Undertow (Whyborne & Griffin #8.5)(26)
“Here,” I said. “Hold the smaller glass lenses to your eyes. This dial focuses them.”
“Ah.” She flashed me a grateful smile, then lifted the binoculars. After a moment of adjusting the focus, her smile died. Her lips curled back from her teeth, and when she lowered the binoculars, her expression was savage.
“They will pay for this,” she spat. “They will all pay.”
Mr. Quinn nodded. “Yes, Widdershins.”
I took the binoculars from her with trembling fingers. Even though I feared what I’d behold, I forced myself to find the whaling ship amidst the black sea, to adjust the focus until everything came into terrible clarity.
Men in robes lined the rails. They wore featureless masks, eerily similar to the bone mask from the play, and in their hands they held a variety of weapons: harpoons, rifles, nets, and pistols. Atop the bridge, in front of the stack belching smoke, stood Oliver. He, too, wore a robe, his arms lifted and his mouth moving as though he chanted. Joanna stood before him, once again wearing the bone mask with its strange symbol and cabochon. The decking was awash in blood, and someone had painted bloody symbols on the white bone.
I shifted the binoculars slightly, and saw where the blood had come from.
“No!” All the strength seemed to leave my arms, the binoculars too heavy to lift. “Irene…” And not just her, but the other hybrids: Burton, the man we’d seen last night, and more.
Persephone’s hand closed on my shoulder. “We will avenge them,” she said. Then she stiffened, her jaw tightening. “The singing—I hear it. We must hurry. They’ve begun to call up the ketoi.”
*
“Full steam ahead!” Mr. Quinn shouted. He flourished a heavy dictionary like a weapon in the direction of the whaling vessel. “Those armed with guns, to the fore! Hold your fire until we’re in range, then let them have it!”
I surrendered the binoculars to one of the librarians and gripped Persephone’s arm. She swayed slightly on her feet, her eyes narrowed with strain, her neck corded with effort. I didn’t dare interrupt whatever mental battle she fought to keep herself free of the siren’s song, but I would at least be on hand if her will failed.
Fins began to break the water around the whaler. Clawed hands reached up, gripping the side of the vessel.
The crack of gunfire sounded across the water, over the roar of the engine and the howl of the wind through the rigging. Harpoons flashed, spearing targets rendered vulnerable by the arc lights. Nets tangled batrachian limbs.
And above it all, the song of the siren, audible now even to my ears. Joanna stood beside Oliver, the hem of her dress dyed with blood. Her hair tumbled free, streaming in the wind, a black cloud around the pallid bone of her mask.
She sang in the same language as she had in the play. Even though I didn’t understand the words, this time I felt their meaning, perhaps due to some quirk of Oliver’s sorcery. She sang of despair, of darkness. Of surrender to forces so much larger than oneself. Of giving up the fight.
It robbed the will of the ketoi; even those who had been struggling gradually ceased, leaving them utterly helpless. As we drew closer, I could make out Oliver’s manic grin, his eyes alight with glee at his revenge.
“Fire!” called Mr. Quinn. Several rifles cracked, and a moment later, the cultists were returning fire against our little ship.
I ducked behind an equipment locker, dragging Persephone down with me. Bullets pinged against metal, as our small ship began to slow. Someone cried out in pain, while Mr. Quinn howled encouragement, and the waves broke over the rail and drenched me with water. Persephone growled, a low sound of rage, her muscles tight as wires beneath my hands.
What was I doing here? I couldn’t fight; couldn’t do anything but huddle in terror and pray no stray bullet came our way.
No. Persephone had asked me to come. She relied on me to help her now, while she fought the insidious influence of the song within the landscape of her mind. I might not believe in my ability, but I trusted her judgment.
A shudder ran through the ship as it fetched up against the whaling vessel. Harpoons thudded onto the deck. I pulled out the knife Mr. Quinn had given me. When a harpoon slammed into the crate, I rose from my crouch and slashed the rope before the cultist could recover it. I put the knife away and wrenched the harpoon free. It was heavy, but I felt better with it in my hands.
Mooring lines had been thrown between ships, and the librarians started to board. Mr. Quinn led the charge, leaping onto the heaving deck of the whaler and slamming his heavy dictionary into the head of the nearest cultist. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Ayers’s face beneath the hood as he collapsed into a heap.
“Come,” Persephone said to me.
I lent her my arm, and we emerged from cover and made for the rail. Two of the huskier librarians helped us up and over, and within moments, we stood on the enemy vessel. The deck was slick with blood, and there were several unmoving bodies, fetched up against the rail or slumped over the harpoon canon mounted at the bow of the ship. Near at hand, the librarians struggled with the cultists, while above the siren still sang.
And Oliver glared down, his face white with rage. “Faithless bitch! So you throw your lot in with them, even knowing they murdered our fathers?”
Before I could formulate a response, Persephone snarled. She flung out a hand, and frost raced across the rail Oliver leaned against. He drew back with a shout of his own.