Fury's Fire (2 page)

She touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, Dad.”

He put his hand over hers but did not look at her. She gave him a playful poke on the shoulder, but he just sighed. “I never worried about money,” he admitted. “I guess I thought musicians weren’t supposed to care about it.”

Gretchen nodded, but she felt her thoughts clouding. The truth—if she dared tell it to herself—was that she was furious with her father for losing all of their money, for not taking care of things. She didn’t want to live on Long Island for her senior year. She didn’t want to switch schools. She didn’t want to stay near the bay, near the bad memories.…

But she also loved her father. And one of the things that she loved about him was that he didn’t care about money and things in the way that her mother did. Johnny loved people and he loved experiences. He didn’t care about cars or jewelry or the right crowd.

She gave him a quick kiss on his tattoo. “Love you.”

He looked up at her with his deep gray eyes. “I love you, too, sugar bunny.”

Gretchen laughed and tossed the banana peel into the trash. She waved over her shoulder as she headed out the door, her sneakers crunching the gravel still wet with dew.

Gretchen loped along the patchy grass by the side of the road, starting with an easy trot. She passed the falling-down potato barn, gray in the mist, that marked
the point at which the Ellis land ended and the Archer farm began. Her muscles were tight, but each pace warmed her, loosening them. A light breeze swept the clammy air over her skin.

She heard a clatter and rumble behind her. Trucks often used this route as a cut-through to the highway. Gretchen moved to the right slightly and kept running. The engine hummed, picking up speed, and the tires crunched over the asphalt as the truck bore down on her.

Gretchen screeched and slammed her shoulder into a hedgerow as the black truck sped past, spewing dirt and rocks with its oversized tires. A chunk of gravel nicked Gretchen’s calf. She cursed and inspected the scratch. She would probably have a bruise later, but it wasn’t bad. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked after the truck, which had already disappeared into the mist. She had thought of getting the license plate thirty seconds too late.

What would I have done, anyway?
she wondered.
Called the police? The driver didn’t see me in the fog
.

Her legs felt weak as she crossed the street. For a moment she considered going back home. But she didn’t want to. Momentum carried her forward, and she gathered speed as she ran across the Archer property. She passed the blooming squash patch, the heavy yellow flowers bowing under the weight of the gathered mist. Here and there, pale orange butternut or fat red kuri squashes peeked out from wide green leaves. The squash patch was a long, slim strip—most of the summer people were gone by the end of
September, and there wasn’t much of a market for winter squash. Still, some people bought the ornamental gourds and pumpkins. And there were enough gourmet cooks and local restaurants to make the delicatas and carnival squashes worth the ground they grew in.

Gretchen ran past dormant fields and into the small copse of trees. There was little mist here, although it was dark with shade. Still, Gretchen navigated her way easily. The Archer land was as familiar to her as her own, given that her two best childhood friends, Will and Tim, had grown up here.

Through the trees and out toward the sand. The muscles in her legs strained with the change in terrain as Gretchen ran along the mix of sand and rock. Mist hung over the water, and a single dark boulder jutted up through the blanket of fog like a grasping arm. The early-morning sun struggled to break through the clouds, managing only to send down a few pale bars that disappeared before reaching the earth.

Gretchen ran farther, then stopped to rest on a rock. It had been months since she had run, and—although her body felt good—she wasn’t used to it. Part of the mist had burned off, and she could see the dark green water, smooth as glass. There was no evidence of the minnows and crabs that lived there, and Gretchen imagined them still sleeping, dreaming their watery dreams.

She pulled at her shirt, which clung to her body with a mix of sweat and fog, and picked up a small stone. It was gray, with a white line through the center,
smooth and oval. Tim had taught her how to skip a rock across the water ages ago, and she held it between thumb and forefinger and skimmed it out over the water. It bounced once, twice, three times, then hurled itself forward for the final time and landed with a plop.

“Tim could do seven,” Gretchen murmured, leaning back on her elbows. She pictured handsome ten-year-old Tim, grinning as his rock danced over the water. Poor Will. He could only send a rock bursting into the water like a cannonball.

Gretchen watched the rings spreading from the point of final impact.
Pretty
, Gretchen thought as the fog rolled back like a slow wave. A pale disk appeared at the place where Gretchen’s rock had pierced the water. Gretchen cocked her head, watching, as a sudden wind kicked up and a ring formed around the edge of the disk. It didn’t disappear. Instead, as the wind gusted, it grew darker. The center glowed golden in the early-morning light.

Like an eye
, Gretchen thought. Her body felt cold suddenly, and she was aware of her damp shirt clinging to her skin.

Mist swirled around the dark ring, twisting upward, spouting an oval wall. It gained volume and grew, like a pillar, toward the dark cloud above. The cyclone writhed, and slithered slowly toward her.

Gretchen sat perfectly still, hypnotized by the waterspout. It moved slowly at first, then more quickly. Suddenly her mind snapped back to reality, and she struggled to her feet. She stumbled backward, fell,
the rock tearing into her flesh at the same point where the gravel spewed by the truck had hit her. Her hair blew around her face as the wind shrieked like a screaming ghoul.

The waterspout reached toward her, and for a moment Gretchen thought she saw a woman’s face—hideous and terrible—in the writhing core. Gleaming golden eyes glared at her with a look of intense hate as air blasted her hair like a wild, cold breath of some ferocious, devouring animal. Gretchen screamed and tried to struggle away as the waterspout moved toward her. But as it reached the edge of the water, it dissipated into the air as suddenly as it had appeared.

Gretchen froze, staring in disbelief. She was so focused on the emptiness before her that she shrieked when a hand clutched her arm.

“Easy,” said a voice.

Gretchen looked up into the face of Bertrand Archer—Will’s dad. His brow was wrinkled with concern as his warm brown eyes looked down at her. “They can’t do much once they reach land.”

“You saw it?” That was a relief. At least she hadn’t been hallucinating.

“Waterspouts—not that uncommon around here. Seen ’em a few times.”

Mr. Archer let go of her arm, and she realized she was shaking. So did he, apparently, because he caught hold of it again. For a moment he said nothing, just looked at her with eyes that were like Will’s in shape, but totally different in expression. Mr. Archer was a tall man who liked to joke and laugh with customers,
but he was often awkward—almost severe—with Gretchen. “Strange weather.”

Gretchen nodded.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea to be out by the water like this. Tell you what—why don’t you come on home with me? I’m sure Evelyn’s cooked up something for breakfast.”

The thought of the Archers’ cozy yellow kitchen calmed her. “Yes, thank you.”

Mr. Archer gave a curt nod and turned. Gretchen followed him.

But she couldn’t help casting a final glance over her shoulder.

The surface of the water was smooth as glass again, hiding the dreams and intent of the creatures that lay beneath.

Will’s eyes snapped open, and he found himself in his room, beneath his familiar ancient quilt. For a moment he wondered why Guernsey—his old Labrador retriever—wasn’t curled up snoring at the end of his bed. Then Will remembered: Guernsey had been killed a few weeks ago. She had died trying to save him and Gretchen from a seekrieger—a bloodthirsty mermaid.

They had all nearly died. But then Gretchen had
changed and—somehow—had set the bay on fire, killing the seekriegers. Even Asia, who—though a Siren—had been their friend.

Will’s mind swam with the memory of Gretchen that night—how her eyes had burned with red flame, how she had spoken to him in a strange voice. And then, once the seekriegers’ shrieks had died away, Gretchen had fainted, falling into the bay with a small splash. Gretchen had no memory of setting the fire. She didn’t know that she had, briefly, become someone—or some
thing
—else. And she didn’t know the truth about Asia.

These were secrets that Will was keeping.

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling, as the smell of eggs frying in a pan wafted up to him. His body was heavy; he wasn’t sure he could get out of bed, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to. Why should he? His brother had been killed in a boating accident the summer before. His dog was dead. And his best friend was … what?

A monster
.

That word was ugly in his mind, but he couldn’t come up with anything else.
Creature
, perhaps.
Being
.

Will rolled over and pulled his quilt up to his shoulder. But his eyes were wide open—he wasn’t sleepy. A sound floated up to him dimly. It was a laugh. Gretchen’s laugh. The sound chilled him, but it also made it impossible for him to stay in bed.

Will tossed the covers aside and pressed his feet against the wide pine planks of the floor. It was cold. That wasn’t surprising, given that it was September. It
could get quite chilly out on Long Island in the morning. Will yanked on a navy blue hoodie sweatshirt and staggered downstairs in his pajama bottoms.

Gretchen was facing away from him as he walked into the kitchen. She was seated at the wooden farm table, drinking coffee and eating eggs. Mr. Archer was standing beside the stove, spatula in hand.

“There you are,” he said as Will stepped through the doorway. “Go get us some wood, will you? Let’s get a fire started; it’s cold in here.” He reached over and expertly slipped the spatula under the eggs, flipping them with a flick of his wrist. Mr. Archer didn’t cook much, but eggs were his specialty.

Gretchen gave Will a smile. “Hey, sheetface.”

“Don’t call me sheetface,” Will replied automatically. This had been an in-joke with them since about sixth grade, when Gretchen had made an innocent reference to the fact that Will had creases smashed into his skin after sleeping facedown on a rumpled pillow. Tim had misheard it as profanity, and the whole thing had gotten them into trouble with their parents. “Are those eggs for me?” he asked his father.

“They could be, if you bring in that wood.”

Will slipped his feet into the heavy boots he kept by the door and yanked the hood over his head. He pulled three logs from the top of the pile in the backyard, then trudged inside and threw them into the woodstove. There were still enough orange embers—the wood would flare up in a matter of moments.

“Get that door closed behind you,” Mr. Archer told him.

“It’s not supposed to be cold,” Gretchen said as she polished off the eggs. “School doesn’t even start for another three days.”

“They got the new building done yet?” Mr. Archer asked, placing the second plate of eggs on the table.

Will shut the door and kicked off his boots. He sat down in front of the eggs and picked up a fork. “Not yet. Looks like we won’t have an auditorium until spring.”

“Government projects never finish on time.” This was Mr. Archer’s observation. He drained the rest of his coffee, then placed the mug on the counter. “I’ll see you kids later.” He strode out the door, letting in another blast of cool air.

Will looked up at Gretchen, who gave him a halfhearted smile. It was as if her cheerfulness had walked out the door with Mr. Archer. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and wisps curled around her face. She looked disheveled in her running clothes. She was still beautiful, of course, but her usually restless body was subdued and still, and her skin seemed pale—like a piece of driftwood on the shore, bleached by sun and salt. “You okay?”

Gretchen shrugged. “Not looking forward to senior year.”