The Water Queens (Keeper of the Water) (24 page)

“Where is Isabella hiding in Spain?” John asks.

“Why are you asking me
now
?”

“Just
tell me
,” John snaps as the sailors get closer.

“How am I supposed to know? It’s not like I ever saw a sign for the place,” I tell him.

“Think about your vision,” he says. “Tell me what you saw around her.”

“I…I don’t know. It was just her,” I say.

“I need you to
think
,” John says.

He takes my chin and turns it toward him, away from the running ferry workers who’ll be on us any second. It’s not so easy to think under these stressful conditions. But I look into his eyes, which burn fiercely, and think back to what I witnessed.

“It’s some kind of castle or fort or palace,” I say, remembering the stone walls and massive corridors. “And it has some kind of outdoor walled garden. There was an amazing fountain with columns surrounding it; that’s where she keeps the water of life, right in the middle of the garden. The water is probably kept there so she can stay anywhere inside the palace without straying too far and taking the risk of losing her Keeper role.”

John’s brow furrows, deep in thought. The first of the braver sailors reach us. With John’s back turned, I step in front of him and knock away the sailor’s pathetic attempt at a punch. I’m much gentler with these ferry workers than I was with the first man I nearly tossed overboard; I merely push these men back, just enough to knock over the workers behind.

“Alhambra,” John says.

“Excuse me?”

“Alhambra, that’s where it sounds like,” he says. “It’s in the south of Spain; it’s been around since before
I
was born.”

“How can you be sure?” I ask.

“Believe me, if I know Isabella, Alhambra is the place she chose,” he says.

I look away from the ferry workers long enough to see a look of guilt on his face; he won’t even look me in the eye. But we have no time to get into that.

“I’ll meet you there?” I ask.

John nods and gives me a quick kiss. The ferry workers have recovered and banded together; nearly a dozen spread out and rush us at once. But they never reach us. Though we’re several stories above the water, John and I leap over the side of the ferry, each diving in an opposite direction. Distantly I hear the gasp of passengers who watch us plunge overboard but that only lasts a split second.

My dive is perfect but I still hit the water hard, jarring every bone in my body. The force of hitting the water nearly pulls the bow and pack off my back but I’m strong enough to keep them on. As soon as my belongings are secured, I swim hard but feel myself being sucked back. Though I’ve had little need to use it in life-or-death situations, I can swim as well as I run or jump; it also helps that I can hold my breath for nearly ten minutes at a time. I don’t fight the pull of the water as my body is yanked back toward the ferry’s huge propeller. In fact, I don’t swim at all until the last moment, when I dive beneath the propeller. I use the force of the water to allow myself to be pushed forward, shooting toward the shore.

I swim hard but have the grace and speed of a dolphin. As I swim, I dodge other smaller boats, careful to avoid fishing nets that litter these waters. Within minutes, the waters become shallower and I surface near the smaller fishing boats down a ways from the port. I don’t bother trying to hide myself from the fishermen or pair of policemen, the only two that didn’t rush toward the approaching ferry. As soon as I pull myself onto the dock, the policemen rush at me, yelling something along the lines of “It’s here! From the ferry!” Nearly a dozen fishermen stand on the docks nearby, watching with detached interest while smoking their cigarettes.

It’s easy to tell that these Greek cops don’t see much action. They’re both older and bulging around the mid-section. Even if I didn’t have incredible speed and strength, I’m fairly certain these men would cause little trouble, even when they take out their heavy black riot sticks. I don’t like the thought of hurting such weak opponents but I can’t let them call back their fellow officers and create a big scene here.

The first cop swings his stick at me; I catch his wrists and use his momentum to swing his club back toward his partner. There’s a
thud
of stick against skull and the second officer drops in a heap. Before the first cop realizes what he did, I twist his arm so he smashes his club against his own skull. His body goes limp but I catch him before he falls, carefully laying him beside his partner.

None of the Greek fishermen move but there are quite a few raised eyebrows and one of them even whistles at me. At the end of the dock, I finally see the reason for the police being here in the first place. A dead fisherman lies on the ground, the side of his head bloodied and bludgeoned. I turn to the others and in my best Greek – rudimentary at best – I ask if any of them saw what happened to him. Most shake their heads or don’t budge or speak at all. Finally, the oldest fisherman in the group steps forward and begins to speak quickly in Greek. I
really
wish I’d spent more time learning the language. Luckily, he notices my confusion and I’m glad
he’s
taken the time to learn English.

“These men not here as early as me,” the old fisherman says. “They are young and lazy and wait for sun to rise to work. Is why they not catch fish like me.”

“You saw what happened to that man?” I ask impatiently.

“It was dark but I watch black-skinned woman ask for ride on boat. I say no and move on to my work. She asks Spiros next. Spiros not a nice man. He always starts fight about his fishing spots; he will not be missed. Anyway, I not hear what he say to her but Spiros try to grab her – he always try to put his hands on all the womans,” the old man says. “Black woman not like this so she hits him in side of head with her fist and Spiros fall down. I laugh; Spiros, he deserves for woman to hit him, yes? I no laugh when I see he is hurt very much. I rush to help him while woman takes his boat and sails away.”

“Was the woman alone?” I ask.

“She was large woman – strong woman – she breaks Spiros’ head with one punch. But I no see her from very close; my back is turned when she asks me for boat ride,” he says. “I am glad she is nice to me or I could be on ground near Spiros.”

“But was there anyone
else
with her?” I ask, growing impatient. “Like a little girl this tall?”

I hold my hand beside my waist. The old fisherman looks confused and shakes his head.

“No, no, I see no little girl,” he says.

I exhale deeply, a massive weight lifted from my shoulders; this is the best news I’ve received since finding Janey’s bed empty. I look toward the sea and try to spot John swimming toward the first ferry but he’s long out of sight. I’m sure it won’t take long for the other police to rush back here so stealing a boat now won’t get me far enough away since I don’t know how to drive one. I’m about to dive back into the water when the old man adds a final thing.

“Now that I think of it, I did hear crying as boat sails away,” he says.

“Crying? Like from an adult?” I ask.

“No, no, but not like from child either,” he says. “Was more than normal cry. It sound more like… hmm, how you say?” He stops and thinks for nearly a minute; it takes all my patience to avoid yelling at him to spit it out. Finally, he smiles and nods. “Sounds more like
wailing
.”

Mary might’ve been upset about losing her cool and killing the fisherman but she’s
not
the type to wail in sadness. I want to ask the old man for clarification about the wailing sound but don’t have time for him to think. I need to get out of here
now
and swimming suddenly doesn’t seem a wise choice.

“Would you give me a ride on
your
boat?” I ask the old man. “Or would anyone else let me hire them?”

“Do I have choice?” the fisherman asks, gesturing to the dead body and then to the bow so prominently fastened to my back.

I nod. “Of course you have a choice but just know that I pay well.”

He raises an eyebrow at the mention of money. I finally take off the backpack and pull out a brick of Euros. His eyes light up, as do the eyes of the other fishermen.

“I will take you,” one of the men says.

“No, it will be
me
to help.”

“Do not listen to them, their boats have holes,” a third says. “My boat is best of bunch.”

This causes laughter from the other men, though that comes to a stop when they see how annoyed I look.

“I will go with you,” I tell the old man. “If you will take me…”

“Yes, yes, I will take job to be your captain,” he says.

Groans arise from the rest of the fishermen and I realize it might not be wise to leave them upset; the last thing I want is for them to tell the police that I’ve hired the old man. I start handing out the stack of cash to the fishermen, their eyes wide as I give them more than they’d probably make in a month.

“For your silence,” I tell them. “Do you all understand me now?”

There are many nods as the men count their money.

“Do not worry, Miss,” one of the men says. “We will not be here long enough for police to come back. There is bar right across street.”

More laughter erupts from the men. The man wasn’t kidding; as one, the group heads across the street toward the local bar. Leaving the pair of unconscious police officers next to the dead body, I follow the old fisherman toward the end of the dock. I expect his boat to match him – old and crusty – but his vessel is surprisingly large and new, the nicest of the tiny fleet. I feel much better about my chances of traveling farther distances as I follow the old man onto his boat. It’s not until he unties the mooring lines that he finally asks me an important question.

“Where should I sail?” he asks.

I answer with a single word. “West.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Had I been on vacation, the next few days may have been an amazing experience. Sailing along the Greek islands shows me some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen in more than two hundred years of life. It’s just a shame my mind is so preoccupied – so worried – that I’m unable to enjoy it.

I sit on the bow of the boat, staring out to sea, completely lost in thought. Every time I see another boat, I wonder if Mary could be sailing it, though I don’t even know if I need to worry about her. The old fisherman did not see a little girl with my former recruit so I hope that means Janey was on the first ferry that left Andros. I pray John has found her, that he’s keeping her safe and protected; for all I know, father and daughter have already returned to our home in the mountains, where they’re waiting for me to return.

But I have an awful feeling that’s not the case. I try to engage the Greek fisherman in conversation to explain the ‘wailing’ he heard but he just looks confused and has nothing further to add. Hours pass slowly and I have nothing but doomsday scenarios to keep my mind occupied. Several times I lose my composure and can take the waiting no longer.

On several occasions, I reach out to connect with Cassie but I’m met with only blackness and wake up hours later, a worried looking Greek standing over me. Each time, I stay unconscious longer and have more difficulty crawling my way back to the light. I assume this means Cassie remains comatose, which hopefully means there’s still a chance for me to intercept Janey and Mary,
if
that’s where they’re both headed.

By the time we reach the Mediterranean Sea, the old Greek can take me no farther. Regardless of whether the other fishermen talk, the old man’s absence will surely be noted by the police; he’s been so kind that I don’t want to put him in further danger of getting in trouble. I pay him an exorbitant fee and he drops me off on the southern Italian island of Sicily. From there, I transfer to a larger boat that takes me the rest of the way to Spain. I have to reject several advances from the Italian captain but I pay him enough money to ensure his silence. I’ve spent more than half of our tiny fortune but it’s worth every Euro.

Once we approach the coast of Spain, I have the Italian captain stop a mile offshore. He insists that he can gain access to the finest yacht club in the south of Spain – that he will not allow a woman to swim to shore – but I don’t give him the option. I don’t know what sort of government officials may be at any docks or ports but I’m not taking that risk. I leap into the sea before the captain can stop me and don’t surface until I’m far from the Italian’s boat.

I reach a deserted part of shore in the middle of the night, careful to stick to the shadows of darkness. Just being in Spain makes me nervous; I feel like the place is crawling with Cassie’s spies. It doesn’t help that the traveling cloak I wear to cover the bow on my back makes it feel like a giant target is painted on me. And though I’m anxious to search for my daughter, I’m much more careful about using my abilities here; I don’t know who’ll be on the lookout for anything strange.

I keep my head down and hood up during most of my travels, but it’s hard to miss news about what’s been happening, especially considering the
Countess
is staying so close by. It’s now public knowledge that after the attack that left her husband dead, Countess Isabella is being kept under close guard at Alhambra, despite their sub-par medical facilities compared to a hospital. Few have been allowed to see her; fewer know of her real condition. But her private security and staff are overseeing her recovery and aren’t allowing potential threats to get too close. It’s laughable to think her
private security
is worried about threats.

The way the Spanish people agonize over Cassie’s well being sickens me; the way they speak of her becoming queen –
if
she wakes up – makes me even angrier. Since the assassination attempt left her gravely wounded, the Spanish nation – as well as the rest of the world – prayed for her recovery; funny how little I’ve heard about grieving for Count Cristiano in all of this. Thousands of people flocked to southern Spain where they hold candlelight vigils in the areas of rocky terrain surrounding the palace walls, even though it’s still uncertain in which part of Alhambra Cassie is recovering.

The part of the story that irks me most involves the countess’
heroic band of women
that act as her security force. Soon after Cassie was shot, reports already began to surface about how her team of women protectors kept her alive when she should’ve died like the other Spanish royals. There was even speculation – which I quickly learn is taken as fact by the general public – that Cassie’s security team was responsible for saving the life of the dead king’s brother… at least the first time. Knowing that Catherine the Great and the Queen Clan caused so many deaths – yet were getting credit for doing something they didn’t do – enrages me. I already see how the queens are being set up as heroes for the next step of Cassie’s plans.

But that’s not even the worst part of the story. The first sketches of the possible Royal Killers were released, sketches taken from unknown eyewitness accounts. My heart sinks at the sight of perfect drawings of Harriet and Amelia. My recruits stand no shot of stopping Cassie, which makes me feel guiltier for abandoning them. Still, my top priority has been – and will remain – finding my daughter. If I can somehow do that
and
help Harriet and Amelia along the way, that would be icing.

Granada is one the largest – and most beautiful – cities in Andalucia, one of Spain’s autonomous communities, located near the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Filled with spectacular architectural achievements hundreds of years old, the sites are even more amazing since many are built into the sides of mountains. Still, it’s hard for me to appreciate too much because the views make me think of Andros and my missing little girl. Though the old Greek fisherman apparently didn’t see Janey with Mary, I still can’t shake the feeling that my daughter is here, somewhere.

It wouldn’t surprise me if she made it to Granada on her own but I need to find her before she puts herself in further danger. Hopefully her father took her far away but knowing John, he’d probably bring her here to intercept me and stop me putting myself in harm’s way.

It’s twilight by the time I cross the city, which isn’t as crowded as I expected. I quickly learn why. I run across a small group of people and follow them, making sure to keep my distance so they don’t get a good look at me and wonder why my cloak bulges so much in the back. This group merges with a few other groups until I’m at the back of a large pack, everyone headed in one direction. I correctly guess where they’re going before we even get there.

I see thousands upon thousands of tiny flames dotting the rocky, tree covered hills in front of Alhambra; I doubt the most popular music band in the world could draw such a gathering. It appears as though every person from the city is crowded around the palace’s high walls, everyone holding candles as a token to some sort of God to save Countess Isabella. I wish Mother Earth would unleash a gust of wind strong enough to snuff out all those flames. Some people hold hands and pray in small groups; others hold rosary beads and speak in several different languages to several different Gods. This sort of unification between so many people might actually be touching if they hadn’t all gathered to pray for
Cassie’s
recovery.

I suddenly realize I have no strategy for how to go about looking among the sea of people. I could search the faces in the crowd for days and still not make it through half of them. For such a large group, the noise level isn’t so loud, most whispering in a respectful manner. If I called out Janey’s name, my voice could probably carry a great distance. But drawing that sort of attention to myself or my daughter would be dangerous, especially when I look at who’s patrolling the palace walls and entrance.

At first I only see the same large bulky men who guarded the palace corridors during the first time I connected with Cassie’s mind. But I suddenly notice one lithe individual – clad all in black – who prowls among the guards, looking out at the crowd. I’m several hundred feet away from her – and only one face among thousands – but the sight of Catherine the Great in the flesh still makes my blood run cold.

For a moment her head turns in my direction so I look the other way and head deeper into the crowd, slouching down so I don’t appear as tall. I have no other choice but to begin an exhaustive search. I weave in and out of the crowd, searching through countless faces. My heart leaps whenever I see a small child but I feel worse every time it’s not Janey. As I proceed closer to Alhambra’s outer walls, I can’t keep quiet anymore. I start asking people if they’ve seen my little girl; I describe her to total strangers, most of who don’t understand English and give me strange looks, probably due to my peculiar clothing. Eventually, I pull back my cloak to make others less nervous about talking to me but it still doesn’t help.

I quickly grow frustrated and rush from person to person, becoming louder and more upset when I receive blank stares from people I’m trying to talk to. My brain tells me to calm down but my pulse is racing out of control and I can’t control myself. I can’t stop worrying that Janey is
inside
and when I near the palace walls, my hand instinctively reaches for my bow. The men in front of me would pose no threat if I tried to get by but I’m not sure I’d be so lucky with Catherine and the other queens that must be lurking around. I consider throwing caution to the wind and trying to destroy as many queens as possible but when I reach the front, I notice a group of a dozen or so young girls, who appear to be in their early teens.

I stop moving and stare at the girls, totally transfixed by them. They’re dressed similarly in black clothing from head to toe. All have the exact hairstyle – straight, shoulder-length black hair – and wear blank expressions that are simultaneously captivating and creepy. They stand side by side in perfect formation, holding large candles, singing hymns that sound beautifully eerie. I instantly feel a connection with them, feel pulled toward them, and find myself staring at each of their faces. They
should
seem sweet and innocent but it’s obvious – at least to me – that nothing could be further from the truth. I have a terrible feeling that Janey could be among them but they’re all too old to be my daughter.

The girl in the middle of the line suddenly stops singing and her head snaps in my direction. Her serene face turns suspicious. I instinctively raise my hood when I feel a tingling of warning. The girl blows her candle out, which in turn gains the attention of the girls around her. Without a word being spoken, the rest of the girls go silent and blow out their candles down the line, all their heads turning toward me. Ice suddenly courses through my veins. Murmurs rise from the nearby crowd as the row of girls simultaneously takes a step forward. My mind tells my feet to get moving but I suddenly feel rooted to the ground.

There’s a commotion in the crowd just behind me. Such a large number of people begin to shuffle and push that I’m afraid a stampede is about to break out. Do they think the creepy little girls are going to attack, too? I soon receive my answer.

“Assassin, assassin! I see her!” yells a voice in the crowd, a familiar voice I can’t quite place in the brief moment I have to consider it.

I’m afraid the person in the crowd somehow refers to me but I watch the group of girls turns in unison and look to the side of me. I’m just as surprised as the rest of the people to see a woman – dressed in a cloak similar to mine – pull back her hood to reveal her beautiful black face.

“Harriet,” I whisper to myself, though nobody hears me over frightened cries that echo all around.

She’s much taller than others near me and easy to spot by all. Most of the people closest to her begin to scatter; chaos ensues. A few of the burly Alhambra guards rush forward but they’re not alone. As one, the group of girls rushes toward Harriet, quickly overtaking the guards in their pursuit. They move fast –
too
fast – and I have a bad feeling their strength and fighting ability are just as unnatural. Harriet turns to run but I’m not sure she’ll be able to outrun the band of strange little girls. I’m about to run after my recruit to help but don’t even take a step when someone grabs my elbow.

I spin, ready to fight back against any queen or girl that has sneaked up on me. But I come face to face with another woman wearing a hood, her face visible to me only because she’s so close. My breath catches in my throat as I realize it’s the same woman who called out the warning earlier.

“Amelia,” I whisper in shock.