I run, run, run. And when I can’t hold my mouth shut any longer, I veer into the surf, slogging through waves until the rush of the seafills my ears, and then I scream. The screams rip from my lungs, retched out in huge spasms that convulse my whole body. They slash my throat raw, scour my tongue, wring tears from my eyes.
The sea takes the tears, the screams, the pain—all of it. Absorbs everything I have to give, until slowly, slowly, I come back into myself.
I’m standing shoulder deep in freezing waves, shivering. I gag out one last sob for what nearly happened to Edgar, to Heathcliff—to us all.
It’s over. No one died. I’m okay, and more importantly, so is Heathcliff. I need to calm down, I need to breathe—
The wave comes without warning, huge and black, towering over me. It slams me down like a giant’s icy fist, and for a second, I could swear it’s even shaped like a fist.
Water glugs in my ears, fills my brain, crushes me down. I flail, struggling for the surface, but it’s all dark, and I can’t get out, I can’t get out—
My face breaks free for a second, and I gasp, gulping air.
Another watery fist rises and smashes over me again, slow and ponderous, forcing me down to the bottom, pinning me to the sand.
This isn’t normal. There’s something else going on here—something supernatural. In my ears, a voice resonates, and it’s unnaturally clear, not distorted by the water at all: “Child of the Morrigan, abomination. Perish.”
I thrash, wriggle, and use my scant lungful of air to scream.
The fist disintegrates, and I bob to the surface, desperate for breath.
“Banshee,” the voice hisses through foam and darkness. “Enemy of the gods, diviner of death, offspring of Cernunnos, the rejected one. I am the god Manannán. Worship and die.”
Manannán.
The god Daisy and Gatsby mentioned, who was raised up recently. God of the sea, apparently.
I have no capacity to process that right now. Scanning the black water, I realize that I’m terrifyingly far from land. I suck in a breath right before another hand-shaped wave sweeps along the surface toward me.
When I go under, I scream again. And once again, the watery hand shatters at the sound.
The god’s voice rolls through the deep. “If I were at my full power, I could destroy you easily. But no matter—you will perish soon enough. Your tiny human limbs are no match for my strength. I will keep you here until you drown.”
I drag in another breath, ready to shriek through my anguished throat as many times as I have to. I’ll fight the water and struggle toward land until my strength gives out. I won’t let this fucker take me down easily.
When he submerges me again, I release another shriek. But I’m slower getting back to the surface, and I barely manage a sip of air before the god’s hand reforms and shoves me back under.
My lungs are cracking, my chest ready to explode. My heart pounds frantically against my ribs, hammers in my head—
Something brushes against my hip. Then an arm wraps around my back, under my shoulders, hauling me up and dragging me to the surface.
A shiver races through the water, and the voice speaks again, all around us, deep as the ocean, wild as the wind itself: “Son of Juventas.” And I could swear it sounds surprised. “Why do you assist this abomination?”
“Fuck off!” roars Heathcliff. Through his bravado, I can hear his terror—I can feel it in the hard tension of his body as he fightsto drag us both closer to the beach. “Let her go, you big bastard! You can’t have her.”
“Do your duty,” intones the god. “Destroy the cursed offspring of Death and the Morrigan.”
“Eat shit.” Heathcliff’s muscles surge, and the strength that carried me through the woods for hours now propels us both toward shore. He’s clinging to me with ferocious determination, kicking with all his might, and sweeping the sea with one powerful arm.
Strong as he is, I don’t think we’re going to make it.
Salt water sloshes into my mouth. I choke, gag, fight for control of my traitorous lungs and stomach. I try not to thrash so I won’t pull us both under, but it’s hard when every cell of my body is screaming with cold and panic.
And then, as quickly as they arose, the icy waves subside, shrinking down to their normal size. After a minute I find the bottom, and we’re able to stagger through the surf back to the relative safety of land.
We’re so far down the beach that I can’t see the glow of the firepit. I wonder if the group heard the god’s voice at all or if it was only meant for Heathcliff and me. For now, it doesn’t matter.
Both of us collapse on the sand, our faces upturned to the stars.
