A Grimm Legacy (Grimm Tales) (5 page)

In the minute, minute-and-a-half, he was under, he couldn't have drifted so far. He licked salt from his baked lips and closed his eyes as he considered how panicked his dad would be.

It was possible he might notice his absence.

Knowing he was in the ocean—somewhere—was not as comforting as Dylan hoped. But it could be worse. He could see land, he swam well, and reason told him he should get moving before he tired anymore. Regretfully, he looked back at Whirlwind. He'd never be able to tow it. His best hope was it drifting in with the tide. He kicked into a slow swim headed for land.

Within ten minutes, he was sucking air. He spit, trying to clear salt out of his mouth, and focused on breathing. He hated how each slop of wave threatened his eyes, nose, and if he didn't keep it clamped shut, his mouth. At first glance, the shore seemed about a half mile away. Now, even after his first hard pull, the safety of the shore was no closer. There was quite a difference between knowing how to swim and actually swimming through the ocean to reach a place where he wouldn't drown.

Rolling on his back, Dylan drifted. His world narrowed to the sun burning behind his closed eyes, the flip flip flip of his legs, and the disorienting effect of moving both horizontally though the water and vertically with the waves.

When he heaved his head free of the water for the last time, he was within arms' reach of one of the sharp black teeth of rocks dotting the beach. Crouching on all fours for a minute, then two, he stared at the salty swells and the dusting of sand each stirred.

He was tired. New-York-marathon-finished, Mount-Everest-climbed, tour-de-France-all-in-one-day tired. The only thought that slithered through was the need for water, and he wasn't going to find it here.

On shaky legs and dead feet, Dylan looked up the beach. A floating dock was a hundred yards away stretching from sand to sea. He blinked, slowly clearing his eyes, and looked again. It was still there. Being so low in the water, he must have missed it swimming in. There, standing at impeccable attention at the base of the dock, was a very small person with crystal blue eyes that bore into Dylan.

Only as tall as a seven-year-old, he had leathery skin, a long pointed nose, and sparse gray hair combed strictly back. Dylan couldn't decide if the oddest thing about his appearance was his distinctly pointed ears or his three-piece black tuxedo, complete with white bow tie and patent leather shoes. Despite all of this, the thing that caught Dylan's eye was the bottle of water hanging from his hand, dripping condensation on the sand.

Odd or not, mirage or not, he had water and Dylan was going to get it. The small man stared as he wove down the beach, stumbling over sand and his own feet. His ice-colored eyes considered him impassively, the odd creature’s features unmoving. Within several feet, he held out the water and Dylan grabbed it, bobbing his heavy head in thanks as he forced his fingers to unscrew the cap.

The icy water punched his raw throat and swollen tongue, causing Dylan to hurl the water from his mouth. The tiny man anticipated the fountain and moved accordingly. Dylan earned a twitch from one angled eyebrow, but that was all. Again, Dylan tried taking a small sip, warming it in his mouth and then easing it down his tortured throat. That one stayed down and, in increasingly larger mouthfuls, he went through the bottle. He poured the last of it over his head, only to realize, as the water tickled down his skin, he was badly sunburned.

The little person spoke. "That should get you to the house. Please follow me. Mr. Jackson is waiting."

His voice was low pitched, clipped, with a hint of an accent that sounded familiar. The bottle of water tamped down the cotton clouding Dylan’s head. Other, more alarming thoughts sifted through. Survival had taken priority, but now unease bubbled in his stomach, threatening to explode into full alarm.

Pointed ears. He was in more trouble than he originally thought.

"Where am I?” Dylan scanned the deserted beach. “Who are you? Who’s Mr. Jackson?”

The last question was thrown at the back of the tiny person who followed a dim trail up the beach and into the grass covered hills. Dylan turned back to the beach and his sailboat, riding abandoned on the distant waves.

“All right, then.” Dylan trudged after him, feeling less than coordinated.

"Cob." The man paused and turned, giving a small, formal bow. "You may call me Cob."

He resumed his march through the dunes. No more answers were forthcoming. Dylan watched his retreating back and reached up to straighten his Mariner’s cap. His hand fluttered, confused for a moment before he remembered he’d lost it in the ocean. Maybe following Cob would at least provide more answers. He didn't really see another option, even though he wasn’t thrilled with his rescuer.

They tramped through the dunes not speaking. At least Dylan tramped. He sweated and wheezed while Cob appeared to glide through the sand. Neither the heat nor the hike perturbed him.

After only a few minutes, they rounded the side of the red clay cliffs and came into sight of the house, though “mansion” or “small castle” would have been a better description. It had three stories of stone with towers sprouting all over the roof, creating domes and turrets. Arched column walkways connected different wings of the massive house, and balconies sprouted in a haphazard fashion over its face. A gravel drive wound from the front of the estate and ended under a covered carriage house large enough to hold a 747 plane.

The truly impressive part of the house was the surrounding gardens. Sand and dune grass gradually gave way to cultivated lawn with a cobblestone path. Ribbed palms, birches, oaks, and dripping willows accented the forest of flowers in beds of all shapes and sizes. He couldn't name most of the plants, but some he was sure weren't supposed to grow this close to the ocean.

The path led him under one of the numerous trees and a glint above his head caught his eye. He thought a light hung from the branch, but, twisting his head, he saw an apple with a shiny gold finish dangling from the tree. Who would hang such on odd decoration out here? His reach was intercepted by Cob clasping his wrist.

"Do not touch, Mr. Peterson,” he said, before resuming his trek to the house and leaving Dylan to squint at the apple.

The feeling of unease in his stomach doubled when he noticed the apple was growing out of the tree. He peered at the normal-looking trunk and saw flecks the same color of the apple there. Backing away, he hurried after Cob.

Slipping into the shade of the covered porch which wrapped around the back of the house, Dylan’s skin sighed in relief.

Cob approached a small bird feeder in the corner of the porch and addressed the bluebird preening there. "Can you inform Mr. Jackson that Mr. Peterson has arrived?"

The bluebird chirped a short note and flew off.

Dylan blinked. On the scale of weirdness for the day, this was par for the course.

"Have a seat, and I'll fetch refreshments. We are waiting on the others to join us, and then your questions will be answered." Cob gestured to a collection of overstuffed wicker furniture scattered in the shadows and whisked through an open arch and into the house.

Dylan stared at the furniture, half expecting it to get up and dance. He turned a suspicious eye to the golden apple tree, and then at an innocent-looking finch that took the bluebird's place at the feeder.

“Please don’t start talking to me,” Dylan addressed the bird in a hushed whisper. The finch preened a wing in an unconcerned way and took a short hop in Dylan’s direction. He flinched as the bird flew away, trilling as it went. Dylan swore the bird was laughing as it disappeared from view.

"Were you…talking to the—to the bird?"

Andi tipped backward in surprise and landed in an ungraceful sprawl. She froze, arms bracing her from behind, cloak tangled beneath her body. One shoe had fallen completely off and she was breathing in short gasps. She feared if she moved she might relocate again. Feeling like a mouse tracked by an owl, she crouched and took in her surroundings.

She was sitting on a damp carpet of needles and dirt. Pines scraped the sky and filtered the sun around her. A rotting log with deformed limbs lay close behind her, filling the area with a loamy smell. She could see one bird in the gloom and heard several more chirping nearby. An ant waved its antenna at her from her knee. The air held a trace of the same briskness of summer’s end that was happening back home.

A muffled thud and a grunt sped up heart rate all over again. Pulling herself to her feet, she kicked off her lone shoe, located the other one, and clutched them to her chest protectively.

An abnormal fear of being chased while wearing impractical shoes plagued Andi. The irrational terror stemmed from a horror movie she had snuck downstairs and watched from behind the couch at the age of five. The girl in the movie was caught and cut to pieces by a masked man with a chainsaw. Five-year-old Andi was convinced it was the fault of the high heels the girl tried to run in. At sixteen, she hadn’t quite been able to shake that reasoning.

Straightening her cloak around her shoulders, Andi braced one hand on the rotten log, stepped over, and headed toward the thump.

The dead needles and pinecones poked her tender soles and she pulled herself along from trunk to trunk. The tree trunks were riddled with ridges and holes, forming a jigsaw pattern. The closest branch seemed miles away, giving the entire forest the impression of something ancient.

She ducked under two trees that had fallen against each other and formed an X, probably sometime before she was born. Out of the gloom, a boulder emerged directly in front of her. The steady rhythm of water grew, along with a sucking, slapping sound Andi couldn’t identify. It was close now, and came from the same direction as the earlier thud, just on the other side of the rock. Going over the boulder was out of the question and to both left and right, the forest pressed tight against the rock, like it encroached on its space.

Choosing to go left, she squirmed through the brush. Her shoes and cape hampered her progress but she wasn't leaving them behind. She was forced to shimmy, climb, jump, and even crawl at one point, which left dirt stains on her knees, a scraped elbow, and she was sure pine needles threaded through her hair. Once she broke free of the underbrush, she found the source of the water and the squelching.

Water dripped steadily from the rock and formed a pool at its base. It had, at one time, been a small pond, though most of  it had dried, leaving a very large mud hole with a small puddle in the center. Frozen a few feet from the edge of the mire, a girl about Andi’s age watched her with wide eyes.

She was beautiful and exotic, with black hair pinned up in the back, olive skin, and far set dark eyes under heavy brows. She was dressed in cutoff jeans and a black tank top, showing arm muscles far more defined than her own. From the chest down, the girl was covered in thick black mud. It stuck to her frame in great clumps, making her lumpy and half-formed. A smear of it accented her forehead.

The girl broke eye contact and instead turned her focus to the edge of the muck, popping a bare foot free of the ooze. She staggered slightly on her feet and squished forward a step. Andi felt a flash of gratitude that whatever force brought her here had deposited her outside the mud hole.

Two more staggers and the girl was almost there. Moving along the edge of the mud to intercept her, Andi leaned over as far as she could and stuck out her free hand. The girl looked at her own globby hand, met Andi's gray eyes, and grabbed onto her. Heaving the girl free, she dropped to the ground at the edge of the pit and took in the state of her body with dismay. Andi wiped her dirty hand on a nearby rock, hugged her shoes to her chest, and crouched on her heels. The girl attempted to scoop muck off with her hands but gave up after smearing it further.

"Thanks," she said, holding her arms awkwardly to her side.

"Didn't do much." Andi bunched her shoulders. She would have been freezing covered in t
hat damp filth. "But, what—”

"Was I doing in that mud bath?" She glanced behind her. "I don't know. I know it sounds crazy, but I was just weeding the garden, and now I'm here." She peered around the woods as if she was waiting to see if it would shimmer and change into something else.

Her answer didn’t surprise Andi. "Me too. Not the weeding, just the vanishing. I was standing in my kitchen."

“In Napa?” the girl asked.

“No, in Utah. Is that where you were?”

“Yeah.” The girl leveraged herself to her feet, her arms still spread awkwardly away from her body. "I don't suppose you know where we are?"

Andi shook her head. "No idea."

"Then pick a direction. It won't do us any good to stand around here." She waved a muddy arm.

Andi squinted into the dark woods. She headed off, going the opposite way she had come from. It was as good a direction as any.

“It's Andi, by the way,” she grinned over her shoulder. “We should probably know what names to yell when one of us gets attacked by a bear."

"Quinn," the girl returned giving a halfhearted wave of her filthy hand and a tired smile. "And I can run pretty fast, so for your sake, I hope we don't run into any bears.”

Making her way between the trees with Quinn, Andi tried to keep the sun at her left shoulder. She remembered reading somewhere that was how you avoided walking in circles.