Kat Richardson: Downpour

“I’ll sing.”

“What?” he asked, peering at her.

“Listen to the stone. I’ll sing that note and the lake will answer. When we are in harmony, we’ll have found the stone’s proper place.”

“How are we going to hear the lake singing in all this noise?”

Willow shrugged. “I don’t know. If we could send energy back to the . . . waveguide? It would sing louder, but all the energy flow is up right now. We need down.”

“I’ll have to push, then,” I said. “It won’t last long, so we’ll have to be close, and if we’re off, we’ll have to reposition and try again.”

Willow nodded, her uncovered hair straggling like ink around her face. She looked as chilled as I felt and I hoped we’d be in the right place soon.

As we neared Barnes Point, I crouched down on the seat beside the little boat’s side rail and let myself sink deep into the Grey, as close to the grid as I dared. I fell through chaos, the mist and color of the Grey roiling and slashing at me as I went deeper. Streaks of light and hard knots of ghost-stuff ripped through me, making it difficult to concentrate and look for the straight, sharp line that would mark the waveguide’s edge among the roaring cataracts of magic.

I could see the brighter, stronger lines of the dominant power flow below us, rippling in ever-changing shades of green sparked with gold, but it lay deep under the flooding wash of red and gold belched into the lake from the ley weaver’s dwindling construction. The closer we got, the more the tiny boat pitched and squirmed against the thrashing surface. I tried to grab onto something to keep myself in the boat that looked from within the Grey like a spiderweb cupped around a tiny green gem that was the anchor stone, but I was so thin in the normal world that my hand passed through the upright I tried to clutch for. I hoped I wouldn’t be thrown out and drowned, but I’d spotted the sharp razor-cut line of the waveguide—a weak emerald glow in the depths—and I couldn’t waste my concentration on anything else.

“There,” I tried to say, but my voice didn’t seem any more substantial than a ghost’s.

Then I felt a soft touch against my palm, a delicate brushing like butterfly wings, light but real. “I’ve got you, Harper,” Quinton’s voice whispered into my head. He’d never been able to touch me in the Grey before and I’d been able to hear him only as if from a great distance. But now, it was almost as if I felt him inside my own skin.

I pointed at the line. “There.” I felt the boat turning, rocking, as we moved closer. I kept pointing and giving directions as best I could until we were right over the line and Quinton brought the boat to a halt. Deep below the surface, the wild stream of the leyline rushed and roared, drowning all other sounds in the Grey. I came back up, through the red battering and clatter of Beauty bleeding into the lake and away from the boiling mist, back into snow that had turned to sleet from angry, flashing clouds that seemed to scream and tear themselves apart over and over.

Quinton tightened his grip on my hand and hauled me closer to him. I felt bruised from my brush through the fierce energy the ley weaver was pouring back into the lake. “It’s right below us,” I said. I wasn’t sure my voice was loud enough to hear, but they both nodded.

Willow picked up the anchor stone. “We need to find the proper place for this.”

“Wait a minute. Harper needs to rest.”

“We can’t wait! The storm won’t let up until we’re done, and I can barely feel my fingers and toes now. I won’t be able to sing for very long. We have to do it now .”

Quinton would have objected, but I pulled away from him and nodded, catching my breath. “We can’t wait. We have to try now.”

Willow held up the stone near her ear. “I can barely hear it.”

I flicked a passing bolt of blue energy toward the stone. It felt ridiculously heavy and sluggish, not at all as it had when I’d pushed on the energy to stun Jin or dissipate the ghosts in Tragedy Graveyard.

The stone rang, sending ripples into the Grey. Willow sang back.

A distant note answered from the lake and the surface of the water broke into hard waves that rushed at our little boat, driven by a surge of red energy from Beauty.

“Down there,” Willow said, pointing west toward Fairholm.

Quinton let go of me to maneuver the boat farther down the lake until we reached the spot Willow liked. The boat pitched violently, like a dog shaking off water, and Quinton pulled me in under the canopy, nearer to the wheel. Willow locked one elbow around the nearest railing and sang at the stone again, having difficulty staying on pitch as the cold dug in its claws. I pushed as hard as I could, shoving the loose energy at the surface down to the waveguide.

The water exploded upward with a blast of sound, knocking the boat into the air and shooting toward the clouds with a shout as if from a giant throat.

Willow shrieked as she tumbled overboard, the anchor stone flipping through the rain and reflecting flashes of lightning from the storm. Something in the clouds answered, screaming and diving toward us. Quinton and I sprawled in the sloshing cockpit and then struggled to the rail, calling out and looking for the black shape of Willow’s flapping dress.

Willow hit the water several feet away. She’d pulled the cord on the life preserver, but her movements were weak and we could see the anchor stone sinking into the water, gleaming. We had no way to know if it was heading in the right direction or not.

“Oh gods, no,” I muttered.

The screaming thing from the clouds ripped its way loose and dove toward Willow. The long flashing shape, resembling a slender fish with a monstrous, tooth-filled snout, let out a screech, and lightning leapt from its mouth, curling along the shredded bottom of the clouds. A second scream came in reply and another lightning fish tore from the storm.

Willow, floating in the ice-cold water, let her head loll back, using the last of her breath to sing something that rose in pink and green smoke toward the lightning fish. The last wisp of color slipped from her and spun upward.

Quinton restarted the swamped engine and spun the boat toward Willow.

Willow’s song brushed the first lightning fish and it writhed around, coiling and leaping in the storm-slashed sky before it dove straight down, toward her, toward us, toward our tiny, fragile boat....

The lightning fish plunged into the water, massive as a bus. The wave it sent up shoved Willow toward the boat and the boat toward the shore. Quinton fought to keep the boat in a safe line and turned back to come around without hitting Willow.

“There has to be a life ring or something in the lazarette!” he yelled at me.

“In what?”

“The seat locker. Look under the seat!”

I slid back into the rear, scrambling to get the seats up and look in the compartments under them. I found a life ring on a line and held it up for Quinton to see. He nodded and steered the boat in a circle around Willow. Overhead, the second dragon-thing screamed lightning into the sky and thrashed the air with its tail, chasing the shadow of its nemesis thrown on the surface of the water by the gruesome light of the lake’s corrupted power.

I threw the ring at Willow and the movement of the boat brought it slowly around to her, but she barely moved and it slid past her.

“She’s too cold,” I shouted back to Quinton. “She’ll pass out in a minute! ”

I tore off my coat and threaded the stupid red scarf under the straps of my life preserver. Then I dove into the water toward Willow.

Below, the first lightning fish grabbed the anchor stone in its mouth and flipped around, shooting toward us. I swore and swam through the freezing water to Willow. I grabbed on and wedged my arm through one strap of her life preserver before I tugged on the cord of my own. The sudden added buoyancy as the packed straps bloomed around my chest and head popped us upward for a second. She murmured in distress, her face pale blue in the storm light as the lightning fish leapt from the water, spitting fire at the clouds. I could hear the stone singing as the lightning flashed past it.