The Aquarium

by Emily Shore

  I stiffen when his eyes mark me. They are starved carrion, hunting for wounded prey. And I’m ripe for the picking. Only to realize his hands are not reaching for my elbows. When his eyes flick to the figure behind me, I discover I am not the target.

  As Milo rises, chain still in his hand that might as well be a string of seaweed to Wylder, I turn, shocked when Wylder barrels into the priest, thrusting him up and over the railing until the waterfall’s mist swallows Milo’s black robe and his dying scream. A hammerhead slamming into its prey.

  Panting, Wylder braces his fists and mutters, “For my sister.”

  For Haven. Not Bubbles.

  I turn around.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he muses, whimsical voice almost echoing. His words prick me like some fish toxin, paralyzing me. “We have unfinished business.”

  “Yes, we do,” a familiar voice calls just before I hear her footsteps on the pavement. She appears from around the corner of the little path flanked by tropical trees and bushes that have kept her hidden.

  The last one I expected.

  And Wylder grins.

  “Jealous much?” he taunts her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Want another go at it?” He beckons, waving one hand palm up.

  Lindy says nothing, but the focus in her eyes is familiar. It’s the same type of focus she would bring to her work, except just the opposite. Her hands won’t create beauty this morning. They will inflict violence. As she strides toward him, her smile may be deception, but her eyes are danger. They are the jaws of a leviathan, hundreds of shark teeth and thousands of stingray tails all in one. Unlike me, she’s up close and personal. No inhibitions about shoving the knife deep into the left side of Wylder’s chest. Faster than a swordfish he never saw coming, she stabs, then yanks. No care how fast he will bleed out. She wants him to. And I know why. His hands press to the blood pooling from his chest cavity. I remember the blood pool on the floor that day. The life she lost. The death she is taking now.

  He underestimated a woman for the last time.

  Wylder falls, rolling over onto the ground, life circling the drain of his eyes. Belly up, a dead fish ready to bloat in the sun. Only, a shadow crosses his path instead. Not one from Lindy.

  And I gasp, clutching my injured throat from the toil my breaths take on their way out of my system. Hyperventilation is a natural reaction upon witnessing a ghost. My eyes reel at the sight of swarms of bubbles—blood-red betraying passion and ardor—erupting all over her skin. Her black dress is low enough to reveal the thin line gored into her throat, the one wrought by my hands. No, Yang’s hands and Milo’s mind.

  I waste no time in throwing my arms around Bubbles, breathing in the scent of her. But her body tenses beneath mine. It reminds me of the day on the beach when she discovered my Yang side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lindy backing up against the cement wall, edging against it, then sliding down until she’s on the floor, drained. Her body is still healing from the other night. A battle rages in me. Caught between Bubbles and Lindy.

  I can’t help but focus on Bubbles first. “How?”

  A second later, my hand brushes against cold metal at Bubbles’ side. I look down. A gun. Why is she holding a gun?

  “It looks like I have to thank you,” Bubbles mutters to her brother’s corpse, his blood matching the color of her bubbles. She kneels, then rubs the barrel of the gun against Wylder’s cheek. “One less problem to worry about. These past few weeks sucking up to that priest and his perversions have been damn near intolerable. But he fell into my lap when I needed him. All I had to do was point him in the right direction so you and Haven could dance circles around each other.”

  My skin turns to ice. I feel the blood retreating from my cheeks. Nothing in me to move. Bubbles does instead. She rises, sneers, and kicks Wylder’s body, wiping more of the floor with his blood.

  Bubbles begins to pace, but her eyes don’t target the floor. They remain alert as black darts, ready to spear anyone who crosses her path. “Haven’s always believed I’m this soft, weak baby she needs to protect. But I’m the one who planned all this out. Even faking my death.” She must register my stunned lips parting because she rolls her eyes a moment later. “Yes, Serenity. The tattoos can turn off. And a simple twenty-four-hour illusory drug to give the appearance of my heart stopping and comatose flesh did the rest. . I knew exactly how to trigger your Yang to attack me. All so I could run Haven’s empire. No longer hiding in her shadow.”

  I purse my lips, trying to fit in all the pieces. How Bubbles was always allowed to go wherever she wanted. How Haven gave her protection unlike anyone else. Except for one time of their lives…when she failed. I breathe heavier.

  “Ahh, you know.” She approaches me, gun wagging in her hand like a jellyfish tentacle. “Of course you do. You have your own Haven. She goes by a different name. And just like my sister, she couldn’t really protect you. Too little. Too late. She should have smothered him back in the orphanage. She didn’t have the stomach for it then, but he was trouble since the day we were born.”

  Suddenly, Bubbles hisses at Lindy, who flicks her head up, only paying attention to Bubbles when it involves her. Up to this point, Lindy couldn’t care less about the power struggles of siblings or the fate of the Aquarium. “Part of me wants to thank you. For taking him out of the equation. One less problem to worry about. But…” Bubbles brows knit together, jaw tensing as she marks Lindy and finishes, “He was mine to kill. Just like I convinced Milo to whisper in my sister’s ear so she would kill Wylder’s little whores. Looks like I missed one.”

  Sky rushing down the path toward me with Kerrie in his arms is my distraction. The rest of my family trails him. Too much of a distraction because I hear the shot right before Bubbles’ body topples over the railing. From Lindy. Her hands still shake from her defense. Adrenaline pumping through them.

  As soon as Sky’s eyes meet mine, he passes Kerrie over to Tristan despite the other man’s opening larger than a blowfish.

  “Ser.” Sky assesses the situation, eyes taking everything in, fingers traveling to the wound on my neck.

  I wince. “I’m fine. I’ll…explain later. Um…are you all right, Tristan?” I chuckle to my friend as he holds our son at arm’s length as if waiting for Kerrie to eat him or something.

  “There’s a tiny human in my hands,” Tristan proclaims as Neil rounds the corner behind him. I’m not surprised my brother is the last to arrive.

  Just after he appears, Lindy raises a hand, signaling him not to move.

  “Lindy?” Neil and I say at the same time. He takes one step toward her, but Lindy’s mouth twists down, grit pressing tight into the corners, nothing but shame and loss in her blue eyes that have turned dark. Darker than sorrow so deep neither Neil nor I could reach. She reaches down to touch the fatal wound in her abdomen. The shot. A bullet that met its mark. She backs away toward the railing as the blood grows like a crimson bubble swelling. Right before it gets ready to pop.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” she murmurs, and I can’t tell if it’s to Neil, everyone, or even to herself. Whoever is the recipient, it’s a lie that spread. A lie Wylder and Milo and the rest of this warped culture told her. That everything that happened to her is somehow her fault.

  And I am too late.

  So is Neil, but his hand still lunges out even after Lindy has arched her back to fall over the side so the mist from the waterfall swallows and silences her forever.

  29

  L e g A c Y

  * * *

  My hands are filled with my children. My heart holds onto them and to the man sitting beside me to combat the bitter ache in my chest. The private train the Syndicate commissioned is tainted by Lindy’s absence. Any given moment, my mind replays the image of her falling. A murder/suicide sprite light on repeat.

  I replace the memory with the sight of Verity and Kerrie curled into my arms. I kiss each of their temples, rub my thumbs along their chubby cheeks, and
brush my nose into their hair, loving the way they respond with a slight wiggle or even a gurgle from my action.

  Neil hasn’t said a word since it happened.

  “He’s my brother,” I murmur to Sky, eyeing Neil from across the room. His foam-colored curls, a mirrored reflection of my own, mask one side of his face as he stares out the train window. Like he’s been doing all along. “I wish…” I keep my voice low because the twins are sleeping. Verity’s head on my shoulder, slumbering mouth open to drool, while Kerrie is tucked into the crook of my arm, one cheek plumping up from his angled head.

  “There’s nothing you could say right now,” Tristan tells me, reaching for his espresso as he sits across from us. In his lap is a sprite-light device showing various articles about the Aquarium’s fall. Tomorrow, it will be old news compared to the press conference when the lost Temple princess returns to take on her father’s legacy. Or will it be his legacy?

  “He’s right,” Sky agrees, yawning a bit and glancing out the window, even more fatigued than I am. “He won’t be getting over this anytime soon. He won’t ever.”

  He doesn’t need to tell me that. None of us will. They’re both right. There is nothing I can say, but there is something I can do. Careful to keep them from waking, I smuggle the twins into Sky’s arms. Responding, he murmurs something incoherent but content as he settles back down, snuggling up with our children while I remove the espresso mug from Tristan’s hands before he can take a sip.

  “Thanks.” Smiling sweetly, I lean over to kiss his cheek.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him point at me and declare to Sky, “How do you put up with that?”

  “Lifetime of training.” My husband chuckles, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Used to it?”

  “Sure, you should know by now that Serenity is ready to adopt you into the family.”

  “Huh,” is the last thing I hear Tristan say. I smile to myself at the little joke, but Sky isn’t wrong. At the very least, Tristan will get a trial run.

  Just as I approach my brother, the train veers into a sharp turn. The espresso launches into the air, finding its landing place all over Neil’s brand-new suit. Just after gasping, I have to bite down on my lower lip hard to keep from laughing since his reaction is a mixture of crumpling and waving his hands in front of him to will the air to cool him off. It reminds me of a crooked windmill. A few moments later, his half-gasp, half-shriek turns into a few pants, then a groan right before he returns to his seat.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologize right before scrambling for an idea. “There’s a fabric printer on the plane. You can pick out anything you want. The Syndicate will pay—”

  “Serenity.” Neil reaches for my arm before I can head that way, and he tugs me back so I end up in the seat next to him. “Just calm down. There’s a built-in fabric-repair system for this suit.”

  “Neil, you could have a burn,” I protest. “I should call for a medbot.”

  “Medbot can’t fix anything, Serenity. But thank you.”

  “Thank you for what?”

  He presses the coffee stain on his white suit. “That’s the first thing I’ve felt since Lindy fell…since she jumped.”

  So, he’s struggling with the denial of it all, too. Except we know she fell back, jumped because she had no choice. Another wound that couldn’t heal and from more than just the bullet.

  Slipping his gaze into his hands, my brother’s posture changes, slumps as he admits, “If I’d been a better husband, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “You can’t know—”

  “Educated guess,” he interjects, toppling my argument. “I was too caught up with trying to fix it all. Spent all that time leaking secrets to my network, going after Wylder… I tried to excuse it all. Like I was some white-knight hero. But she didn’t need a hero. She needed a husband.”

  “She needed you,” I confirm, hearing him sigh defeat into his hands next to me. I won’t stroke his ego by trying to deny his words or assuage his guilt. Our actions have consequences, and I won’t compromise the truth. Lies won’t get him through this. He has to feel it.

  So do I. If I can’t compromise the truth for Neil, I sure as hell can’t do it for myself. And the truth is if I’d said yes to Tristan sooner, from the first day, if I’d never trusted Milo, we would have been out of the Aquarium.

  “At least she got her revenge on the bastard in the end.” Neil sits back against his seat, mouth pressed down.

  Yes, I’ll never forget Lindy plunging the dagger into Wylder. We might have our share of violence, but infinitesimal compared to Wylder and every other rapist and predator that has ever desecrated this earth. Very few can change like Neil did, like Luc did. Most are just varied versions of my father. But for the first time, I won’t let my father’s legacy ruin the Temple. If I can believe that some can change, I have to believe the Temple can, too.

  It’s going to take a lot of work.

  When I enter the conference room with my lightning skirts rocking the air behind me, not one board member utters a word. Now I understand why my father preferred this room. From here, I can see the entire sprawling city. Looks like I’ll be embracing that but for entirely different reasons.

  I can make this my own.

  I love how the lightning animates to life when I take my place at the head of the table. Back and forth, they zigzag, unpredictable, causing several eyes to stare, diverged. All eyes snap when I crack the whip in the air, sudden and startling. Unlike my father, I won’t use it for every meeting. This is a special occasion.

  Without taking my seat, I commence the meeting from the head of the table, gliding my fingers along the length of the whip, which can deliver electro-shocks. “You want me, you got me. But I have conditions…” I begin to circle the table, owning the vulture-like body language Force used to wear. From Swan to Vulture. Sky will get a kick out of that. “First, my name is Serenity Storm. Not Yang. Not Swan. My title is Director Storm. Director Serenity during non-work functions.”

  I continue to sway past each chair, allowing my whip to brush against the backings. “Second, the Temple will open as scheduled along with the new rollout of cyborgs and non-cyborg workers, but I say workers…not sex workers. Performances and exhibits only.” I pause at the other end of the table and face them all, tightening my hold on the whip. “No interactions.”

  Body language stiffens. Spines prickling and straightening. Mouths open ready to protest. But I crap my whip. It’s a Pavlov effect. Force paved the way before me. Though a different party wields it, the whip snap is a fervent reminder.

  “The newly geneticized girls will follow in the same pathway when they reach working age. To compensate for the loss, your salaries will be docked by three percent.” One rises to object, but my words overlap him, “I will receive no salary. Apart from the built-in Penthouse living,” I add. This destroys any other board member’s attempt to protest. Considering my father took a yearly income of over a billion in addition to the majority of shares he owned as well as the Syndicate’s other profits, I have more than enough to live off without stealing from Temple girls.

  It doesn’t just diffuse any other objections. It obliterates them.

  “Furthermore, there will be no more security guards in place. Bots will be used from now on, and they will provide official security without the negatives of taking advantage of sexual favors.” I mock the routine practice that has occurred in the Temple since its infancy. And in other Museums around the country. “Any current managers who have been found abusing their position will be immediately dismissed without pay, and all new managers recruited will be female and held to the same standard.”

  Some voices begin to mutter around the table, shaking heads, disapproving tongues. Since all but two are male, it doesn’t surprise me. Little wonder with how my father ran his empire.

  “Tristan Drake…” I weave around the table, coming to stand behind him, m
y one ally in this whole mess. Grateful the rest of the Syndicate is not aware of our close connection, I address him as a superior. “How do you find this new system?”

  He licks his lips, adjust his tie, then replies without standing to pay me respect by remaining lower, “You are showing yourself more than capable of running your father’s empire by changing his legacy to make it your own. One cannot expect growth without sacrifice or change. Perhaps this is a…Revival era,” he quips with our inside joke, turning his head so only I can see the faint wink.

  “Thank you, Mr. Drake. Yes, women and girls are raising their voices all over the country.” I proceed back to my chair at the head of the table. “Gentlemen…” I let the word drip off my tongue with a measure of loathing as I know that none are fit to wear the title, though Tristan has some potential for achieving it. “It’s time to stop acting as gluttonous pigs. Time to become the preservers and protectors as those with power and privilege should be.”

  Finally descending into my chair, I flick my hand to summon the sprite-light screen with the Temple seal: the Yin and Yang. A twinge of energy mixed with grief is an undertow deep inside me. It is the one thing I will not change about this place. Even if everything in me wants to change the symbol, the symbol is one thing that will live on. But I can make it my own in a new way.

  “Next…” I come to one of the last orders of business, bringing up a Temple structure plan of a few different levels where I’ve marked strategic areas. “There will be a counseling center designated for every girl on every level. Counseling will be included in their complimentary medical insurance plans. They may select an in-person counselor or a digital one. A leave of absence may be arranged at any time for any girl.”

  Relieved they do nothing more than squirm a bit in their seats, I blow out a breath, place my whip on the table, and glide my fingers across its length. One of many things Force taught me about offering subtle reminders.