Worlds Without End by Caroline Spector Page B

but I was still stuck to its chest.
    My lungs were burning and spots floated before my eyes. The dead weight of the each-uisge was pulling me down. I had a panicky moment as I started to inhale some water. With every ounce of power left in my arms, I swam up to the surface. Just as I thought I would never reach it, I broke through. The air hurt as I gasped. I floundered for a moment before Caimbeul grabbed me by my collar and pulled me from the water.
    He laid me, none too gently, on the stony bank. I coughed up water and hacked out some bile. My legs felt heavy, and I realized the each-uisge was still stuck to them.
    “Cut it off.” I said.
    “That won’t work. You’ll have pieces of it stuck to your pants forever.”
    “Well, it’s better than dragging the whole thing along with me.” I said, coughing up more water.
    “Take off your pants.” he said.
    “Oh, fragging hell.” I said. I unbuttoned my jeans and skinned them off. It took a while between the wet and the each-uisge.
    “And so that was the test?” he asked.
    “N-n-no.” I stammered. My teeth were chattering and gooseflesh had broken out over my body. “T-t-that was a warning. They’re serious about the test.”
    “Well,” he said, looking chagrined that he hadn’t helped, “we’d better get you out of those wet things.”
    He wrapped his arms around me. I let myself lean against him and take in his warmth and scent. It was good to be there, if only for a moment.

She can’t move. Legs and arms like lead. But she hears . . . things.
    Things rustling beyond her line of sight.
    Things with evil intentions.
    10
    “What next?” Caimbeul asked.
    I was sitting in the back seat of the car pulling dry clothes on. My coat and boots were ruined, so I wadded them up in a towel I’d taken from the hotel. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have indulged in that sort of petty larceny, but these weren’t normal times.
    Caimbeul was driving. We were heading southwest away from The Burren. I pulled a heavy gray sweater over my head, then slid on black jeans. Sneakers were next, after which I climbed over the front seat to the passenger side.
    “Better?” he asked.
    “Drier, at least.” I replied. “But that brackish smell is going to stay with me for a while.”
    “Not just you.”
    “My apologies.” I said. “Next time a each-uisge decides to have me for a snack I’ll be sure to tell it not to get you wet at the same time.”
    “I’d appreciate that.” he replied.
    “De nada, babycakes.”
    “You know I hate it when you call me babycakes.”
    “Like I said, ‘Life is . . .’ ”
    “I know. I know.”
    * * *
    We stopped in a small town south of The Burren for food. It was fast approaching dusk and I wanted to be out in the countryside as soon as possible. The air was tanged with sea salt and humidity. Though it wasn’t that cold, the damp seemed to seep into my bones, making them ache.
    Leaving the car at the restaurant where we’d eaten, we walked to the edge of the town. The road out of town was little more than dirt and cobblestones. It had played hell on the suspension of the rental. I imagined Caimbeul was making a running ledger in his head of all the expenses of the trip. When this penurious streak had come on him I didn’t know.
    “Look.” he said, grabbing my arm and pointing. Off to one side of the road was a grove of trees. It was shaded purple and gray in the twilight. A fog had rolled in from the sea and made everything look fuzzy and insubstantial. Surrounding the grove were a series of tiny flickering lights that bobbed and floated three meters above the ground.
    Then I heard the faint, delicate tones of music. A flute and recorder, I thought. Perhaps a viola thrown in there.
    “Ignis fatuus.” I said. “Will-o’-the-wisps.”
    The flower necklace I’d made while we were walking The Burren was waterlogged, but still serviceable. I’d rescued it from my coat after we’d reached the car. Now I put it around