Leashing the Tempest (Arcadia Bell #2.5)(12)

And it only got worse. The door at the end of the hall opened to the inner helm and a stronger, acrid burning smell. Curved windows provided gray light and a front row view of the storm raging outside on the bow of the yacht. Beneath those windows was a bigger console of equipment and two pilot seats. And the burn marks we’d seen in the hallway were here, too—just bigger.

“Fuses blown,” Lon said, looking at a panel on the wall. “Lightning must’ve overloaded the electrical system and caused a massive surge. Unbelievable.”

“Another VHF radio.” I picked up the handset and pressed the red emergency button several times in rapid succession—as if one lucky push would restart the system. “It’s dead, too.” Everything was dead. No lights on the gauges.

“We’re standing below the bridge,” Lon said, looking up. “You can see where the strike went through the ceiling, rode down the walls, and went through the floor. Christ. We’re lucky it didn’t set the whole boat on fire.”

I glanced out the window as Lon inspected the damage. The lightning and thunder had abated, but the storm was roaring. Waves crashed over the bow as the yacht pitched from side to side. But one of those waves, when, a waves, it receded, it left behind a dark shape on the deck.

I leaned toward the window, straining to see through the sheet of rain obscuring my view, and just for a split second I could’ve sworn the dark shape was . . . crawling.

Not sliding. Not shifting. Not floating.

Crawling. With legs or arms or . . .

My thoughts shot back to the downed ward on the bridge. Panic ousted the adrenaline high I’d been riding.

“Something’s on the boat!”

Lon rushed to my side. “Where?”

Another wave arced over the bow, blanketing the dark shape. When it receded, there was nothing there.

“Where?” Lon said again.

Heart racing, I pointed to the spot and blurted out a crazed description of the dark figure. But as we intently scanned the bow for a sign of anything at all, anything that would give rational meaning to what I’d seen, we saw nothing at all. No deck chair, loose garbage bag, blanket. Nothing.

“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Do you think I’m just panicking about the ward?”

“Maybe,” Lon said. “Could’ve been a big fish. Shark. Killer whales are black, and they’re out here. Crazier things have happened than them landing on a boat for a moment.”

“That’s probably it,” I said.

“We should . . .”

“Yeah, of course.” God, I hated feeling paranoid. Hated that Lon was hearing my panicky embarrassment, but at least he wasn’t giving me any grief about it. He was too busy rummaging through cabinets on the back wall, dumping out the contents as he went. Power cords, computer cables, and boat manuals piled up at his feet.

“What are you looking for?”

He unlatched the last cabinet and made a happy noise as he withdrew a small case. Inside, snuggled in molded foam, lay a toy-like plastic gun, the color of a brand-new basketball.

“Emergency flares,” he said, shutting the case and tucking it under his arm.

Hope blossomed inside my chest as I trailed Lon to the salon and rejoined the group.

“Will they work in the rain?” Jupe asked when his dad unveiled his find.

“Rain, snow, sandstorm.” He loaded a fat orange shell into the chamber with sinewy fingers and a palpable confidence. I hoped he was right, and that this wasn’t just his avid love of guns talking.

I stood between Jupe and Kar Yee, watching as Lon opened the door to the salon, raised the gun toward the gray sky, and fired off four flares in different directions. Firework-bright red light and smoke streaked through the rain and lit up black clouds from within.

When he was done, Lon struggled to close the door against intense winds that howled from the stern and carried the sharp scent of sulfuric binof sulfchemicals from the fired flares. “Don’t want to use them all up,” he said, securing the gun back inside the case. “Might need to launch more of them when the storm passes.”

Were they bright enough to attract attention in the middle of a nasty storm? Was there anyone around to see them?

We had our answer seconds later, because someone saw them all right.

Or something.

That black figure I’d been trying to convince myself was good-old-fashioned paranoia? It passed over the starboard windows as it climbed to the roof above us.

Jupe cried out near my ear, then jumped behind me. “Ohmygod, ohmygod . . .”

“What the hell!?” Kar Yee shouted.

“Did you see that?” I said. “You saw it, right?”

“I saw it! What did I see?”

“Jesus, Cady,” Lon mumbled. “You were right.”

“What is it?”

Jupe latched on to the back of my shirt. “Where is it?”

“Everybody hush,” I said.

We all glanced up at the ceiling, trying to hear something beyond the howling winds and sheeting rain and our own labored breathing. I swayed on my feet and bumped into Jupe, who started in fright, then whispered an apology before plastering himself against my back so firmly I could feel his heart racing.

The roof creaked. Or maybe it was the boat rocking. I held my breath, eyes rotating in their sockets as I desperately searched the ceiling. Moments later, a muffled Boom! above the TV made us all jump.