Rosemary and Rue

“What?”


There was a clean snapping noise from the direction of the hall. It’s hard to mistake the sound of a bullet being chambered, especially when people have recently decided shooting you is great fun. I grabbed Connor’s hand and bolted for the nearest door, hissing, “Run!”

There was a muffled snarl from the hall, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Sometimes I hate being right.

The door didn’t want to open. I yanked the key out of my pocket and shoved it against the lock, shouting, “Open, dammit! In Evening’s name!” Nothing happened. The steps were getting closer. Not letting myself look backward, I shouted, “In Oberon’s name! In somebody’s name! In my mother’s name, open up, damn you!”

The lock released and the door slammed open, sending Connor and me tumbling into a narrow hallway. I paused long enough to kick the door shut and throw the lock before taking off down the hall. I didn’t know where it would take us, but I knew what would happen if we stayed where we were, and in this case, I preferred the unknown. Connor stumbled, and I caught his hand as I ran, hauling him behind me.

Connor was already starting to strain to keep up—Selkies are built for endurance in water, not on land. “Where are we going?” he gasped.

“Away!” I heard the door smash behind us, and the sound of running feet. I didn’t know how much of a lead we had, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. We’d escape, or we’d die. Even odds.

“We don’t know they want to hurt us! We don’t even know who they are!”

“Pardon me if I don’t wait around to find out!” The strain of dragging Connor was making my shoulder throb in earnest, but I didn’t let go. He’d die if I did.

“But—”

“They have guns! Now shut up and run!”

A dim light was starting to fill the hall, illuminating rough stone walls. The floor shifted under our feet, going from raised cobblestones to hard-packed sand. Connor stumbled again, but I kept dragging him, picking up speed as we went. “Come on, we’re almost there!” I had no idea where “there” was, although I was betting against popping out of a magic wardrobe. The sand made me think of beaches: that was fine. There are plenty of beaches in San Francisco—there was even one right next to the museum.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised when the ground dropped out from under our feet and we ran out into the open air.

There was time to glimpse the face of the cliff behind us, and the narrow mouth of the cave we’d just run out of. Then we were falling, and there was no more time for anything but screaming. Being dropped a hundred feet above the Pacific has a tendency to bring out the worst in me. Connor’s hand slipped out of mine as we fell. I strained to catch it. Then it was too late: I hit the water feetfirst, knocking the air out of my lungs. The waves closed over me like a fist, and the world went dark.





TWENTY-TWO



I DRIFTED, EYES CLOSED, head down, until the pressure in my chest snapped me awake and I started to thrash, looking for the surface. I hadn’t panicked, but it was only a matter of time, and if I didn’t hit the air before I lost control, I was going to be another red mark on the Coast Guard’s already checkered record. Everyone has something they can’t handle. For some people it’s tight spaces or heights. For me, it’s water. I can’t take baths anymore, much less go swimming: it’s showers and polite excuses all the way. It’s too much like going back to the pond.

The sea around me was getting darker. It was light when Connor and I hit the water; the sun should have been visible. Unless I was swimming the wrong way.