Page 6 of Currents of Desire

“I’m going to wrap you up,” I tell her, keeping my voice low and steady like I’m talking to a spooked horse. “It’s going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

Kneeling in the water beside her, the smell is overwhelming—ozone, copper, and deep, cold brine. Shoving the edge of the tarp under her tail, I work quickly to swaddle her, tucking the ends in tight to trap her razor-sharp claws against her chest. She hisses as the fabric brushes her wound, but the fight is draining out of her.

Now comes the lift.

Squatting down, I position my arms under the bundle. One arm under the thickest part of her tail, the other under her shoulders.

“On three,” I whisper to myself. “One. Two. Three.”

I lift.

A groan tears out of my throat, and my spine pops audibly. Jesus Christ. She is incredibly, impossibly heavy, a solid mass of dense muscle and bone compacted to withstand the crushing pressure of the deep sea. It feels like lifting a grand piano filled with lead. My bad knee flares with hot, electric pain.

Gritting my teeth, I force my legs to straighten and find my center of gravity.

Turning toward the stairs, the wind hits us as soon as we step out from the shelter of the floor joists. It’s a physical blow that slams me sideways.

Taking the first step, my boot slips on the wet algae. I lurch forward, my shoulder slamming into the handrail, hugging her tightly to my chest to keep from dropping her.

Step five.

Step six.

My biceps are burning as lactic acid floods my muscles.

The thrashing stops.

She goes completely limp inside the canvas. I brace myself, expecting another trap, but she just shifts her weight and slumps against me. Her face presses hard into my chest, burrowing in like she’s trying to steal my body heat.

A weird, electric hum rolls off her skin. It bleeds right through the thick fabric, making the hair on my chest prickle and stand on end.

“Almost there,” I wheeze, pushing upward.

Reaching the top landing, the deck is awash with an inch of water. The wind here is ferocious, tearing at my clothes. Stumbling toward the back door, I have to balance her weight on my raised thigh, pinning her against the doorframe so I can fumble for the door handle.

The wind catches the door, ripping it out of my grip and slamming it open against the interior wall with a crash like a gunshot.

Stumbling inside, my boots skid on the linoleum. I spin around, using my shoulder to heave the door shut against the gale, and throw the deadbolt.

Or rather, the sudden, shocking muffling of the storm.

My legs finally give out. Sliding down the kitchen cabinets, I sink to the floor, cradling her head so it doesn’t crack against the linoleum. We land in a heap. Gasping for the dry, stale air of the kitchen, I lean my head back and wait for the black spots in my vision to clear.

A rustle of canvas draws my attention.

I open my eyes just as she weakly pushes the tarp away. She lies there on the kitchen floor, a creature of myth bleeding onto cheap linoleum. Slowly, she props herself on one elbow. A webbed hand pushes the wet hair from her face, and she meets my gaze.

“You’re heavy,” I wheeze, the adrenaline crash hitting me hard.

She tilts her head, bird-like, but then she convulses. Her eyes roll back, revealing a milky-white nictitating membrane that slides across the blackness. She is gasping, her gills fluttering wildly as her skin begins to gray.

She’s dying.

The wound.

Scrambling to my feet, I run to the hallway closet and dig through a pile of old coats until I find my orange SES trauma kit. Grabbing it, along with a bottle of cheap whiskey from the side table, I slide back into the kitchen.

She hasn’t moved. Her breathing is a shallow, wet rattle.