The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)

 

The beast was monstrous, a knotted mass of fur and muscle behind those yellow teeth, and larger than any wolf should be. Suddenly I was very aware of the other tales in Souvestre’s little book of fables—mermaids, morgens, man-eating wolves—and the words of the madman: a monster slavers in the castle.

 

The animal stalked closer stiffy, first one step, then another; still I held my ground. I had never seen a wolf before, but I’d done a lot of reading. “Wolves fear fire,” I said to Blake, my voice trembling. Then I thrust the torch boldly toward the creature. “Shoo!”

 

The low growl intensified as the wolf crouched.

 

The gun. I fumbled in my pocket; fabric ripped as I tore the derringer free. I leveled the barrel only moments before the wolf sprang, but as I squeezed the trigger, the gun jerked upward and the bullet went wide.

 

Overhead, the birds took wing in a flurry of feathers; before me, the creature was a blur of black fur and bright teeth. I had one more bullet, but my clumsy finger slipped on the catch. I threw the torch, and the animal twisted, landing on splayed paws the size of my hands. The wolf growled again, and I tried to level the shaking gun. But Blake dropped his own torch and grabbed the weapon from me. As the wolf leaped, he fired—and the beast went limp in midair, rolling toward us, blood trickling from the empty left eye.

 

I stared at Blake, breathing hard, my ears ringing with the sound of the gunshot. Then I glanced at the madman’s body; my stomach roiled and I looked away quickly, breathing shallowly through my mouth.

 

Blake was turning the gun over and over in his hands. The silver barrel gleamed in the low flame of the dying torches. In the shadows, pigeons cooed, as though to comfort him. “Where did you find this?”

 

“I took it from . . .” I swallowed. “It was in your jacket. When you came aboard. I just . . . I thought you wouldn’t want it back.”

 

He held it out, between thumb and forefinger, as though it were filthy. “I don’t.”

 

I took it gingerly—the barrel was hot—and dropped it back in my pocket. Then I looked at the wolf, dead on the floor. Blood and gore clotted on the animal’s muzzle. The single remaining eye was starting to glaze; the empty socket was a dark red hole. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

 

“My father.” His voice was flat, and his hand crept to his side, where the bullet had hit him, back in Hawaii. “I was always the better shot. That night, I aimed to wound. He meant to kill.”

 

I shifted my weight, the gun heavy against my side. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“Really?” I looked for the truth in his eyes; they were like stars, far and cold. “You think that?”

 

“I made a choice that night too, Miss Song.” His voice was soft. “I could have aimed differently.”

 

At the look on his face, a current ran through my chest—was he talking about his father, or me? But then he straightened his jacket and stepped toward the body, kneeling down carefully to avoid the mess. I swallowed again; a sour scum coated the back of my tongue. “Leave him, Blake. He’s dead.”

 

“I know. But . . .”

 

“But what?” I approached slowly, at an angle, not wanting to look. I could see enough out of the corner of my eye: the crater of the abdomen, white and pink and purple, like a strange orchid. I had seen death before, but never in such vivid, violent color.

 

Blake stood then, slowly; his face was troubled, and he drummed his fingers against his thigh. “I don’t think it was the wolf that killed him.”

 

“What?” My eyes were wide, darting around the room. “What then?”

 

“You said he wore a key?”

 

I nodded. “Around his neck.”

 

“It’s gone. And someone slit his throat.” He chewed his lip. “Quite a clean cut. A razor, perhaps. Or a very sharp knife.”

 

“A knife?” A fresh burst of energy sped from my heart to my limbs to the tips of my fingers. I did look at the man then, at the red welted skin of his throat, obscenely parted, like hungry lips. The room seemed to tilt like the deck in rough weather. The smell in the room was nauseating—wet fur and cold flesh and the metallic tang of blood. The echo of the shot was rattling in my skull. “We should go.”

 

“I think you’re right.” He took my arm. “Likely we can find the winch by the gatehouse to open the portcullis.”

 

“Yeah.” I followed along toward the arched doorway at the far end of the great room. When we opened the door and stepped out into the wide cobbled courtyard, I drank great lungfuls of the cold, sweet air.