by Emily Shore
With a sturdy hand coiling around my waist, Sky presses down on the skin of my hip, just enough to cause me to arch, tempting me to trust him. And I fall. I fall fast, the breath harnessed and yanked right out of my lungs before Sky catches me, hauling me from his arms and onto the bed with the strength of a shipman raising an anchor.
And we sail. The bed is our vessel. Our breath is our wind.
Once, we were echoes of a storm. A sum of the highs and lows of our past. Now, we are the storm.
Sky’s hands voyage across and against every scrap of me. Mouth and teeth follow, leaving imprints of swollen flesh and tiny indents. Traces of the storm like downed trees and broken glass. In another day, they’ll have all healed. My only lament, a reminder to savor this time and the memories.
Electrified, I rise to press my tongue to his neck, hearing his inhale like a sudden warm gust upon my ear. I taste the salt of his sweat, and I think we all might wear a bit of the ocean. Along his collarbone, I smell hearty sandalwood and breathe him in deep, savoring the familiarity. But then I remember we don’t want what is familiar. Tonight, we want the new.
We sink deeper into each other. To a depth where there is nothing but darkness and ghost lights and endless mystery.
26
O u R P l A n s
* * *
In the morning, the twins don’t wake us, but a knock at the door does. Sky and I both throw on robes to meet whoever is on the other side of that desperate sound. It’s only six.
Tristan is a surprise. Especially since we always meet either after an interaction or in his condo in the Commons. Judging by his unkempt hair and crooked bow tie, I can tell something is wrong. As soon as I open the door, he clears his throat and scratches the back of his head, “As much as I’d love to congratulate you and beefcake,” he nods to Sky, continuing, “there’s a…situation. With your yummy fruitcake brother.”
I cock my head to Sky, who nods once to confirm he’ll watch over the twins.
I huff, “I’ll deal with it,” and hurry to change before slipping on some sandals. The moving sea star ones Verity likes because they glow. “What’s he done now?” Groaning, I follow Tristan to the moving walkway that will lead us to the elevators.
“He’s in a holding center. I’m surprised you weren’t given an alert.”
“Why was he arrested?” I push the button for the Commons as soon as we reach the elevators.
“He attacked Assistant Director Wylder in broad daylight. Well, as broad as it gets in a nightclub.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Neil is the furthest thing from a fighter. “How bad is it?” Does he know what happened to Lindy? What other reason could there be?
Tristan shrugs. “Not as bad as it could be. It was pretty pathetic.”
Tristan stops the elevator on the lowest Commons level, then directs us to a moving street way that leads to a business center. An office building with meeting rooms because Haven capitalizes on everything. Busy workplaces with lunch hour exhibit breaks. The views on this side of the Commons don’t face the ocean and its sunsets. Instead, they face the harbor town. Ocean views are reserved for tourist attractions and hotels.
At the end of the moving streetway is the holding center. One step down from a prison, the building isn’t large, but it is capable of holding about a dozen cells, which I learn once were inside and approach the front desk, which is just a security bot. I allow it to scan my barcode for information.
“You have clearance,” it states in a feminine robotic voice. “But visitation hours are over. Would you like to post bail?”
So tempting not to, but I succumb and pay the thousand in credits. I’d be surprised if Wylder goes so far to press charges. His beef isn’t with men. Even if I’m using the definition in the broadest possible sense for Neil.
“Oh, maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick,” Tristan echoes my thoughts in a low murmur when we reach the cell where Neil sits on a bench, shy locks like white chocolate shavings masking his face. “He looks so cute all dejected like that.”
I elbow Tristan in a warning to behave, then sigh as the bot scans the cell mechanism, which opens the door. “Your bail has been posted,” it announces. “Please proceed to the front door, then exit the building in an orderly fashion. Enjoy the rest of your stay at the Aquarium.”
After slapping his pants, Neil gets up and strides right past me without a word. Not so much a look or a thank you. Only once he gets closer do I notice the bruise on his cheek and his left black eye and split lip.
“Ice prince,” Tristan sidelines the comment to me, whistling low.
“Neil’s a sore loser,” I let him know, but a fierce sisterly protectiveness overwhelms me. Wylder’s just added another nail to his coffin, which I’ll chuck into the sea.
“Hmm…” Tristan shrugs. “Not good relationship material. I’m quite good at winning. And getting what I want.”
“Or the fact he’s straight and married are other good signs,” I remind him, fighting the urge to grin.
“Yes, and there’s that.” He sighs as if lamenting.
Rolling my eyes, I follow Neil out of the building, but I tug his arm just as he tries to make a beeline down the street. “You’re not getting off that easy.” I tug on his collar, but he pauses, swinging back to me.
His eyes have turned metallic. Gray and cold. “You should have told me. I had the right to know. I’m her husband!” Confirmation. He knows.
“She asked me not to. How did you find out?” I ask.
Neil leans over a little, but he keeps his hands in his pockets, wincing at the pain it costs him to speak with his split lip. “Lindy talks in her sleep. Especially when she’s having nightmares.” He touches one finger to his black eye, cringing. A medbot will take care of that soon enough. We progress down the walkway back to the elevator.
I look down. “I’m…sorry, Neil. It happened in the steam room.”
Tristan approaches us, interjecting his confidence into our conversation. “Guy’s a Class A. prick. Can’t say I blame you, pretty boy. We all got a right to defend the ones we love.”
Neil rubs two hands down his face, moaning a little due to his injuries. “I sent her to the steam room.”
“Don’t be doing that,” Tristan warns. He cups my brother’s shoulder, causing us to pause before the elevator. For once, I watch his body language change. Not a relaxed posture. Confidence exchanged for a chilly brutality. A submarine voyaging into deeper waters. “Wylder Graves and Wylder Graves alone is responsible. Youve been around the block, Nile,” he emphasizes Neil’s graphicker name, reminding him of his history. “You’ve met hundreds of other pricks just like him. Just like I have. No prick is worth that.” I think of Tristan’s father, reminded of what Wylder told me regarding his background. I’ll have to remember to ask him how he got through it all.
“Go home and hug your wife,” is Tristan’s final piece of advice right before he pats Neil’s cheek, returning to his usual swagger. “And make sure she doesn’t strangle you. I like seeing your pretty face around. Serenity…” He turns to me, gesturing with the tip of an invisible hat. “I’m checking out before the weekend. I’ll need your answer by then.”
There was no chance I was going to leave Neil alone, but once we arrive at his resort door, I believe I’m safe to return to Sky and the twins. Until Neil opens the door—and we see Lindy on the floor clutching her abdomen right outside the bathroom door with a puddle of sticky blood staining her pants and the floor beneath her. Neil rushes to her side while I tap my barcode on the resort interface. I order a 911 medbot, but program it on silent mode. It’s what she would want.
Neil’s just managed to help Lindy into the bathroom when the medbot arrives. The first thing it does is introduce itself, “Hello, I am MedMax3000.” Then it scans me, Neil, and Lindy before a far too cheery bot voice says to Lindy, “You may be experiencing a medical miscarriage.”
Groaning, Lindy glances up at Neil. “Can I punch it?”
I shrink back against the wall, but Lindy pivots her head to me once and mouths a “thank you” while the medbot opens its egg-like compartment. It withdraws a portable ultrasound machine and drones, “Please remain perfectly still while I examine your uterus.”
Lindy raises her shirt. The device must have a built-in gel. From the doorway, I can’t tell what is projected on the sprite-light screen, but judging from the way Lindy hangs her head, her whole body like the tide retreating, I don’t have to hear the words, “All fetal tissue has been expelled.” Lindy buries her face in Neil’s shoulder, one reverberating shake upsetting her body.
MedMax3000 returns the ultrasound machine to his egg sack before withdrawing a series of patches. “Please apply one antibiotic patch to your abdomen daily for the next ten days. Physical symptoms such as cramping may continue for the next twenty-four hours.” Lindy peeks up from Neil’s shoulder, body tightening. “Other symptoms may include depression, shame, self-doubt, and fear over future pregnancies. Would you like to me to contact a counselbot for you?”
“Now can I punch it?” Lindy asks, brows diving lower.
“Punch away to your heart’s content.” Neil sweeps his hand toward her.
Lindy throws her fist at the egg sack, but it’s weak. She shrugs just after. “I’m not really a violent person.” That’s Lindy. All bark but no bite.
Neil hoists Lindy into his arms, straining just a little, and heads for the bedroom. Before they embark inside, he nods to me. That’s my cue to leave. I wish I could give her a hug, do something else, but it’s not what she needs right now. It’s not what they need.
I banish all other feelings to a sinkhole inside me apart from two. It’s not my loss, so I don’t get the right to feel anything toward it other than sadness for Lindy.
My first feeling is regret. Because if I hadn’t waited for Milo, if I’d given my yes to Tristan sooner…
I shoulder the blame. But only the shoulder. The rest of my body, my heart the most, reserves the right to rage. All for Wylder.
First, I look for Bubbles. Truth be told, I wanted to go after Wylder first. I even brought my whip, but ever since the run-in with my brother, he’s kept a low profile. So, if anyone can help me figure out where he’s at or what his greatest weakness is, it’s Bubbles.
After I try her phone chip, which goes right to voicemail, I decide to check the steam room for some reason. On the way down in the elevator, I send a message to her FaceSpace, but all messages were unanswered despite the screen registering she’s active.
I’ve barely stepped foot into the steam room when I understand why. I discover her. No, it’s not her. Not anymore.
Nothing in me left to fight. Nothing in me left to scream. All I can do is sink and sink, wishing the floor were water that would swallow my knees and not stop with them. The steam is cloying to my skin now. The first time water isn’t a relief. And the first time the digital water outlines on her skin don’t move. Frozen at the point when her heart stopped beating and mind stopped firing.
I don’t have to press my fingers to her pulse, but I do anyway. She’s too cold. Cold as scales. As frozen bubbles.
“Bubbles,” I whisper.
Not her. Not her. Not her.
This doesn’t make any sense. She didn’t fit the profile of any of the other victims. She wasn’t a performer. She wasn’t…me.
Spit that guilt out, I hear Yang say from somewhere inside me. This wasn’t your fault.
No, nothing is my fault, right? Not us being here. Not my inability to protect our children. Not what happened to Lindy…to me.
“It was somebody’s fault,” I whisper the denial. And the only ones with answers won’t give me any.
“What the hell did you do?”
Snapping my head back, I narrow my eyes when Wylder enters the room. No doubt he tracked me, decided another ritualistic struggle with Yang was in order despite the end of the weekend. This is still our spot. At once, he swoops down to the floor and tries CPR to bring her back. It would be easier to open a whale’s mouth and take its latest meal. Bubbles isn’t coming back. Desperation turns Wylder’s eyes blacker than squid ink. He’s panicking. That’s when I register why. This effort isn’t for her. It’s for him.
“Come on,” he pleads, gasping as he tries in vain to restore his sister.
Something in him knows to give up, but the surrender is short-lived, gives way to his first emotion, a baser instinct that is his foundation.
His eyes turn violent with vengeance. Black as blame.
Even though I scramble to get away, Wylder launches for me, hands latching around my neck. But Yang doesn’t get a chance to rear herself for a little fun.
“Bubbles?”
Haven’s voice shreds through our battle. Yang retreats to the cage inside me while Wylder’s hands relent, shrinking to his sides even as Haven weaves her way around us as if we are no more significant than washed-up driftwood. Compared to Bubbles, that is what we are.
Steam wafts around Haven as if it’s parting to grant her access to her sister. Slow, with purpose, Haven kneels before the body, places her arms underneath Bubbles’ frame, and lifts her. Not once do her eyes strain or her muscles show any sign of fatigue. But this burden must be heavier than an island. An island that can never be reached again.
27
H a V e n’ s H a V e n
* * *
I wander to the water wall, trickle my fingers across it in a swirl, marveling at the way my fingers scatter light and color and the tingling of bells. The lower I go, the more the notes and colors darken. It reminds me of the Temple. So much light, color, and energy. Yang would thrive. Can Serenity? After a lifetime spent hiding behind hotel windows, then thrust into the world of Museums where I overdosed, I finally detoxed in the Sanctuary. Can I go back to that world as its controller? Can I detox the Temple?
“Give her another moment,” I hear Sky advise Tristan as I continue to play with the water. He knows I’m working out my thoughts, pondering the options. The water wall is a recent upgrade to our quarters. In the background, the twins eye me while they eat their breakfast, listening for new random notes, eyes primed for a mural of colors erupting from my motion.
The Sanctuary is my illusion. Just like this water wall. It was just a place of healing, but it wasn’t my home.
Turning to my true home, I stare longingly. Sky activates the twins’ kitchen shield on as well as the app to their favorite cartoon so we can discuss more. It’s why I called Tristan here. Bubbles was the final straw.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Sky appraises me, exhaling so deep his shoulders nearly become a sinking shipwreck.
“My mother went back,” I point out.
Sighing, Sky rises from his chair. “Serafina is the strongest woman I have ever known, yes. But even she wrestled with her demons. I don’t want that for you.”
“Perhaps…” Slipping my hand into his, I look up into his eyes, continuing, “regret would be my biggest demon.”
His brows corkscrew down, suspicious, but his eyes soften, open to whatever I need to finish saying. “Regret I never changed anything. Or helped anyone,” I explain, thinking of all the baby girls, my mental adoptees, programmed with this singular technology. All the ones who will be coming after them. “My parents did. You did. Now, it’s my turn.” I steel myself, dropping the resolve like a mountain crumbling into the sea. I turn my back to the water wall.
Sky cradles one hand to the side of my face, thumb pressing light on my jawline. “Our turn,” he adds, and I confirm with a nod. Even if I have to do this on my own, I can’t do it alone.
Tristan rises from his place on the couch, fingers primed on his suit jacket, still enough I know he’s already awaiting my response to his next question, “Call in the cavalry?”
I close my eyes, wade deep into my thoughts as if I’m going underwater, my breath loud enough I feel as though I’m wearing an oxygen mask. Finally, I come up for air and respond, “Yes
. Contact the Syndicate. Tell them yes.”
Tristan does not smile. Does not respond. Even his eyes betray nothing. I examine them as if they’re one of those ancient magic eight balls they now have a sprite-light app for. Part of me wants to shake him, see if the tide pools in his irises clear to give me the answer. In this moment, he’s not just the man I’ve affectionally adopted as a friend these past few weeks. He’s a Temple emissary with a job to do.
Sky’s kiss settling on me, soft and quiet as a teardrop, distracts me. Just as woeful. The Sanctuary was more his home than mine. A lover of the simple things, a lover of a humble life, Sky would have been content there. He could have spent his life working with the Task Force from afar…a remote problem solver. But that is not my life. Not only do I need more, I was also meant for more. My name, my fate, written into the cries and screams of every single one of those baby girls. I will care for them. I will champion them. I will protect them. And Sky…will love them.
Unlike one third of a sibling trio who never had anybody.
When I enter Haven’s bedroom, I half expect it to resemble her minimalistic office. So, when I step in the doorway to see the tank in the middle of the room, I pause to marvel. It’s about the size of a circular swimming pool, but it’s not the size that’s impressive—it’s the bioluminescent jellyfish drifting through the dark water like glowing night wisps. And Haven’s wetsuit is so black along with her breathing shield I don’t immediately notice her until she opens her eyes. The jellyfish circulate around her, but not once do their tentacles brush her body. Part of me wonders if she would feel their sting through her suit or if it’s also shield protected. Either way, it seems fitting for Haven to swim with the creatures she most admires. Perhaps this is her bit of haven like Sharky’s tank is mine.
Just after my presence alerts her, Haven floats toward the ladder on the right side of the tank and begins to climb out, stepping onto the vent-covered floor. Triggered by her motion, the vent starts up, blasting warm currents of air designed to dry her within moments. Without changing out of her bodysuit, Haven approaches me, the only evidence of her swim found in her damp hair. Black and lustrous as moonlight on dark water.
