Blue-white light flashed, and a shotgun blast tore through the side of the Reaper's face. Skin and stringy black hair exploded in shreds from the skull. A second shot caught it in the back, toppling it over Valentine and into the water.
"Always wanted a crack at one of those sumbitches," the pilot said, breaking open the shotgun to reload it.
Valentine could only lie and watch as a pair of ghostly white hands gripped the tube-steel of the low front rail of the boat.
"No, goddammit," Valentine said. "You're through." He put the pain away and unclasped the anchor, making sure the line was not attached.
Mechanically, the Reaper pulled itself onto the boat. Its face had lost all animation, its limbs moving in uncoordinated jerks.
Valentine lifted the Danforth anchor by the shank, and turned it so the twin flukes pointed down. He brought it down on the Reaper's spine, burying the steel into its torso. Still holding on to the anchor, the Wolf strained every muscle and picked up the Reaper. He heaved and threw the weighted abomination into Lake Michigan.
Beyond the splash, he saw gray humps in the water moving toward the boat.
"Shit, the Snappers are coming," the pilot said.
Rho rose to his feet, the Reaper disguise gone. His human form looked like a wind-bent old tree, white hair streaming in the lake breeze. A misty patch at his chest throbbed with a faint blue light.
"I'm so tired," he said. "But perhaps I can help."
The Lifeweaver closed his eyes and gripped the boat. It began to move.
The boat picked up speed. Valentine saw more humps closing in from the sides. But they avoided the boat, gathering around the turbulence where the Reaper had disappeared in its final plunge.
"I've got the other grenade," the pilot said.
"We won't need it," Molly said, looking out over the stern. "Whatever they are, I hope they have strong stomachs."
Once clear of the harbor, Valentine and the pilot went over the side and unwound the Reaper's robe from the propeller.
"You two just helped three terrorists escape Chicago," Valentine told the Quisling as Molly helped them back into the boat. His friend was still unconscious, under a blanket in the forward cabin. "You can come with us and be set down somewhere, or join the fleet if they'll have you. It's the least I owe you for your help. That is if you don't want to paddle back and have a talk with the Reapers."
"I think we'd better come with you, sir. The name's J. P., by the way. My mate's name is Cal Swanson."
"Thought you might, J. P."
With the powerful motor again in action, they spotted the two-masted ship's lights before dawn. The speedboat tied up against the Whitecloud in an easy swell. The sailors, a mixed group of ten men, women, and children, came on deck to look at the visitors.
Rho stood still as a carving for a moment, looking at the new faces, then sank to his knees.
Valentine rushed to his side. He turned the Lifeweaver's face to him, but Rho did not react.
"I'm exhausted, Valentine the Younger. You are among your kind now?"
"Close enough," Valentine said. "We're safe, if that's what you mean."
The masklike expression did not change. Valentine looked into eyes filled with thousands of years of memories. "I will go in peace, then." Something that might have been a smile appeared on his lips. "I escaped them after all."
"Maybe you just need rest and food, sir. I'll help you up."
The Lifeweaver's mind touched his.
Too tired to talk. You've helped me more than you know. They would have dined long on me, but now I'll fly away free in death. Bring me to the cabin, the others should not...
"Molly, you and J. P. clear out the cabin, would you?" Valentine said.
He picked up the featherweight Lifeweaver. The former Quisling dragged his comrade Cal out into the night air.
"Help us, please," Molly implored to the faces above. Two sailors from the Whitecloud swung down.