I try to yell, but with Pepe’s fingers squeezing my throat, I can only croak out the words,
“Let go and back off, both of you!”
Toba scrambles back, tucking the Berretta behind her. “Listen to him, Pepe,” she says. “Please, he’ll kill you.”
The Cuban sighs, releases his grip on my throat and rolls off of me.
“That’s better, dear boy,” I say, getting to my feet, keeping my gun trained on him. “Now, why don’t you and your sweet little thing get back on your own boat?”
I wait while Toba helps Pepe to his feet, the man grimacing as the pain from his wounds hit him, putting all of his weight on his good leg, half hopping, half hobbling to the side of the Robalo. Motioning with the SigSauer for both of them to keep going, I watch Toba struggle to help him across to his boat.
As soon as they’re back in their cockpit I say, “Thank you both.” I point the SigSauer first at Toba and then aim it at Pepe. “And now we’ll have to end this. Please excuse this little indulgence of mine—it’s just something exciting I like to do now and then. I like you, dear boy. I’ll try to make this quick for both of you.”
“No! Get away, Pepe!”
Toba yells, backing away from me, her hand coming from behind her, pointing her Berretta at me.
But Pepe lunges toward me again, slowed by his wounded leg this time—slow enough to give me time to aim at his other leg and fire into his thigh. As he collapses, Toba aims her gun and fires.
The bullet slams into my right shoulder, shattering bone, digging into the joint. I scream the same high-pitched scream as I heard Jordan Davidson yell and let the gun drop from my hand so it falls into Pepe’s boat. My shoulder throbbing with pain, my right arm hanging and useless, I run back to my boat’s wheel.
Toba fires again as she unties her boat from mine, and shoots twice more as I turn the ignition with my left hand, each bullet whizzing by me and slamming into the Robalo’s fiberglass. I throw the throttles forward as soon as the engines fire, and race off into the dark, Toba firing one last time, the bullet buzzing past my right ear.
Gritting my teeth at the pain in my shoulder, I cut off my lights and steer a course toward the channel to Gables on the Bay.
“Good show,” Chloe says as she comes up from the cabin.
Frowning, shaking my head, I say, “Hardly. It was supposed to go a lot smoother. I just hope Pepe buys it.”
“Can’t think of why he wouldn’t,” Chloe says.
I go over it in my mind and nod. “Anyway, if he has any confusion, Toba will straighten him out. The girl’s a trooper. Everything changed and she still went along with it.”
The boat slaps across a small wave, sending a new jolt of pain through my damaged shoulder. “Oh, man,” I groan. “Who would think that a .25-caliber bullet would hurt this bad? Take the wheel, please. I need to heal this up.”
As arranged, we find Claudia’s speedboat and her men’s inflatable bobbing in the water near Gables on the Bay’s last channel marker—both boats dark, showing neither running lights nor anchor lights.
My body healed, back in my own human form, dressed in my own clothes, I say, “Quick,” as Chloe brings us alongside Claudia’s boat. “Get Davidson up here.”
He moans, but offers no resistance as Claudia’s men manhandle him onto the Robalo and force him into his pants and shoes. I have them put him in the boat’s helm seat. “Listen to me,” I say.
Davidson looks at my face, his skin drained of all color, his shirt soaked with his blood. “The police will be coming for you soon,” I say. “You’ve tried to kill two people—Pepe Santos and his girlfriend.”
“Pepe? Why would I do that?” Davidson says.
“Because you’re a sick fuck. You shot Pepe three times—twice in one leg and once in the other—with your SigSauer. You would have killed them both if the girl hadn’t shot you. Her bullet is still in your shoulder. . . .”
“But that’s not what happened,” he mutters. “You shot me.”
I smile. “They’ll testify that you attacked them. Your gun, with your fingerprints, was dropped in their boat. Ballistics and fingerprints will support their testimony. When they test your hand they’ll find you recently fired your gun.”
“No.” Shaking his head, Davidson says, “Pepe won’t lie against me . . . especially for you. He hates you.”
“Pepe won’t be lying. As far as he knows you attacked him.”
“But you did it! With them!” He points toward Chloe and Claudia.
“Tell the police that. They won’t believe you. They’ll tell you I was in jail all night. The women will swear that they spent the evening together at my house. Pepe and his girlfriend will testify that you tried to kill them. You tell the police whatever you want. But later, when the district attorney comes to you and offers you a very soft plea arrangement if you admit you’re the Nautical Killer, I suggest you forget your story and accept it.”
“My mother won’t let this happen. My paper will fight this!”
“Your mother will be heartbroken,” I say. “But my bet is, without you there, she’ll sell the paper for the first good offer. I think one will be made within the next few days.”
Davidson stares at me. “What type of monster are you?”
Grinning, I shrug. “Just being human,” I say.
We leave him on his boat. Claudia’s two men head north toward Dinner Key in their inflatable. The three of us speed toward my island in Claudia’s boat, our lights off. “Look!” Chloe says, pointing to the boat lights racing south and the others rushing north—all the patrol boats on the bay headed for the area where we left Toba and Pepe.
“It won’t be long before they come after Mr. Davidson,” Claudia says.
“Good riddance,” Chloe says.
Knowing even Claudia would struggle navigating it without lights, I take the wheel when we get to my channel. It takes me only a few minutes to negotiate its hidden twists and turns. Entering the harbor I find the dog pack nowhere in view, but smile when their barks, yips and growls sound in the distance as we pull up to the dock.
Chloe and I step off the boat. “Thanks,” I say to Claudia. “You can use your lights now. If anyone stops you, you’re just heading home after spending the evening with Chloe.”
“Sure you don’t want me to stay for a while?”
“Just come out in the morning. All we want now is something to eat, and then sleep,” Chloe says, putting her hand on my shoulder.
We stand, our bodies touching, and watch her motor away.
“So?” Chloe says, bumping her hip against mine. “You think this ends it?”
Something splashes in the harbor and I stare out at the dark water. “Some of it,” I say, wondering why no dogs have come to the dock yet, why even Max hasn’t padded up to greet us.
I whistle for him. He answers with a short bark, followed by a low, rumbling growl. Looking toward the sound, I finally make out his black form lying crouched in the dark shadows near the far end of the dock, staring at the bushes, ready to attack.
The bushes rustle. I grin, turning toward Chloe, and say, “He must smell a raccoon or a possum in there.”
She stares at the bushes, her eyes growing wide, and points. “No, Peter, look!”
I spin around, gasp as a Pelk warrior, his trident held in front of him, crashes through the greenery and rushes toward me. A second Pelk follows and Chloe yells, “They’re everywhere!”
41
“Run for the door to the treasure room!” I shout, and Chloe dashes for the door hidden in the bushes behind us. My eyes on the lead Pelk, I shift my position to block any possibility that he might follow her. Bracing for his attack, I try to shift into my natural form before he reaches me, my clothes ripping from my body as it grows and changes.
But he’s on me before my change finishes, his trident arcing toward me, slicing a deep gash across my cheek. Half screaming and half roaring at the pain and at the shock of smelling my own blood, I back up, trying to concentrate on speeding my change. The Pelk warrior follows me, repositioning his trident so he can thrust forward, waiting for the right moment to come in for the kill.
His muscles tense and I suck in a breath, expecting his attack. But just as he lunges forward, a black form flies through the air between us. Teeth bared, hackles raised, Max crashes into the warrior, knocking him down.
Hissing, rolling away from the dog’s attack, the Pelk scrambles to his feet and thrusts his trident toward me. Max catches him in mid-thrust, the dog chomping his massive jaws down on the Pelk’s forearm, biting through it. The Pelk warrior yowls and drops his trident.
Max drops back and darts forward, biting him again. Two other dogs charge onto the dock and rush at the second Pelk, and suddenly the night erupts with the barks and growls of the whole pack. Dog after dog, they stream onto the dock, their clawed feet skittering on the wood as they rush to engage each Pelk who reaches the dock.
I finish changing shape, grab the trident and join Max’s attack on the lead Pelk warrior, plunging the trident into the creature’s chest. As soon as he falls, I yank the trident out and whirl around, attacking the nearest Pelk. Max stays close, fighting beside me, biting limbs and tails, jumping and tearing at throats.
Around us, Pelk roar and howl. Dogs yelp as they’re speared or gouged. The air thickens with the sweet smell of fresh blood. But even with Max’s and the other dogs’ help, I know I’m too exposed. I block lunging tridents with mine, slash and kick and bite my way toward the wall, so at least my back will be protected. When I get there, I glance toward the water, see more Pelk swimming toward us, their tridents ready, and groan.
{
Chloe?
} I mindspeak, masked.
{
I’m inside, almost at Henri’s room.
}
{
I need your help. Quick!
} I mindspeak. {
Use the Uzis first!
}
Three Pelk rush me at once. I bury my trident into one, pull his trident from his hands and use it to ward off the second Pelk. The third one attacks from my side, slicing my left thigh open. Max chomps down on his tail, shaking his head as he digs his teeth deep into the creature’s flesh.
Hissing, the Pelk swivels, swinging his trident around, ripping through the dog’s coat just above his right front leg. Max whimpers, but continues to bite down, blood pouring from his wound, soaking his dark fur.
I refuse to see my dog killed for defending me. Growling, holding my trident as I had with Jessai, I batter the second Pelk with a flurry of blows, driving him back, knocking his trident from his claws.
Wheeling around, I swing my trident in an arc, slicing the throat of Max’s attacker. My return swing severs his neck and he collapses. Pivoting back, I find the second Pelk rearmed. Before I can react, he darts forward and plunges his trident into my chest, just above my heart.
Pain shoots through me. I stare at the Pelk. He stares back, waiting for me to fall. I recognize him as one of Mowdar’s more junior warriors and slowly shake my head. Maybe Mowdar or one of his lieutenants can best me, but I will not be beaten by this insignificant creature.
My anger brings on a new surge of adrenaline. It rushes through me, temporarily overwhelming my pain and erasing my exhaustion. A growl rumbles up from deep inside me. If I am to die soon, I want no more of distant combat. I want to feel my claws rip through Pelk flesh. I want to taste Pelk blood.
Dropping my trident, I grab the shaft of his with my right foreclaw. The Pelk’s eyes grow wide. He tries to yank the trident out of me. It resists and he pulls harder, tearing the flesh inside me as the trident starts to pull free. Howling from the pain, I tug along with him, helping him tear the trident from my chest with my right foreclaw—slashing out at the same time with my left, ripping a gouge from the Pelk’s stomach to under his jaw.
Blood pouring from his massive wound, he sways in place. I lunge at him, catch his throat in my jaws and rip a huge chunk from it as he falls. Ordinarily I would spit it out. Except to honor a valiant foe, my kind does not feed upon itself. But pain racks my body and exhaustion threatens to overwhelm it. I need food. My empty stomach convulses at the taste and smell of the Pelk’s fresh meat and blood.
Swallowing it, I let out a roar. I attack his body again, howling as I tear chunk after chunk from the Pelk’s carcass, gulping each down for my body to use.
“Since when does our kind feed on each other?”
Mowdar mindspeaks.
I look up and find the remaining Pelk have stopped advancing. I see no sign of their leader among them and mindspeak,
“Since when does Mowdar hide from sight?”
“I have no need to show myself—not yet.”
The Pelk warriors begin to back away, leaving six of their own and four dogs lying dead on the deck behind them. My remaining dogs slink after them, crouched and prepared to spring, rumbling low growls.
“Undrae, enough! I’ve called my men back for a moment. Call your beasts off.”
I whistle and the dogs stop. One by one, they slip back, settling on the dock in front of me, licking their wounds. “So?” I mindspeak.