Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

lean-to, appeared immune. Inferior human senses? Or superior self-control?
     
    Dylan set his teeth and took a shallow breath.
     
    The rags moved. Moaned. Dylan distinguished a boot, the shape of a leg under a thin green army blanket, the corner of a sleeve, a hand. He frowned, his attention caught by more than smell or sight. Something about that hand . . .
     
    He took a step forward.
     
    95
    “Stay back,” Caleb ordered.
     
    “Who is it?”
     
    “Jones.” The beam from Caleb’s flashlight played over a thin face gleaming with sweat. “Where’s Regina Barone?”
     
    The man twitched, turning his head away.
     
    “Regina,” Caleb repeated inexorably. “Where is she?”
     
    Jericho stared at him a moment, his mouth working. And then his eyes rolled back in his head.
     
    “Damn it,” Caleb snapped. “Jones? Jones.”
     
    No answer.
     
    “Drunk,” Caleb said in disgust.
     
    Sweat broke out on Dylan’s forehead. His father’s gray and ruined face rose in his mind. This was what he came from, he thought in revulsion, what had sired him, what he could return to if he became entangled in human affairs: mortal flesh, human corruption.
     
    He forced himself to think logically. To observe dispassionately.
    There were differences, after all.
     
    Unlike their father, this man was not drunk.
     
    “No,” Dylan said.
     
    Caleb stiffened; turned. “You think he’s possessed?”
     
    “I—” Dylan allowed the fetid air through his nose. Smells thick as sewage rushed in on him, clogging, choking . . . He cleared his throat. He could discern a charred odor, an acrid taint burning his sinuses. Demon, yes, faint but unmistakable. And . . .
     
    “I think he is burnt.”
     
    “What do you mean, burnt?”
     
    96
    Dylan could not explain. He just knew. He surveyed the man lying under the blanket. Reaching for his bony wrist, he turned over his hand.
     
    Caleb hissed. “Holy Christ.”
     
    *
     
    The dark was worse than the cold.
     
    Regina could keep warm— well, warmer— by moving. But nothing could help her see, and her blindness hobbled and terrified her. She could not stumble more than a few feet without slipping and tripping over things. Rocks. Walls. She could not stand upright for more than a few steps in any direction. She was trapped underground. Buried alive. The blackness dragged on her, pressed on her, weighted her chest, swallowed her up. She was sweating, heart racing, throat tight, and she had to take long, slow breaths to keep from screaming, crying, battering her hands bloody against the cold stone walls in the dark.
     
    Swallow. Breathe. There was a way in. She was here, wasn’t she?
     
    Another breath.
     
    There had to be a way out.
     
    She just had to find it. On her hands and knees. In the dark. Her heart thumped uncomfortably.
     
    She explored her prison, fumbling, crawling with a hand or hip always pressed to the rough rock wall on her right so she could find her way back, so she wouldn’t get lost. Lost. She swallowed a sob. What a joke.
     
    She remembered a long-ago shopping trip to Freeport, the mall full of shoppers, and her kneeling to unzip Nick’s coat outside a store. “If we get separated, I want you to stay put, okay? Don’t move, and Mommy will find you.”
     
    She would have torn the mall apart looking for him.
     
    But who would be looking for her? How would they even know where to begin to search?
     
    97
     
    I’m sorry, Nick. Ma, I’m so sorry.
     
    The heel of her left hand was bruised from supporting her weight.
    Her knees ached. The fingers of her right hand were cracked and bleeding. But she figured out she was in some sort of— tunnel?
    chamber?— in the rock, bounded by water at one end. She sniffed. It smelled fresh. She lifted a cautious finger to her lips. The moisture was cool and welcome on her parched mouth and burning throat. But the drop left a mineral aftertaste, a warning hint of brine. With a sigh, she abandoned it and crawled the other way.
     
    The passage meandered up and down, over boulders and around curves, gradually getting narrower. Tighter. She bruised her knees; bumped her head; inched forward on her stomach until she was blocked, stopped, squeezed in the rock like a roach in a crack.
     
    She laid down her head, resting her cheek on the cold, damp grit, and cried. She gasped and keened and whimpered until her nose ran with snot and her throat was on fire. Water. She needed water. She wanted to get out. She