Page 87 of Crashing Tides

Then again, that’s what these two idiots want, isn’t it?

The pain starts to fade, but there are spots in my vision. It hurts to breathe. The short man hauls me up, and we take a few steps forward until we reach a grand, dimly lit foyer. A moldy carpet climbs a rickety staircase. A chandelier hangs lopsided from the ceiling. A massive portrait looms over the landing, coated in so much dust that I can’t tell what (or who) the subject is supposed to be. Once grand, this entryway is now as decrepit as a crypt.

“It’s real,” says one of the guys. I can’t tell who. I don’t know if I care anymore.

“Where are we?” I ask. My voice is hollow, dead. It echoes through the room.

“Halea’s drowned depths,” says the short one. “Holy shit. Henry’s crackpot theory worked.”

“Who’s Henry?” I think immediately of my classmate, but that can’t be right. Henry can’t levitate a teacup. There’s no way he’d know about a place like this.

“None of your business. Come on. If this place is real…” The tall man shakes his head.

Whatever this place is, it’s long-abandoned and creepy as hell. Shadows dance and dart, encouraged by the lantern light. Layers of dust coat the floor, padding our footsteps. Stones loosen beneath our feet. I stumble constantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. Then it’s gone, so fast that I wonder if I saw anything at all.

The pressure in my head builds. The longer we walk, the more convinced I become that something is here, watching us, cloaked by the generous shadows. It means to tear us apart, I’m sure of it. We are the first morsels to have crossed its path in years, maybe even decades.

I try to mentally track our movements in case I’m able to slip away later, but in the faint light, there’s no hope. I’m lost in the shadows, no more significant than a rat or a spider, and far more inconvenienced by the darkness.

The tall guy has a map, which he pauses to consult periodically. We wind through hallways, up a staircase, then down several more. I am aching all over. My eyes slide shut as I walk. If we stop, I’m going to collapse, and I won’t be able to get back up. Exhaustion has claimed me, wound itself through my bones, and it’s dragging me down.

And then, all at once, we’re in front of another door. I recognize the handprint there, feel a spark of energy for the first time in hours.

The door opens when I press my hand to it.

They don’t even bother to tie me up again, but there’s a firm hand on my arm, and I already know I won’t get far if I try to run. I’m too lightheaded and weak.

We step into a cavernous room. Water drips in the pitch blackness. The lantern flares as we move closer to the center of the room, and my heart stops. The symbol carved into the wall before me stretches from floor to ceiling, and it’s painfully familiar: the very same one Mom doodled all over our house.

The rest of the room is empty except for a pool in the center of the tiled floor. Water sloshes at the edges like it’s rushing up to greet us.

Oh, I think. Oh no.

I don’t know what this place is, but I recoil on sight. When the taller man tries to grab me, I whirl around, manage to hit him in the face. It sends a jolt of pain through my hand, but I hardly notice in the rush of adrenaline. He tries to hit me back, but I’m faster, and I relish the way my fist connects with flesh. In that split second, while he’s still stunned, I grab the eyehole of his mask and rip it free.

Holy shit. The sight of Jordan’s shadowed face gives me pause, just long enough that the short man can tackle me to the ground with a flying leap that might’ve been impressive under other circumstances. I go down with a feral snarl, but it doesn’t last long. I hit the floor with a crack and a scream. My ribs are on fire, and I can hardly breathe even without the shorter man on top of me, grinding my face into the stone floor with his elbow. Jordan’s dark eyes narrow into a glare as he stands over me, rubbing his jaw, pulling the ski mask from his face with a huff.

That’s why he was goading me in class. He wanted to know if he had any chance of pulling off whatever the fuck this is, and I showed him everything he needed to know. I think of every failed spell, every broken pot, every wayward squeaky toy, and want to die.

Shit. Shit.

“Fuck you,” I growl, struggling even though it hurts, grunting when the short guy elbows me in the ribs, hard enough that it feels like I’ve been stabbed. “Fuck you, you absolute sack of shit.”

Jordan crosses his arms, smug. “Do you have any idea how easy you made this?”

“I dunno about that. Your face is bleeding.”

I get another elbow in the ribs for that, but I can’t stop grinning even as I wheeze. My mouth tastes like blood. I run my tongue over my teeth and hope it’s an image he never fucking forgets, but he doesn’t react.

“You got lucky,” Jordan says. And he’s right. I did. I’ve never even been in a bar fight before, much less been kidnapped.

“Luckiest day of my life,” I spit. “What the fuck is going on? Why am I here?”

He takes a step toward me. “Dominic, Dominic. You’re in no position to ask questions.”

“If you’re gonna fucking kill me, you can at least tell me why.”

“Fine.” Jordan shrugs, lowers to his knees. The shorter man takes some of the pressure off my head. I growl as Jordan grips my chin, lifts my face until I’m staring directly at him. “You’re here to right the wrongs of the people who sealed this place off.”