Grave Phantoms (27 page)

A few moments later, all six bodies shriveled up, cracked into pieces, and blew away. And in the moonlight reflecting off the lake, Astrid spied Cushing's hair change from gold to silver.

“Is she dying?” a voice said from a distance as the vision scattered and disintegrated. “What's the matter with her?”

“I don't know,” Cushing answered.

“The six are weak,” Astrid mumbled. That's why Cushing recruited the pirates—because she had to find new men. That's how she stayed young. Immortal.

“Did she say something?” Fleury asked.

“Her mouth moved,” someone else confirmed.

“I don't give a damn, just do something!” Max shouted. “She's got my vigor. I feel my soul drying up. Do the ritual. Now!”

Bo slowed the yacht as they approached the map coordinates. Mad Hammett had only stopped talking long enough to scratch his ass, but he'd slowly relaxed his stance as the yacht cut through the water. Unfortunately, he hadn't relaxed enough, and had kept the gun trained on Bo the entire time. But now he perked up and straightened.

“We're here?” Hammett said, squinting out the windows in snatches.

Bo couldn't wait any longer. If the man wouldn't give him an opportunity, he'd have to invent one himself. “I think so,” he said, trying to sound unsure as he stopped the boat.

“You think so? Not good enough. It has to be exact before we anchor.”

“I'm almost positive. Is that a four or a nine?” Bo asked, nodding at the map.

Hammett frowned at him and leaned closer. “Where?”

“Here,” Bo said, tapping one finger on the map while he reached behind him for the radio headset.

“The last number? That's a three, you—”

Rising out of his seat, Bo wrapped the radio cord around the man's neck.

And he pulled.

Hammett made a horrible gargling sound as Bo swung around his back and tightened the cord.

Hammett was big. Beefy. Heavier than Bo. But Bo had learned long ago that speed and daring went a long way. And as the big man rotated wildly, trying to point the gun at Bo while grasping the cord around his neck, Bo lodged a knee in the man's back and doubled his efforts.

The cord cut into his hands, but that was good, because it was cutting into Hammett's windpipe, too. The gun fell from Hammett's hand and thunked against the floor as Hammett reached over his shoulder, scrabbling to pull Bo off of him, stumbling backward. The man was filled with wild fury.

But Bo was filled with vengeance.

Bo's back hit the wall of the pilothouse. Hard. The impact shattered the dangling headset on one side of the cord and nearly knocked the wind out of Bo. He didn't let go. He dodged Hammett's flailing fist, only to be elbowed in the side. Pain knifed through his ribs, but he was too far hell-bent to care. He choked Hammett as if his own life depended on it. He choked Hammett for Astrid. And as his hands went numb and the big man slammed into him again and again, he hung on.

And on . . .

Whether seconds or minutes passed, he wasn't sure, but he felt the moment Hammett stopped crushing him. The man tried to wedge his fingers between the cord and his throat. In vain. His muscles slackened, and his weight shifted.

Dead.

Dead or passed out. Bo didn't really care which. He shoved the man's limp body aside with a loud grunt, crawled to the gun, and snagged it off the floor. After checking the pistol's magazine for bullets, he left Hammett and the pilothouse behind and raced down the outer deck stairs, coat blowing open as wind ripped across the ocean,
only slowing when he approached the door to the main cabin.

He flattened himself against the cabin's wall and peered inside the framed glass doors. The lights were on. No one guarded the door. Hard to tell, but it looked as though everyone was crowded in front of the piano. How many? Five? Six?
The survivors
, a voice inside his head said. They were all here together. For a moment, he thought Mrs. Cushing's blond head belonged to Astrid, until his brain rejected the body. Not Astrid.

Where was she? His heart slammed against his aching ribs. He pushed hair out of his eyes and said a small prayer, and then he opened the door.

The wind betrayed him, howling into the cabin. Heads lifted. He registered the alarm on their faces, but his eyes were scanning for weapons. And for Astrid.

“Sibyl!” someone cried out as the crowd parted.

Bo was aware of the doors at his back and the wind gusting through them. He didn't want Hammett coming downstairs and surprising him, so he quickly sidled toward the bar to get a better angle, and that's when he finally spotted Max leaning against the piano—as if he could barely stand on his own. And in the center of the crowd, Mrs. Cushing was bent over the piano stool.

Over Astrid's limp body.

“What have you done to her?” Bo shouted.

Mrs. Cushing finally looked up. Her eyes blazed with anger when she saw him. “Nance! Hammett has failed.”

“Astrid!” Bo roared, pointing his gun from head to head, unsure who he should target. Seven rounds in the Colt. If he didn't miss . . .

“She's not conscious,” Mrs. Cushing said. “And if you want her to live, you'd better put that away.” The woman snatched up Astrid by her hair and roughly jerked her until she sat up on the piano stool to make her point. “See.”

“What have you done to her?”

“Sibyl, the ritual!” Nance rasped, blood spattering as he coughed.

Mrs. Cushing's face softened. She smiled at Bo. “Allow me to perform the ritual and the girl will live. Kill any of us, and she'll die. She's connected to us, and you know this, otherwise you wouldn't have been looking for the symbol.”

Bo aimed at Cushing.

“Bo . . .”

“Astrid!” Bo shouted, stalking forward.

“Not her,” Astrid mumbled as her eyes fluttered open. “Max.”

Cushing gripped Astrid's hair tighter, making her groan. “I'm warning you. If you harm anyone here, the girl will die. Don't be foolish.”

Bo hesitated. What if Cushing was right? Astrid
was
connected to them. She possessed something of Nance's energy—Velma had seen it.
Stand or fall together.
That's what Nance had said in the pilothouse.

But when his gaze met Astrid's, he saw something there that he knew as well as his own name. Magnusson confidence mixed with Magnusson temper. Her tired eyes said:
If you don't trust me now, Bo Yeung, I swear to God, I'll die just to spite you!

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

He'd wanted to kill the son of a bitch, anyway.

He rotated his aim to Max, closed one eye, and fired.

The thunderous shot echoed around the cabin. Max's body flew backward as the bullet struck his chest. Bo fired at him again, just to be sure, and watched him collapse on the floor.

Cushing's scream circled the room and blocked out the howling wind as a white light rose out of Max's body and shot through the yacht's ceiling. Bo struggled to train the gun's sight on the other five, who were scattering around the room, crying out as if in pain. One by one, they all teetered mid-step, seemed to dry up, and burst into clouds of dust.

Cushing released Astrid's hair, and as she stood, Astrid's hand shot up and grabbed a chain around the woman's neck. It broke free, and Cushing jumped as if she'd been struck.

“Catch!” Astrid yelled, and tossed a necklace toward Bo.

He saw the turquoise sphere and chain sailing toward him, but Astrid's throw was weak, and he had to dive forward to reach it. Inches from his fingers, the turquoise crashed against the floor and shattered into bright blue shards.

Astrid gaped.

Cushing froze. Strands of her hair changed from blond to white. Her skin began wrinkling. But Bo's gaze flicked to the spot below her feet, where the floor opened up and a bright blue circle of water swirled like a waterspout, crackling with electricity.

“Bo! The yacht—”

She didn't need to finish. Something terrible was happening. The air was breaking down around them, getting heavier. He gasped but couldn't seem to inhale anything into his lungs.

He didn't think, just raced to Astrid and snatched her around the waist. Cushing rose up in the air over the blue funnel as Bo dragged Astrid toward the cabin's open doors. He didn't care enough about what happened to the woman to look back.

There was no time to lower a lifeboat; the yacht's floor was melting. The wind whipped up Astrid's hair as they came to a stop on the deck. She looked at him and understanding passed between them. She grabbed his hand, they vaulted over the railing together . . .

And jumped.

For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but cold and darkness as they plunged into the ocean. His body was too shocked to react. To move. To do anything but wonder if he'd never stop sinking. But he did, and when he regained control over his limbs and floundered in the icy water, he'd lost Astrid's hand.

He couldn't see. Couldn't feel. Couldn't call out for her. All he could do was hope.

His lungs felt as if they might burst. He despaired and pushed himself up through the water—was this up? He
couldn't tell anymore—fighting against the cold and the friction that longed to pull him back down. Up, up, until he exploded through the water's surface and gasped for breath.

He gulped air and paddled as he called for her. “Astrid!”

It was so dark. So black. So cold. He twisted around, waves crashing over his head, until he saw the yacht silhouetted against the dark blue sky. But no Astrid. Where was she?

Out of nowhere, a bolt of white lightning streaked across the night sky and struck the yacht. The sound was explosive. Waves radiated from the boat like a bomb had been dropped. And as they reached Bo and lifted him higher in the water, he watched in awe as the yacht simply vanished.

Gone!

Captain Haig had told them at the radio station that he'd seen the same phenomenon, but to witness it with his own eyes was startling. The radiating waves lifted him, dropped him, and when he was able to ride their undulating path and look around, fresh panic turned his stomach to stone.

The yacht was gone. Where was Astrid?

Stand or fall together.

He refused to believe Cushing. Refused! Astrid was still here. Had to be. But where? Was she under? He took a deep breath and urged his muscles into action, preparing to dive, when he heard a distant shout across the water.

“Bo!”

His heart leaped. He swam toward her voice, arms cutting through the briny waves, until her shouts flooded his ears and he crushed her in her arms.

I've got you
, he told her with his body.
I've got you, and everything is all right.

Astrid couldn't have guessed whether the swim to shore took thirty minutes or hours, but she was at times almost certain she wouldn't make it. The water was shockingly cold, the waves rough, and she was too weak to tread water and had to rely on Bo to pull her along. The pounding surf towed them ashore toward a sandy stretch of land between a break in the cliffs, where neither of them moved for a long while. It was only because their bodies were wracked by intense shivers that they got to their feet and hiked up a trail bounded by coastal scrub, which gradually ascended until they spotted the dark lighthouse. Bo still had the keys to the cottage in his pocket—“Thank Buddha, Osiris, and Jehovah,” he exclaimed upon realizing it, though, at that point, they would have gladly broken a window to get inside—but they'd lost other things in the ocean, like his gun and the inner workings of her wristwatch.

“It's ruined,” she said once Bo had stripped off their salty, wet clothes and wrapped them in a blanket near the wood-burning stove. She tapped the face of the watch, but it was no use.

“Maybe it can be repaired. We're still alive, and that's the most important thing, yes? They're gone. All of them. They're gone and we're still here. That's enough for now.”

She nestled closer, unable to get warm. Of course she was relieved to have survived that ordeal, though she worried that the taint of Max was still with her and wished Velma could confirm it was gone. But Bo was right: they'd won. Bruised and beaten, but still standing together.

At least until they'd have to telephone someone in the city to come get them. Would they slip back into their old lives? Sneaking around. Praying for a stolen moment alone when no one was watching or listening. Hiding.

“It's not enough,” Astrid said. “I don't want to merely survive.”

“Sometimes that's all you can you do,” he said as he tightened his arms around her. “You survive as long as you can and wait for the right conditions to bloom.”

But what if those conditions never came? How long could they wait? She wanted an answer. Something definitive. A deadline when the waiting would end. But she knew Bo couldn't give her that, so she just held on to him. She held on until the fire had warmed the ocean out of her bones. Until he lifted her into the small cottage bed. Until exhaustion pulled her into sleep. And when morning sun slanted over their faces, she woke with a clear head.

Yesterday's nightmare was over. It was time to move on. She would tell him her new plan for the future.
Their
future.

“Happy New Year,” his voice said near her ear.

“Happy New Year.” She turned over to see his handsome face and curved a hand over his cheek. His hair was still matted with dried blood above his ear. “Does it still hurt?”

“My head's killing me.”

“We should have called someone to get us last night. You need to see a doctor.”

He shook his head and ran a hand through her hair. “I wanted one more night with you.”

All they had done was sleep, but she understood. She wanted it, too. This togetherness. To wake up and feel his arm around her.

He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. “I think we need to talk about what happens next. About us.” Had he been reading her mind? Before she could agree, before she could even open her mouth to speak, he asked, “Do you love me?”

Her voice caught in the back of her throat. “So much.”

“Do you want this?” He didn't explain, but she understood. This. “Knowing how hard it will be for both of us. Knowing . . . I can't marry you. Do you still want this?”

“More than anything.”

He nodded briefly and blew out a long breath. “Then I want you to go back to school.”

Her hand stilled. “Back to school?”

“The semester starts in three days, so you'll probably need to get on a train tomorrow or the next day.”

The heaviness that had lifted from her chest settled back inside as if it had never left. She sat up in bed, angry and hurt. “How can you say that? Did the last few weeks mean so little that you can just send me off with a pat on the back?”

He grabbed her shoulders, brow lowering severely. “Do you even need to ask me that? They mean everything, Astrid. They've turned my world upside down.”

“Then why do you want me to go?”

Brown eyes studied hers. His face softened. “Because I want you to be sure that school isn't what you want.”

“It isn't.”

“I want you to be
sure
,” he repeated. A plea. “And if it turns out that you change your mind, then we'll find a way to make it work. It doesn't change us. It's not one or the other. Not us or school.”

This wasn't her plan. Wasn't what she wanted at all. She started to tell him what she had in mind. “But it's not the only option. If—”

“Listen to me,” he said in a voice that brooked no
argument. “If we're going to do this, legally married or not, I need to be able to take care of you. I can't do that from the basement of the Queen Anne. I need time to put things in order, to stand on my own. I need . . . to talk to Winter.”

“He'll have to accept us, and that's all there is to it.”

“I know that. But he's my family, too. And after everything he's done . . . well, I at least owe him honesty.”

“I could tell him with you.”

He shook his head. “No, Astrid. Allow me my pride. This is my job, my home—there's too much on the line for me. It's my entire world. And my burden, too. I know you think that Winter will have to accept us, but have you seriously considered that he might not? And what would we do then? How would we live with no job and no home?”

“Did you ever consider that I can work, too? Plenty of women work.”

He picked up her hand and held it between both of his. “A man still must be able to take care of a woman, even if she can stand on her own. I want to be that man for you. I'm asking you to let me do that. Asking you to have faith in me. Give me time to sort this out and secure our future. Go back to Los Angeles.”

His words rang in her head. And as they did, it finally sunk in that this wasn't about her going back to school at all. This was about Bo and Winter. Bo and his pride. Urging her to return to the university was convenient for him. That wasn't his only reason for wanting her to go, of course; she had no doubt that he truly believed school was important and a privilege she'd be throwing away carelessly if she quit now. He'd made that clear before tonight.

It took her a handful of seconds to change her mind about telling Bo her bold new plan—one that didn't involve school. He'd only shoot it down. And the thing of it was, she understood exactly what he was feeling, this need to stand on his own feet and prove himself worthy. She wanted that, too. Because in her mind, going back to college wasn't independence; it was giving in and bending to pressure. It was conforming to an ideal that her brothers
had wanted—not her. And she hadn't failed at academics because it was too hard or because she wasn't serious enough.

She'd failed because it just wasn't the right path for her.

“Will you give me time to take care of things?” Bo asked, eyes pleading.

“I will,” she answered. Not in the way he wanted, but she didn't tell him this. After all, he wanted her to have faith in him, but he needed to have faith in her, too.

She would give him a reason to do precisely that.