For a while, then, there had only been more featureless night, far-off lights and occasional glimpses of the vast marshes stretching away on either side of the asphalt ribbon. Once, a fat raccoon had darted across the road and she’d almost run it down, had stomped the brakes and would have been dead if there’d been anyone behind her.

She’d reached another long bridge just as Hendrix had begun “The Wind Cries Mary”; a reflective green and silver sign had announced that she would be crossing Croatan Sound and that Roanoke Island waited for her on the other side. Niki wasn’t a history buff, but she knew the legend of the Lost Colony, the English settlement that had completely vanished, nothing left behind except the word “CROATOAN” carved into the trunk of a tree. And there was a Harlan Ellison story with the same name, about alligators and mutant fetuses living in the sewers underneath New York City.

As the raven-black Vega left the mainland behind and rushed toward the line of barrier islands and the cold Atlantic, she’d thought about what might hide itself at the blurry edges of her sight and rolled up her window.

Niki had stopped for gas and a fifth of Jim Beam in the waterfront town of Manteo. Any maritime charm the town might still have had twenty, twenty-five years ago, had been long since smothered beneath a gaudy flood of vacationers and housing developments, white-washed seafood joints and video rental stores. She’d avoided the eyes of the old man who’d come out to pump for her, the disdainful stares from the old woman behind the cash register she’d guessed was his wife. She had paid with a twenty, and the old woman had snorted when Niki had told her that she could keep the change, had snorted but hadn’t refused.

The highway crossed one more bridge, the last, and the sodium-arc halo of Manteo had faded behind her as the dunes of the Outer Banks had risen up around the car, and she’d followed the single blinking eye of Bodie Lighthouse down to the sea. This time the darkness had felt less threatening, less like a hiding place for monsters and more like a shelter against the grinding weight inside. Maybe it was the moon, butter yellow and three-quarters full, just beginning to show above the sea oats, or maybe it was the ocean, so close she’d caught shimmering glimpses of it between the dunes.

Past the old lighthouse, there’d been a narrow, unpaved road leading away from the highway, packed sand and shells crushed under tires, and Niki drove slowly until the road blended seamlessly into the beach. The tide had been in, and even over the blaring stereo, she heard the velvet crash of the breakers. She rolled the car to a stop a few feet from the waterline, shifted down from first into park and cut the motor, but left the stereo on, the headlights burning.

Well, how now, brown cow? Dumbass Danny Boudreaux thought, her mind speaking in his voice, something he said that had always made her cringe a little, and of course she’d had no idea what came next. The waves were pretty in the moonlight, and the sand silver below the stars, but there were no answers here, and no more comfort than could be found in loneliness anywhere. Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say, and she’d turned Jimi Hendrix down so that the surf had seemed to grow louder. Then Niki had opened the door, unlaced her tennis shoes and pulled them off her sockless feet, had set them out of sight in the passenger-side floorboard, and stepped onto the damp, nightcool sand. She’d eased the door shut, like whispering in a library, like someone might hear.

But there was no sign of anyone else, nothing but the lighthouse a mile or so to the south. No one to see or hear, no one to give a shit, and she’d tugged the smelly Speed Racer T-shirt off over her head and tossed it onto the hood of the Vega. The moon had flashed along the steel rings piercing both her nipples, and Niki had stood, looking down at her small, firm breasts in the pale light. She’d had the piercings done almost two years ago on a dare, her birthday and she and Danny wasted on rot-gut champagne, and he’d said I dare you, that’s all, I dare you.

She’d never been able to remember whether or not it had hurt much, if it had even hurt at all, could remember laughter and the piercer’s latex hands, the commingled aromas of disinfectant and sandalwood incense, but not so much as a sting as the needle had passed through one areola and then the other.

I dare you.

Oh hell, Niki, I double dare you.

Niki seized the left ring, worked both index fingers through and forced it open, tearing skin and flesh, until the tiny hematite ball that locked it closed popped free and fell to the sand. And that pain she had felt, pain so fine and honest that it had taken her breath, had left her gasping the salt air in great, helpless mouthfuls. She held the ring up against the sky, caught the moon inside and clenched it tight in her bloodslicked hand.

“I fuckin’ dare you, motherfucker!” each syllable punched into the blurring indigo sky, perfect blows driven by the blind red momentum of all the days and weeks and goddamned years and the emptiness waiting at the end.

The first wave had broken apart around her ankles, foam and unexpected warmth, and she’d realized dimly that she was moving forward, the headlights throwing her long shadow ahead. Her hands moved to her right breast, lingered there, and the water had rushed hard against her knees, enough force to push her back a step. The next wave had lifted her clear of the sand shifting beneath her feet, and she’d heard her mother shouting from the beach, Far enough, Niki, that’s far enough.

The spray splashed across her chest, spiced the fire spreading from her nipple. Her eyes were still dry.

“Goddamn you,” but the fury had been lost, and her voice had sounded papery thin and hollow. “You’re gone, and it’s going to hurt forever.”

Far enough now, Niki. Come back some.

A wave high enough to break over her head had driven her down, knees scraping bottom, and she’d come up coughing, spitting the ocean back into itself. She had opened her eyes and seen she was facing back toward shore, blinking through borrowed tears into the glare of the Vega’s headlights. Someone was standing in the black space between, someone small, watching her.

Come back some.

The next wave knocked her off her feet, and she had to dig her fingers into the sand to keep from being dragged further out by the undertow. Brief clarity, the illusion of clarity, fading with the pain, eclipsed by confusion and something that might have been fear if she’d cared enough to be afraid. And the silhouette in the headlights was still there, although she’d expected it not to be.

Niki had tried to stand, but another wave had slammed her forward, taken her another foot or two closer to the car and the shape in the light. And then a hand closed tightly around her own, a hand that felt firm and cold and terribly thin, and thin arms about her shoulders, hauling her gently back to the beach.

Niki tried to speak, had tried to say that she was all right, would be all right now, but had only been able to gag and cough up more water, sea water and bile and the half-digested hamburger she’d barely remembered eating for lunch. Slowly, the arms released her and she’d sunk to her knees in the dry sand. The water burned coming up, seared her throat and nostrils.

“You were going to drown yourself,” the girl said, and Niki had slumped back against the car.

The girl had been so small, smaller even than Niki, so pale she seemed to glow softly, concentration-camp skinny and dirty blond hair ratted beyond anything a comb or brush would ever be able to undo. She’d worn a black dress, filthy plain cloth, torn and ragged, and would have stood out even among the Jackson Square goth crowd.

“You were going to drown yourself,” the girl repeated, and it had almost sounded like an apology.