A Grimm Legacy Read online

  The wooden hull had been restored to its original luster, but Dylan and his grandfather replaced all the fittings with modern aluminum pieces, new ropes, sails and rudder. He patted his pocket, assuring himself his compass in its waterproof leather case was still there. Dylan double-checked the riggings making sure he remembered his bailing bucket, emergency oars, water and snacks. His glance caught the camera and the memory resurfaced, fresh and uncomfortable all over again. He sighed. It would be embarrassing if he forgot the camera.

  “Hey,” a familiar voice spoke from behind him.

  He looked up from painting the finishing touches on the sailboat’s new name, Whirlwind. His heart jumped straight into his throat.

  “It’s Dylan, right?” She asked, oblivious to how his breathing had ceased. “Bella. From English class?” she pointed out uncertainly, folding and refolding a scrap of paper in her hands.

  “Yeah.” Dylan voice came out unusually high. He reached for the bill of his cap and tugged it straight. Attempting to breathe, he tried again. “Sure. I mean I know who you are. I’ve been sitting behind you all semester.” Good to know she hadn’t noticed him staring at her dark ponytail every day, driven to distraction. It was no wonder his English grade wasn’t great.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for…” she glanced at the paper, “Classic DaySailing? Do you know…” Bella gestured vaguely.

  “Classic DaySailing. Let me see… Oh, that’s right, I’m Classic DaySailing.” Dylan straightened up twirling his paintbrush.

  “You?” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief, the paper trapped between two fingers.

  Dylan accidently flipped the paintbrush over his shoulder and he heard it plop into the harbor behind him. No problem, she probably hadn’t even noticed. “Yep, CEO and founder, what can I do for you?” he asked nonchalantly.

  Bella watched silently as the paintbrush slowly sank.

  “The largest charter sailing operation in the San Juan Islands is owned by a sixteen-year-old who forgot to turn in his term paper last week?” she challenged him.

  A no nonsense kind of girl—Dylan had always liked that about her.

  “You got me, I’m not the CEO.” He hung his head. Bella settled her hands on her hips and waited. “I’m just a part owner.”

  She finally laughed, a deep hiccupping sound tapering off in a giggle. Now she was warming up to him. “You’ll need to go down another quarter of a mile inland to get to their slip, but they’re out on the water this time of day. No one will be in the office.”

  Dylan slid around her until he was in her line of view again and gave her a winning grin. “What did you need?”

  “I heard they’re hiring and I wanted to apply. Just for something part-time after school.” She stared at the scrap of paper like it might contain answers.

  “You sail? Why didn’t you say so?” Dylan crossed his arms, looked her up and down, and shrugged. “I’ll hire you.”

  “To do what?” She looked at him skeptically.

  “You can be my skipper,” Dylan said, joking, but hoping he could actually talk her into it. He’d talked more stubborn people into more difficult things.

  “In that?” She eyed Whirlwind that looked even smaller with yachts looming on either side of her.

  “Looks can be deceiving. I warn you, I don’t pay well. Mostly in flotsam.” Bella laughed in that strange hiccupping way.

  Things were looking better and better for him.

  “No. No sailing for me.” Bella said, trying to talk coherently around her laughing. “The position I saw is more secretarial. Honestly, I’ve never stepped on a boat except the ferry, which doesn’t really count.”

  “Well, I’m fresh out of filing.” He glanced down at his empty hands, wishing for his paintbrush. “But I could still take you out.”

  “Take me out?” She asked, her head up and eyebrows arched in uncertain question marks.

  “Sailing, of course.” Dylan said, hoping she couldn’t hear how his heart was thudding against his ribcage

  “I wouldn’t get in that antique if I were you,” a third voice joined the conversation as Oliver sauntered over from farther down the dock, sliding between them.

  Oliver’s dad owned his own charter business with a slip nearby. In the same class since Kindergarten, they were never what Dylan would have called friends, but you couldn’t help but form a bond over 11 years of trying to one-up each other on the water.

  Dylan stuffed his hand in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Oliver’s timing was miserable. As usual.

  “Don’t you have knot tying to practice or something?” he asked with a glare.

  Bella sat on the dock and rapped lightly on the hull. “It’s big enough to go out of the harbor? Won’t it get swamped?”

  “Course not,” Dylan said. “My dad’s going to let me solo to the mainland for her maiden voyage.”

  This was a lie, his dad would never allow that. Not that he’d noticed much of anything since his grandfather died. But Bella didn’t have to know that. Dylan slid his gaze over to Oliver who grinned at him in an unfriendly way. He gave an inward groan; Oliver knew exactly what his dad did, and did not allow.

  “That’s cool,” Oliver shrugged, sitting beside Bella and turning his back on Dylan, “I’m running charters out to the Patos lighthouse this year.”

  Dylan frowned at the way Oliver purposefully tried to exclude him from the conversation.

  “Isn’t that kinda far to be going out by yourself?” Bella asked squinting up at Dylan, the afternoon sun in her eyes.

  “It’s just a few hours north, an easy sail if you know what you’re doing,” Dylan said smoothly. When Bella turned back to the boat, Dylan shot his rival another glare. Oliver offered Bella a hand up and gave Dylan an unfriendly grin over the top of her head as she bent to brush invisible dust off her shorts. Dylan wanted to wipe that smirk off his face with his fist.

  And to drive the point home, Oliver added, “We’ll want to see pictures on Monday, right Bella?”

  “Then maybe you could take me out,” she said with a teasing smile that made head swim. “Sailing, of course.”

  How could he say no?

  The refurbished Whirlwind’s maiden voyage was reduced to a sneaky dare to win a date from a girl.

  Easing the line off the cleat connecting the small ten-foot sailboat to the dock, he hoisted the sail quickly before he could come to his senses. The boat lurched as the sail luffed at a bad angle in the breeze. Swinging the bow right, he narrowly missing a stationary boat tied up along the dock.

  Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, Dylan gripped the tiller tighter, wishing he could let go for a minute to wipe his sweaty hands. The wind blew from the north, so he angled the sail perpendicular to the boat. This would let him run with the wind until he got out of Deer Harbor. Then he’d track along the western coast of Orcas Island until he hit tiny Patos Island, where the only thing on the uninhabited strip of land was the lighthouse.

  The dock quickly retreated over Dylan’s shoulder. Away from the heady presence of Bella, he felt guilt flop around in his stomach like a landed fish. But he quickly squashed it. The bed and breakfast they owned on the island kept his dad pretty busy usually, but he hadn’t noticed Dylan was alive for the last month anyway. There was no reason he would surface from his cocoon of self-pity and depression today. He’d be out and back and never missed.

  Besides, he had taken precautions. Emergency gear was stowed in the boat, and he was more experienced than most adults on the island. He even let someone know where he going. Sort of. Oliver could shed some light on things if things went wrong. Which wasn't going to happen.

  With the sails adjusted and a light wind blowing from behind and ruffling his sun-bleached hair, Dylan felt the tension leaving his shoulders.

  Taking the compass out of his pocket Dylan worried the new leather case with his thumb. It never left his side, but he'd never been able to bring himself to open the case, a replacement for
the original that disintegrated long ago. A parting gift. Having it close was supposed to ease some of the tightness that took up residence in his chest during his grandfather’s last days in the hospital and the numb agony of the funeral. So far no luck.

  Flipping open the lid in one swift movement like ripping off a band-aid, he stared at the tarnished compass nestled in the felt lining. He gently tapped its glass face and shivered as a current passed through him.

  Closing the lid and shoving it into the bottom of his pocket, he cleated the mainstay, and secured the rudder. Scrambling onto the boom protruding over the side of the boat and riding over the open waves, he stood with one hand on the backstay for balance and rollicked in the sensation of the wind stinging his face and the boat pitching and plunging far below him, threatening to tumble him into the sea. He stayed like that, until the thrill and danger filled him, and there was no room for the image of how his grandfather used to stand squinting at the sunrise with his arms tight across his chest.

  He climbed down, leaning into the boat’s embrace, emotionally exhausted. He closed his eyes and listened to the waves plink gently against the hull and the occasional seagull scream. He felt isolated, like he might be the only person left in the world.

  Drifting into a light doze, Dylan didn’t even realize he’d slept until he began to pick up on a break in the rhythm of the slap of water against the hull. He cracked open an eye against the bright sunlight and glanced around.

  At first everything seemed fine. The fingers of land creating the harbor were still to his right and left, the boat still faced south, the sail taut with the wind. Sitting all the way up he caught sight of something unexpected. Not one hundred feet from his starboard side, staring at him as he kept pace with the sailboat was an orca whale. A huge grin split Dylan’s face as he gazed at the distinctive black and white face. Orcas were common enough around the Islands, but he’d never been this close to one before.

  The whale spouted in an explosion of air and salt water that the wind spit promptly in Dylan's face. He laughed out loud, exhilarated. Dipping below the water, the orca slapped his tail hard against the surface, soaking Dylan and creating a wake that tossed the boat hard from side to side. Dylan lost his footing on the wet deck, ending up on all fours. His smile died suddenly as the whale turned sharply toward him and, in a split second rammed his blunt nose into the side of the boat.

  The jolt pitched Dylan to the other side of the sailboat, slamming his back against the hull and dipping the edge perilously close to the water. Struggling to recover from the shock, Dylan scrambled back toward the center of the boat crouching low and placing his palms flat against the polished wood radiating heat soaked up from the sun. A strange tingle ran up his fingers. He rubbed his palms together trying to get the feeling to fade, worrying he was going to pass out.

  As the boat continued to rock, slowly steadying itself, Dylan skimmed the water on both sides searching for the rogue orca. His pulse galloped, his throat rasped. Whales didn’t do that. What was going on?

  The boat leveled out. Silence returned to the water and it was like the Orca had never appeared. Seconds ticked by and nothing moved.

  A seagull flew by overhead and glided down for a water landing yards from the boat. He settled his wings into his sides and blinked slowly at Dylan as he bobbed with the waves.

  Seconds stretched into minutes. The smack of the waves against the boat and the bump of the free rudder were the only sounds.

  The seagull’s jolt into flight was all the warning Dylan got before he flew through the air, somersaulted, and slapped the water hard, face first. Salt burned his eyes and throat as he clawed the water trying to find which way was up. His lungs burned as he forced his limbs to still and he focused on the bubbles. Bubbles were full of air, air went up. Scissor kicking, lungs on fire, the water got lighter and he could see the sun streaming through the waves seconds before his head broke the surface. Gasping, coughing, sputtering, Dylan treaded water and wheezed until his body worked well enough for him to wipe his raw eyes.

  He had no idea where he was.

  Chapter 5

  “Please don’t start talking to me.”

  Dylan’s heart dropped, but when he felt the lump in his pocket, the panicked feeling faded slightly. His grandfather's compass was still there.

  A strange shoreline spread in front of Dylan. This was not Orcas Island. Looming ahead of him, a wide sandy beach with sharp black rocks jutting out during low tide. Beyond the beach, coarse sea grass reached fruitlessly inland with each gust off the water. The land rolled in low mounds until eventually changing to red clay cliffs. It was the only break he could see in the relentless grass and sand.

  In the minute, minute-and-a-half, he was under, he couldn't have drifted so far. He licked salt from his baked lips and closed his eyes as he considered how panicked his dad would be.

  It was possible he might notice his absence.

  Knowing he was in the ocean—somewhere—was not as comforting as Dylan hoped. But it could be worse. He could see land, he swam well, and reason told him he should get moving before he tired anymore. Regretfully, he looked back at Whirlwind. He'd never be able to tow it. His best hope was it drifting in with the tide. He kicked into a slow swim headed for land.

  Within ten minutes, he was sucking air. He spit, trying to clear salt out of his mouth, and focused on breathing. He hated how each slop of wave threatened his eyes, nose, and if he didn't keep it clamped shut, his mouth. At first glance, the shore seemed about a half mile away. Now, even after his first hard pull, the safety of the shore was no closer. There was quite a difference between knowing how to swim and actually swimming through the ocean to reach a place where he wouldn't drown.

  Rolling on his back, Dylan drifted. His world narrowed to the sun burning behind his closed eyes, the flip flip flip of his legs, and the disorienting effect of moving both horizontally though the water and vertically with the waves.

  When he heaved his head free of the water for the last time, he was within arms' reach of one of the sharp black teeth of rocks dotting the beach. Crouching on all fours for a minute, then two, he stared at the salty swells and the dusting of sand each stirred.

  He was tired. New-York-marathon-finished, Mount-Everest-climbed, tour-de-France-all-in-one-day tired. The only thought that slithered through was the need for water, and he wasn't going to find it here.

  On shaky legs and dead feet, Dylan looked up the beach. A floating dock was a hundred yards away stretching from sand to sea. He blinked, slowly clearing his eyes, and looked again. It was still there. Being so low in the water, he must have missed it swimming in. There, standing at impeccable attention at the base of the dock, was a very small person with crystal blue eyes that bore into Dylan.

  Only as tall as a seven-year-old, he had leathery skin, a long pointed nose, and sparse gray hair combed strictly back. Dylan couldn't decide if the oddest thing about his appearance was his distinctly pointed ears or his three-piece black tuxedo, complete with white bow tie and patent leather shoes. Despite all of this, the thing that caught Dylan's eye was the bottle of water hanging from his hand, dripping condensation on the sand.

  Odd or not, mirage or not, he had water and Dylan was going to get it. The small man stared as he wove down the beach, stumbling over sand and his own feet. His ice-colored eyes considered him impassively, the odd creature’s features unmoving. Within several feet, he held out the water and Dylan grabbed it, bobbing his heavy head in thanks as he forced his fingers to unscrew the cap.

  The icy water punched his raw throat and swollen tongue, causing Dylan to hurl the water from his mouth. The tiny man anticipated the fountain and moved accordingly. Dylan earned a twitch from one angled eyebrow, but that was all. Again, Dylan tried taking a small sip, warming it in his mouth and then easing it down his tortured throat. That one stayed down and, in increasingly larger mouthfuls, he went through the bottle. He poured the last of it over his head, only to realize, as the water
tickled down his skin, he was badly sunburned.

  The little person spoke. "That should get you to the house. Please follow me. Mr. Jackson is waiting."

  His voice was low pitched, clipped, with a hint of an accent that sounded familiar. The bottle of water tamped down the cotton clouding Dylan’s head. Other, more alarming thoughts sifted through. Survival had taken priority, but now unease bubbled in his stomach, threatening to explode into full alarm.

  Pointed ears. He was in more trouble than he originally thought.

  "Where am I?” Dylan scanned the deserted beach. “Who are you? Who’s Mr. Jackson?”

  The last question was thrown at the back of the tiny person who followed a dim trail up the beach and into the grass covered hills. Dylan turned back to the beach and his sailboat, riding abandoned on the distant waves.

  “All right, then.” Dylan trudged after him, feeling less than coordinated.

  "Cob." The man paused and turned, giving a small, formal bow. "You may call me Cob."

  He resumed his march through the dunes. No more answers were forthcoming. Dylan watched his retreating back and reached up to straighten his Mariner’s cap. His hand fluttered, confused for a moment before he remembered he’d lost it in the ocean. Maybe following Cob would at least provide more answers. He didn't really see another option, even though he wasn’t thrilled with his rescuer.

  They tramped through the dunes not speaking. At least Dylan tramped. He sweated and wheezed while Cob appeared to glide through the sand. Neither the heat nor the hike perturbed him.

  After only a few minutes, they rounded the side of the red clay cliffs and came into sight of the house, though “mansion” or “small castle” would have been a better description. It had three stories of stone with towers sprouting all over the roof, creating domes and turrets. Arched column walkways connected different wings of the massive house, and balconies sprouted in a haphazard fashion over its face. A gravel drive wound from the front of the estate and ended under a covered carriage house large enough to hold a 747 plane.