Between the Spark and the Burn by April Genevieve Tucholke

Author:April Genevieve Tucholke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-07-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

I WAS RUNNING across the beach again, feet sinking into the wet sand.

I looked over my shoulder at Captain Nemo, nothing but one long, angular shadow reaching into the dark velvet sky. Finch was standing on the top deck, pale face and red hair and moonlight streaming down behind him. He was watching me. But he didn’t wave, or call out, so neither did I. I kept running.

Running.

Running.

I saw it.

The Lillian Hut.

Small. Tattered. Little square windows. Peeling paint. Long wooden deck. Pointed roof. Stilts in the sand.

Something pitch-black beat its wings against the dark sky. A raven. It flew down and landed on the edge of the roof.

Silence, except for the sea and the cawing of the big black bird.

My wrists hurt. The harsh sea wind bit at my tender, scarred skin. I tugged my sleeves down.

I climbed the rotting steps.

Rusted knob.

Weather-beaten door.

I went in.

And there he was. Sleeping on a pile of nets in the corner, one naked arm thrown over his head. His eyes were closed and his expression was soft and moonlight was shooting through one of the windows and he looked like a damn angel, a damn Titian angel.

I’d found him.

I’d found River.

After all that, after all the wondering and worrying and Devil hunting, here he was.

He was thin. So thin. Lean muscles, taut and tense like they were about to snap. Long dirty hair, down to his chin. Expensive linen pants, torn and ragged and tied with a rope around his waist and still hanging half off his skinny body. No shirt in the cold. Nothing from the waist up. No shoes. Black dirt under his fingernails. White, sea-salt crust on his skin.

I took a deep breath.

The room smelled like fish and salty sea air.

I turned my head.

Rods and reels and other fishing things. Old nets and dried seaweed. A small wooden table with black grime ground into its cracks. A short, dirty knife next to a pile of oyster shells and one small cup filled with dirty water.

This, this was how River was living.

River, who made sweet-potato fries and eggs in a frame and bought expensive dark chocolate. River, who needed espresso six times a day and hated thunderstorms but loved Casablanca and whose skin and hair had always smelled so clean, like fresh cold air.

Rustling in the corner.

River’s eyes were open.

“Hi, Violet,” he said. Just like that. Just like it was nothing.

“Hi, River,” I said.

He sat up. He gestured to the pile of nets beneath him. “Very different from the old days, back in the snug guesthouse, huh, Vi? I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”

“You have nightmares,” I whispered.

He nodded. “I have nightmares.” He paused. “Vi, do you remember when you used to crawl in bed next to me? You kept the nightmares away. Do you remember?”

“I do.”

He smiled the crooked smile at me.

And suddenly he didn’t look thin and gaunt and rangy anymore. He was sleek and svelte and sinewy like the very first day I saw him, walking up to the steps of Citizen Kane.

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