Crimson Shore

Meanwhile, Morax was struggling up from the surf, coming at them, face distorted in pain and fury. Pendergast rushed to put himself between Constance and the demon and, once again, the two came together with a bone-cracking thud. With a huge effort, Pendergast drove the demon back into the breaking surf, and in an instant both were engulfed in a gigantic, breaking wave.

The boiling white water swept Constance off her feet; she clawed at the sand to keep from being sucked back in the undertow, and this time managed to hold herself in place as the wave receded. Temporarily freed from the backwash, she crawled up the beach in the lull between waves and managed to get past the surf zone.

The sun was just breaking over a blood horizon, throwing pallid light onto her face. She blinked her eyes groggily. All she could see were great crimson rollers coming in, one after the other, crashing and thundering up the beach, then withdrawing again with a vast, dreary roar. And there, standing in the surf, was the demon. He had abruptly ceased all struggle and was staring into the rising sun in wonder, a twisted smile appearing on his face, arm outstretched as if to touch it, finger pointing, the swirling water around his legs reddening with arterial blood.

Where was Pendergast?

Where was Pendergast?

Constance rose, screaming: “Aloysius! Aloysius!”

She strained to look into the blinding orange surface of the sea — and then she saw him, his pale face rising and falling just beyond the break zone. His arms were barely moving.

“Aloysius!”

She took a few tentative steps into the water. He was struggling desperately to swim, but he was obviously weakened, gravely wounded, and the currents were now carrying him rapidly away from shore.

“Aloysius!”

Somewhere, vaguely, she heard the baying of a dog.

Morax collapsed into the bloody surf.

She stumbled down into the onrushing water, wading toward the struggling Pendergast despite her inability to swim, the torn, heavy dress impeding her progress.

“Stop her!” a voice cried from behind.

Suddenly there were people on both sides. One burly man seized her around the shoulders; another around the waist. She tried to twist away, but they hauled her out of the surf.

“Let me go!” she cried.

A male voice spoke out: “There’s nothing you can do.”

She fought like a banshee, screaming and twisting. “Can’t you see him? He’s too weak to swim!”

“We see him. We’re calling a rescue boat.”

She struggled afresh, but there were too many of them. “He’s drowning! For the love of God, save him!”

“No one can go into that surf!” said the same male voice.

“Cowards!”

She tried to rush back into the water herself, but more men appeared and, despite her wild struggles, they managed to drag her out of the breaking surf and onto the dunes. Four more men in military fatigues appeared. Together, the group managed to hold her fast as she thrashed, spat, and kicked.

“I’ll kill you! Let me go!”

“Jesus, what a tomcat! I can’t believe it’s taking half a dozen of us just to hold her down—!”

“We don’t have time for this. Get the medical kit.”

They wrestled her to the sand. She found herself pinned, face downward, cuffed and restrained, felt the sting of a cold needle on the back of her thigh… and then everything became far away and strange.

Epilogue

November

Quietly, Proctor eased open the double doors of the library to allow Mrs. Trask to pass through with a silver tray laden with a tea service.

The room was dim, lit only by the fire that guttered low in the hearth. Before it, in a wing chair, Proctor could see a motionless figure, indistinct in the faint light. Mrs. Trask walked over to the figure, placed the tray on a side table beside the chair.

“I thought you might like a cup of tea, Miss Greene,” she said solicitously.

“No thank you, Mrs. Trask,” came Constance’s low voice.

“It’s your favorite. Jasmine, first grade. I also brought you some madeleines. I baked them just this afternoon — I know how fond you are of them.”

“I’m not particularly hungry,” she answered. “Thank you for your trouble.”

“Well, I’ll just leave them here in case you change your mind.” Mrs. Trask smiled maternally, turned, and headed for the library exit. By the time she reached Proctor, the smile had faded and the look on her face had grown worried once again.

“I’ll only be gone a few days,” she said to him in a low tone. “My sister should be home from the hospital by next weekend. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Proctor nodded, then watched her bustle her way back toward the kitchen before returning his gaze to the figure in the wing chair.