Will immediately cries out, his legs sloshing and kicking in the water as pain wrenches through him. His head slams back against my shoulder, every cord, tendon, and vein in his neck tense.
But the bullet and all its fragments come out, dropping right into my hand.
Will breathes hard, trying to gather enough force in his lungs to say something. Before he does, Sofie sloshes through the water toward us, blood rolling down her cheek from a cut above her eye.
“I’ve got him,” she says, sucking in air. Behind her is Agnata, looming over three dispatched guards who are tied in their own rope, propped up together so as not to fall over and drown. Their feet are blocks of ice. “Go, Runa! Go!”
“Not yet. Hold him.”
“But you have to get to her, the whole harbor is going to wash away in—”
“I know!” I scream. Sofie drops to her knees, and without another hint of protest, takes my place at Will’s back,and I scoot in front of him.
I toss the pieces of his bullet into the water and place both hands gently over every inch of ruptured skin. Then I meet his eyes, holding the blue there, trying to calm him.“Ley∂ra. Sauma.”
Will’s gasping slows as my palms warm, the magic sterilizing his wound before sealing it right up. Only when the skin is smooth and beginning to cool do I move my hand.
And then I take the last moment I need.
I cup his face with my hands and bend down to give him the kiss I’ve been aching to share with him for more than a day now. This boy who picked me up at my very lowest and trusted me with his life and his fight. Will’s body melts, all the tension flooding with the water rushing against where we are, solid against the tide.
His eyes flit open, stark blue in the low light as color returns to his cheeks. “Runa... ,” he whispers.
“I need to go, I know,” I say, standing. I glance to Sofie. “Keep him safe.”
And then I run.
I haul my dress above my knees and sprint into the coming tide. The stream and punch of the full force of the sea resists me at every sloshy step. The wind whips my hair into my face, sodden ropes slapping across my cheeks, forehead, and into my eyes. Hail drives into my shoulders, eating holes into the tatters of my dress.
The beach is no more. All the boats in the harbor have come loose from their moorings, piling up in a tangle of metal and broken glass. Some are capsized farther into the harbor and the Øresund Strait, their bows pointed up to the sky like drowning men reaching for air before falling under.
Very soon, all of them, large and small, will tumble past the dockyards into the streets, and then climb the sea lane into town. If even one large boat makes it into the frontage, it could mean the end of all those people in the pub, any guards left breathing in the lane, and my friends, if they’re not out of the way.
As I run, I raise a hand to the boats, calling on what I can to keep them from moving farther inland. I don’t know if it’ll work against the force of Father’s storms, but I have to try.
“Dveljask!”
Up ahead are the very tops of two large boulders, sitting sentry on the sea witch’s cove. There’s a historical marker that’s barely reaching over the tide now, too, the wooden pole and the plaque atop bending with the rush of the water.
Almost there.
Beyond the cove entrance, my feet are lifted off the ground, and I automatically begin to move my arms in a swimming stroke, trying to get farther out. But I’ve not swum in this body, and my legs are a sorry excuse for a tail.I’m barely moving forward, and I’m not sure I can make it into the boundaries of the cove. I look around for another way.
In the middle of the cove is a massive wall of stone. I can climb.
Better yet, looking at the wall now, it must be aligned with where the sea witch’s cave is. Outside her cave is her cauldron—the wall is my best shot.
Each breath I take is half air, half water now. Waves rush up from below where the sea is surging, and from above, where rain still floods down in sheets.
The sky cracks through with lightning, and I take a look back and up at the town. Every light is on. Windows gape open, little faces peering into the night. They’re watching the world end.
Not if I can help it.
I push forward and get a hand on the wall. It’s slick as ice, rainwater a finger thick buffering the stone from the air.
“Purr bjarg,”I say, and the water flees from the patch of rock covered by my hand.
It’s suddenly completely dry, affording me a handhold. Yes, this will work. I repeat the spell over and over with each new grip, each step on any finger of a ledge with my boots. My body is heavy with the water my clothes can hold, and it takes all my strength to pull myself over the side and onto the summit of the rock wall. Hail pits weltsinto every exposed inch of skin—my face, my neck, my hands stinging. But when my feet touch, I get to my knees and then I stand, wind gusting in big-mouthed threats to send me over the other side.
