Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(95)

“What’s that?” Occam asked.

“One of the potential pyro paras was a salamander. According to mythology, salamanders were created in volcanoes but live in freshwater environments.” I looked around. “We got freshwater. Water that was heated somehow, enough to parboil the fish swimming in it. We got eggs. Someone—something—hatched babies here.” I looked up at the cliff face and the slimy steps. Slimy from salamanders coming and going? “The entire yard above is dead, burned at the roots, though still greenish in places. The trail of dead vegetation leading to the river is a lot more dead, as if it was injured more often, for a longer time, as something went back and forth to the river.” Still holding the shell, I bent and placed my fingertips in the water. “The river water’s heated. Warmer than good dishwater.” I shook my head as disparate and formerly unrelated bits of evidence began to settle in place. “Perfect for keeping eggs warm to hatch? Or maybe the eggs hatch on the shore and the warm water is just a result of their physiology? Pyros who live in water at least part of the time. Pyros who are attacking the Tollivers. Maybe trying to take their places. Maybe already took their places, long ago.”

I walked up the beach. On the sand, I found a matching part to the shell in my hand and pieced them together. The creature that had been contained in it, assuming it was boneless like a tadpole, shaped like one, and could curl up tight, might be a slender five feet long with a small, narrow head, or three feet long with a wider head and body. I could imagine it weighed anywhere from ten to twenty pounds, but if it wasn’t an Earth creature, then weight-to-mass ratio might be different. If the substance from which its body was composed was more dense than an Earth organism, then gravity, while still a constant, might make it heavier than similar-appearing material.

Weight-to-mass ratio. I was surprised I remembered that. I had tried to educate myself on mathematics while Leah was dying, but a lot of it was hard to understand without a teacher. I had given up on lots of learning for just that reason.

Out in the water, about two feet deep, I spotted something pale. Ovoid. Solid. An unhatched egg? I handed Occam the broken shells and my jacket, then pulled off my field boots and socks, tossing them to the beach. Rolled up my sleeves. Pea leaped from Occam’s gobag and raced up and down the beach, chittering at me as if she found me amusing or alarming.

“Nell, sugar, what the Sam Hill you doin’?”

I rolled up my pants legs above the knee, conscious that no one had seen my knees since I was twelve. Even John hadn’t seen my naked legs. I felt embarrassed, shy, and daring all at once. “Getting that.” I pointed at the shell. “It might be whole. And what’s inside would tell us everything we need to know.” I stepped into the water. Warm, bathwater warm.

“Nellie, stop,” Occam said. No. Demanded.

I flashed him a look. Pretty sure it was Mama’s look when one of her young’uns got uppity. I took a deeper step, the water to midcalf, then deeper to my knees as I walked out.

“Nell, let me do this.”

I ignored him. This little woman did not need protection from a little water. The river temperature rose to uncomfortable as I stepped deeper. Then one more step, the water just above my knee. The egg was only about a foot away. With the toes of one foot, I scooted the egg closer to me, the warm water wetting my pants where they were rolled. Pea chittered again, sounding less amused now.

“Nell!”

“Don’t bark at me like a dog,” I said, ignoring him otherwise.

“I smell something. Something bad.”

“It’s rotting fish.” The egg was heavy, twirling in a circle instead of inching closer. I wriggled another inch out, my foot now buried in the sandy bottom, my pants legs quite wet. But I got a firmer toe grip on the shell and pulled it toward me. Stepped back and pulled it again. “Got it,” I said, easing it closer to shore. I stood on two feet and bent to pick it up.

Something sliced through the water, fast as a fish. I felt it touch my wrist and I jerked away. Splashing the water. I held up my arm. My wrist was bleeding. Three distinct, but not linear slashes.

“What the . . . ?” Occam growled.

The water splashed and swirled. I turned to race from the river.

My feet flew out from under me. My ankles in a vise. I hit bottom on one hip. Was dragged under. Deeper. Into blacker, hotter water. The current caught me as I flailed. Fighting. Pulled deeper. Blacker. Hotter.

Something gripped my wrist, slicing, multiple times at once. Something else caught my short hair. Pain cut at my abdomen. Above me, a three-fingered hand slashed down. I jerked back my head. Claws caught my collarbone. Different sizes of clawed tadpoles.

The need to breathe strangled me. Water burned. Need to breathe. Breathe. Breathe!

Deeper. Hotter.

I pulled my gun. Shoved it hard against one of the things that held me. Squeezed the trigger. Heard a thump. Saw nothing.

Suddenly the things let me go. They were just gone, in a frenzied mass. I whirled in the water. Face-to-face with glowing eyes and killer teeth. The fangs reached out and snagged my shirt at the shoulder. Tugged me upward.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe! I needed to breathe! I swallowed water. More water. Gagged.

I kicked hard. Harder. Desperate for air. Caught in a current that pulled me down. I swallowed more water fighting not to breathe the water in. The teeth pulled me upward, toward the light.