Skin Deep (30 page)

“Wish I’d brought a quilt,” she muttered. “That would have shown—”

Wait a minute. She
had
brought a quilt, hadn’t she? She patted the bulge of Conn’s purple shirt tucked in her lifejacket—the shirt with the Compass Rose square sewn on it—and actually laughed aloud. Was it just a coincidence, or could it be what was keeping her from getting lost?

“It’s not your round yet, Mahtahdou whatever-you-are,” she called.

Rob looked at her oddly, and as if in answer the wind moaned. But this time it really was wind. It blew her damp hair off her forehead and cooled the nervous sweat that had broken out there. Heartened, she took a firmer grip on the tiller and continued to gaze out into the fog.

Whether it was the freshening wind or her own bolstered courage, the fog seemed to thin after that. The sight of the squat lighthouse that marked the end of Monomoyick Island heartened her further. Alasdair had said the selkies’ island was somewhere near here, if you knew where to look—

This time, the scratching noise under her hull really was sand. She gasped and nearly fell off the boat as it ran aground, forcing the daggerboard and rudder up.

Rob grunted and grabbed for her. “Careful!”

“I’m all right….” She blinked at the misty air, but only gray water met her puzzled eyes. Then slowly, as if revealed by an opening curtain, the mist drew aside. For a moment the water and mist wavered, then vanished. A sandy beach, rising to low, grass-covered dunes, took their place.

This was it. She had found Alasdair’s—and Mahtahdou’s—island.

Chapter 18

G
arland leapt  into the shallow water, leaned past Rob, and let down her sail. “Come on,” she said. “Help me pull the boat up the beach.”

He stared up at it. “Are you sure this is it?”

Garland followed his gaze. It looked like a normal Cape Cod beach: fine creamy-white glacial sand with coarse dune grass swaying in the rising wind. To their right, the beach quickly curved and bent out of view. On their left it went on at least a quarter-mile before vanishing into the thinning fog. This was no sandbar but a substantial island. But was it really the home of supernatural beings?

A gust of wind spattered a fine spray of raindrops across her face. She looked up and saw that as the increasing wind blew the fog into threads the sky was darkening to an ominous steel gray. She remembered the storm that struck the night before she found Alasdair. Was Mahtahdou brewing up some foul weather for their benefit? But why had he waited until they’d found the island? Surely he would have tried to blow them out to sea before they even made it here?

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But I’m willing to bet it is. Let’s explore.”

At her direction, Rob grabbed the boat’s bow and helped her pull it above the tide line—or at least tried to. His hands seemed clumsy, as if he couldn’t control them—Rob, whose hands she had watched in admiration deftly binding up Conn’s wounds not so long ago. But maybe they were stiff from chill or nerves. Hers certainly were.

She glanced up at the darkening sky and took down the mast, lashing it to the bundle of sail and spars on top of the dinghy’s hull. It would make getting the boat ready to leave again take longer, but they wouldn’t get anywhere if the mast were bent in a storm. She started to take off her lifejacket then after a pause zipped it up again. It made her feel a little more secure to have an extra layer between her and whatever it was they were about to confront.

Now all they had to do was find Mahtahdou.

The bank under which they’d dragged the boat stretched the length of the beach as far as she could see, forming the leading edge of a high dune. It reminded her of a defensive earthwork, like the ones around the ancient hill-forts in England. Ignoring the shocked voice in her head that reminded her that dunes were fragile and should never be climbed on, she clambered up it. From its crest she saw that another, taller dune sat beyond it.

She also had the distinct feeling that they were being watched, and not by an outraged beach ecologist, either. A chill ran down her back, one not born of her damp clothes and the increasing wind. But no other living creature could be seen—and no footprints were visible anywhere around her. She shrugged her shoulders and doggedly climbed the high sandy slope, Rob scrambling after her.

“There, I told you so,” she said quietly as they peered over the top of the dune.

A large, low, sprawling building nestled in a broad circular hollow below them, glowing faintly in the dimming light. Clumps of beach-rose shrubs and scrubby cedars grew around it in artistic carelessness.

Or at least, they once had. Now the cedars were lacy skeletons, and the roses, though still alive, looked yellowed and diseased. Even the waving dune grass here looked stunted and sickly. It might have been beautiful, once. Was Mahtahdou’s presence so noxious that even sturdy shore plants shriveled in it?

Rob swayed slightly and grabbed her arm for balance. His fingers dug into her flesh. “Now what?”

Good question. She squinted down at the clearing. Marching up to the door when she had no idea what might be inside it seemed foolhardy. Yet the dead cedars would provide little cover for a more stealthy approach. Perhaps they should circle round it and decide then…but the thought that Conn might be in there with—with
things
like they’d seen on the way here decided her. “We’re going in.”

“You sound so confident.”

Was that amusement in his voice? But no, his face was sober and if anything paler and more drawn. “I’m not. But we don’t have much choice, do we?”

They edged gingerly down the slope and approached the building. It too had not fared well under its present tenant. Unidentifiable filth daubed its surfaces and an almost palpable aura of dereliction hung about it. Here and there holes had been punched in the walls that the wind whistled eerily through.

But even in the dull gray light of the lowering clouds, even through the depredations of Mahtahdou and his creatures, it was beautiful. Flowing, sinuous lengths of driftwood formed its structural beams, their curving lines dictating the shapes and planes of the walls: little alcoves, and gables, and covered porticoes paved with beach cobbles. And the walls themselves…it was as if some underwater smith had taken shells—silvery, iridescent abalone and mussel—and hammered them in an impossible forge into planks and sheets. The effect of the whole was swirling and hypnotic yet coherent, as if this place were the discarded shell of some deep-sea god. If it was still this beautiful now, what must it have been like when the selkies held it? Garland reminded herself to breathe, wishing she could try to make a quilt of it.

Something poked the backs of her knee.

She didn’t quite scream, but she did make a wild, muffled squeaking sound as she whirled around. A sudden metallic taste in her mouth told her she’d bitten her tongue. Beside her, Rob inhaled sharply and grabbed her arm again.

A small and greenish
thing
stood there, somewhere at knee level. It had three rubbery, boneless-looking legs ending in clawed toes, one of which clutched a short stick which it flourished at her and had evidently just used to get her attention. It had no discernible head but a wide grinning mouth full of neatly pointed teeth, and little else. As she stared at it, it swept her a deep, courtly bow, then ruined the effect by sniggering unpleasantly.

“What is it?” Rob whispered.

“I don’t know.” She blinked, hoping it would disappear. It didn’t. Nor did it attack them. It just stood there, as if waiting. A faint, unpleasant odor like a mixture of burned sugar and rotting fish wafted up from it. Anything that smelled like that was, unfortunately, probably not a figment of her imagination.

There was a small popping noise, and another one appeared next to it. Then another. And another. She cringed, waiting to see what they would do. She and Rob could maybe take on one or two of them, but four…no, five…no…

As she watched, an entire line of the strange three-legged creatures appeared, varying from one another in height or shading—some were nearly black, and a few tended to purple. They jostled and grunted to one another but stood in place, and suddenly she realized they formed a line leading around the side of the palace.

“What is this—Mahtahdou’s version of a red carpet?” she muttered to Rob.

“I don’t know,” he answered hoarsely. “Should we follow them?”

The first thing sniggered again and scratched itself with a clawed foot, then made a wet, explosive sort of noise, not from its mouth.

Garland grimaced and took a step back. “I’ll guess that was a yes. Though I must say if that is the best Mahtahdou can do, I’m not very impressed.”

A ripple of motion ran through the line, and a second later she wished she hadn’t spoken. The three-legged things were now at least eight feet tall.

“Jesus!” Rob gaped up at them.

Garland bit back a cry of alarm. From now on, she’d keep her mouth shut. “Let’s go,” she said, and reached for Rob’s cold, sweaty hand.

They walked down the line. She felt ludicrously like a colonel on a parade ground reviewing her troops and tried not to flinch when they shifted and twitched. After a few yards, they began falling in after them so that she and Rob marched at the head of a snorting, cavorting line. It made her feel uneasy and also faintly ridiculous, which was probably exactly what Mahtahdou wanted. Fine. If he wanted to play games, they’d play along. Squaring her shoulders, she held tight to Rob’s hand.

A line of seventy-four things had formed behind them by the time they came to the door—she’d found herself counting them with a sort of horrified fascination as she and Rob passed. But as they walked she wondered what would be on guard at the entrance. Hopefully not something that made these things look cute and friendly.

But no clawed, fanged, toothed, horned, or other creatures were waiting for them. In fact, the double doors—made of more of that amazing shell material, inset with what looked like polished quartz pebbles—stood open. Some sort of translucent curtain hung before it, obscuring the view in.

Garland reached out a hand to push it aside, but something—some instinct—made her hesitate. It was an odd reddish-gray color, shiny and wet-looking, like a very ugly vinyl shower curtain. But shower curtains didn’t pulsate or generate long strings of slime, like a salivating dog. “I don’t like the look of that,” she said. Rob leaned forward, but didn’t answer.

As they stared at the faintly throbbing thing a split suddenly appeared at its bottom and worked its slow way up, like a curtain opening on a stage. Oh God, did they really have to walk past this disgusting thing?

Beside her, Rob stirred. “Do you want me to go in first?”

“No.” This was her business—hers and Mahtahdou’s. She took a deep breath, as if to make herself as thin as possible, and stepped across the threshold of the palace.

* * *

Garland found herself in a long, high hall, dimly lit with a cool silvery light that seemed to come from the pearly shell walls. Slender arching beams of driftwood lined the walls, their branching ends forming a ceiling that looked almost like it belonged in a fan-vaulted medieval church. Like the outside of the palace, this too once must have been exquisitely beautiful.

It wasn’t anymore. Whatever filth daubed the exterior walls positively encrusted the interior. It took all of her willpower not to gag and cover her mouth and nose: the faint nasty smell of the first creature they’d met was concentrated and augmented with other, even nastier odors inside here. Not even the many jagged holes ripped in the walls allowed enough of the rising wind in to dissipate the stench. She shuddered and tried to breathe lightly. It wouldn’t do to let Mahtahdou see how close to being overcome she was. Though it might be a nice gesture to throw up on his feet.

Except that Mahtahdou didn’t seem to be here.

She took another step into the room. At its far end was a raised dais, and on it was a chair—a throne of what looked like crystal—massive and beautiful, carved with delicate ripples and wavelets as though it had been hewn from a block of water. The chair was empty. The room was empty, too—none of the three-legged abominations danced and cavorted here, as she’d expected they would. The only sound was the wind, whistling in the walls—

No, not quite empty. There was something lying at the foot of the throne—a small, dark-haired something wearing navy blue sweatpants and an incongruously cheery yellow “Mattaquason, MA” t-shirt.

“Conn,” she whispered, and then she was there beside him, turning him over. He was filthy, wet, and unconscious but seemed otherwise unharmed. She unzipped her lifejacket and pulled out the purple shirt and bundled him into it. Now he would have some protection—at least, she hoped so. She lifted him—not an easy thing to do when wearing a lifejacket—and tried to balance him on her hip as she looked around the shadowy hall.

“Rob,” she called quietly. “It’s okay—no one’s here. Come help me.” If their luck held, they could find Conn’s and Alasdair’s sealskins as easily as she’d found Conn and get out of here before Mahtahdou returned.

A pair of hands grasped her shoulders, and someone kissed the back of her neck.

“Rob!” she gasped. “Oh my God, you scared the heck out of me.” The last thing she needed right now was him getting romantic again.