Williams watched the string of small brown beads of seaweed float towards him. It never ever made it to the shore. Every time it came just within reach, the sea pulled it back on an invisible cord. He was in a reflective mood. He’d never been in a battle, save for a few skirmishes with the odd football firm at a service station.
Joachim was standing in the opening to the small cave they had retreated to when the fighting between the werewolves and the silver airship had reached its b****y apex. The tide had gone out, and the song of the sea was just a whisper now. Everything was quiet and flat. The birds had flown away, possibly for good, and the rocks had stopped talking in their grating, hollow tones. The battle was over for them. And it had been a battle; a real, proper, no-holds-barre
