“To develop photographs, Miss?”

“I have to do something, or I’ll go mad,” she whispered.

“Do you need help, Miss?”

“No, thank you.” Angelina gave Jeanie a quick hug. “Get to the kitchen with the others. They will all have their appetites back soon enough.”

Jeanie curtsied and left. Angelina headed for the one place she could be alone with her feelings and put some kind of meaning to the night’s crazed events.

Chapter Six

5:00 A.M.

Wednesday, April 18, 1906

STELLAN DIDN’T STOP running until he reached the end of the pier. Salila was ahead of him, and she dove from the edge, disappearing beneath the black swell. Stellan shucked his coat. There was no turning back, thanks to Salila. He could only hope Angelina would understand his sudden disappearance. But how? He stared at the water, dark and lapping against the pilings. Minutes passed as he watched the gray light of predawn give form to the city. I can’t leave you, Angelina.

Salila surfaced beneath him. “What’s taking you so long? Get out of those ridiculous clothes and dive in.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Of course something’s wrong. You’re not in the water.’

“No, I’m serious. Listen.”

“To what?”

“That’s just it. Nothing. It’s dawn, and the gulls aren’t screeching at the fishing boats. No sea lions barking . . .”

Salila sprang from the water and stood dripping beside him. She grabbed his arm and made to drag him off the edge. “You need to stop worrying. I got us out of there in time, and now all we have to do is swim for it.”

He pulled back. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Teern’s set things in motion.”

The color drained from his face. “No! He doesn’t have to! The bridge isn’t going forward, not for decades by the looks of it, and when it does . . .”

“That’s just it, Stellan. When it does . . . Teern’s making sure that ‘when’ isn’t going to happen.”

The air grew still, as if the city held its breath. Before Stellan could say another word, the ground began to rumble. Whitecaps appeared on the water, and the whole length of the wharf undulated like a serpent. A thunderous roar welled up. Waves splashed high, soaking his clothes. It sounded as if the city would tear apart.

“Earthquake?”

“Yes, Stellan, a large one, and it’s arrived, so be smart, jump into the water, and swim to the tombs!” She let him go and dove back into the choppy waves.

Stellan! A voice rippled through his mind.

Angelina! He turned toward Pacific Heights in the distance.

5:10 A.M.

Wednesday, April 18, 1906

ANGELINA IMMERSED THE photographic paper in the developing tray. The soft red light made it look as if it rippled in a bath of blood and water. As she moved it to the fixer, her frown lines deepened. Give it a minute, she told herself, but a minute made no difference. A photograph didn’t lie, and this image of her and Stellan was missing one essential component: Mr. Fletcher himself. “Impossible.”

The camera had captured Angelina, one hand on the gnarled old oak tree and the other resting softly against the folds of her skirt. Her eyes were supposed to be on Stellan, if memory served, but instead they stared across time and space into . . . nothing. Not even a fog or blur. There was simply nothing where his body should have been. Where his body was! She dropped the picture back into the fixer and released the tongs as if they’d caught fire. Who is this man? Her hand went to her neck, and she shivered.

The fixer settled over the image and went still, but as she watched, it began to ripple on its own. Soon, the liquid in all three trays became agitated and sloshed onto the table. The red light overhead swung violently, and upstairs, someone yelled “Earthquake!” Footfalls sounded above. Shouts and confusion. Someone called her name. The floor seemed to rise, and she buckled to her knees.

“I’m down here!” She tried to climb the stairs, but the floor tipped, and she fell, rolling toward the back wall, along with bottles of developer, tools, bags of flour, and boxes. When she struggled to her feet, the light winked out. “I’m down here!” she screamed again. As the walls cracked and caved, she had one thought and one only. Stellan! Where are you?

5:12 A.M.

Wednesday, April 18, 1906

STELLAN BOLTED ALONG the wharf, past the ferry building, and up California Street. The buildings rushed by in a blur, his speed as fast as light. The paving warped under his feet. Whole sections of street dropped away. Others shot up as if punched by an underground giant. Teern! Stop this madness! But the only thing he heard was Angelina’s voice in his mind.

He ran on. People were pouring out into the street, carrying their belongings, running for their lives. He tore past, only a rush of wind to them. Stellan reached the house and leapt the wrought-iron gate. It was still standing though the fence was gone, the bricks scattered into the street. The Ralstons’ Queen Anne home looked as if it had been uprooted and slammed back into the lot askew. It listed downhill, shutters and doors dangling open. The entrance wall had fallen, and a turret lay in the garden. Inside was worse. Dust rose, thick and gritty. Mr. Ralston climbed over the rubble.

“Where’s Angelina?”

“I don’t know.” Screams came from upstairs, and Mr. Ralston ran toward them. “I have to get them out. Gas fire’s started in the kitchen!”

“Angelina!” Stellan shouted.

“I’m in the basement!”

He was at the door in seconds, heaving aside timbers and bricks. Flames shot up from the adjacent kitchen. Faster than human sight could follow, he pulled the rest of the rubble and beams aside, stormed down the stairs, and jumped the last few feet to land in front of Angelina. Light from above flooded in, and black smoke billowed. Suddenly, the tremor stopped, and they fell into each other’s arms. For a moment, the horrors of the world faded. The flames and falling ceiling, the broken ground and the devastation disappeared as he held her tight. He looked into her eyes, fire turning them golden. “We have to get out.”

She took a step back. “The wound on Mason? Did you do that?”

“Of course not. Let’s go!”

“Not until you tell me who you are.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The photographs I took. You’re not in them!”

“Angelina . . .”

“You’re a demon, aren’t you.”

“No.” He took her hands. “We must go!”

“What then?” She pulled out of his grip. “How can we hear each other’s thoughts?”

“Angelina, there’s no time. I promise you, I will not harm you.”

“Just say it, Stellan. Ghost? Apparition? Angel?”

“Nothing like that!”

“Then tell me the truth!”

He clenched his fists. “Mar!” he shouted. “I’m Mar!”

“I don’t know what that means!” she yelled back.

He looked around as if seeking an answer in the devastation. “Mar are what you would call sirens, or mer-people.”

She knit her brow. “You saved me from the ferry accident?”

“I did, but it’s complicated. I . . .”

“How do you live?”

“In the sea, we are deathless. But blood sustains us on land.”

“Blood?”

“Human blood. And, somehow, sharing yours has given us . . .”

She touched her neck and stared at him. “Given us what, Stellan?”

He took her face tenderly in his hands. It was only a few drops, but for us it seems it was enough to create a blood bond.

The far wall collapsed as a shock wave ripped through the basement. No more time! Stellan bundled her into his arms and took off.

Wait! The others! We have to help them. She struggled to get free.

He held her fiercely until they were out of the house. Gerald was in the street with Jeanie and the rest of the staff. He deposited Angelina there and turned to Gerald.

“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Ralston? The Blackwells?”

“I couldn’t see them. We’ll have to wait for the fire department.”

“That will be too late!” He ran back to the front door as the entire entranceway collapsed. Flames lashed out at him, forcing a retreat. Fire was not his element, and, like the sun, it could consume a Mar’s life force. He leapt to the side of the house and grabbed the base of the large bay window, tearing it from the framework with a single heave. He jumped through the gaping hole in the wall, calling for Mr. Blackwell.

The house was thick with smoke and falling plaster. It made it impossible to see farther than his hand. Heat seared him, and he fought every instinct to get away, get back to the sea. Above the crackle and roar of flames, his sensitive hearing caught screams. He followed the sound to the base of the stairs. Mr. Ralston was there, trying to lift a beam that blocked the way. He was nearly done in by the smoke. Stellan stepped up and wrenched it away, tossing the hardwood support beam as if it were a matchstick. Mr. Ralston collapsed in a fit of coughing, and Stellan, with one arm over his shoulder, raced him out the bay window and down the steps, depositing him in front of Gerald. Instantly, he ran back into the burning house.

Stellan!

Help your father. I’m getting the others.

He dashed up the stairs. The floor gave way underneath his last step, and he slipped, grabbing hold of the step as he swung in midair. Stellan dragged himself up to the hallway and ran to the doors, throwing each open until he reached Mason’s. Too hot to touch, he kicked it in. Black smoke spewed out as the fire sucked back. “Stay low! Crawl toward my voice!” he shouted.

Mason appeared, red-faced and panting, dragging himself along the carpet.

“Who else is in there?”

“No one!”

Cries rose up from the room behind him. Without another word, he threw Mason over his shoulder, raced to the stairway, and jumped to the ground floor. In a few strides, he was close enough to stand Mason up and propel him out the gaping bay window. Pausing only long enough to see that the man could walk, Stellan tore back for the two women.

They were both nearly unconscious when he found them, huddled together in the middle of the last room. The fire had traveled up the walls and across the ceiling. It creaked, and the light fixtures fell, exploding the gas lines. Using curtains to beat a path to Mrs. Ralston and Mrs. Blackwell, Stellan hauled both women up, one on each shoulder and smashed out the window as the entire floor collapsed. Coughing and choking, he staggered toward the street.

Chapter Seven

6:00 A.M.

Wednesday, April 18, 1906

ANGELINA STARED AT the gap in the wall where the bay window had been. Her hands clenched, fingers twisting into knots. An icy chill gripped her as she strained to see through the haze. When Stellan didn’t appear, tears welled.

“Look there!” Gerald shouted.

She wiped her face in time to see a figure slowly emerge from the smoke. “Stellan!” In one arm, he held up her mother. Over his shoulder was draped Mrs. Blackwell. Angelina stumbled toward him. His clothes were smoldering, his hands burnt. Gerald and the cook appeared behind her, ready to help with the injured women. For once, Mrs. Ralston had nothing to say and could only concentrate on catching her breath. Mrs. Blackwell remained unconscious, and Gerald carried her out. Angelina supported Stellan as they made their way to the curb. “You’re injured,” she said, breathless.

“I’ll be fine.”

Both women were settled into the Ralstons’ car. The window rolled down, and Angelina was barely aware of her father speaking from inside.

“Car’s full,” he said. “Traffic bottlenecked. You and the staff will make better time on foot. Get going! The whole street’s ablaze.”

“Pardon?” She turned from Stellan toward her father.

“I’ll keep her safe.” Stellan pointed toward the bay. “We should all head for the eastern ferry terminal. The city’s going up in flames.”

Mr. Ralston held his hand out to Stellan. “I don’t know who you are, young man, but when you say you can protect her, I believe you.” Angelina’s father stared unblinking as they locked hands. “Your strength . . . Your speed . . . It’s uncanny.” He shook his head to clear it. “If you can’t find us on the ferry terminal, head for Sausalito.” Just then, the family home’s roof dropped into the maw of flames. Her father cursed and rolled the window up. Gerald revved the engine, pulling out into the street.

Angelina watched them go, then encircled Stellan with her arms. “You saved everyone!” She looked up at him through fresh tears. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t come out.”

He sagged against her, his legs almost giving way.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We must get to the ferry.” He straightened, but could only stagger forward a few steps.

“Stellan!”

“I need . . .” He coughed uncontrollably.

“Tell me what I can do!”

He leaned heavily into her. “Angelina, I need blood.”

Her eyes widened, and she touched her neck. “This will save you?”

He nodded once.

Of their own accord her fingers started to loosen the wrap. “I . . . trust you.” Slowly, she turned her neck toward him. As the dressing fell to the ground, her eyes drifted across his chest. There was a gash that ran deep into the muscle.

“Angelina,” he whispered, and held her tight.

First she felt a tender kiss along the hollow of her throat, and then a fleeting stab of pain. “Oh,” she exclaimed. It was followed by soft, longing moans from the rush of euphoria. She leaned against him, watching the wound on his chest heal without leaving a trace. “My blood can do that?”