Chapter 19 #3
“You should get your food before Jack shows up.”
“In a minute. Katherine Rose?”
“I read the cards this morning.”
“You read them every morning.” And the Ladies Three read the cards, made the sketches, and balanced the scales for Wyrd, for this convergence, to see what might be drawn to this place.
It had taken her a while to realize that the Arcana’s power could ripple through the strange in the world like a stone dropped into a pond—or it could roll through the world like an earthquake, a tsunami, or a freaking volcano that would erupt, creating or destroying destinies.
The Ladies Three were watching for some warning that the Arcana equivalent of an earthquake was going to rock Wyrd along with everything else in the world.
“Katherine Rose? What did you see in the cards?” Beth asked.
“The ferry and the Ferryman will be leaving soon.”
“At the end of next month. That’s expected, right?”
“Yes. That’s expected.” Katherine Rose looked pale. “But someone will be returning before then, and death and madness will follow.”
9
Hearing the sound he recognized as boat, the fish swam deeper.
After the small, savage biters left Susurration Sound and continued on to the ocean, he’d stayed in the sound for the rest of the hot months, occasionally leaving to hunt in the river.
But he stayed away from the caves and the long dark passage that led from the sound to…
somewhere. There were females in those caves—females that were almost human but were something other and swam as swiftly as he could.
Those females hunted for feasts in the water, so he stayed away from them, understanding that he was prey.
It had been good to stay deep in the sound, but now the lure of home was calling to him, pushing him to swim closer to the surface, closer to the shore. Closer to the boats and the lines in the water that teased with food but offered death.
He knew these things, in a way, but what he knew most of all was that a change was coming that compelled him to stay closer to the surface, to a specific part of the shore.
That compelled him to return to an almost forgotten life.
10
Alistair strolled out of the master bedroom suite in one of the wings of the Hampton mansion.
It had been almost a year since Reginald disappeared, and during the months when Alistair’s lawyers fought with Reginald’s lawyers and the boards of directors of the companies where Reginald was the majority shareholder, Alistair had slowly acquired pieces of his brother’s personal estate.
There were cousins circling to take a bite out of the Hampton fortune, but he was the only one named in Reginald’s will since Reginald had ex-wives but no offspring, not even a bastard that had popped out of a side piece.
The will was a strange document since it took into account the possibility of a disappearance.
If Reginald disappeared and there was no communication of any kind for six months, Alistair would receive some of the shares in the businesses Reginald controlled.
Not enough to give him any power—he was still a minority shareholder—but it provided some additional income from dividends, which he needed.
After ten months, Alistair could take up residence in the Hampton mansion—but not make use of the wing that held Reginald’s suite of rooms.
He’d gladly moved into the mansion and enjoyed being waited on by a full staff, including a stuffy butler who either didn’t know about Reginald’s kinkier tastes when it came to sex or, perhaps, was one of the participants.
What Reginald had or hadn’t done didn’t matter.
As the new tenant, so to speak, Alistair wanted to be perceived as a solid citizen and good employer.
That’s why he’d decided to keep his new piece of ass in the penthouse apartment, where his head of security would make sure the bitch didn’t leave after Alistair had had some fun.
That way no one could ask questions if the bitch sported a black eye or moved like her ribs were bruised.
He could count on Martin Chandler’s loyalty—he paid enough for it—but the butler and housekeeper at the mansion weren’t under his control yet, and he couldn’t be sure there wouldn’t be a call to the King’s Hill police if a girl had to be punished for disobedience.
He’d been too benevolent with Rachel Nightingale, and he’d lost a small fortune because he hadn’t broken her down enough to get her to sign over her royalties to him before she vanished. Not a mistake he would make again.
Now, almost a year after Reginald disappeared, the next asset was coming under Alistair’s control—the yacht. It was in its slip at the King’s Hill marina and ready for him to use.
There wasn’t much time left before the yacht would be put in dry dock. He’d invite a few men to come aboard for a fishing party next week. There were rumors of some big game fish that had claimed the Fate River as its territory. They would drink a toast to Reginald and try to hook a trophy fish.
A fitting tribute since Reginald—may the bastard rot in hell—never let him borrow the yacht.
He just wished that Reginald could show up for one moment, just long enough to realize that he, Alistair, now controlled the yacht, the house, and would soon control the businesses and be a very wealthy man again.
On the other hand, Reginald had been a truly vicious bastard who had hidden his nature behind learned business techniques and bespoke suits, so it was better if he didn’t reappear—unless he managed to die a minute later.
11
The water in this part of the river tasted familiar, and instinct was overwhelming thought.
He needed to fling himself onto the shore.
Why? He didn’t know, so he fought that compulsion.
He would die if he beached himself on the shore too soon, and he would die if he was too far from shore when…
What? Something needed to happen. Something was going to happen.
A shape. A sound. Lines thrown into the water, with hooked death at the ends, hidden by tempting bait.
The fish avoided the lines, noticed the one line that was thicker and carried a piece of bait so large the smaller fish were nibbling the edges and not getting anywhere near the hook.
He moved close to the surface because there was something about the shape of the boat—and he heard the voice, the laughter. Knew that voice.
He surged upward, broke the surface in a furious leap—and saw his yacht filled with humans he wouldn’t have bothered to piss on not that long ago. And there, waving the heavy fishing rod and laughing, was his brother, Alistair—the perfect target for his fury.
Shouts of excitement filled the air as the fish returned to the water with a hard slap.
He didn’t waste time. He never wasted time when he needed to squash a rival.
He grabbed the bait at the end of the thick line and headed for the bottom of the river.
He couldn’t stay out of the water long enough to deal with Alistair, so he would pull Alistair into the water and deal with him once and for all.
12
Alistair let out a sound that was part laugh, part scream as the heavy rod was almost ripped from his hands and the line zizzed from the reel with a speed that could slice off a finger.
He leaned back, fighting to hold the rod, struggling to grab the reel before the monster of a fish could run out all the line.
The other men on the yacht shouted encouragement, but only Martin Chandler had sense enough to help him steady the rod while he took advantage of moments of slack to wind some of the line back on the reel.
The fish broke the water with an impressive leap and looked right at him with a fury and hatred that seemed…unnatural.
Shouts from other men who were taking videos with their phones.
“The hook’s set,” Chandler said. “That bastard isn’t going to shake off the hook, but if he bites through the line…”
Alistair wound more of the line—and would have been pulled into the water if Chandler hadn’t grabbed him and leaned back.
The line ran out. Alistair reeled some in when the fish got close enough to the boat to create some slack. Out and in. Out and in. He sweated and cursed while Chandler made sure he didn’t end up in the river.
“Why isn’t it tiring?” one of the men asked. “Shouldn’t it be tired by now?”
As if in answer, the line suddenly went slack.
“Bastard bit through—” Chandler began.
The fish leaped into the air close to the side of the yacht, a foot of line dangling from the large hook in its mouth.
It arched toward the deck, a monster that must have weighed as much as a man, and fell on Chandler, its teeth ripping the man’s arm to the bone before it seemed to gather itself and leap toward Alistair.
Alistair screamed as the fish’s jaws closed around his calf.
He flailed his hands, looking for something, anything, to defend himself.
His hand closed on something metal and heavy.
He swung it at the fish’s head. Swung it at those eyes that burned with hatred.
He swung the metal again and again until the monster’s head caved in and the eyes dulled.
Men scrambled. A couple of them tried to staunch the wound in Chandler’s arm. A couple of them used what they could find belowdecks to pry open the monster’s mouth and free Alistair’s leg. A couple more were leaning over the side, puking their guts out.
“Reel in those lines,” the captain shouted. “Reel in the lines, and I’ll head back to the marina.”
A task even frightened men could do.
The captain had sense enough to call for medical assistance, so there was an ambulance waiting at the marina. Chandler was in worse shape, but no one, not even Chandler, argued when Alistair insisted that he be treated first. He was, after all, a Hampton.