by Jade, Elsa
“I washed out, literally.” Ridley knocked back the last of the tequila. Well, there was more in the bottle. “So much for affinity.”
Lana leaned ever farther out of her chair. “But you were good enough to try? That’s amazing.”
Ridley let out a scornful breath. “I spent the last two years of my contract swimming in paperwork at a desk job. Now…” Shit, too bad she’d drained her glass. And she didn’t want to refill it when that would make it obvious to the other women how messed up she was. Nah, better to just sit here and pretend.
“And now you’re terrified of the water,” Marisol finished for her.
Good thing she hadn’t been drinking right then or she’d have spewed tequila everywhere. She glared at the heiress, who’d probably never been afraid of anything in her marble, silver, crystal, cashmere life. “It’s just a mental block,” Ridley said curtly. “The shrinks said it was performance anxiety, that I pushed myself too hard to prove I could do it.”
“Maybe you did push yourself too hard,” Marisol said. “But you’re not pushing anymore, are you? And it’s still getting worse.”
“Like my shocks,” Lana said. “I’ve tried meditation, healing crystals, CBD oil. But it’s just getting worse.”
Even though Marisol Wavercrest wasn’t staring at Ridley with those creepy dark eyes, her breath hitched with the threat of another panic attack. “What is this Wavercrest Syndrome? What’s it doing to you?” she challenged the other woman. “Because don’t think we’ll believe you brought us here just for our own good. Are you suddenly afraid of water? Are you turning into an electric eel?”
Lana perked up. “Electric eel? Oh. I didn’t think of it like that. Kinda cool.”
Marisol’s mouth tightened, deepening the lines around her mouth. “Would one of you mind bringing me a bottle of water? There are new bottles at the bar. I’d do it myself, but I’m doubting my knees at the moment.”
Lana started to push to her feet. “I can—”
Ridley jolted upright. “I’ll get it.” With short strides, she stalked to the minibar and found a clouded crystal bottle with a mountain embossed on the front. She wheeled around to thrust it toward the heiress.
Who stared her down. “Crack the seal,” Marisol ordered. “I don’t want you to doubt what you see.”
After a moment’s hesitation—she hated orders anymore—Ridley spun the top. The faint hiss assured her the bottle was new.
Lana craned her neck. “What’s the deal?”
Marisol tipped the mouth of the bottle over the back of her hand. Not much, just a little trickle over her knuckles, splashing in tiny beads on the tight weave of her sweater. In a heartbeat, her olive skin turned an angry red and then a pale yellow as the skin blistered up.
“Oh no,” Lana gasped. “What happened?” She glared accusingly at Ridley.
“It’s just water,” Ridley sputtered. “Excessively expensive water, I think, but just water.”
“Just water,” Marisol confirmed as she stared at the blisters. “Doctors diagnosed me with aquagenic urticaria—water allergy.”
Ridley blinked. “But…humans are mostly water. You can’t be allergic to your own cells.”
“Not yet,” Marisol said grimly. “I fear that’s coming. Because it’s getting worse for me too.” Fumbling with her not-blistered hand, she undid three fasteners at the asymmetrical buttoned neckline of her sweater. She peeled back the flap to reveal the angry hives that spread up from her décolletage. “I tried to take a shower last night. I’d just had my allergy shot and a fistful of antihistamine pills so I thought I’d be okay. But obviously that’s not enough anymore.” She set the bottle of water down on the coffee table and reached instead for the champagne glass Thomas had poured for her.
Sinking back into her chair, Ridley stared at the clear liquid with dismay. As much as she’d come to fear the water, it hadn’t actually tried to hurt her. “Won’t that burn you too?”
“It comes from a mineral spring here on the property, and I can mix it with dehydrated food to eat. Right now, it’s the only water that I don’t react to. That’s why I’ve retired here. For as long as it lasts.” She looked at the glass and set it aside without drinking.
Lana let out a slow, mournful breath. “How can we help?”
“I’m hoping we can help each other,” Marisol said. “I believe the syndrome is manifesting itself in different ways in each of us because of our genetic heritage. If I can find what we have in common and what makes us different, maybe we can all be cured.”
Ridley shook her head. Damn, at least her issue was only mental. While she’d lost her job and her pride, the hippie and the heiress might lose their lives.
She’d responded to the initial letter about Wavercrest Syndrome thinking she’d be joining some intensive inpatient group therapy or something, not a deep dive into genetic histories and inherited disorders, like finding out she was doomed to some family curse when she’d never even known her family. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help,” she said tightly. “I don’t have my medical history, and I don’t have any scientific background either.”
“If you’d be willing to give up some samples—saliva, blood, a skin and muscle biopsy—that could mean a lot to our research, especially since so few responded to my letters. And if you are willing to talk to the researchers… They told me anyone we could find with any connection at all might make the difference.” Marisol lifted her chin, as she refastened the buttons of the turtleneck. Though she hid the wheals, a feverish blush stained her cheeks, clashing with the coral cashmere. “I should reiterate that I’ll pay for your time, effort, and bodily donations, of course.”
Ridley flushed too, with embarrassment. She couldn’t deny that the promise of payment in the letter had been part of her motivation for coming. Losing her job and then her apartment had been bad enough, but realizing that all of her skills, as well as her self-image, were leaking away had decided her.
And right now, it wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go. If she kept getting worse like the other two were…
“Yeah, I can do that at least,” she mumbled.
“I’ll do it too, of course,” Lana said. “Although I don’t know how much longer anyone will be able to touch me without getting fatally zapped.”
Marisol sagged back in her chair as if waiting for their acceptance was the only thing holding her upright. “We’ll be talking to the specialists about our issues, so we can let them know of any risks. They already seemed to have some sense of what’s at stake when they contacted me initially, and I was so relieved to be able to work with them.” She folded her blistered hand out of sight. “It’s nice to know we’re not alone.”
Ridley didn’t have the heart to tell her that getting her hopes up too far was like rising from the trenches without depressurizing—only pain and maybe death would follow. “What’s this organization you’re working with? The Mayo Clinic? John Hopkins?” She scowled. “Wait, it’s not the U.S. government, is it? I don’t want to be part of some freaky genetic experiment.”
“If it had Army Rangers or Navy SEALs I wouldn’t mind,” Lana said wistfully. Then she slanted a glance at Ridley. “Oh, sorry. Not SEALs, just Rangers.”
Ridley smirked at her. “Would it help your libido if I told you it isn’t all you’d hoped?”
Lana groaned. “Not helping at all,” she complained.
As they grinned at each other, Thomas strode through the doorway, a frown on his face and a shotgun in his hands. “I found no signs of trespassers, Miss Wavercrest,” he said brusquely. “But I’ve reset all the alarms and I will be extra vigilant tonight.”
Marisol nodded at him. “Thank you, Thomas. You do that, and I’ll see our guests up to their rooms. I’ll contact the InterGenetic Data Agency tomorrow to inform them that we’ve all agreed to the next phase of their research.” When he put the gun aside, she accepted his hand up from the chair. “The IDA is a private medical group. Very prestigio
us, and I trust them.”
Lana’s wide smile flattened. “Trust them with your life?”
Though there wasn’t any menacing water nearby, Ridley’s heartbeat skittered like a shoal of minnows racing for the protective shallows. She might not be risking her actual life like the other two, but if she wanted to reclaim the life she knew, she’d have to be right there beside them.
Chapter 3
Maelstrom let himself into the quiet house, disabled the alarm, and started his hunt.
A quick scan plus the confirmation of his own senses identified four beings in the house. Who was who, of course, was more difficult to ascertain. And since only Marisol Wavercrest had registered with the Intergalactic Dating Agency, she was the only one who would be going with them.
The memory of Miss Blake, all bristling short nerves and bristling short hair, flashed across his mind’s eye, the image perfectly preserved by his battle-honed observation skills and the vestigial sonar capabilities of his kind. But he hadn’t been the one chosen to take an alien mail order bride to prove that Tritona was still a viable planet. His only task was to see his commander properly mated.
Something hollow pinged in him. Not loneliness. He knew where his needs ranked compared to his struggling world: nowhere. And if maybe there’d been a time or space in some multiverse where his hunt would take him toward Miss Blake… Well, it wasn’t this universe.
So as he came around the stone column and came face-to-face with her, for a heartbeat he thought memories and lingering sonar—and apparently loneliness—had made a quantum ghost, just for him.
So much for his battle-honed senses.
She froze, except for her gray eyes, which flared wide in surprise. The short sleeves and V-neck of her white shirt and the pale gray pants—worn thin from age—revealed more of her than even his storm-wracked imagination would have provided. Though the color matched the stone statue outside, her curves were soft and rolling, like the swells of a sleepy ocean. His fingers clenched with an urge even more primitive than the remains of his ancestral sonar.
“I thought everyone was asleep,” he said, which had to be the most ridiculous thing he’d ever announced on a clandestine mission.
“And I thought the house was locked up tight.” She clenched her fingers around a printed periodical of some sort, as if the bound paper were a fisted weapon to launch at his face.
“It is now,” he assured her. “Although your guardsman shouldn’t rely so much on outdated electronics.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be sure to tell them. Maybe while I’m telling them that I wasn’t wrong about seeing you in the fountain.” She settled her weight deliberately across the spread of her bare toes in a way that would’ve alarmed him in a larger individual, as a precursor to violence. “Are you one of the Wavercrest candidates?”
The challenge in her question was unmistakable. If he didn’t answer correctly, he had no doubt she would attack.
Marisol Wavercrest must have explained to her household that she was an alien mail order bride. Technically, she was not supposed to admit the existence of the Intergalactic Dating Agency to unapproved parties, but likely she’d wanted to make arrangements for all of her retainers. “Not me personally,” he admitted. “My commander is the one who matched Marisol Wavercrest through the IDA.”
The wary Miss Blake let her hands fall to her sides, although she still stood ready for mayhem. “She was hoping for more matches. Where’s this commander of yours?”
More matches? Were they all hoping to be alien mail order brides? Brides were supposed to be assessed only through the IDA outpost to ensure successful matches, but if more Earther females wanted to join them… Mael curbed his surge of excitement. Though he didn’t have the rank to qualify for a mate, for the good of Tritona he could play the persuasive courtier. “He’s trying to reach the IDA to find out why Marisol Wavercrest wasn’t at their rendezvous point earlier today.”
At last, his adversary settled back on her heels. “She had an allergy attack, so I’m guessing she wasn’t well enough to meet him if she said she would.”
He nodded in understanding. “Two ships passing in the night sky.”
“That’s not how the saying goes.”
With a dismissive wave, he stalked a tight circle through the room, scanning the corners. He stopped at the small sliver of Earther sea life that decorated the room. It was too pretty, too bright. Too much like everything Tritona had lost.
He scowled before turning back to her. “Once my commander reaches the IDA, we need to be ready to leave.”
“I told you, Marisol is sick,” she said with a scowl of her own, clearly not intimidated by his Tritonyri fierceness. “She can’t leave this place.”
Frustration welled in him like a scalding undersea vent. “Why did she sign up with the IDA if she can’t leave?”
“She told us the IDA could help.”
Reluctant understanding dawned. Of course Marisol Wavercrest had her own reasons for wanting access to the advanced technology offered beyond her backward planet. The Intergalactic Dating Agency wouldn’t have allowed anyone of suboptimal characteristics to match as an alien mail order bride. The risks to their closed-world access charter would be too great if word of such carelessness escaped. So the Earther female must’ve convinced them of her suitability, even if now some minor setback was preventing her from fulfilling her duty. Mael couldn’t blame her for using the IDA to get what she wanted. His delegation was doing the same, after all.
“I’m sure the IDA can set things right,” he said, not entirely sure if he was reassuring Miss Blake or himself. “The Big Sky outpost here has facilitated hundreds of successful bonding between compatible matches.” Or so the pamphlets had promised.
She frowned. “Bonded matches? Like some sort of genetic swapping?”
That was a strange way to refer to the hoped-for offspring that would soon swim in Tritona’s seas again. But not everyone was interested in spawning, and he respected that. Worlds needed warriors without attachments, like him and—he was beginning to sense—her. “I’m told the IDA thoroughly vets every bond to guarantee a successful mission and outcome.”
Her eyes narrowed even more until the gray was just a shining edge like the cutting blade of a plasteel flechette. “You talk about your commander and now missions? You sound like army. Marisol said the army wasn’t involved.”
“Fleet. I thought that would’ve been obvious from my dive skin.” He tried for a careful smile. Coriolis had told them to submerge their Tritonyri characteristics deep until they got their Earther bride home. Alien mail order brides might receive some education through the IDA’s program, but that didn’t mean the closed-world females were ready for an alien in the flesh, especially not a fierce Tritonyri warrior far from his calming ocean.
Miss Blake didn’t seem any more interested in his attempt at humor than she had been in his fierceness. She lifted her chin with another of those defiant stares. “I failed out of the SEAL program.”
His universal translator served up the most likely interpretation of her meaning, although for all her pleasing curves, she did not appear to have the fat reserves that would’ve made her a successful pinniped. Still, from the tension in her body, he knew it mattered to her and for some reason she expected him to think less of her for it.
He let out a slow breath. “I failed my last mission.” His gaze slid toward the imprisoned fish. “We were ordered to fortify a position between sea and land, much like your seals, actually. I chose our strategy poorly, and we were overrun. I lost…too many.” Speaking of his debacle was worse than taking a spear, and he’d told himself he would never again quote inspiring words to hopeless causes. He forced himself to meet her gaze, knowing she’d see that vow in his eyes. “I believe that because I lost that fight, they assigned me to this one, knowing I wouldn’t fail again.”
She watched him steadily, but this time the hard gray of her eyes morphed to something softer, like stone crumbl
ing to sand. “Where was this?”
“No place you would’ve heard of. No place that matters anymore.” The weaponry released that day had poisoned the waters there for years to come. Maybe forever, unless this mission succeeded. He straightened to his full height. “That is why my commander is dedicated to his match with Marisol Wavercrest. She’s the only one who can help us.”
Her shoulders sagged a bit, as if whatever weight she carried was growing too heavy. “That’s what she told us. Only together can we figure this out.”
He tilted his head. “You don’t sound so sure.”
She let out a short, harsh laugh. He might not know every Earther emotional cue, but he could tell she wasn’t actually amused. “Let’s just say I’ve never yet figured out how to make the togetherness thing work.”
The bitterness in her voice stung him like the cruelest tentacles. No doubt the silent accusations from his lost fighters rising up from where they’d been consigned to the Nameless Deeps would say as much about him.
Just as well the Intergalactic Dating Agency would never choose him and the wounded Miss Blake as prospective mates.
With a sharp toss of her head, as if flinging water out of her short-cropped hair, she rejected whatever memories had triggered her remark. “So you’re out of the service now?”
“Although I am still in service to my commander, even if he would remind me not to use our fleet designations since the war is technically over.”
“The war is over and yet the battle goes on.”
He nodded slowly, surprised how readily she understood. He should’ve studied more about Earthers, but he hadn’t thought he’d need to know them. “And all I got was the dive skin,” he quipped.
Her gaze flicked over him, light as the bubbles in the effervescent deep-sea vents, then her face turned so red she might as well have been standing in the scalding water. “Yeah, uh, so that was…interesting. I see you found a few more layers. Did you get cold out there?”
