“Shit.”
Gears locked and protested as she jammed the truck into park and switched off the headlights. Muggy air dampened her bare shoulders as she stepped out into the night.
She searched the ripples, waiting for fins or a large splash.
Pike was out there.
And they had a boat.
Flashing lights shoved off the dock and motored steadily into the heart of the lake.
A vision of Heather’s half-eaten face—eye sockets bulging with snails, a catfish nested in her gaped mouth—surfacing next to the police boat drove a darkly amusing wedge into Marlowe’s mind.
They’d be done for.
Pike strung up like the shark fromJaws, Marlowe withering in prison, if she was lucky. It wasn’t an option. She had to get Pike’s attention before they did.
Marlowe didn’t have a dead body to bait them with this time, human or otherwise—she only had herself. But she wouldn’t leave Pike behind, even if her hand was never again forced by a supernatural bond.
Searchlights swept closer and faint chatter wafted toward her.
Marlowe skirted around the thick bulrushes, keeping low and careful along the bank as she scanned the lake’s surface. Pike had to be aware of the disturbance by now. But there was no sign of her.
The muted purr of a car engine accompanied red and blue lights drifting away from the lake. Marlowe swore under her breath, hand tapping against her side. There was a chance the cops had searched the perimeter of the lake already—but by the direction the cop car was moving and the spray of flashlights biting through the dark woods, Marlowe guessed they weren’t so lucky.
Staring at the inky water lapping against the shore, she could almost taste it in the back of her throat. This time it wasn’t the lake-rot taste of Pike. Marlowe could taste the mildewed, overflowed-river tang of the water in cabin 13, crawling up the bunk beds until she was stranded on an island of sleeping bags and paper boats.
Marlowe swallowed thickly. She wrenched off her flannel button-up and kicked off hersandals. The lake lapped at her ankles, her knees, her thighs. Pike wouldn’t come if she didn’t know Marlowe had returned. She had to trust in their final truce.
Mud shifted under her feet and water closed over her head when she slipped, burning up her nose until she surfaced with a barely-repressed sputter.
Summer of `72 was the last time she’d swum before this week, but Marlowe still headed in the direction of the lake center with flailing strokes just strong enough to keep afloat.
Lights from the boat skittered toward her and Marlowe filled her lungs before she ducked under. Piercing white lights flashed over her, then back, hovering where she’d been.
Marlowe’s chest tightened close to bursting with the effort of keeping herself under, hands hopelessly pawing at the water. Her head broke the surface as the light swept away. She treaded water, limbs already dragging and lungs not holding the amount of air she needed, leaving her lightheaded.
No fins sliced at her legs, no animal corpses chased her, and the lake was deadly silent apart from the boat slicing in her direction, lights sweeping a path in front of it. Marlowe had a terrible vision of Pike already being captured. Strapped to a trailer, eyes glassy and so very dead.
Marlowe dragged in another tight, desperate half-breath, readying herself to go under. The police light slowly crept across the ripples and lily pads.Her lungs already felt starved for air.
The searchlight snapped over Marlowe, blurring her vision with explosions of white as it shot into the sky.
In the haze, Pike twisted in midair, the boat tilted nearly vertical from her attack. Panicked shouts scattered across the lake. Pike landed with a great splash and the boat smacked the water.
A wave rushed at Marlowe, flooding her nose, her mouth. Bodies landed like heavy bits of shrapnel around the cracked hull of their boat.
Marlowe choked out Pike’s name as she floundered, striking back to shore and struggling to pull in air through her raw throat. She slipped underwater, clawing and kicking, knees popping and lungs empty before she resurfaced.
Someone screamed near the boat wreck.
Flashlight beams scattered, closing in on her parked truck.
To her left, fuzzy police lights flashed through the trees.
Marlowe’s legs burned and tangled in long mats of pondweed, and the distance to shore stretched into impossibility. Her curses came out more like prayers,answered with another choking mouthful of gritty water. She clawed blindly.
Scales. Fins. Marlowe could have wept.
