wasnât any altar. He knew the beast was already prowling, blurring the borderline between reality and delusion. All there could possibly be down there was spiders and snakes.
And Camilla.
Dark. Dark icy water climbing his body, and he could not see what lay beneath. White body, white teeth, wound-red mouth. Coming for him, to draw him beneath the surface and feed upon him forever ⦠.
Wycherly struggled free of the vision. Heâd been here before; this was the shadowland that the black beast lived in. His heart hammered and he was sweating; there was a taste of copper in his mouth.
More than anything in life Wycherly feared the return of the night river and its profane undine. Camilla shouldnât be coming back for him like this. It wasnât fair. It was daytime. He was awake.
In a sudden frenzy, he dragged the unopened can of beer from his coat pocket and flung it into the cave opening. He could hear it bouncing and rolling for a long time as it clattered to the bottom of the stairs. He turned and fled back to the black stairs, as though safety could be found in the sunlight.
But it was too late. As he climbed, the water mounted around his legs and the light drained away.
The river was cold, so cold, and he could feel his warm blood draining away into itâ
âand he fell, leaves crumbling beneath his hands, and looked down over the edge of the black staircase at a twenty-foot drop onto bare rock. A little closer to the edge and he would have been deadâif he were to fall over the side, it would be a broken leg at the very least.
Wycherly ran his tongue over dry lips and wondered if he dared get to his feet and walk the rest of the way. He looked up. Another flight of stairs to go to reach the surface. Maybe he should crawl.
But he could still hear the water. And suddenly, horribly, came the realization that he was directly above the water, that the night river was rushing along beneath his feet, and at any moment he might fall through the stone, into the water beneath.
But not to drown. Wycherly shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of the white shape moving beneath the surface of the river. He could live through this. Wycherly took a deep breath, trying to hold onto the objective reality before his eyes.
Climb. Get out. Get away. You can outrun this if you try.
On hands and knees he began to crawl up the stairs.
He reached the top of the stairs, and â¦
⦠rolled onto his back. The river gravel was harsh through his shirt, and his legs were still in the water, but Wycherly didnât care. He was safe.
Out in the water, the dragonâs eyes sank slowly beneath the surface. He could hear Camilla screaming from beneath
the waters as the warm blood drained out of her, leaving her pale and cold ⦠and hungry.
The chill of the river seemed to cut into his hands and knees like sharp rocks as he struggled away from her. He thrashed around in the water, seeking anything like solid ground, but the bed of the river seemed to liquify as he struggled, pulling him deeper.
He was in trouble. That despairing realization was something to cling to in the moment before it vanished. In trouble. Blindsided once more by failure he could not predict, much less guard against.
The river stole his senses one by one, until, blind and helpless, he fled the white shape sliding through the water, shark-mouthed and predatory. The shore was so very far away, spangled with colored lightsâthey did not promise safety, but a witness to his death.
Escape. He had to escape. The cold was burning him now. He could feel his heart hammering in his throat and taste his own blood billowing through the water. He did not mind dying, but he could not bear the thought of the innocents who would suffer because his work had been left undone.
With his last reserves of strength Wycherly lunged forward, struggling as the lamia seized himâ
And in a brief moment of clarity realized he was not
And Camilla.
Dark. Dark icy water climbing his body, and he could not see what lay beneath. White body, white teeth, wound-red mouth. Coming for him, to draw him beneath the surface and feed upon him forever ⦠.
Wycherly struggled free of the vision. Heâd been here before; this was the shadowland that the black beast lived in. His heart hammered and he was sweating; there was a taste of copper in his mouth.
More than anything in life Wycherly feared the return of the night river and its profane undine. Camilla shouldnât be coming back for him like this. It wasnât fair. It was daytime. He was awake.
In a sudden frenzy, he dragged the unopened can of beer from his coat pocket and flung it into the cave opening. He could hear it bouncing and rolling for a long time as it clattered to the bottom of the stairs. He turned and fled back to the black stairs, as though safety could be found in the sunlight.
But it was too late. As he climbed, the water mounted around his legs and the light drained away.
The river was cold, so cold, and he could feel his warm blood draining away into itâ
âand he fell, leaves crumbling beneath his hands, and looked down over the edge of the black staircase at a twenty-foot drop onto bare rock. A little closer to the edge and he would have been deadâif he were to fall over the side, it would be a broken leg at the very least.
Wycherly ran his tongue over dry lips and wondered if he dared get to his feet and walk the rest of the way. He looked up. Another flight of stairs to go to reach the surface. Maybe he should crawl.
But he could still hear the water. And suddenly, horribly, came the realization that he was directly above the water, that the night river was rushing along beneath his feet, and at any moment he might fall through the stone, into the water beneath.
But not to drown. Wycherly shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of the white shape moving beneath the surface of the river. He could live through this. Wycherly took a deep breath, trying to hold onto the objective reality before his eyes.
Climb. Get out. Get away. You can outrun this if you try.
On hands and knees he began to crawl up the stairs.
He reached the top of the stairs, and â¦
⦠rolled onto his back. The river gravel was harsh through his shirt, and his legs were still in the water, but Wycherly didnât care. He was safe.
Out in the water, the dragonâs eyes sank slowly beneath the surface. He could hear Camilla screaming from beneath
the waters as the warm blood drained out of her, leaving her pale and cold ⦠and hungry.
The chill of the river seemed to cut into his hands and knees like sharp rocks as he struggled away from her. He thrashed around in the water, seeking anything like solid ground, but the bed of the river seemed to liquify as he struggled, pulling him deeper.
He was in trouble. That despairing realization was something to cling to in the moment before it vanished. In trouble. Blindsided once more by failure he could not predict, much less guard against.
The river stole his senses one by one, until, blind and helpless, he fled the white shape sliding through the water, shark-mouthed and predatory. The shore was so very far away, spangled with colored lightsâthey did not promise safety, but a witness to his death.
Escape. He had to escape. The cold was burning him now. He could feel his heart hammering in his throat and taste his own blood billowing through the water. He did not mind dying, but he could not bear the thought of the innocents who would suffer because his work had been left undone.
With his last reserves of strength Wycherly lunged forward, struggling as the lamia seized himâ
And in a brief moment of clarity realized he was not
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