Page 37 of The Otherworld

What was that?

It sounded so much like fists pounding against the door. Could it have been… Adam? What if it was? What if he stumbled upon the lighthouse and knocked at the door, and I took too long to answer it?

I need to go outside and look.

Though the hands of terror clench my heart, I know I must find out.

But before I can grab my cloak from the rack—

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM… BOOM.

The front door.

Lucius jumps a mile and erupts into alarming barks punctuated by throaty growls. My heart leaps into my throat, but I don’t hesitate this time. I rush across the living room, through the kitchen, and to the front door.

Lucius yelps, scrambling behind me as if warning me not to open the door—

I open it anyway.

Sheets of rain come slashing in at me. At first, I don’t see anyone, then a bolt of lightning rips across the sky as I look down… and that’s when I see him collapsed on the doorstep.

Adam Stevenson.

10

Flesh and Blood

ORCA

I stare at the slumped-over man for a stunned moment before springing into action. Dropping to my knees, I take hold of his arm and try to help him to his feet, but he doesn’t budge.

He’s unconscious.

Swaths of rain blow relentlessly through the door as I struggle to pull him inside. But he’s bigger than Papa and soaking wet. I roll him onto his back and hook my hands under his arms, hoisting him backward into the house with all my might. After some struggle and grunting, I manage to drag him in and shut the door, leaning back against it with a breathless gasp.

For a moment all I can do is stand frozen in place, breathing heavily as I stare at him lying in the dark. Lucius sniffs him curiously like something that washed ashore on the beach, then looks up at me with droopy eyes as if to ask, “Now what?”

I step around Adam and hurry into the living room to turn on a few lights. When I return to the kitchen, I take hold of his underarms and pull him the short distance to the living room, stopping in front of the fireplace.

Now in the lamplight, I can make out his face. It is a tattered replica of the striking man in the photo, but his most distinctive features are unchanged: his eyebrows, his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, which is now covered in stubble and smudged with dirt and blood. A painful-looking scratch runs down his cheek from the outside corner of his eye, like a fallen tear scarring his face.

I place a hand on his shoulder and gently shake him, repeating his name—but he gives no response.

Flesh and blood.

A real person.

From the Otherworld.

Is he breathing?

I tip his chin up slightly and lower my ear to his nose, listening carefully. Soft puffs of breath move in and out of him, tickling my hairline.

He is breathing.

He’s alive.

A sigh rushes from my lungs as my anxiety unravels into pure relief.

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