I undo the dock lines, settle into the companion seat next to my bride. By now, when it comes to handling boats, I trust Elizabeth as much as I do myself. Relying on her to pilot us home, I close my eyes and prepare to allow the fresh air and the rolling motion of the boat to lull me into an afternoon nap.

"Peter!" she says, about halfway across the bay, the brittle tone of her voice jolting me awake.

"What?"

"Something's wrong. The boat's not handling properly."

Still groggy, I check, listening to the Yamahas' drone. "The motors sound okay."

"But we're slowing… the steering feels strange…"

I take over the wheel, turn it slightly to the right. After a slight pause, the boat reacts to my touch, heeling more than I would have expected from such a slight move. We hit a small wave and plow through it, the boat shuddering, rather than cleanly slicing the water. I push the throttles forward and the engines rev but, instead of leaping forward, the Grady White only slowly increases its speed.

"You're right," I say, cutting back on the throttles. "We're riding lower in the water than we should." The boat settles into the water, wallows as we slow, the bow dropping lower than the rest. I check the depth finder, find it reads eighteen feet.

Opening the cabin hatch, I shake my head when I find what I expect to see. Water everywhere-seat cushions, Elizabeth's packages floating, ruined. "We're taking on water," I say. "Something's leaking, somewhere."

"What do we do?" my bride asks.

"Worse comes to worse, we'll take a long swim. Still I'd rather not sink in the deepest section of the bay." I take the wheel, throw the throttles forward, my anger growing at the boat's sluggish response, the water rushing back as we speed forward, weighing down the stern, slowing our movement. I turn us toward shore, hope we arrive at the dock before we sink low enough to stall the engines.

I have Elizabeth call Arturo on my cell phone, arrange to have him speed out to meet us on the water, somewhere before we reach shore.

By the time the yellow Seatow boat approaches us, we're already close enough to make out the large green marker of the marina's main channel. The Grady White has sunk low enough that saltwater reaches up to our ankles in the cockpit. Arturo, still in his suit, stands next to the rescue boat's helmsman, waves with one hand while he dials a cell phone with the other.

Our phone rings and Elizabeth answers, listens. "They want you to cut the engines and let them come aside and pick us up," she says.

She frowns when I shake my head. "They say we're too low in the water to keep going…"

I push the throttles further forward, aim the Grady White for the channel to Monty's a few hundred yards to the north. "Tell them to follow us. If we sink, they can pick us up."

We make it as far as the pine-covered spoil islands on the perimeter of the marina before I'm willing to concede defeat. "Brace yourself!" I tell Elizabeth and steer the craft toward the sandy shore of the northernmost island, shuddering at the yowl of the Yamahas as they collide with the bottom and tilt back from the impact, wincing at the scream of sand tearing at the hull bottom-even before we reach the beach-furious that my boat has to be treated this way. The Grady White slams to a stop, its bow dug into the sand, water rushing forward from the cockpit, then sloshing back.

I cut the engines and silence overtakes us, interrupted only by the whisper of the seawind through the pine trees and the growl of the Seatow's engines as it approaches us.

"Are you all right?" Arturo yells.

"No," I say. "After you get us to shore, you damn well better get someone to bring my boat in and I damn well better be told, damn soon, what the hell happened to my boat!"

Arturo brings the Grady White back to my island two days later. I meet him at the dock. "I thought I'd save you the bother," he says, and nods his head toward the twenty-five-foot Wellcraft tied nearby. "I'll take the rental back for you."

I say nothing, even though I'm glad to have my own boat again, glad not to have to endure a lesser craft.

"I don't know what they were thinking," he says.

Cocking an eyebrow, I ask, "Who?"

He shrugs. "We don't know yet but whoever it was certainly didn't wish you well. They reversed both your bilge pumps and opened the seacock to your head. If a plastic bag hadn't been sucked up by the intake and blocked the seacock, you would have sunk far before shore."

"Saved by litter," I say, and can't help grinning.

Arturo grins too, then turns solemn. "It could just as easily have been a bomb."

"Santos?" I ask.

"I don't think so. He just made bail yesterday. We both know where he was before that."

"Then who?"

"My people are checking."

"Your people are always checking," I growl.

Arturo sighs. "Be patient, Peter. These things take time. Just be careful in the meantime. Check your boat and cars before you use them. I'll have my people watch them but, until we get this resolved, you have to take care too."

To my relief, my bride agrees to cut back on her landside shopping trips. Our life as a couple settles into a comfortable pattern. Elizabeth turns her attention to her garden, which prospers under her renewed and constant ministry. Within weeks, new plants-many of them strange, brightly colored ones I've never seen-begin to crowd the formerly empty earth. The Dragon's Tear and other herbs become so numerous that she has to harvest her first crop.

Most of the time I go about the necessary chores to keep up the maintenance of our household while Elizabeth divides her free time between the garden and the kitchen, planting and weeding in the former, processing herbs and potions in the latter. Sometimes I work in the garden alongside my bride, brushing against her, both of us smiling, enjoying the intimacy of quietly sharing the same tasks. She never mentions Jorge Santos's name and, while he remains in my thoughts, neither do I.

"I've just brewed my first pitcher of Dragon's Tear wine," Elizabeth tells me a few evenings after her first harvest, just before we're to venture forth for our nightly hunt, both of us already in our natural forms. "Here," she says, placing a blue ceramic pitcher and two large crystal mugs on the oak table in the great room. She pours the clear liquid into the mugs. "Let's try it."

I recognize the pitcher as one of my mother's and wonder if she used it for the same purpose. I pick up my mug, sniff the colorless liquid, then swirl it. It gives off no smell. Looks like simple tapwater. "Should we, before we go out?" I ask.

Elizabeth nods. "Just remember, never drink this in your human form."

"Why?"

"In that form you have no defense against its power. It will stun you the same way it stupefies them, " she says, and waits for me to drink first.

I have a hard time believing it can affect anyone. The wine looks harmless, tastes as featureless as it appears. I drink two large swallows and then glance at Elizabeth. "It tastes like water, maybe a little thicker, a little greasy.…"

She laughs, drains her mug with one long, sustained swallow. "Finish yours and then tell me what you think," she says.

I shrug and follow her example. The warmth follows a moment later, radiating from my insides, tingling its way to my extremities. For a moment I feel dizzy. I have to readjust my stance, brace on my tail, to remain upright.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Elizabeth asks, moving closer, rubbing against me with her body, her tail.

My senses explode wherever she touches. I feel nothing like on my wedding night when Dragon's Tear wine, mixed with Death's Rose and alchemist powders, enabled us to merge our minds, but I find myself unable to stop grinning and unwilling to defer any of my appetites.