Page 5 of Currents of Desire

A low vibration rattles up through the wet deckboards into my boots. It takes a second to realize the sound is coming from her throat. A hiss.

Before I can blink, she snaps forward.

The heavy netting barely slows her down. She lashes out, pale hands hooking toward me. I scramble backward, boots slipping on the slick wood, but I'm too slow. Glassy claws catch my arm. They shred right through the thick canvas of my oilskin and tear straight into the meat of my forearm.

“Ah, shit!” Splashing backward, I nearly drop the machete. I clutch my arm as the pain flares, stinging in the salt spray.

She screams again, a high, piercing shriek that makes my teeth ache. Thrashing in frustration, her tail slams against the pylon with enough force to shake the floorboards above us.

That’s when I see the wound.

The violent movement shifts the net, revealing her side. A jagged, broken piece of driftwood is driven deep into her flank, just above where her hips would be if she were human. The nylon rope is fouling the wood, twisting it every time she moves. Dark, viscous blood pumps out of the injury, staining the floodwater a deep, bruising purple.

She’s not attacking me because she wants to eat me. She’s attacking because she’s trapped. And she’s drowning.

Coughing a wet, rattling sound that sprays water from her gills, her head lolls forward. The black eyes lose focus for a second before snapping back to me with feral intensity. She’s suffocating in the open air.

Outside, the wind howls a banshee scream, signaling the next band of the cyclone. A massive surge of water rolls in from the yard, carrying a heavy log that slams into the outer stilts with a loud CRACK. The water level jumps to my knees.

Glancing at the rising water, then at the stairs, I know I could turn around. I could go back up, lock the door, drink the whiskey, and wait for the storm to clean up the mess. No one would ever believe me anyway.

But she looks up at me. The aggression fades for a split second, replaced by a stark, terrifying intelligence. She knows I’m debating it. Stopping her thrashing, she just watches me with those endless black eyes, judging me.

My hand throbs where she cut me, blood dripping into the water to mix with hers.

“Goddammit,” I growl.

Tightening my grip on the machete, I step back toward her. She bares her teeth, a low growl building in her throat as her muscles coil to strike again.

“Shut up,” I yell over the wind, raising the blade. “If you bite me again, I’ll leave you here.”

She freezes. It’s not because she understands English, but it’s the tone. The primal, guttural sound of a larger predator asserting dominance. For a split second, the dynamic shifts. I am not prey. I am a threat with a sharp edge.

Wading into the strike zone, I widen my stance, digging my heels into the slime-coated concrete to fight the current pushing against my thighs.

“Don’t move,” I mutter.

Clamping the Maglite between my teeth to free up my hands, I aim for the thickest knot of the green nylon netting pulled taut against the pylon.

Thwack.

The blade bites deep, severing a dozen strands. The tension releases with a snap. She flinches violently, her tail slapping the water, sending a spray of brine into my eyes.

“Stop it!” I roar around the flashlight, spitting the plastic barrel out of my mouth and catching it with my left hand.

Taking the opening, I chop downward, dangerously close to her body. It’s a gamble, but I have to get through the rope fouling the driftwood shard.

The net gives way.

Gravity and the current take over instantly. Without the suspension of the net holding her up, she collapses, hitting the concrete slab with a heavy, brutal thud. She tries to crawl, clawing at the submerged concrete, but she’s built for weightlessness. Here, in the gravity of the surface world, she makes it only two feet before her arms give out.

My chest heaves as I stand over her. A plastic lawn chair floats by and bumps my legs.

“We can’t stay here,” I say.

She looks up at me, her black eyes dulling. Violent tremors rattle her scales against the floor. Between the blood loss, the cold wind, and the lack of oxygen, she is going into shock.

Sheathing the machete, I look around my understory workshop. Hanging from a nail on the bracing is a heavy-duty canvas tarp, stiff with salt and paint stains. Ripping it off the nail, I wrestle the fabric down and wade back to her.