With a crackle of cartilage and marrow, Odin-Vann’s ribs opened like laced fingers, splaying wide, revealing the naked muscle of his heart. It clenched like a fist, red and thumping with terror, hung between the lobes of his gasping lungs.
Petra nodded to herself. Deftly, she manipulated the brooch directly in front of Odin-Vann’s palpitating heart. It revolved softly, casting prisms of light over the hollow of gore beyond.
And then, with an apparently reluctant flick, Petra plunged the brooch directly into Odin-Vann’s heart, sinking it deep into the muscle, burying it completely. In response, a wave of stunning heat and light exploded from the point of entry, blasting out in a shockwave, encompassing Judith and blowing past James and Petra.
Odin-Vann shrieked and jerked backwards in his cocoon of force, and this time James sensed that it was indeed an exclamation of monumental pain. But there was surprise in it as well, for Odin-Vann’s heart did not stop beating. Despite being impaled with the brooch, the organ continued to clench rhythmically between his lungs, pumping desperate blood, so fast and hard that it appeared to convulse. Only now, the silvery thread extended from his heart, spread through the air like a ribbon of smoke, and stabbed into Judith’s breast, where the brooch had been pinned only moments before.
With a cold flick, Petra closed Odin-Vann’s ribs again, and then sealed the meager muscle and pale skin back into place, leaving not so much as a scar.
“You chose your new host,” Petra said, turning to face Judith, damning finality in her voice. “And thus I cannot kill you. Nor could I do so even if I wished, for history will find its way to keep happening.
All I can do is nudge it in a new direction, hope for a new ripple of events that will lead to your eventual and total defeat. You have chosen this man to be your host instead of me. His lifeblood is your root to this world. Thus, he shall also be your tether and prison. If you venture further than the sound of his heartbeat,” here, Petra reached out, twined her fist around the pale ribbon that connected them, and gave it a hard, merciless tug. Odin-Vann wrenched and screamed, clutching a hand over his heart. Petra nodded with satisfaction. “The thread will go taut, and he will die. Your key to this realm is now your ball and chain. He will be your undoing, at the hands of those who are now more powerful than you. Begone, petty creature of the abyss. Your time here is soon ended.”
And with that, Petra swept her left hand back from the shoulder, flinging Odin-Vann away like a comet. He vanished into stormy distance, leaving only the echo of his shocked scream.
Judith spared only a split second to bare her teeth before rocketing off in pursuit of him, following the thread that now bound them.
James turned to watch, but they were already vanished, lost in the heaving pall of the storm.
“Where did you send him?” he asked, still searching the clouds.
“The first of the six lost cities of Atlantis,” Petra answered, sighing with weariness. “There are air pockets there that are a thousand years old, and nothing else alive for a hundred leagues in any direction.
That will keep them busy for a little while, at least.”
He turned back to her. They still floated high over the waves, protected from the raging storm by the subtle cushion of her swirling powers. “You didn’t kill him,” he said with some wonder. “He killed you. But you let him live…”
“You asked me to,” she replied, and shrugged. “And it wouldn’t have worked if I had. Odin-Vann really was right. History can’t be changed by major alterations. We have to steer things only slightly differently, and hope for the best.”
James shook his head in happy disbelief. He reached for her, touched her hand through the swirling glow of power. “I can’t believe this is happening. It feels too good to be true.”
“It is,” she said, and her diamond eyes clouded, her knees suddenly buckled. James reached to catch her, to support her as she went momentarily limp. The cocoon of warmth and light all around them contracted. They dipped suddenly, dropping fifty feet in a second before bobbing uncertainly up again, this time barely above the hungry, mountainous waves.
“I think I used up most of what you gave me,” she gasped, clutching onto him for support. “I’m fearful that it wasn’t life force.
Only power.”
He held her up, supported her in his arms, concern darkening his thoughts. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head. Her eyes had returned to their normal blue.
James couldn’t tell if this was an encouraging or worrying sign. She said, “We’re on borrowed time. We need to get back to the ship.”
Firming her grip on his elbow, she concentrated, directing the dwindling bubble of her force through the storm, aiming for the Gwyndemere where it foundered, listing over the waves, still crusted with ice.
“Someone comes!” a voice bellowed.
“Wands up!” another commanded.
“Wait!” a third voice cried. It was James’ father, thankfully.
“That is my son and his friend, Petra Morganstern! Make room! They approach quickly!”
Petra lowered them to the ship’s stern, which heaved and rolled beneath them, shifting dozens of feet every few seconds, making landing especially difficult.
“James!” his father cried, reaching to catch him by the arm and shoulder as he stumbled to the deck. Next to him, much to James’ surprise, Persephone Remora collected Petra as she lowered, her protective bubble blowing away into the storm, her legs giving out as the deck swelled beneath her.
“What has become of the Lady?” a deep voice asked, stiff with urgency. Merlin shouldered near, his beard streaming in the gale.
“Not defeated, Headmaster,” Petra answered, recovering slightly, though still supported by Remora. “But her power is lessened. And she can now be tracked, for she is hobbled to her human host, a young man named Donofrio Odin-Vann. Find him, and she will be nearby.”
Remora nodded, although the look in her eyes betrayed her confusion. “Who was she? An ocean sprite? A siren? I have heard of such beings, though never encountered one of such malignant force.”
“She is neither,” Merlin replied gravely, though James thought he detected a certain cautious eagerness in the headmaster’s stern gaze.
He had only just learned of Judith’s existence, and yet he had leapt immediately to certain deductions about her origins, as well as a plan for how to confront her, next time in his own element, and with much different results.
“We have to get below decks,” Harry called over the roaring storm, dismissing these mysteries for the moment. “It appears that everyone is once again present and accounted for. Let us keep it that way. Headmaster, lead on…”
“No,” James said, tugging his father’s arm. “You don’t understand! This is no regular storm. It’s one of her curses—the Lady that Petra and Merlin are talking about! I don’t have time to explain it now, but it’s not going to just blow over! She unleashed the storm on us to stop us! To kill us and anyone we’re with!”
One of the sailors nodded meaningfully, clapping a hand to his head to secure his hat. “I don’t know about any lethal Ladies, but the boy’s right,” he shouted, struggling to be heard over the thunder. James was gratified to see that it was Barstow, the first mate. “I’ve seen gales all across the seven seas, and this tempest beats them all! It has intent, I tell you. It won’t let loose without sending us to the depths, this one!”
As if in response, the Gwyndemere tilted before a blast of wind, nearly capsizing to starboard, forcing those on deck to grasp onto railings and rigging and each other. Precipitously, the ship swung back again, groaning in its wallowing guts.
“James is right,” Petra shouted, standing straighter and pushing away from Remora. “This storm was summoned by the Lady before her powers were diminished. If we were nearer civilization or land, the headmaster and I might be able to dispel it. But here, on the ocean…”
She glanced aside at Merlin, who nodded, reluctantly.
“Th
e ship already lists and founders,” Barstow bellowed, clinging to the shattered base of the aft mast with one huge hand. “If any of you has any magical idears, I’d say put ‘em to use now or prepare to meet your makers!”
Petra nodded at Barstow, and then took a step back toward the stern, somehow remaining upright on the heaving, dipping deck.
Splinters of broken mast streamed back and forth around her feet, carried on rivulets of storm water. Lightning lit her in constant strobes.
“Go below,” she declared firmly. “All of you.”
James saw her intent, even if he didn’t yet understand it. He pushed away from his dad and reached for her, nearly stumbling to the deck himself. “No, Petra,” he said, reaching for her hand, trying to pull her along. She closed her hand within his, but refused to move.
“Petra,” Harry Potter said, raising his voice over the gale, managing to sound perfectly calm. “Whatever you have in mind, there are surely better options—”
“There are not.”
These words were spoken not by Petra, but Merlinus. He was still standing next to Harry, his beard streaming, his heavy robes heavier with rain. His eyes were on Petra, piercing, calculating, measuring. He shook his head, as if reading the answer on her face, in her very posture.
“There are no other options. We cannot best the storm by power. And it will indeed take us into the depths before its hunger is sated. We have bare minutes left. If Miss Morganstern has a plan—”
“NO,” James bellowed, his voice rough with shock and betrayal, his hand still clinging to Petra’s. “How can you let her do this?”
“James,” Merlin said, lowering his voice and yet somehow making himself heard over the roar of wind and lash of rain. When James glared back at him, finally looked into his eyes, the headmaster said his name again. “James… this is Petra’s hard choice. You already made yours. You let her go. Her destiny is her own now.”
“NO!” James cried again, firming his grip on Petra’s hand.
There was no connection between them anymore. He could not sense her plan, or feel her intent. And still he understood what she meant to do. He understood simply because he knew her, and loved her. “This isn’t what I meant! I won’t let her do it!”
“James,” his father said, moving closer, struggling to steady himself on the reeling deck, his glasses streaked with rain. He reached out his hand to James, to both of them. “Come below. Let us discuss this…”
Petra shook her head sadly. “You were so good to me, Mr.
Potter. I’ll never forget. Please watch over Izzy.”
“Come below and watch over her yourself, Petra,” he smiled. It was a stubborn smile, but even James saw the hopelessness of the gesture.
Remora spoke up in a shrill voice, her eyes blinking owlishly.
“What am I to understand is going on here? Does this young lady have some task to perform? Is she to be…?” She glanced back and forth between Merlin and Harry.
Barstow crooked his arm into Remora’s as the wind suddenly pushed her, nearly bowling her over the side. “Whatever she intends to do,” he called, “I say we let her get to it! We’re like to break up at any moment now!”
“Go below,” Merlin said, nodding to Remora and Harry. “I shall vouch for James’ safety, and escort him down presently. There are goodbyes to be had, I fear, and we should respect them.”
Barstow nodded robustly and led Remora to the mid-ship stairs and the door below decks.
Harry was obviously unwilling to leave his son and Petra.
“James!” he yelled, squinting through his spattered glasses, “you obey the headmaster! When he says come, you come! Understand?”
James gulped hard, reluctant to promise anything, but equally understanding that his father was one blink away from physically carrying him below decks. Haltingly, he nodded.
“This is madness,” Harry called to Merlin. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“No indeed,” the headmaster declared, still observing Petra.
“But Miss Morganstern does. And we shall not underestimate her, methinks.”
Clearly warring with himself, Harry glanced back at James, frowning with consternation. “Your mother will kill me if anything happens to you!” he said, raising a stern finger in his direction. “Bear that in mind, son!”
With that, he turned, groped to the stairs through the driving rain, and worked his way down, clinging tight to the bannister.
The ship turned sluggishly, trapped in a raging, circling cyclone.
Rain beat the waves into froth all around, even as the wind drove them into ragged peaks, seemingly as tall as the clouds.
“James,” Petra yelled to him, still holding his hand, her hair now plastered to her head in shining ribbons. “I told you about this. In the Time Between the Times. Do you remember?”
He shook his head firmly. Refused to look into her eyes. He grabbed her other hand and looked down at them, at their clasped hands between them.
He did remember, but refused to admit it.
Petra went on. “I told you that you wouldn’t like the end. But I asked you to accept it. I hope you do, James. Because I have to do this now, no matter what. Only, it will be easier knowing that you don’t hate me for it.”
He wrestled with his emotions, squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to burst out in rage, or pleading, or tears. He couldn’t look at her.
“We’ve been through this!” he cried, his voice strained. “Judith wanted you to die. But you don’t have to!”
“It’s one thing to die for weakness,” she said, grasping his hands tighter, begging him to meet her eyes. “It’s another thing to die for love.
And payment. It’s why we were sent back to this time. Not for Judith’s and Donofrio’s plan. I know that now. I’ve killed, James. Long before you or Lucy asked me not to, I gave in. I murdered. Blood calls for payment. If I don’t make up for that now, even if I live another thousand years, I’ll never repay the debt of guilt. This is my one chance.”
“We can outrun the storm!” he demanded, panic straining his voice. “We did last time!”
“You stopped the storm last time with this!” she yelled, raising his right hand in hers. “Your love, my power! You paid the price that I was meant to, but only for a time! That’s why we’re right back where we started. Because fate has a bigger story to tell! This isn’t losing to Judith. It’s my chance to balance the scales!”
James refused even to consider Petra’s words. He shook his head, cascading rainwater from his blowing hair.
The storm surged lower. Waves pushed the ship into a disastrous list, washed over the bow and battered the galley walls. The hull twisted and splintered, groaned deep in its very bones as the tempest condensed around it.
James had no words. Still he could not look up at her. He sensed Merlin standing back, observing, but not interfering. He would neither stop Petra, nor compel her. She would make her own choice, and he would respect it. No matter what.
The storm would claim its own.
Petra let go of James’ hands. She stood back from him, lowered her arms weakly to her sides, waited just a moment longer.
James finally raised his eyes to her face. She was watching him, risking everything for one final moment.
He said the only words that came into his mind. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
She seemed to accept this, and to nod agreement. Raising her voice, she asked, “You don’t hate me?”
He slumped a little, even smiled a little with the absurdity of it.
“Petra…” he said, and then could say no more. His throat tightened with sadness. His eyes blurred, but he refused to look away again, refused even to blink.
She understood. She gave a wan, relieved smile of her own. She nodded, and then raised her pale hand in a last gesture. It was halfway between a benediction and a goodbye. And then, with her hand still raised, she turned around, looked out over the stern railing, faced the tempest
as it collapsed all around, turning the sky black with heaving, boiling clouds.
It seemed to sense her. It condensed further, contracted, like a beast preparing to pounce.
Petra raised her other hand now, and spread her arms, both palms up. She tilted back her head and closed her eyes up at the storm.
The wind and rain lashed down at her as if she was a magnet.
She welcomed it, drew its attention to herself with the last of her prodigious, sorceress powers.
Gently, she pushed up to her tiptoes on the wet deck. And then, silently and slowly, she drifted up into the heavy air, leaving the struggling Gwyndemere to drift on without her.
Immediately, the ship pulled away, and she arose, separating from it. Her hair flew in loose waves, her toes pointed down at the crashing waves below. Lightning struck her, and she absorbed it, channeled it, willed it into a frenzy around her arms and legs. Thunder filled the sky like a living thing, roaring, booming, making physical tremors in the wind.
The Gwyndemere pushed away, running into gradually calmer waters. A hint of evening light washed over the deck. The rain slackened.
Petra was now barely a silhouette rising into a whirlwind of lightning, of swirling purple-black clouds. She was the pole upon which the tempest turned. It cast out tendrils, corkscrews of mist, surrounding her like cosmic clutches, preparing to grasp. It revolved, tightened, and Petra continued to rise into it, to tease it, to sing her own siren song of sacrifice.
James watched. He felt Merlin next to him, and drew a tiny shred of cold comfort from the sorcerer’s presence.
The storm withdrew from the Gwyndemere completely. The waves fell away. The wind faded to a bare breeze, sifted with mist, smelling of salt and seaweed and falling night. The clouds streamed back from the ship, surrounding a locus of tightening energy, brightening to a distinct core, barraged with lightning and roaring with constant thunder. It intensified, became a nearly physical presence, hulking in the sky as a demonic maelstrom, keening and howling with hungry rage.
And then, with an eerily subtle yet pervasively deep concussion, the storm detonated in a nearly silent shockwave of warmth and light, blasting outward and obliterating into a million dusky tatters.
James Potter and the Crimson Thread Page 64