Tides (22 page)

Lo held out a dark leathery bundle, her face twisted with pain and sympathy, and all Mara’s thoughts of Noah vanished. It was a sealskin—a youngling skin, years old and unused.

She snatched it from Lo’s hands and clutched it to her chest, gasping. The scent was unmistakable. It was Aine’s.

“Maebh,” she said, her voice cracking. “Maebh—”

She uncoiled the skin, but something was wrong. It was too small, too light—the size of a newborn, not that of a youngling grown to her first change.

She dropped it, recoiling.

Maebh picked the skin up, cradling it as if it were Aine herself. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”

It lay flat and unfurled in Maebh’s arms, and they could all see the black scarring that edged it. The tail was still intact, but there was nothing left of the head or chest.

“Who could do this?” Maebh whispered, touching her finger to the scars, then pulling back with a wince. Mara knew that Maebh, too, was picturing the wounds on Aine’s humanskin that would exactly match these.

“You didn’t—” Mara hesitated, wondering if she or Maebh could bear any worse news. “You didn’t find the—the other half, did you?”

Lo shook her head. “No. I mean . . .” She cleared her throat. Mara could tell she was trying to be gentle, but she was through with gentleness.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, her voice hoarse again.

“It’s—um.” Lo hesitated, and Gemm went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She took a deep breath. “Professor Foster’s had it for a long time, and it looks like he’s been . . . doing things to it.” She stopped, closed her eyes, looked sick. “I think the rest of the skin is preserved, on slides, things like that. It’s—it’s in pieces.”

Mara’s stomach lurched. She ran to the sink, barely making it before her throat opened and she started to retch. Her stomach was empty, but thin bile leaked from her mouth, drooling into the sink, and the smell stung her eyes. She coughed and heaved, unable to stop herself, the picture of Aine’s mutilated body unbearably clear in her mind.

She felt a cool hand on her forehead, stroking back her sweat-slicked hair. She managed to look up and saw Lo standing beside her.

“I know,” she said quietly. “It’s awful. It’s more than awful. I’m so sorry.” Still stroking Mara’s hair, she turned and spoke to the rest of the room. “But Noah’s gone, he went to Professor Foster’s house with no one to help him. And Lir’s there too, I’m sure of it, and maybe—maybe the girl, too. Ann?”

Maebh’s voice wavered. “Aine.”

“Right. Well, we have to go find them. We just have to.”

Mara wiped her chin on a dishtowel. “You’re right,” she told Lo. “Let’s go.”

She felt a spike of fear from Maebh, but the Elder quieted her feelings and nodded. “Be safe, Mara,” she said. She chuckled sadly. “I will not be able to deny it after this. You’ll make a fine Elder, my daughter.”

Mara couldn’t bring herself to smile, but her heart thudded with relief. “I’ll try,” she whispered.

Lo glanced toward the door. “We can take the boat from the Center,” she said. “It’s as old as the
Minke
but it should get us there fine.”

“Lo—” Gemm seemed about to protest, but then she shook her head. “Well. I let him go too, I suppose. Just—please, be careful.” She looked at Mara. “Both of you.”

Mara nodded. “Let’s go now,” she said. “We can’t waste any more time. They—” Her voice faltered.

Maebh stood and laid a hand on Mara’s shoulder. “I know you can do this,” she said. Mara pretended not to notice the fear in her voice, or on Gemm’s face when she looked at her granddaughter.

She led Lo out the door and into the humid darkness, down the island’s slope and onto the dock.

Her link with Noah throbbed with pain and fear. Mara cringed. “I’m coming,” she whispered, even though she knew the link couldn’t carry words.
I’m coming.

thirty-four

A
INE
gasped. The feeling that broke over her skin was fierce, almost painful—as if a huge weight had lifted from her body and her muscles didn’t know how to move without it. Her lungs convulsed and she coughed, deep wracking coughs that shook her ribs.

Lir touched her shoulder, and she looked up at him. His eyes were large and steady and frightened.

“It is all right,” she whispered, and then she gasped again. She stood and backed against the wall, shaking harder still. She looked at her palms. A mist of blood was spattered over them where she’d covered her mouth.

“I—” She tried to speak. The sound of her voice moved through her ears like a stranger’s.

She touched her fingers to her lips, prodded at her tongue and teeth and the soft insides of her cheeks. Her fingers were slick with red film when she looked at them again, but she didn’t care.

For five years, even her screams had been silent.

“Aine,” she whispered. She laughed, but that brought on another coughing fit, and she doubled over, shaking.

When she recovered, she wiped the tear tracks from her face and looked around the room. The young man was sprawled on the floor, his eyes closed. She felt a faint thread of understanding, of trust, emanating from him, as if she already knew him. The feeling was odd—something she could almost remember from the time before the fisherman.

She bent over him. His breaths were shallow, but his bleeding had started to slow.

“Who are you?” she murmured in his ear. “Why are you here?” Every word made her throat ache.

He groaned softly, and his eyes opened. “Noah,” he said, his voice nearly as ragged as hers. “I’m here . . .” His eyes fluttered closed, then open. “I want to help you. Your sister—” He stopped, glancing toward the door.

Aine heard it too—the fisherman’s steps on the stairs.

She leapt backwards, joining Lir in the corner. Noah closed his eyes and rested his head on the floor, so that it looked as if he hadn’t woken.

She swallowed, pulling the taste of blood from her mouth. She curled into her body and shielded her face with her hair. Still, she was sure the fisherman would see the change in her.

Lir put his arm around her shoulders. They crouched together as they’d done when the fisherman had first left them with the strange, injured boy.

Just as the door began to open, she thought she saw Noah nod toward them.

The fisherman opened the door so hard that it slammed against the wall. He pulled Noah’s arms behind his back and tied them with a rope, tugging the ends tight.

He looked from the rope to Aine and Lir and then back, warning them. Aine’s wrists ached with the memory of the ropes he’d used on her in the first year.

Eventually, the fisherman had learned that he didn’t need the ropes. He had her skin, and that was enough to keep her docile—mostly. Aine had tried so many times to escape, or at least to hurt him back the way he’d hurt her, but she’d never managed anything more than a few bites when he fed her.

She watched the fisherman pace around the room, staring at Noah as if he didn’t know what to do with him. His face was creased with worry or panic. He looked so weak, so confused, and she couldn’t remember why she’d been so afraid all these years. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at him.

She watched Noah, wondering if he might have a plan to save them. But he’d barely been able to stay awake a few minutes ago, so she decided she and Lir were on their own.

Her legs tensed, and she felt her mouth start to open in a snarl. She had her voice back now, and she was done with being docile. She wanted to attack.

The fisherman turned toward her and met her eyes. He twisted his key chain, the little circle of her skin clutched tight in his fist. She felt the pressure of his hand over the circular scar on her cheek. A tremor of fear returned, small, but enough to make her close her mouth and retreat into a crouch again.

Still, her mind raged to be free of him. She wanted to scream, just to show him she could. She bit the tip of her tongue to keep from crying out. Something was telling her to wait, to see what he would do before she struck.

She made herself tremble, entwined her arms with Lir’s, and hitched her breath as if she were crying.

She felt Lir’s hand move on her shoulder, and suddenly she didn’t have to pretend to cry. Even with her voice returned, she had no words for the happiness of being reunited with her brother.

“Don’t go anywhere,” the fisherman said, facing Noah. He prodded Noah’s bound arms with his foot. Worry washed over his face again, and he backed away, frowning. “I’ll be right back.” He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked into place.

Aine stood, pulling Lir up with her. “It is all right,” she repeated.

Lir looked at the floor.

She walked to Noah and dug her fingers into the knots at his wrists. He pushed against the floor with his shoulder, wincing, and together they brought him up to lean against the wall.

“We have to be quiet,” Noah reminded her.

She nodded, tugging at the rope. “I do not think I can do this,” she whispered. The knots were thick and complicated, and she had never had to undo even a simple knot before. Her child’s hands were short and stubby.

“Can you, um, bite it?” Noah looked at her apologetically, as if unsure whether he was being rude.

Aine grinned. She sank her teeth into the rope and sliced easily through its fibers. She knew she wouldn’t have been able to defy the fisherman like this even an hour ago, and that knowledge made her savor the bitter taste of the rope on her tongue until she had bitten through the last knot.

Noah flexed his wrists, raw with rope burn. “Thank you.” He craned his head around, trying to look at the wound on his back. His eyes fluttered and almost closed again. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need your help.” He breathed in, pressing one hand against the floor. He turned toward Lir. “Are you okay? Think you can help us?”

Lir blinked and opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His lips trembled.

“He cannot speak,” Aine said. “I could not, either, until tonight.”

Noah nodded. “Of course. Professor Foster still has his skin. I’d forgotten that part of the story.”

“Story?” Aine wanted to hear what Noah knew about her kind, but as soon as she spoke, a realization came over her. “He—he doesn’t have mine?”

“Not anymore.” Noah’s smile lit his tired face like daybreak. “Lo must have found it at the Center. I think you’re free, Aine, or you will be, once we get out.”

A thudding started between her ears, and it was several seconds before she recognized it as her own heartbeat. She took Noah’s hand, once again feeling that echo of familiarity. “I am free,” she said. “I feel it. I could feel it when it happened.”

She hadn’t held her sealskin yet, but no one was stopping her anymore. Even if she died trying to escape tonight—and well she might, she thought, remembering the fisherman’s knife and the strength in his arms when he held her down—nonetheless, she was free.

Something crashed against the door.

“No!” A voice—a painfully familiar voice—screamed, and there was another crash. The wood on the much-abused door groaned, and its rusty hinges screeched.

“Mara?” Noah called, scrambling to his feet. He was shaking from blood loss, but he pulled hard on the door, bringing it a little closer to breaking open. He used his good arm, but his face still contorted with pain, and fresh blood pulsed from his shoulder—but only a little. Aine knew this kind of wound. She’d had hundreds of them, long and shallow and viciously bloody, the ones she gave herself on the windowsill or that appeared on their own when the fisherman did whatever-he-did with her faraway skin. They hurt and they certainly bled, but they stopped doing both soon enough. Those shallow wounds never kept her asleep as long as she wished they would.

But now her cuts were gone; she had only scars. Now she wanted to be awake.

They heard the fisherman yell. With a third crash, the lock broke and the door fell open.

The fisherman tumbled backwards into the room, howling and clutching his face. White liquid frothed out between his fingers.

Two women rushed through the doorway. The first had long, straight black hair, and at first Aine thought she was a selkie too. She ran to Noah right away, embracing him and crying out when she saw the gash in his back. She dropped the small black canister in her hand, and it spurted more whitish foam when it hit the floor.

Then Aine saw the second woman, and the first no longer mattered. She had black hair and eyes and the near-white skin of a selkie. She was older than she’d been when Aine had last seen her, but she knew her right away.

“Mara!” She tried to move but could not.

Mara knelt down in front of her and opened her arms, pulling Aine and Lir against her chest.

“Goddess,” she whispered. “You’re here; you’re whole.” She pulled back to look at them, and her face changed. She touched one of the ridged scars on Aine’s face.

Aine flinched away.

“Oh, Aine,” said Mara. “I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you now.” She reached toward another scar but stopped when she saw the way Aine looked at her.

“I’m sorry.” Aine’s fingers shook. She wrapped her arms tight around her torso and squeezed her hands into fists, but then her whole body began to shake. “I let him take me. I stayed here with him. It was my fault.”

Mara stared at her. She shook her head. “No,” she said, but Aine knew she was just trying to comfort her.

The other woman screamed, and Mara spun around to help her. The fisherman had found his knife again and had driven it into her ankle. She lay curled on the floor, clutching at her foot.

The fisherman rose, swiping the foam from his streaming eyes.

Mara pushed Aine and Lir back toward the wall. She sprang forward, jumping over the woman on the floor, and her hands closed over the fisherman’s throat. She pinned him against the door frame.

“You won’t hurt them again,” she hissed. Her grip tightened and he gasped, his face darkening.

Mara bared her teeth and leaned toward his neck.

The fisherman choked and sputtered, but he still held the knife. He kept it out of Mara’s sightline as he raised it over her back.