The Sentinels When the tequila runs out

Hearing Mordecai's name sent a funny warmth shooting down Sharkbait's spine, making her forget her growing headache. Nonetheless, she pursed her lips and said, "No, daddy... Skellige..." Yes, something about all of this felt not only wrong but decidedly backward. She blinked moisture from her eyes even as she kept her face pressed close to Deirdre's dampened neck.

In response to her companion's question about sharks, the youth pressed her eyes closed a moment and murmured simply, "Sharkbait." That was what they called her; that was her name. Wasn't it? But Deirdre had called her something else: Larkspur. The nostalgic sensation grew inside her, seeming to fill all the voids with a bittersweet ache. And still she could remember nothing but the days since the beach.

Deirdre said that her mind had left her and Sharkbait could only nod in agreement, her cheek rubbing their pale fur into a warm friction. She ceased movement when the pain in her head went up a notch in response. "A witch?" she breathed against the young woman's neck. She heeded the warnings about power, loss and afterglow in speechless, teary silence as the thunder began to ebb.