“He’s so hot I can barely keep my—,” Lana said as Dorian convulsed, bent into a C, and erupted in a cough that sprayed bloody chunks over Sanjit’s face.
Lana did not waver, did not pull back, but Dorian coughed again, and now blood seeped from his ears and pulsed from his lips.
Lana stood up suddenly and backed away.
“Don’t stop,” Dahra begged.
“I can’t cure death,” Lana whispered.
Just then two kids appeared in the doorway carrying a third. Lana could see from clear across the room that the girl they were struggling to carry was already gone.
Dahra saw it, too. “Set her down,” she said to them. “Just set her down and get out of here, wash yourselves in the surf, and then go home.”
“Will she be okay? She lives with us.”
“We’ll do everything we can,” Dahra said flatly. And when they beat a hasty retreat, she added under her breath, “Which is not a damn thing.”
Lana closed her eyes and could sense the Darkness reaching out for her, questing, a faint tentacle reaching to touch her mind.
So this is how you destroy us, Lana thought. This is how you kill us off. The old-fashioned way: plague.
Chapter Nineteen
28 HOURS, 11 MINUTES
ORC TOOK A small detour on his way to the beach to tear his old home apart looking for a bottle. He found two.
With one bottle in each hand he headed toward the water. He was drinking from both bottles, a swig from the left, a swig from the right, and very soon he was finding the weight of feces in his pants almost funny.
“Orc. Man, where you been?”
Howard. Right there in front of him.
“Go away,” Orc said. Not angry, too happy now to be angry. “Orc, man, what is going on with you? I been looking everywhere for you.”
Orc stared dully at Howard. He drank deeply, tilting the bottle back so far he almost lost his balance.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Howard said. He stepped forward and reached for the bottle and got his fingers around it.
Orc’s backhand sent him flying. He had a sudden savage urge to kick Howard. Howard was looking at him as if he had already been kicked and not just swatted away. A look of betrayal. Of hurt.
Orc closed his eyes and turned his head away. Not up for this. He had turds in his pants, his head hurt, bad memories were bubbling up inside his brain, and he didn’t need this.
“Dude, come on, man, this isn’t right. I’ll take care of you, man.” Howard stood up and made a show of being fine. His voice was soothing, like he was talking to a baby. Or to some stupid animal or something.
“I got what I need,” Orc said. He held the two bottles out like trophies.
Howard stood cautious, ready to jump back. There was blood running from his nose. “I know you’re feeling bad about Drake. I know that, because you and I are best friends, right? So I know how you’re feeling. But that’s done. Anyway, it was just a matter of time, sooner or later it was going to happen.”
Orc liked this line of reasoning. But he felt like maybe there was a diss hidden in there, too. “’Cause no one could trust me, right?”
“No, man, that’s not it,” Howard said. “It’s just, no jail was ever going to hold Drake forever. This is all Sam’s fault, if had just done what he should have done—”
“I think I hurt some little kid,” Orc said.
Just like that. Out it came. Not planned. More like it had to escape. Like Drake: it was going to get out sooner or later.
The comparison made Orc laugh. He laughed loud and long and took another drink and was feeling almost cheerful until his bleary eyes settled on Howard’s face once more. Howard was grave. Worried.
“Orc, man, what’s that mean? What do you mean you hurt some kid?”
“I just want to go wash off,” Orc said.
“This kid you hurt. Where did it happen?”
“I don’t know,” Orc growled. He looked around like he might be in the right place. No, this wasn’t it. It was . . . He spotted a stop sign at the far end of the block.
There was a pile of rags at the bottom of the sign.
Orc felt an icy cold fill his body. Howard was still talking, but his voice was just a distant buzzing sound.
Orc stood staring, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to look away, unable to breathe. Stared at the little pile of rags that was so clearly, so terribly clearly, a body.
Memory. Orc was back in his old body, the one before, the one made of flesh and not rock. He was raising his baseball bat, intending to teach Bette a lesson. Just a tap. Just a smack to show her he was in charge.
He had never meant to kill her, either.
“I’ll get rid of it,” Howard was saying from far away. “I’ll hide it. Or something.”
It. Like the pile of rags wasn’t a little kid.
Orc walked away, numb, indifferent to Howard’s pleas.
It was a small, sandy area, not quite a cove, not really large enough to be much of a beach. It was just a sandy space between jumbled rocks on one side and a stand of scruffy-looking palm trees and grass on the other.
The five fishing boats—the fleet—were beached, pulled up onto the sand. It was like one of those picture postcards from quaint European fishing villages, Quinn thought. Not that the boats were very pretty, really, they were actually rather scruffy, and lord knew they smelled.
Still, kind of perfect.
Quinn and his fishermen had set up a reasonably pleasant campsite. There was never any rain so the fact that they had no tents or other cover didn’t matter.