Эприлинн Пайк: Spells

“Wait,” David said, his hand on her arm.

Laurel’s eyes darted to the dashboard clock that was rushing through minutes far too quickly, but she stayed. David dug into his backpack and when he withdrew his hand, he held the small Sig Sauer Klea had intended for Laurel. Laurel focused on the gun for a few seconds, then looked up at David.

“I know you hate it,” David said, his voice quiet and steady. “But it’s the only thing we know for sure can stop Barnes. And if it comes down to his life or Chelsea’s”—he laid the gun in Laurel’s shaking hand—“I know you’ll have the strength to make the right choice.”

Laurel’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly wrap her fingers around the icy-cold grip, but she nodded and stuffed the gun into the waistband of her jeans, pulling her jacket down to conceal it.

They exited the car, both staring up at the lighthouse, where a spot of brightness shone out from the upper floor. Then she and David walked out to the path that led up to the lighthouse.

It was three feet under the ocean.

“Oh, no,” Laurel said under her breath. “I forgot about the tide.” She stared out at the lighthouse, about a hundred meters away across the churning water. She would make it — it wasn’t that far — but the salt would work into her pores. It would sap her strength instantly and linger for at least a week.

Without speaking, David scooped her up in his arms. He walked to the edge of the water and after the slightest hesitation, stepped in, his long, powerful legs striding easily though the frothy currents. He gasped as the bitterly cold water crawled up to his knees, his thighs, his hips, and after about a minute Laurel heard his teeth chatter for a second before he clamped his jaw shut. But he couldn’t stop shivers from coursing through his body. Laurel tried to support as much of her own weight as possible, with her arms twined around David’s neck, but even the wind was fighting them tonight, whipping against their jackets and through Laurel’s long hair, stirring the seawater into choppy waves.

Right in the middle where the water was the deepest — up to David’s waist — a large wave slapped at him and he staggered, almost dumping them both into the water. But with a small grunt of determination he found his footing again and slogged on.

It seemed like ages before David stumbled up the other side, onto the island with the small lighthouse. He put Laurel down gently before wrapping his arms around himself and breathing heavily.

“Thank you,” Laurel said, her words seeming so insufficient.

“Well, I hear that getting hypothermia once a year is good for the soul,” David said, his voice shaking as shivers wracked his whole body.

“I—”

“Let’s just go, Laurel,” David interrupted. “They’ve got to know we’re here.”

Soon they stood in front of the door. It was ajar. Someone was waiting.

“Do we knock?” David whispered. “I’m not exactly up to speed on my hostage situation etiquette.”

Laurel put a hand to her waist, checking to make sure the gun was still on one side, and the vials of potion on the other. “Just push it all the way open,” she said, wishing her voice wasn’t shaking so badly.

David complied.

It was dark.

“No one’s here,” David whispered.

Laurel’s eyes searched the room. She pointed to a tiny needle of light that decorated the opposite wall. “They’re here,” she said, thinking back on Jamison’s flytrap metaphor. “But we won’t see them until we’re in too far to get away.”

Even so, they crossed the lower room slowly, then carefully opened the door to the stairs. Dim light spilled in from somewhere above. Laurel put her foot on the bottom step.

“No,” David said, his hand on her shoulder. “Let me go first.”

Guilt flooded through her. Even after everything she’d done, he was still willing to put his life before hers. She shook her head. “He’s got to see me first. Just to be sure.”

They were less than five steps up when David gasped sharply. Laurel glanced back and saw that two trolls had come into the lighthouse behind them. These were not the dirty, unkempt trolls that had chased them from Ryan’s home, however. They were both wearing clean black jeans and long-sleeved black shirts, and they were pointing shiny chrome handguns at David’s back — not that they had any need for the guns. Laurel knew they could break her in two with ease.

One was bizarrely asymmetric — the left half of his body was withered and gnarled, but the right half would have looked at home on a world-class bodybuilder. The other troll’s face looked remarkably human, but the bones in his shoulder were twisted and uneven, pulling one shoulder back and one forward, twisting his legs as well, so he moved with a strange, shuffling gait.

David looked up at Laurel with wide eyes, but she shook her head, faced forward again, and continued climbing. They reached the top of the stairs and were greeted by two more trolls, also armed. These looked more like the goons who had thrown Laurel and David into the Chetco last year, with drooping cheekbones, offset noses, and mismatched eyes. One even had a shock of red hair combed back from his fearsome face. But of course it couldn’t be Barnes’s old lackeys; Tamani had disposed of them. Laurel paid them no heed and turned the corner at the top of the stairs.

“Chelsea!” She gasped as her friend came into view.

Chelsea was blindfolded and trussed to a chair with a gun at her head. “Finally,” she grumbled.

“I told you she’d come,” said a gravelly, all-too-familiar voice. “Laurel. Welcome.”

Laurel’s eyes left Chelsea and traveled to the man who held the gun against Chelsea’s temple. The face, the eyes that haunted her dreams — even more than a year later.

Jeremiah Barnes.

He looked the same— exactly the same. From his broad, football-player shoulders to his very slightly crooked nose, and those dark brown eyes that looked black from across the room. He was even wearing a rumpled white shirt and suit pants that completed the eerie sense of déjà vu and made her feel like she was trapped in one of her own worst nightmares.

“Little Miss Noble. You even brought your old human friend to die with you. I’m impressed.”

The trolls surrounding them chuckled. Trying not to draw attention to herself, Laurel flexed her hand, crushing the glass vials together in her pocket, letting the two elixirs mix. The glass jabbed into her hand and she forced herself to breathe normally as the serum reacted, burning her fingers as it became a hot steamy vapor that Laurel hoped Barnes wouldn’t notice. She just needed a few minutes…if it worked. Please work, she begged in her head. “No one’s here to die, Barnes. What do you want?”

Barnes laughed. “What do I want? Revenge, Laurel.” He smiled dangerously. “How about this? I shoot you in the shoulder, so you know how it feels, then we go down to that old cabin and you show me where the gate is. Then, if you’re not dead by that point, maybe I’ll put you out of your misery.”

“And what about my friends?” Laurel asked. She met Barnes’s eyes, glare for glare. “ If I agree,” she said steadily, “what happens to my friends?”

The potion burned on her fingers and Laurel longed to pull her hand out of her pocket and rub the liquid away. But it was too risky. She gritted her teeth and continued staring at the hulking troll.

Barnes licked his lips and grinned. “I’ll let them go.”

It was blatantly obvious that he was lying, but Laurel played along. “Let them go now,” she said, stalling for time, “and we’ll go to the land.”

“Right. I don’t think so. You faeries are tricky bastards, especially when you’re fighting a losing battle. Your friends go when — and only when — you’ve shown me the gate.”