Schuyler squirmed and kicked. She twisted so that she could see who was holding her. Below, a female Venator seemed to float effortlessly in the dark water. Her attacker assessed her coolly and continued to pull. You are under the protection of the Countess. To deny this protection is an act against the Coven. Submit or be destroyed.
The hand gripped her ankle in a solid lock. Schuyler could feel herself weakening—she would pass out soon if she didn’t get air. Her lungs were about to burst. She was dizzy and starting to panic. Stop it, she told herself. She had to be calm.
The glom. Use the glom. RELEASE ME, she demanded, sending a compulsion so strong she could feel the words taking physical form, each letter an attack upon the Venator’s cerebellum. The hand on her ankle shook slightly, and that was all Schuyler needed.
She burst away just as the Venator sent a compulsion of her own. Schuyler ducked and sent it back tenfold.
SINK!
The compulsion was a punch to the stomach, and the Venator flew backward into the deep, as if propelled downward by a sinking cannonball tied to her ankle. It would take her to the very bottom of the ocean, hopefully giving Schuyler enough time to get away.
She scrambled to get above the waves, finally breaking through to the surface, gasping for air. The rain, cold as a dead man’s fingers, lashed her cheeks. She chanced a look back.
Their little motorboat was on fire. Burning, with sparks of black flames shooting up toward the heavens.
Jack made it out, she told herself. Of course he did. He had to.
A few feet away, Schuyler could see another Jet Ski circling the fiery carcass. But why hadn’t that Venator gone after Jack, Schuyler wondered. Unless . . . unless he was already . . .
She couldn’t finish the thought.
She wouldn’t.
She pushed her head underneath the waves. The Genoa port. She began to swim.
FOUR
Driftwood
Everything around Schuyler was black, as dark above as below. If she swam below the ocean’s surface she found she could make better time, and took to swimming deep underwater for longer and longer periods. Schuyler pushed against the current, buffeted by the waves; she felt as insignificant as flotsam, just another piece of ocean rubbish lost in the tide. She had to fight the desire to give in, to stop swimming, to close her eyes and rest and drown.
The storm broke for a moment, and Schuyler, bobbing up, could see the city rising from the water, its cheerful pastel buildings only a few hundred feet away. The midday sun was shining brightly on the pretty waterfront cafés. It was past high season, and the weather was brisk, so the outdoor tables were empty.
Schuyler tread water furiously to keep her head above the waves. God, she was tired. She was so close, but she didn’t know if she could make it.
That was the problem with the Velox, Lawrence had warned her. You begin to believe in your superhuman capabilities, but the Velox demands rest, and it will have it whether you liked it or not. He had warned her of vampires who had pushed themselves to the limit, only to collapse at a crucial juncture and be overtaken by the Silver Bloods.
She had no more energy left; she couldn’t propel herself the last few tantalizing feet to reach her goal.
She felt as limp as plankton. All the strength had drained from her body. She had covered about twenty-five miles in half an hour, but it wasn’t enough to get her onto that nearby beach. She spit out some salt water and pushed her bangs out of her eyes, dog-paddling listlessly. Her muscles were torn, spent. She couldn’t do one more stroke. . . .
An idea came to her. . . . She couldn’t push forward anymore, but she could float. . . . She could just lie down, really, and let the waves do the rest. The thought of backstroking the rest of the way struck her as incredibly ironic after the intensity of her escape. Well, she could float or she could drown. Just as she’d hoped, the slow steady movement required only the amount of energy that she could provide.
A few minutes after setting off at a leisurely pace, she felt the water around her vibrate, and she heard the distinctive motor of a Jet Ski. For a moment she was seized with fear; she kicked upright, looking all around, and then she saw it. Approaching quickly was a familiar vehicle branded with the dreaded black-and-silver cross, but that was no Venator at the helm.
Schuyler bounced up and down on the waves. “GHEDI! GHEDI!” She had no idea how the pirate had come to be on the Jet Ski, but right then she didn’t care. All she knew was she had to get his attention before he got too far away.
He couldn’t hear her, and the Jet Ski was getting farther and farther away.
GHEDI. TURN BACK. I COMMAND YOU.
The Jet Ski swung around, and in a moment, had roared up next to her. “Signorina! There you are!” he said, his bright smile splitting his face.