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Kristof hesitated only a second, then he lunged forward and sliced through the rope at the rear of the boat. I cut the one at the front. The boat didn't budge.
"It's anchored," Kris yelled, leaning over the side.
He grabbed hold of the anchor chain. I sailed across the deck and grabbed it from him. "I got this. You get the sails up and shove off, or whatever you need to do to get this baby moving."
As Kris raced around the cabin, the wolf reached the dock. The gangplank was still down. I dove for the ropes, seized them, and heaved. The wolf's forepaws landed on the edge of the gangplank, jerking the line from my grasp. I grabbed the rope, heaved again, and yanked the gangplank out from under him. He stumbled back, snarling.
"Double-crossing son of a bitch!" I shouted down at him.
Don't know whether he understood me, but it made me feel better.
The wolf gave a soft chuff of a sigh, and headed back down the dock.
"Yeah, you'd better run," I muttered.
I walked back to the anchor chain. I'd just gotten a good hold on it when a blur of motion caught my attention. I looked up to see the wolf tearing back down the dock, running hell-bent for the boat. Oh, shit. He was taking a run at it.
"Eve!" Kris shouted.
"I got it! You just get us moving!"
I wrapped the chain around my hands and pulled. The anchor barely budged. Where the hell was the windlass on these things? The wolf was almost at the end of the dock now, running full out, tongue hanging, green eyes fixed on the rail. I threw myself backward and felt the anchor lift just as the wolf launched himself. He shot toward the rail. I dropped to the deck, dragging the anchor higher.
A strong wind whipped around from the south--a magical wind. The sails billowed, the boat lurched from the dock, and the wolf's leap fell short. His front paws hooked the railing, but only for a second before the weight of his falling body sent him plummeting into the dark water below. I hauled the anchor over the side, then looked into the swirling dark water below.
"Hope you can swim, ya scurvy cur!" I shouted down at him.
Kristof laughed behind me. I waved at the wolf as he surfaced.
"Do you believe that?" I said. "He double-crossed us."
"Shocking. Absolutely shocking. Pretty clever, though."
"Damned clever...for a werewolf." I eased back against the railing. "So do you need to navigate this thing or what?"
"I've set her on a course for Roatan. My wind spell won't last long, but we'll get there."
"No rush. We can't visit Luther Ross until morning. We should probably keep watch for a
few minutes, though, make sure we aren't followed."
"I'll cover that, if you don't mind covering us with a fog spell."
I cast the sorcerer spell. Fog billowed up around the boat, and we sailed out to sea.
Edinburgh / 1962
THE NIX SAT ON A BARSTOOL, STARING AT THE BOTTLE of Scotch. Close enough to touch--to drink. In the old days, she'd never have considered such a thing. But now she was reduced to this, staring at a bottle of alcohol, imagining the burn of it down her throat, the pleasant numbing amnesia that followed.
She'd been inside plenty of partners with memories they'd wanted to forget, and most had indulged in alcohol to do it. She'd always despised them for such weakness. She'd suffered through the effects, with gritted teeth, hating every moment that her thoughts were dulled. And now she could think of nothing better than to partake of that same temporary oblivion.
She concentrated and reached for the bottle. Her fingers passed through the glass, through the amber liquid, leaving not so much as a drop of it on her skin. Once she'd have roared in frustration, cursed every demon she could name for not freeing her from this spirit prison. Now she only moaned and sank into her seat.
She hadn't fed properly since Dachev had left her. Oh, she'd taken partners, dined on her share of chaos, but it hadn't been the same. She'd come halfway around the world in search of something better, and hadn't found it. Every new partner was but a wretched substitute for him.
There would never be another like Andrei Dachev. A true partner of the soul. Though only a supernatural shade--and from an inferior race, at that--he'd understood the power of death and chaos the way only a demon usually could. More than that, he'd appreciated the craft of chaos more than most demons, and he'd opened her mind to possibilities she'd never considered, to the true beauty of physical and mental suffering.
He'd been content to watch, but they'd always talked of finding a way, not only to bring him inside her partners, but to impose their will on those partners, to force them to carry out Dachev's visionary ideas. Had they accomplished that, the Nix knew she would have felt an emotion she'd never experienced: happiness. The happiness of complete satisfaction.
