The giant turned. M’cal glimpsed Kitala. Her blouse was torn, but there was steel in her eyes—hard, hot, bright—and she looked at him like she was ready to kill. M’cal was happy to oblige. He had never felt such rage, never felt such power in his voice, and it charged in on him a second time, his jaws snapping like a shark. It felt as if a steep wind were gathering inside that small room; his rage moved cold against his skin, whipping away the witch’s voice as she screamed words he could not understand. Her power rolled right off him.
Blood leaked from Ivan’s eyes. He raised a hand, touched his face. Looked at the red that painted his fingertips. First, confusion ... then his mouth screwed up and his eyes bunched into slits and the blood started leaking faster and faster—from his ears as well—and M’cal’s voice rose higher, stronger, twisting into something so ugly he could barely stand to hear himself. He had never done such a thing, but it seemed as natural as breathing to curl within Ivan and tell him how to die.
Something struck M’cal—the witch was beating his face with her fists—but her blows meant nothing worse than the tickle of a fin. All he could see was Ivan. The man’s skin split, cracks forming against his red cheeks like a patch of dried earth. Blood seeped. Ivan tried to take a step, but his legs gave out and he crashed down hard. Kitala still stared, mouth moving, fierce. M’cal thought he heard her music in his head.
The witch blocked his view, her arm moving. Metal flashed.
He saw it coming, felt the impact, but it took him a moment to overcome his surprise. He looked down and found a long knife sticking out of his chest, still quivering with tension. M’cal did not know where the witch had found it, but the blade was sharp and long and shining, and his voice faltered for one brief moment.
Long enough. The witch grabbed his bracelet, the ring that bound them grating against the engraved metal. She said a word, and this time her power did not slide off him. It hit hard, as if that dagger were a bomb exploding in his heart.
He heard Kitala cry out, but Ivan was still down. M’cal tried to keep his gaze on her face, but the witch blocked him, the pain tearing through his chest, and it was all he could do to keep himself from biting off his own tongue as his jaws snapped together to hold back a scream.
The world rocked. It spun around him like a whirlpool, nothing staying still long enough for his vision to hold on to. For a moment, M’cal thought it was just him—losing himself in the pain—but then the witch slid sideways, hitting the wall, and everything came back into a hard, swift focus.
The boat shuddered, heaving sideways. M’cal would have been flung off the bed if not for his restraints. Instead, he hung in the air for a moment, cuffs digging into his ankles and wrists. From the other room, Kitala yelped; Ivan tried to stand.
And then it happened again, this time with an impact so violent it sounded as if a sharp reef were tearing through the hull of the boat. Once again, the witch was flung down; once again, M’cal hung askew, the dagger still lodged in his chest. He smelled the ocean. He heard water rushing. The boat tipped at a steeper angle.
“We are sinking,” hissed the witch. “What have you done?”
“Only what I had to,” said M’cal. “I am forcing you to choose.”
For the first time in his memory, he saw horror spill through her gaze. She clawed at her face, her fingers inadvertently sinking into the pit of her nose. She flinched, and then flung herself toward him, forced to crawl across the floor toward the bed. The boat shifted again, groaning; M’cal heard whales crying.
“I must have the woman,” whispered the witch. “I must be strong enough. There is no alternative.”
“Alice!” Kitala cried out, hanging from the bed frame. “What does this have to do with her?”
The witch said nothing. She looked at M’cal—then back at Kitala—and flung herself toward the door, scrambling over Ivan’s struggling body to reach the other room.
She never made it. The boat was struck again. Like a roller coaster in slow spin, twisting a loop through the heart of an earthquake. The motion made it difficult to focus, but M’cal saw the witch tumble out of sight down the hall. Ivan followed her, sliding on his stomach as the boat turned completely perpendicular. A man shouted for help. Koni.
“M’cal!” Kitala lay flat on her bed, which might as well have been a standing wall. She hung from the frame, her arms stretched at an agonizing angle.
M’cal heard splashing, and the witch hissing, but no one appeared at the mouth of the door. Just him and Kitala, swinging. And somewhere else, Koni. Trapped. All of them.
The lights went out, plunging all into darkness. M’cal’s vision shifted, everything coming back into a sharp focus that swam in shades of gray.
He gritted his teeth and yanked hard on his chains, grunting with pain. The knife was still lodged in him, piercing his sternum. No chance of healing with the blade still there. Koni shouted again; there was something frantic in his voice.
M’cal closed his eyes and reached out to the orcas. They were milling around the sinking boat, whistling and squeaking, coordinating a merry-go-round pattern of circles and lunges, as though the failing vessel were herring and they were ready to feed.
M’cal found the pod leader—an old female. She was ready for him, concerned in the only way an orca could be, which was different from Krackeni or human. The drive to survive was still there, the need to protect. She could feel his pain, and it spread; the rest of the pod began whistling, pinging the boat so strongly he could feel the vibrations through the hull.
We are trapped,
he told the female orca.
It is a net.
Flashed memories of humans appeared in his head; real nets wrapped around flesh with machines grinding and babies squealing, separated from their mothers. The press of wires, the heaviness of air, rough hands and hot sun and noises dull without song.
The boat sank deeper. Koni shouted again. M’cal looked for Kitala and found her, blind in the darkness, her gaze still swimming in his direction. There was trust in her eyes, but fear, too. Her lips were pressed into a hard line. He listened to music sing.
He cut off contact with the orcas. There was nothing the whales could do about handcuffs, and another run at the boat would just make it sink faster. He watched Kitala struggle, fighting to loosen the ropes.
M’cal shifted shape. He had rejected that outright as an option, but now he had no choice but to try. His legs fused from his groin down, but the transformation stopped at his ankles. The shackles were in the way.
And then they were not. His body transformed around them, leaving a tiny hole in the center of his lower tail for the metal to pass through and around. Unfortunately, his tail was thicker than his ankles, and the exposed shackle cut into his flesh like a dull saw. It hurt worse than the knife, and the chain remained linked to the wall.
The sounds of pouring water grew louder; a resounding crack ricocheted through the boat. M’cal felt the pressure of the sea building around the hull. Sinking deeper, almost gone. He wondered where Ivan and the witch were, if they had already made it off the boat. Maybe the orcas were eating them.
His skin rippled with scales as his neck transformed, gills splitting open. The air instantly dried them out, but M’cal ignored the discomfort—too much to bear already—and yanked hard on the chain screwed into the wall. It did not budge. He thought of Kitala drowning and tried again.
This time it moved. M’cal bared his teeth, trying not to swing, and wrenched down with all his strength. The wall creaked. He jerked again, snarling, and then again and again, until, without warning, the bolt shot out of the wall and sent him falling.
The chain attached to his tail caught him, but the wall buckled from his weight. He yanked the knife out of his chest, stuck it between his teeth, and pulled himself up. Koni’s screams were quieter now, muffled. Kitala shouted M’cal’s name.
M’cal took the knife out of his mouth and lunged upward, aiming the blade for the wall. It was hard to maneuver with his hands restrained, but he had a long reach and dug the tip into the paneling, prying at the steel bolt with one hand, holding on to the chain with the other. The wide fan of his tail flopped like a flag.
The bolt loosened. M’cal tugged on the chain, swinging in a slow arc, momentum cracking the wood. He did it again, harder, the boat shuddering around him. He heard Kitala breathing in the next room, waters rising, Koni silent—
The wood cracked. The bolt fell free. So did M’cal. He slammed into the wall—now the floor—and felt the breath knocked out of him. It took a moment to gather himself; he had to crawl, to haul himself up by his hands. He could not shift to use his feet—not without finding himself still restrained. Legs useless, either way. He clamped the knife between his teeth and started pulling, hands still bound, trailing chains. Slow going. Too slow.
He wrenched himself over the door, looking down at the hall, which was a steep drop beneath him. Dark water swirled, closer than he liked. He had never been in a sinking ship before; the fact that he could survive it, no matter what, was no comfort at all.
“M’cal!” Kitala shouted.
He threw himself across the hall, landing hard on the edge of her doorway. She hung above him, against the bed. M’cal grabbed the frame, hauling himself up with brute force. Her legs were free, feet digging into the mattress, trying to take the strain off her arms. He touched her, and she cried out, surprised. M’cal grunted. He had forgotten it was pitch dark for her.
He pulled himself all the way up, his tail slithering against Kitala’s body. When he could lie flat on top of the bed frame, he took the knife from his mouth and began sawing carefully at the rope binding her wrists— hard work, since his own were still bound together.
“You need to hold the frame,” he told her. “Otherwise, when this rope splits, you will fall.”
“Okay,” she said breathlessly, but she almost slipped anyway when he made the final cut. Her arms were weak from hanging so long. He caught her wrists—felt torn skin, blood—and lowered her carefully so that she stood on the bottom of the bed, her feet on the planks of the frame.
M’cal let him himself down, shifting shape enough so that he could stand on his feet instead of his tail. The relief on his ankles was tremendous. Kitala said, “I can’t see a thing.”
“I am right here,” he murmured. “But we must cross from the bed to the doorway, and the floor is not where it should be.”
“I can’t see,” she said again.
“Wait,” M’cal replied, and crouched, flinging out his bound hands so that they hit the edge of the doorway. He still held the knife; the blade bit into his palm, but he ignored the pain, pulling himself over the empty space, bracing his body. “Kitala. Feel where I am. Use me as a guide, a bridge. Walk on my back.”
“M’cal—”
“Hurry.”
Kitala slid her foot onto his spine, and he gritted his teeth, waiting to bear her weight. Fortunately, she was not heavy, and she danced over him, blind, in one step. He held his breath as she teetered on the edge of the sideways doorframe, bent over to accommodate her height—but then she found her balance, and he hauled himself after her. The water was higher. M’cal thought of Koni.
“Jump,” he said. “I will be with you.”
“Right,” she murmured, and slid into the water, gasping. He followed, shifting his legs, biting back his own gasp as the shackle cut into his tail.
“Take a deep breath,” he told her, trying to keep his voice steady. “Put your arms around my neck. We have to find Koni.”
They went under, M’cal pulling Kitala with him. His hands were useless for almost anything but holding the knife, but he moved fast, trying to pay attention to her need for air—and also his need to find the shape-shifter.
The yacht was not that big; there were only two other rooms toward the bow. He got lucky on his first try, opening the door into a watery world. There were several electronic devices at the bottom, along with a mesh cage, the door swinging open. Just above it was the lower half of a naked man: arms, torso, two legs, and a waist, blood streaming from cuts. M’cal saw everything but a head.
He swam fast, rising, and much to his surprise, poked his head above water. It was a space only six inches deep—part of an alcove for a television set— but there was air trapped, and Koni was still alive, gripping the edge of a cabinet.
“Son of a bitch,” he spluttered, his eyesight apparently just as good in the dark. “What the hell took you so long?”
M’cal pulled Kitala up into the opening, and she gasped, taking a deep breath.
“Busy,” he said. “I assume you were in that cage below us.”
“For a while,” Koni said. “But then that lady did something to keep me from shifting, and her crazy fucking Igor—”
“—Ivan—”
“—whatever, took me out to town. I need a cigarette.”
“Are you wearing restraints?”
“I’ve never seen so many fucking handcuffs in my life,” replied Koni. “Woman pulled out a chest of them.
Jesus.”
“Take that as a yes,” Kitala said to M’cal, and he ducked back down, seeing what he had missed before: a long chain much like the one trailing behind him, leading to a set of shackles. The witch was not a woman to underestimate inhuman strength. And she was always prepared for guests. The yacht was specially outfitted for such visits.