Hector.
He isn’t safe. He isn’t free. He was supposed to go to Copper Harbor. But everything I sense under that boat—the boat heading for Grand Portage—is not dulcet or safe. Which means he’s with the police. Or worse, his uncle. What happened? What are they doing to you?
Rage percolates like acid in my blood, thundering in my temples. I open my mouth and the screech of a gale emerges, blasting the water around me into more mist, becoming a powerful rain that spreads, viruslike, to the miles and miles around me. The water around my waist rises as I flow forward. I look down and see my hands splayed out and reaching above the surface. My nails have blackened to obsidian, and my blood vessels darken to ink-like vines that trail upward toward my neck. I taste a sweet, oily darkness in my throat.
As my body slips beneath the water, time and distance disintegrate, too easily. Nothing but crumbs crushed beneath a boot. I am flying toward the boat, beneath the waves.
No; I am the waves. I am the witch. My sisters sense me and beg for release. For the first time, my hunger isn’t aimed at any boat, haphazardly chosen. Just this one. With surgical precision, I’ll pluck the lives one by one. I center my energy toward the craft. It’s only two hours away from the coast and one hour away from Windigo. One hour too far away. I laugh. There’s no safe haven any more. Not from me.
This isn’t your battle, Anda.
But it’s hard to hear Mother in the chaos of my mind. She has strength, but I have something powerful, too.
Anger.
As the weather shrieks its obedience to my call, my mind falters. The hollowness from the lack of recent sinkings dilutes my thoughts. Fury and hunger tumble together, a roiling clot of frenzied sensations. There is no clarity between them, and soon, no divisions. Warm, panicked, beating hearts call out. Only one wants me, but I’ll take them all in a single, yawning bite. There is nothing like the feeling of my watery hand, slipping around their throats and hearts, pressing down with the cold and impossible weight of my fingers. They will stop and be mine.
Somewhere in the recesses of my storming mind, there is a whimper. I cannot remember why I’m so angry. There’s nothing but the pull, the need. It’s so bitter and vivid, I know nothing else. I crave it.
I extend my arms. Soon, I’ll touch the boat, as a child might test the icing on a birthday cake. I shall pull it down, wrap my fingers around its hull, and keep it tethered to the bottom until nothing but bones remain. And even then, I won’t give up the dead.
Take them, Anda. It’s November. There is no choice in being what you are.
Yes. Yes. It’s time.
Chapter Fifty-Three
HECTOR
The rain comes suddenly, with a slap and a rumble.
“They didn’t say the weather was going to be this bad,” the captain says, twisting the radio knob to find the NOAA frequency. He switches on the windshield wipers to clear the glass in front of him. The waves, which were low and cresting before, have doubled in size. In minutes, they triple the amplitude.
“Do you always see storms come up this fast?” my uncle asks nervously. He’s holding on to a side railing and scanning the dials up front, as if he has any clue what they’re for.
“Sometimes,” the captain says. His voice isn’t reassuring at all. The other officer is attending to the broken nose of the guy I hit, casting me occasional glances.
There’s nothing to look at. The cuffs are on, and I’m going back to hell.
The boat had been barely pitching up and down when we’d started the journey toward Grand Portage, but the soft gray clouds have morphed with frightening speed. They’ve thickened into a darker, sinister color—like smoke rising from burning wet wood or plastic, with a greenish tinge. The drenching rain that soon turns into a deluge.
I can’t help but smile with pride. God, she’s good.
“Should we turn back?” my uncle asks quickly. He fidgets with his life vest and tightens the strap around his chest.
“No. We’re almost halfway there. If we run into trouble, we’d be better off being closer to Grand Portage.”
“Well, can’t you go faster?”
“Through those waves?” He points with disgust. “No.”
I look forward and then sideways. The waves are so much higher now, cresting with foamy white peaks that dissolve into the water before appearing in another wave, bigger than the previous. They strike the vessel left and right. The spray constantly fills the air. The boat is heaving at extreme angles. To the officers, it’s troubling. My uncle looks like he’s going to shit his brains into his pants.
To me, the violent rocking is a lullaby.
The captain hands the radio to another officer, whose voice can’t contain the worry everyone is feeling. The captain goes back to steering the vessel. He drives the boat perpendicular to each wave, so the nose of the craft bobs up nauseatingly high before crashing down on each valley. The windshield wipers are going at full speed now, but we can barely see anything past the next wave coming in. The sky and water are one mass of greenish gray. I can’t believe how fast she’s made this storm. It’s absolutely incredible.
“Gale force winds. Experiencing a nine Beaufort, only five about ten minutes ago. Seas at least fifteen feet now,” the captain radios in. “Crew is fine. We got one bloody nose we’ll explain later. Our two passengers are okay.”
Okay? Depends on who you ask.
“Are we going to be okay?” my uncle asks. When he says “we” I know he’s not including me. He now seems to have completely forgotten that I’m sitting back here with a contented smile on my face.
“Well, if we can keep managing these waves, yes. She’s a good, hearty ship. As long as it doesn’t get worse, we’ll be all right. She’s handled this type of weather many times before.”
Ah. But has Anda handled her?
Chapter Fifty-Four
ANDA
So pretty, this thing I’ve composed.
The boat is clawing its way up the steep waves and crashing over them. I’ve crossed impossible lengths, and its shuddering hull is within my sight. Soon, it will be within my reach. The captain has good control, but he’s sweating profusely under his uniform. I smell his fear—sour and rank. It inflames me.
The rest of the passengers are holding on, waiting for the storm to abate. Under the surface, I open my eyes and take in the murky, churning water around me. The silt and stones of the lake bottom pelt my skin. They’re fawning, and I kick them away. They’ll never persuade me to be kinder.
I raise my hands a little and incite the wind, whipping the waves to twenty feet.
Twenty-five.
Thirty.
The captain is well seasoned, navigating the steep swells to let the ship’s reinforced bow take all the brutal force of each eager wave. The boat is sturdy and will take the punishment according to the physics of its creation. She has good bones. It will be lovely to bite into them and spit them out.