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Not a child, then. A man. Or nearly so.
The arm around my waist and the legs that pump beneath the waves are strong, but not fully grown. He’s a young man, but not young enough. When I spread my web above this island tonight, he will still be touched, transformed.
“Can you swim at all?” He grunts, shifting his grip until his fingers curl into the pocket of my armpit. The touch is unfamiliar, strange, and I think I would find it ticklish if my skin weren’t so frozen.
“Can you hear me?” He kicks hard, carrying us up and over a wave larger than the others. “Do you speak English?”
“Of c-c-course,” I say, my teeth chattering. I speak every language known to man and several more known only to nightmares, witches, and fairies.
But the real question is why this boy is still here, helping me.
Can’t he see what I am? Even with my hair wet, the purple shows through. Human children are taught to run from things like me before they’re out of nappies.
“Good. That’ll make it easier,” he says with a relieved sigh. “If you can’t swim, I’ll need to turn you over on your back, all right? It’s the easiest way to swim you to shore.”
To shore. I can’t go to shore. Not like this.
When I walk among mortals, I keep my head covered with a shawl or cap, and the rest of my suspiciously pale skin concealed by my dress…the one that’s a good mile away, floating beside my companions on a chunk of driftwood.
Wig. Poke. I have to find them. To warn them!
“Let me go.” I turn, stretching frantic fingers away from the island, summoning magic that still refuses to come when I call.
“I can’t, Miss,” the boy-man says, his arm tightening around me as he kicks toward the island. “You can’t swim. I’d be killin’ you.”
He’s right. I know he is, but—
“My friends,” I gasp, my heart thumping so hard I bet the boy can feel it where we touch. “They’re out there. In the water. I have to find them.”
“We will, I swear.” His voice is calm and as soothing as the gentle rock of the waves now that he’s keeping me afloat. “I’m Declan. Declan Cooper. My da, Father Cooper, is in charge here. We’ll get you to shore, get you warm and dressed, and Da will send one of our boats to look for survivors.”
“Survivors,” I mumble, my throat going tight.
Wig and Poke won’t survive an attempt on these wards, but I won’t survive a trip out to meet them. I almost drowned. If I don’t let this boy tow me to shore, I’ll finish the business and join all the other things lost to the sea.
“Were you shipwrecked?” he asks, his breath warm in my ear. “In the storm this morning?”
“No, I…” I trail off. I can’t tell this boy the truth.
For some reason, he seems to think I’m human. Until I find a way to escape, I need him to keep thinking that.
Given the opportunity, humans do terrible things to magical creatures—cut off their heads, crush them with spelled stones, burn them alive. Fairies, witches, and halflings with mixed blood, all have gem-colored hair or eyes. We are easy to spot and not too hard to kill if you know the proper methods.
I’ve gotten close enough to death today to be sure I’m not interested in it, certainly not by any of those methods.
So, I lie. “I fell overboard.” The words are sour on my tongue, but not unpleasant. I’ve never had a reason to lie, but it’s not as uncomfortable as I imagined it would be. “I was walking the deck with my…birds. Giving them some air. A wave rose up and took us over the side.”
“Your birds?” He huffs and more breath warms my throat. “Those the friends you were talking about?”
“Yes.” My voice is small, but not ashamed. Even if Wig and Poke were truly pets rather than comrades, I would think of them as friends. “They’re all I have.”
“I’m sorry.” He pants with the effort of talking and swimming. “I’ll talk to my da, see if he might”—pant, pant—“send one of the boats out.” Pant. “Anyway.” Pant, pant, pant. “He probably won’t, but…”
He leaves off, and I’m glad. His obvious exertion is starting to make me nervous.
I’m in the business of transforming men, not drowning them, and I don’t want this boy’s death on my head.
I lie still for the rest of our journey, concentrating on filling my lungs with air and staying afloat, hoping to make it easier to pull me along. At one point, I try to kick my legs a bit—thinking to help—but the boy tightly warns me, “Better if you don’t move. I’m not the strongest swimmer, but I’ll get us there if you don’t fight me,” and so I go limp again.
