I tried to shuffle forward on my knees. The sword was only ten feet away. But the pain was seething up through the muscles of my legs, every one swelling and straining with unimaginable heat, blistering my flesh from the inside out. I screamed and collapsed on my stomach.
This was it. I knew it. The pain was so much stronger: already, I was sweating and panting, eyes bulging with it. The idea of this spreading through my whole body was terrifying: my heart wouldn’t be able to take it. And if I died, I couldn’t help Rourke.
I looked across at the fight. Rourke was dodging and rolling, panting with the pain in his ribs each time he moved. He was using his arms to fend off vicious slashes from Ratcher and I winced as the knife sliced red lines across his forearms.
I turned back to the sword. Tried to bring a knee up under me so I could push myself forward. But moving just made the pain spread up through my legs and into my lower torso. I cried out again: I could actually feel the muscles locking tight, reacting to a nervous system gone haywire. My hamstrings were straining, the muscle fibers determined to rip themselves loose from the cartilage. I sobbed and choked, fighting the pain, trying to move my legs. But the slightest attempt to contract a muscle made the agony double.
I looked at Rourke. Ratcher had him pinned to the deck and was trying to stab down with the knife. Rourke was holding Ratcher’s wrists, the point of the knife hovering an inch from his chest.
I looked at the sword and scowled. If I couldn’t use my legs I’d use my arms, damn it.
I stretched out, clawed at the deck, and hauled myself along, letting out shuddering breaths as my legs were dragged, every jolt and scrape threatening to make me pass out. I moved six inches at a time: left arm, right arm, pull….
The pain rose up through my belly, up to my lungs. It felt like someone had thrust their hands inside my chest and was crushing the delicate balloons in their fists, squeezing the air from them. Then, to my horror, it reached my heart. It had been hammering but suddenly I felt my heartbeats stutter and…..
...pause. My eyes bulged. I was close enough to the sword now that I could see my own face in the shining scabbard. I’d gone deathly pale: not white but gray. The sweat was pouring off me but I kept clutching at the deck with my fingernails. Left arm. Right arm. Pull. My heart was beating but in short, rapid flurries, each pulse sending pain ringing through my body.
My vision blurred with tears. The pain flooded up through my shoulders and biceps, turning my arms to hooks and then my fingers to claws. It felt as if my flesh had been flayed away and I was scraping at the deck with raw bone. I’d never known anything could hurt this much. Left arm! Right arm! Pull! My vision was darkening. I couldn’t go on any further. I was going to—
My fingers brushed metal. I grabbed the scabbard and pulled it to me. Then I twisted onto my side. The movement sent pain rocketing up my spine. The muscles of my back were locking so hard, I could hear vertebra click and pop.
Rourke was flat on his back, the dive knife pricking at his throat as Ratcher tried to push it home. He was staring at me, his face distended in horror at what he could see me going through.
I summoned up all my strength and hurled the sword. The throw used every bit of my body: my arms, my back, even my legs. And the pain fought back hard. It took control of my body completely: every muscle started to spasm, my mouth opening in a scream but my lungs no longer able to work. As the pain increased, my heart rate rose with it until the pounding of it filled my ears and the beats blurred into one continuous sound. But every few seconds, there’d be sickening nothingness as it locked up and missed a beat.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. And I could hear myself dying.
65
Rourke
The point of the dive knife circled and dipped over my throat, the morning light glinting off the metal. Stopping it plunging into me was taking everything I had and, gradually, I was losing the battle. Ratcher was leaning forward, putting his weight into it, and the more I strained to push his hands away, the more my ribs burned and my chest ached. I had a feeling he’d really done some damage, with all that kicking.
The knife began to slowly sink, its point pricking the skin of my throat.
Something thumped into my side with a clatter of metal. I glanced down to see my sword.
I pushed the knife with all my might and then snatched one hand away to draw my sword. The knife started to come back down but then I stabbed and Ratcher had to jump back or my blade would have sunk right into his stomach.
I had to use the rail to pull myself to my feet. I could barely stand, between my leg and my ribs. But I was up. “Alright,” I muttered. “Alright, you fucker.”
I advanced on him, panting and staggering, one hand on my ribs. I was a mess but I know how to use a sword. Every time he stabbed with the knife, I was there to block it. I drove him back, back...and then I managed to hook the knife out of his hand and it clattered to the deck. He reached down and grabbed at something: the knife, I presumed. I brought the point of the sword to his neck, pinning him between it and the rail.
“Wait!” he snapped. Then, “Look.”
Not moving the sword a millimeter, I looked at what he had in his hand. It wasn’t the knife. He’d grabbed the stone. Shit!
“Thought it was to do with rocks, at first,” said Ratcher. “Maybe evidence of oil, or diamonds, and you were going to make a deal with some big mining company. But it’s her.” He looked across the deck and when I followed his gaze, my heart clenched tight: Hannah was lying on the deck, her spine arched and straining, her mouth open in a silent scream. “She’s dying, isn’t she? This’ll save her.”
“Yes,” I growled. And held my hand out for it.
But his lip twisted in a scowl. And I saw too late that this was about more than just revenge for the fortune I’d cost him, more than just our rivalry, even. This was about Hannah liking me, not him. Maybe about all women not liking him.
“Fuck you,” said Ratcher. And threw the stone.
I raised the sword and brought the pommel down hard on his forehead. He went limp and slid to the deck but my attention was on the stone as it fell through the air. I lunged forward, arm outstretched, but I wasn’t close enough—
The stone hit the water and sank towards the bottom of the sea.
66
Rourke
I wasted time. Three beats of my heart, the enormity of it flooding through me.
Then, gasping and wincing in pain, I climbed up onto the rail.
Behind me, I heard Hannah rasp “No!” And I knew she was right. Even if I was at full strength, this would be a bad idea. If I could catch the stone, by the time I got it, it would be deep. Far deeper than would be safe to free dive. With my leg barely working and my ribs broken, it was suicide.
I didn’t care. My only regret was that I didn’t have time to kiss her goodbye.
I dived off the rail and plunged into the water, my eyes searching for the stone. I couldn’t see it, at first: I had to just swim like crazy and pray that I had the spot right. The fear was rising in my chest: it was already out of sight and dropping fast towards the same bottomless pit the treasure had sunk to.
But it could only fall. I could power my way down. I aimed myself straight down and kicked, clamping my arms to my sides to make myself as streamlined as possible. My injured leg was a solid mass of pain, muscles swollen and throbbing, and every time I kicked the movement hammered metal spikes into the tissue. But I wasn’t giving up.
There! I could see it in the distance. I was catching up to it...but too slowly. Already, the water was getting darker and colder, the black stone becoming difficult to make out. I could feel my shattered ribs moving as if kneaded by invisible hands and it was agony. I knew it was the water pressure crushing my chest. I couldn’t go much deeper.
There was one thing I could do. My buoyancy was trying to draw me up to the surface and that was slowing me down. To catch the stone, I had to get rid of the air.
; I blew it out in a stream of bubbles, feeling my lungs contract. Immediately, I felt gravity take me. I picked up speed, the stone drawing tantalizingly close. I stretched one arm out in front of me. I was so close that I could feel its wake...but not close enough for my hand to close on it. I was gaining, but only an inch for every ten feet we descended. And we were dangerously deep now: well over a hundred feet and going down fast...and I had no air.
Below me was blackness. The sunlight from above couldn’t penetrate that far. I could barely make out the tumbling stone, had to just keep kicking and trust that it was there. My mind started to go hazy and sleepy and I knew, on some level, that my brain was being starved of oxygen. Worse, my chest and lungs felt...weird. I had no idea what damage Ratcher had done with his kicking, but something wasn’t right.
I kicked faster, faster, my body straining for speed. But the deeper I went, the more my mind relaxed. There was blackness all around me, now, and the water hugged me, cold and tight. It hurt my ribs but it was an embrace like no other. One I’d been waiting years for….
The sea had me. Just as it was always meant to be.
I kicked on and on, knowing what I’d find. And finally, my fingers brushed something. Not the stone. A hand. It clasped mine.
I stared into Edwards’ eyes.
I was dimly aware that I was still swimming, that I was descending and he was keeping pace with me. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt as if we were standing still in the blackness.
I’d heard his voice plenty of times since he died. I’d even answered: hell, I’d had whole conversations. But that was up on the surface. I’d never visited him down here, where he now lived. Here, my lips didn’t have to move and I could hear him just fine despite the water between us. And here, I could stop talking to him about gold and McKinley’s and working on the boat. I could say what I’d been wanting to say all along.
I’m sorry.
Edwards hugged me tight, wrapping me in an embrace even tighter than the ocean’s. And I felt my eyes go hot and then I was sobbing like a bairn. I don’t know how long he held me like that. I just know that it was enough.
He moved back and I reached for him: I didn’t want him to go. But he just looked at me and then looked up to the surface, towards sunlight and golden hair and an accent like sweet, fresh, country air. A place he no longer belonged.
Then he took my hand, stretched my arm out into the darkness, and closed my fingers. I felt something hard and stared down at my hand. When I looked at Edwards again, he was gone.
And suddenly I was swimming straight down into the black, the stone in my clenched fist. The hazy, slow feeling lifted and I stopped and looked around.
I was deep. Deeper than I’d ever been, without breathing equipment. And I had no air.
I turned tail and kicked for the surface as fast as I could. My chest felt as if an elephant was sitting on it and my ribs were being crushed by a tightening ring of iron. Things were moving in there, things that shouldn’t move. I could taste blood. Something was very, very wrong.
I kicked hard but I’d gotten rid of my buoyancy so every foot had to be earned. I started using my arms as well, clawing at the water. Already, my lungs were screaming at me to take a breath. My mouth wanted to open, to suck down a cool refreshing lungful of seawater, and it took all my willpower to resist.
Above me, I could see it getting lighter. But I still had a good way to go and now I was starting to see spots in front of my eyes. As I rose, I felt the fear begin to swell and leap inside me. Needing to breathe but not being able to: it’s a primal fear you can’t fight. But panic would drain what scraps of oxygen I had left even faster.
The water was definitely lighter, now, but my pace was slowing. My arms and legs felt like lead and my lungs were on fire. But if I was going to reach the surface, I couldn’t let the fear win. I had to think about—
The scent of her hair when she passed me in the narrow gangway—
The way her breasts moved under the sweater I gave her—
The water-slick curves of her body as she sat on that rock, singing. I remembered the song, every word burned into my memory. My heartbeat slowed. I kicked and clawed and rose towards the light and—
I gulped in air as I broke the surface, eyes screwed shut against a dazzling sun. I filled and emptied my lungs three times before I even opened them and it took another few breaths before my brain had enough oxygen to think. Something was wrong with my breathing. Inhaling should feel good but it hurt, a dull pain followed by a sharp one that doubled me over in the water. And instead of my strength coming back, it seemed to be fading.
I was dying.
I gritted my teeth. No time for that now. I’d surfaced not far from the Pitbull, which was listing badly and going down fast. The water was already halfway to the upper deck. I swam aboard and then climbed the stairs—God, even that was an effort. I was weak and shaky and my vision was blurring.
I found Hannah, staggering towards her as if I was drunk. She was horribly pale and her face was wet with tears. When I pressed my fingers to her throat, her pulse was faster than I could count and kept giving out entirely for long seconds.
I tore the pill bottle away from the stone and uncapped it. A thick, oily black liquid. It seemed insane that this could do anything. We didn’t even know what it was. But we were long past the point of playing it safe.
I lifted her head, opened her jaw and poured in the whole bottle, then made sure she swallowed. She coughed and choked, her lips coated in the stuff, but she kept it down. I laid her head gently down and took her hand.
And wavered, and nearly collapsed on top of her. I coughed and blood splattered onto the deck.
I slumped down next to her on my back, my hands going to my throat. I was on the surface, in clean, sweet air.
But I couldn’t breathe.
67
Hannah
I was in hell. I couldn’t see beyond a blue sky blurred by tears. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Every muscle was strained beyond its limits, every nerve ending close to burning out. Everything was pain. The world was jagged slivers of glass and I was being pushed through it faster and faster, powered by my racing heart.
I was aware of Rourke’s hand sliding into the mass of blonde hair behind my head, because it felt good. Then I was aware of him lifting my head because every tiny movement of my spine felt like the bones were being ground away with power tools.
A bottle pressed against my lips. The bottle. The contents glugged down my throat. It tasted of the olive oil I’d used to mix it but there was a sharp, metallic tang, too, like licking a coin.
My heart thumped harder and faster, deafening inside my head, and the skipped beats were coming more and more often. My veins throbbed and ached as if about to burst. I knew it wouldn’t work. Even if my ancestor’s story was true, we’d left it far too late. Nothing could work in time to—
It stopped. Not instantly but with such breathtaking suddenness that it felt that way. It felt like an army surrendering, one soldier throwing down his gun and then the action spreading through the ranks, moving in a wave. My muscles went limp one by one, my body loose and floppy on the deck. Almost immediately, there was a new wave of pain and I tensed…but it was just the muscles twitching and cramping after having been under strain for so long. I felt my heart begin to slow. I could breathe again. Oh my God….
I wasn’t okay. Every single part of me ached and throbbed. It felt as if I’d done something to my back: I could move, but it made me grunt in pain. A couple of fingers were bent at an unnatural angle and I figured I’d dislocated them while I’d been clawing at the deck. But I was alive. What the hell is that stuff? How did it work so fast?
Soaked in sweat and panting, I managed to roll onto my side to look at Rourke.
He wasn’t moving. He just lay there staring up at the sky.
“Rourke?” No response. “Rourke?!”
I put my ear to his chest. There were sounds, but not like any b
reathing I’d ever heard. Then I saw the blood on his lips. Oh Jesus. He’d injured himself, somehow, diving down to get the stone. His face was going rapidly pale. Then I looked down. Oh Jesus! His chest was swelling. A lung must have been damaged and air was escaping inside him, squeezing his heart.
He was going to die, right in front of me.
“Rourke!” I yelled. “What do I do?!”
But there was no reply. He was only semi-conscious and he couldn’t speak. I looked around frantically but we were alone. Every member of Ratcher’s crew had deserted him and Ratcher himself still lay unconscious against the rail. The Coast Guard would be coming, but they weren’t here yet: it felt like hours but it had only been minutes since the explosion.
“Rourke!” I yelled, close to tears. “Tell me what to do!”
His breathing was getting weaker, his skin paler. His eyes were closing. “Rourke!”
I started sobbing. I don’t know any of this! I’m not a doctor! All I do is read books! And he needed help now. I had to—I had to—
Not delay.
I heard a somber Scottish accent intone the words. In the case of air in the chest cavity compressing the heart, do not delay. Thrust a hollow needle into—
I drew in my breath. God bless The Shipboard Doctor.
I surged to my feet...and almost fell. The ship was going down and listing to one side. I half-staggered, half-crawled downstairs to the semi-submerged lower deck. Thigh-deep in water, I found a locker marked Medical and grabbed the bag inside, then hurried back to Rourke.
The bag held a bewildering array of equipment but I knew what I was looking for because the picture had given me nightmares for days afterwards. I grabbed a hollow needle, tore off the packaging, and used my fingers to find the right spot on his chest. Jesus, if I’m wrong, I’ll kill him—
Captain Rourke Page 29