Breath of Earth by Beth Cato

Author:Beth Cato
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-06-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

Whatever power the tremor brought her, it hadn’t been enough. The bubble was gone. So was oxygen, warmth, and Cy’s secure presence at her back. Water welled in her throat, her chest. All she knew was blackness and pain. Then suddenly—light. Piercing.

Was this death?

Something slammed into her back. Again, again. She retched, her throat afire as if all of the bay was being expelled from her lungs and stomach and various other internal nooks and crannies. Her fingers dug into sand. Dry sand. Her face burned with grit. The weight of her dress dragged her down.

“Ingrid. Ingrid. Stay with me.”

“Cy.” His name emerged with another eruption of seawater. He was alive. A warm, broad hand girthed her waist, while another hand held up her right shoulder.

“It’s all fine. We’re on land. Get the water out.”

She let her eyes close. The sunlight glowing through her lids didn’t bother her. Sleep. Sleep would be mighty fine right now.

“No.” Those strong hands shook her. “Stay awake, Ingrid. Christ Almighty, you’re too cold.”

The earth shivered. Power filtered into her as if the ground itself tried to warm her. Not with a deluge—she wasn’t in excruciating pain anymore. Cold, soreness, and exhaustion rooted in her very bones. Somehow, the earth differentiated between them all, only responding to agony.

Her body shifted and she turned around and floated upward. An arm hooked beneath her buttocks while another had her back. The body next to hers was cold, the warm ground far away. All the world turned to ice.

“Help! Help!” Cy yelled. “Over here!” The next words puffed heat against her nose: “Stay with me, Ingrid. We didn’t go through all that for you to die here. Come on, stubborn girl.”

As though straining to lift a steel beam, she worked open her eyelids to see Cy looming and blurry above her.

“Not girl.” The words slurred. “Woman.”

“You . . . you . . .” His laugh was sharp. “I will never understand you.”

“Good. Mys-tery. Lasts longer. Where . . . we?”

“Hey!” That was a different voice, distant and drawing closer.

“I think we’re on Goat Island,” said Cy.

Goat Island, located halfway between San Francisco and Oakland, smack-dab in the middle of the bay. Ingrid’s awareness bobbed like the tide as she was carried inside a building. Another voice rang out, feminine and shrill. The heavy dress was peeled away. A fire crackled. Water boiled. Ingrid found herself wrapped in blankets, hot-water bottles heavy against her. Heat trickled into her skin. It wasn’t the warmth of the earth’s power, but the radiating force of life itself. A small spout was held to her lips as a hand tilted back her head. Molten lava poured into her sore throat. She choked and spat.

Close by, a man burst out in raspy laughter. “Aye, she’ll make it. Whiskey’s the stuff of Christ and Lazarus.”

The drink created a cozy ball of warmth in her gut that seemed to fizzle out her ears. Ingrid blinked away the crustiness of salt and sand as she took in her surroundings.

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