Virginia Kantra - Forgotten Sea

“Miriam? You were in his head.”

“Only to control his pain and monitor autonomic 4 0

V i r g i n i a K a n t r a

function. I doubt I would have gotten that far if he weren’t unconscious already.” The doctor shrugged her slim shoulders. “An interesting case. His shields are very strong.”

“Yes. Interesting, as you say.” Simon’s perfect brow creased in thought. “Very wel. He may stay as long as.

required.”

Lara exhaled in relief. “ Thank you.”

Zayin’s gaze met the headmaster’s, flat black col iding with blue. “As long as we take the necessary precautions.”

Simon inclined his head.

Justin’s hand, lean and brown, twitched against the white sheet. He stank of blood and Lidocaine and something else, a male, warm, animal scent, uniquely his. Lara had a sudden image of him standing golden, free, and fearless on the mast, and her heart squeezed in pity and regret.

“I could stay with him,” she volunteered. “To watch him.

Wake him up.”

The way she had on the car ride north.

Miriam shook her head. “It’s been a long day for al of us.

You need your rest, too.”

“I don’t mind,” Lara said. “I’m not tired.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie. She was beyond tired, in that floaty state of awareness that was usual y the product of training too hard or studying too long.

She saw the governors exchange glances.

She understood their concern. She was only a novice Seeker. Her smal authority ended the moment their car rol ed through the gates. She’d already screwed up. It was better, wiser, safer to leave Justin in their more capable hands.

Yet part of her rebel ed at the thought of leaving him alone, unconscious and defenseless.

Why he needed to be defended here at Rockhaven, in F o r g o t t e n s e a 41

the care of three nephilim masters, was something she wasn’t going to think about yet.

“I think you’ve done enough already,” Simon said.

Her throat constricted at the implied rebuke, choking off whatever protest she might have made.

Zayin stalked forward, pul ing a leather cord from his pocket, a square black bead knotted in the middle. The fine hair rose on Lara’s arms as power hummed in the room.

A heth. Not a ward for protection, but a spel to bind and restrain.

Zayin slid the cord around Justin’s neck, tying it so that the black bead rested smooth and shining in the hol ow of his throat.

Lara swal owed in comprehension. The heth would choke any demon that broke its limits, effectively extinguishing—

kil ing — it.

Of course, it would kil an ordinary human, too.

“Is that real y necessary?” she appealed to Simon.

After a pause, Miriam answered. “The patient shouldn’t exert himself. The best things for him now are quiet, dark, and limited physical activity.”

A binding spel would limit his activity al right.

Taking a second, shorter cord, Zayin slipped it under Justin’s ankle and then rol ed back the cuff of his jeans.

Lara stiffened, staring at the black leather sheath strapped to Justin’s leg.

“Dive knife.” Zayin shot her a brief, hard look. “Stil think he’s harmless?”

She didn’t say anything. They would not expect her to.

But Justin didn’t draw the knife, she remembered as Zayin unbuckled the sheath and laid it on the counter. In the bar, he’d bought a round for two sailors rather than pick a fight. He’d stuck up for her with Gideon. Saved her from the demon.

She didn’t know what he was, but she knew what he wasn’t.

He wasn’t a threat. Not to her. At least, not in the way they al believed.

Lara looked down at Justin’s gaunt face, the angry lump, the line of black stitches, the purple bruise around one eye.

After al he had done for her, he was being treated like the enemy. Tied like a prisoner. Like a dog. The unfairness of it made her knuckles turn white on the rail.

Simon regarded her with cool, blue, assessing eyes. “If you’re quite satisfied, I believe we’re done here.”

The others did not move.

Lara met his gaze, her heart banging in her chest. She was done here, he meant.

She was dismissed. Freed of responsibility, of blame, of consequences.

Al she had to do was walk away.

“Good night, Lara,” Simon said gently.

She dropped her head, relieved and disappointed.

“Good night, Headmaster.”

The door closed behind her with a smal, defeated click.

Justin dreamed he was floating, up and down, moving with the rhythm of the waves, tied to the remains of. a boat? A mast, splintered and heavy. Thick wet rope constricted his chest and chafed his armpits. Cold ate his flesh, seeped into his bones. He could not feel himself, his swol en hands on the mast, his frozen legs in the water, anymore. Only cold and a throbbing in his head like fire.

He was not afraid of dying. The very concept of drowning was ludicrous, unacceptable, to his dream self.

But his body would not respond the way he wanted—

expected — it to. He had a memory ( or was it another dream? ) of scything through the clear cold dark, his nostrils sealed, his eyes wide open, fluid and free, sleek and solid beneath the wave. In his element.

Voices drifted to him in the dark.

“Watch his head. ”

“Get the door.”

“We need a light.”

He was lifted up and carried along, swiftly, smoothly.

He heard gravel crunch and insects chirr, felt the air rol under him like the sea, bearing him up on its bil ows. The night embraced him, alive with the scents of til ed earth and worked stone, cut wood and cultivated flowers. Land smel s.

Human smel s. Confused, he stirred, opening his eyes.

A pattern of leaves overhead. The outline of a rooftop, silhouetted against a sky ful of stars.

He floated down a path like a river, dizzy and without apparent support, flanked by tal, moving figures. A silver globe like a tiny moon hovered almost within reach. He licked cracked lips, staring at the light dancing above his head. Impossible.

A shadow swooped between him and the moon.

The rope tightened around him, dragging him back into the dream.

The pulse of the surge was his pulse, the rush of the ocean fil ed his empty heart, his aching head. We flow as the sea flows.

He shuddered with loss and cold, clawing the mast, clinging to consciousness. The horizon moved up and down, gray and empty as far as the eye could see. As long as he hugged the spar, he could keep his head above water.

But after long. Hours? Days? . his concentration and his arms kept slipping. His head hurt. Every time a wave rol ed the mast, he went under. Every time, he had to fight harder to get on top again.

They would search for him, he was sure. She would come for him. He was almost certain.

But when he tried to picture the nameless They, their faces wavered like reflections in a pool, scattered, lost.

“Mind the step.”

The air around him changed again, became dank and stil as the refrigeration of a tomb. He smel ed dust and mold and old, growing things.

Al motion stopped.

“Are you sure. ” A woman’s voice. Not hers.

A rush of disappointment swal owed what came next.

When he focused again, a man was speaking. “Old storm cellar. ”

Their voices tumbled over each other, hard and meaningless as pebbles rattling at the water’s edge.

“No idea what he is. what he’s capable of.”

“— risk— ”

“Can’t keep him down here like some kind of lab rat.”

“— expose our children— ”