The Storm King(116)

Black smoke now poured from the glass doors to the promenade. It rippled upward to the ceiling like whitewater captured in a long exposure. Beyond the furniture the children had piled in front of the exit, the glow from the fire had burgeoned to a noontime intensity.

Nate expected some negotiation between Tom and Owen as they choreographed their exit from the Century Room, but he knew he didn’t have much time.

More collapses shuddered from the landward side of the pier. Their crashes were answered with blasts of thunder from Medea.

The tall, south-facing windows had been meticulously boarded. Nate hurried to one near the back of the club, in the seating area beyond the pedestal that held the husk of the shattered aquarium. Most of these planks had been in place back when Nate was in high school, but others were fresh additions. The slats looked as thick and formidable as a wall, but Nate knew this place. He knew the Night Ship was rotted from its spires down to its pilings. The wood was like clay under his fingers. Even with his injured hand, it didn’t take long to rip out enough of the rusted nails to clear a section from the base of the window up to the height of his shoulders.

Only when he looked through the cracked pane during a blink of lightning did he realize the poor state of the boardwalk abutting this window. At least a third of the walkway flanking this side of the pier had fallen away. They’d have to be careful. Nate would risk braving the storm-pitched waters only as a last resort. The lake couldn’t be trusted.

Barking coughs sounded from the stairs while a flashlight beam cut through the bank of smoke that deepened against the arced beams of the ceiling. Tom must have forced Owen down ahead of him. When the huge man appeared at the base of the stairs, he had James slung precariously over his shoulder.



Owen wasn’t bearing the weight of the kid as easily as he had. The thickening air must have taken its toll on him. When he staggered from the stairs, Nate rushed to him with one palm raised in peace.

The big guy flinched when Nate helped him ease the boy to the floor. Then he took a few steps forward, bent over, and began coughing sludge up from his lungs. James was still unconscious, from either the smoke or Owen’s choke hold. Nate made sure the boy’s airways were clear and that he was breathing.

Owen retched in the dark, and Nate went to him. They weren’t supposed to fight each other. The universe was ruthless and cruel in the way it stacked chance upon chance. It was the enemy, not other people: least of all your own friends. It was only with your friends that you had a chance. But these were the ideals of better people born to luckier lives.

From the flashlight’s bounding beam, Nate knew that Tom was still on the floor above, but he’d reach them soon.

So many emotions churned inside of Nate. This place. This town. These people. They conjured so many things in him.

“You killed Lucy, but her death isn’t all on you, O,” Nate said. He wondered when was the last time Owen had received compassion. He wondered if anyone had ever told him that it’s never too late to be good. He grabbed Owen’s shoulder, as if they were friends again. Like they weren’t both monsters. As if all the years of rot had been pared away and they were back in that very first storm when Owen was a chubby kid with sleepy eyes and Nate was little more than undead. “It’s my fault, too. I see that now. And I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Owen was winded, still bent at the waist with his hands braced above his knees. He spat something thick onto the floor. “That doesn’t change anything.” His voice was a rasp almost lost beneath the pounding of rain and the crescendo of flames from the promenade. “You said you had an idea,” he said. “A way to get us out of this.”



“The other kids all got away, O. But I’ve still got to save this one. I can’t let you stop me.”

“Just tell me your idea,” Owen wheezed.

“You’re not going to like it.” Nate dropped to his knee and plunged a fistful of rusted nails into the Achilles tendon of Owen’s left leg. The man’s scream sliced through the roar of the fire and the howl of the storm.

So few of the Lake’s stories had heroes.

Nate scrambled to get James clear of the hulking man, but he wasn’t fast enough. As Owen toppled, he grabbed Nate’s ankle, sending him hard into the floor.

“Liar!” Owen roared. “Traitor! Still trying to play me like all your other puppets.” He yanked Nate toward him. Nate pawed at the planks he sprawled across. He knew he had to stand, he had to get clear. But he couldn’t.

“Pull a string and watch the Porker dance!” Owen made a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a howl. He pounded Nate in the ribs with the hammer of his fist, and it was like being hit by a car.

“You think I want your apologies?”

The pain in Nate’s side was worse than muscular trauma. At least one rib was cracked. He tried to call for Tom, but he could do no more than gasp.

Owen tried and failed to get to his feet, swearing with the pain that must have come from using his ruined leg. One of the nails Nate had stabbed Owen with clattered to the floor. Four inches long, dripping black, and gnarled by decades of winters. There were six more where that came from.

“You know when I actually wanted something from you? When we were kids. When Mom cut a chunk out of me once a week. And where were you? Where was the Storm King?” He kneeled on Nate’s spine and ground into the vertebrae. The pain was electric. Nate spasmed from his toes to his fingers. “But you still think you call the shots here. You’re not a god, Nate. Here, I’ll prove it to you.” Owen grabbed a fistful of Nate’s hair and pulled his head back. Pinned by Owen’s weight, Nate’s spine stretched and bent, and his brain couldn’t tell him where all the agony came from.