determination, kicking with all his might, and sweeping the sea with one powerful arm.

Strong as he is, I don’t think we’re going to make it.

Salt water sloshes into my mouth. I choke, gag, fight for control of my traitorous lungs and stomach. I try not to thrash so I won’t pull us both under, but it’s hard when every cell of my body is screaming with cold and panic.

And then, as quickly as they arose, the icy waves subside, shrinking down to their normal size. After a minute I find the bottom, and we’re able to stagger through the surf back to the relative safety of land.

We’re so far down the beach that I can’t see the glow of the firepit. I wonder if the group heard the god’s voice at all or if it was only meant for Heathcliff and me. For now, it doesn’t matter.

Both of us collapse on the sand, our faces upturned to the stars.

“I wasn’t delirious, right?” I gasp. “That really happened?”

“Yeah.” Heathcliff rubs a hand over his face.

“Okay.” I haul in a few more jagged breaths, trying to control the shaking of my limbs, the clatter of my teeth. “Okay. We can’t lie here. We’ll get hypothermia. Gotta move. Got to get up.” It’s going to hurt. “One, two, three…”

I force myself to roll over onto my belly, and from there, I push up onto hands and knees. I climb to my feet, nearly toppling over again, but I curl my toes into the sand and find my balance somehow.

“Get up,” I hiss at Heathcliff.

He groans, but he obeys me, struggling upright as well. “I think we washed up close to where I went in after you. Give me a minute while I look for my phone.”

I hug myself miserably, watching as he walks along the sand, then bends to pick something up.

He hurries back, unlocking the phone as he approaches me. “Service sucks around here.” He holds it higher. “Okay, I got one bar now. I can call Isabella, tell her where we are.”

I hate that he has her number almost as much as I hate the idea of facing the group again.

I look back the way we came, at the long, dark stretch of the beach.

The wind has picked up, and it feels ten times colder than before.

Why did I have to run so far from the fire, from heat and cars and blankets?

“Or we could go there.” Heathcliff points to a rooftop jutting above the dunes, its slanted surface gleaming in the faint starlight.

When I don’t answer, he sets off, determination in each stride.

I trudge after him. “We can’t just break in. It’s going to have a security system.”

“Not always. Sometimes people put the signs up even if they don’t actually have the system. Or they have one but they don’t pay the monthly fee and they don’t arm it. Especially if they don’t use the place a lot. They don’t want to bother remembering the code. Come on.”

“Do you break into beach houses often?”

“Only when I need to.”