Tides of Tranquility

by Nadia Scrieva

  “Wait, what? Dolphin!” Ivory complained. “I don’t want a dolphin!”

  Vachlan adjusted her in his arms as he indicted to Visola that he was ready to leave. “I know sweetie, but it’s a pygmy killer whale—a special kind of dolphin!”

  “Daddy, I don’t want a killer whale. I told you already so many times. I want a narwhal!”

  Vachlan sighed. “Why, kiddo?”

  “Because the narwhal has a sword on his nose.” Ivory reached up and touched Vachlan’s nose to emphasize her point. “And the sword is made of ivory. Like me!”

  Vachlan smiled. He leaned down to gently squash his nose against his daughter’s, rubbing back and forth in a playful Eskimo kiss, until she giggled. “Then we’ll get you a narwhal, sweetie. The best narwhal in the world.”

  “Goodie!” she declared, hugging him around the neck. “I think I’ll name him Tuskany. You know, because of his tusks? And like the city? Then when I ride him, we’ll be Ivory and Tuskany. Cousin Vari’s gonna be soooo jealous.”

  This was the last thing she said before she began to doze off against him. Vachlan saw that Visola had also finally gotten Ronan to quiet down, and was also balancing him masterfully with her suitcases.

  “Let’s go before I decide I want to pack more stuff,” Visola mouthed. She was so weighed down that she walked to the door more than she swam, and awkwardly raised her leg and used the toe of her boot to punch in the code on the keypad. When they exited the dome-shaped house, she stood still for several breaths. Vachlan felt a chill as he saw Visola’s senses sharply take in her surroundings, and acknowledge an unsavory presence. She turned back to him by only a few degrees, allowing him to see the profile of her face. When she whispered into the water, the words he read on her lips were concise and to the point:

  “Kill or run?”

  He hesitated, glancing down at the little girl in his arms. While the kids had grown up learning how to fight, playing at war as though it were a game, he was not sure that he wanted to expose them to the brutality of real battle. He knew they had seen a few unsavory things, and that they were resilient enough not to be bothered by the respective occupations of their parents, but he did not want to disturb them more than necessary. He wanted them to feel safe.

  Vachlan wondered if knowing that one’s parents were cold-blooded killers, who could casually slaughter scores of even mildly threatening attackers, would enhance an illusion of safety. He noticed then that Ronan was not asleep, and the little boy was peering nervously over Visola’s shoulder at him. There was an expectant fear in the boy’s observant green eyes. Those vigilant little orbs drank up every one of Vachlan’s motions.

  Although Vachlan was an advisor by profession, he had a feeling that when it came to fatherhood, his son would be following his example in the years to come far more than his words. He knew that he had to act with a little more caution and clarity than usual, for Ronan was learning about the world from studying his father’s every movement, interaction, and initiative. Vachlan could not do anything he did not want his son to eventually do; and did he want Ronan to face off against a dozen armed operatives when he had the option to quietly slip away?

  Visola had grown irritated with Vachlan’s lack of response, and was about to take matters into her own hands. After fumbling quickly for a piece of technology under her bulletproof vest, she reached for the arsenal in her suitcase. Vachlan dropped his own bags, diving forward to place a hand on hers to arrest her movement.

  “Swim away,” he whispered. “Don’t attack unless they display aggression—they won’t hurt us with the kids here. They’re allowed to watch us.”

  “Who are you?” Visola mouthed angrily. “They’re watching us with weapons!”

  “I don’t want to massacre innocent American spies in front of the children.”

  “Then we should tell them to close their eyes.”

  Reaching out to grab Visola’s metal bra strap, Vachlan used it like the handle on a piece of luggage as he kicked off the ground, towing her behind him as he powerfully propelled them to the surface. Visola glared daggers at him, but she could tell that he was serious. She pulled away and began to swim on her own. Only then did she notice that Ronan’s arms were clenched unusually tightly around her neck. The little boy was scared; and the worst part was that Visola was not sure whether he feared the CIA more, or Vachlan and Visola disposing of them.

  Dodging glowing, tropical jellyfish, they began to approach the starlit surface of the sea. Visola was just starting to accept her husband’s wisdom in having made the right decision, when a few scuba divers began to close in on them. Every swimmer was dressed in black, with an automatic underwater rifle, flare guns, and electric weapons at their disposal. Visola wrapped both arms around Ronan as she pivoted in the water, assessing their numbers and positions. She could not refrain from sending Vachlan an “I-told-you-so” look.

  Gritting his teeth together, Vachlan released Ivory and placed her between Visola and himself. The girl had woken up from their sharp movements, and she grasped the armor on her mother’s thigh nervously as she peeped around at the men with guns. With the two toddlers hanging off her, Visola could do nothing else but toss her suitcase filled with weapons at her husband. She reached into her armor, searching for something she could use to defend herself.

  “You seem to be leaving in a hurry, royal advisor?” one of the scuba divers signed with the awkwardness of someone who had just learned sign language.

  “Unfortunately, my family being constantly watched by armed spies has made this city a bit unlivable for me,” Vachlan explained.

  “It’s really suspicious that you would decide to leave Bimini immediately after speaking to Agent Poole. How do we know that you won’t disappear into the ocean, never to be found again? We’re going to have to take you into custody.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Vachlan told the man with a frown as he shared a brief communicative look with Visola. “I will be in Adlivun with my wife and children—that’s where the CIA can find me if necessary.”

  “We can’t take your word on that, sir. Please put your hands up and allow us to handcuff you.”

  Vachlan scowled, seeing no other options. There were at least a dozen guns pointed directly at him; if it had been only him, this would not have been a problem. If it had been only him and his wife, it might have been a fun little joust which they could have considered date night. But the kids were not ready for this kind of fight. He knew that if he allowed himself to be taken into custody, there would eventually be a moment he could use to escape, so it seemed the lesser evil.

  “I’ll come with you as long as you let my wife and kids go free,” Vachlan bargained.

  “Sorry, but we’re going to have to take her too. The lady is far too dangerous to release.”

  Visola smiled, lifting her free hand to blow a kiss to the scuba diver graciously. “Thanks for the compliment, buddy. Would you like a demonstration of how correct you are?”

  Turning to her husband, Visola switched to her mother tongue. French was not safe, and neither was Russian or Japanese, but the Viking language was long forgotten by most. She knew that Vachlan recognized a few words of Old Norse, and hopefully just enough to understand her. “Fram prír, vér hlaup,” she whispered in the ancient dialect. It meant: “On three, we run.”

  He squinted in mild confusion, but gave the tiniest of nods. He had no idea how Visola intended to create an opportunity for them to flee, but he trusted her implicitly. If she said they would run, then they would run.

  “Einn,” she whispered in Old Norse, lifting her arm above her head. “Tveir,” she said, clenching her fist. “Prir!” Opening her hand, she ducked down to grab her children, holding the twins close as gunfire exploded all around them. She did not wait for a fraction of a second more as the sea was clouded and churned up by great surges of opaque dust, pushing Ivory toward Vachlan in the darkness and darting through the water in the direction of the airport. Visol
a knew that she and her husband could easily outswim any scuba diver, especially ones who had just had their oxygen tanks shot and disabled by her own armed guards. She grinned as she found herself hitting the beach, and able to stand up to her waist in the water. Once the water was only up to her knees, she deposited Ronan on the ground and took his hand, leading him to the waiting airplane. He dug his heels into the sand, refusing to move.

  “Mama, what happened?” he asked with a quivering lip. “Is Ivory okay?”

  “She’s fine, pooh-bear. Daddy’s got her.”

  “Where are they?” Ronan demanded tearfully. “Where are they?”

  “Right behind us,” Visola assured him as she tugged on his hand, leading him to shore. “Come on, cranky pants!”

  She was too strong for the child to resist moving for very long, and he ended up reluctantly moving along with her and sniffling as they walked. Sure enough, Vachlan soon broke through the water behind them, just as Visola was lifting her son into the airplane.

  “What the fudge was that, Visola?” Vachlan demanded. “Did you not think it was important to let me know that you had ordered the men who surrounded us to be surrounded by your men?”

  “I wanted to see you squirm,” she admitted with a grin as she climbed into the plane. “Isn’t it nice? I used to be a bodyguard, but now I have bodyguards. Really moving up in the world.”

  “Did you kill them?” Vachlan asked as he lifted Ivory into the plane and followed. He signaled the pilot to take off. “It seemed like you just had their oxygen tanks shot.”

  “They’ll be fine,” Visola said as she buckled her kids into their seats on the plane. “My people will handle it.” She grasped the back of a chair as she caught her breath from the brisk swim, and fought the queasiness in her stomach from taking off over the water.

  “Are we safe?” Vachlan asked quietly. “I’m sure they have anti-aircraft weapons…”

  Visola grinned. “You forget that they need you alive, super stud.” She then noticed that Vachlan had managed to save her suitcase. “Yes! You rescued my laptop!” she said cheerfully, whisking it out of his hands. She immediately sat down across from her kids and pulled the computer out of the bag of weapons. “This means I can catch up on my reading while we fly home. I’ve been dying to know how this ends.”

  “My screenplay?” he asked in surprise. “You like it that much?”

  “Yeah! The whole time we were trying to escape from the CIA, I kept thinking that I’d rather be finishing this story. Is that weird? Am I getting old?”

  Vachlan stared in dumbfounded shock. “You would have preferred to be reading one of my stories about fighting to actually fighting?”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted, after some puzzled reflection. “I suppose I usually know how my own battles are going to end before I even get into them, but I’m not part of the fights in your stories, so I can’t influence the outcome. That’s kind of exciting.”

  Vachlan sighed happily, about to express his gratitude for her compliments, when his son began to cry, startling the adults out of their conversation.

  “Ivory’s bleeding!” Ronan said, pointing at the little girl’s leg. “Daddy, Ivory’s bleeding! Make it stop!”

  Ivory had already begun snoozing again, but her brother’s loud cries woke her up. “For Sedna’s sake!” she said in a very grown-up way. “It’s only a flesh wound, Ro-Ro. You don’t have to announce it like it’s some big deal.”

  Vachlan had sprung to her side and was rolling up her pant leg. “Dear god. Viso, she’s losing a lot of blood. I’ll tell the pilot to turn around so we can get her to a hospital…”

  “For Sedna’s sake!” Visola said, echoing her daughter and realizing exactly where the little girl had picked up that phrase. “Ivo’s right. It is only a flesh wound.”

  “Visola Ramaris!” Vachlan barked. “Your five-year-old daughter has been shot! She needs medical attention!”

  “She scrapes her knee sometimes too!” Visola said with exasperation. “Honestly, Vachlan, don’t you think I know anything about anything? My sister is the lesbian Dr. Frankenstein, so I think I can manage basic first aid. The bullet barely grazed her thigh. I’ll give her a few stitches and that’s that.”

  “It needs to be disinfected,” he argued, rubbing Ivory’s forehead gently. “Ivo, baby, are you okay? Does it hurt? Just hold on. Daddy’s going to make it all better, I promise.”

  Ivory looked up at Vachlan with a combination of anger and sadness in her eyes. “I don’t care about my stupid leg, Daddy! You lost the Spice Fish!”

  Vachlan was stricken when he remembered dropping the little aquarium outside their house as they fled the city. “I promise you’ll get the Spice Fish back, sweetie.”

  “No, I won’t,” she said resentfully. “Horseradish is gone forever.”

  “And Salt too?” Ronan asked with worry. “I miss Salt!”

  Vachlan sighed very deeply, placing one hand on the shoulder of each child. “I solemnly vow to you, Ivory and Ronan Ramaris, that I will rescue the Spice Fish. I swear on my life.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?” Ivory said hopefully.

  “Yes, you little scallywag.” Vachlan looked up to see Visola grinning down at him gleefully. She had managed to find a bottle of gin somewhere on the plane, and was already helping herself to generous sips. He patted Ivory’s good leg. “Now sit still and let your mother fix your injury!”

  “This is mommy’s special grown-up medicine,” Visola explained upon chugging a quarter of the bottle. “It fixes grown-ups on the inside, but it fixes little people on the outside.” With that, she turned the bottle over and splashed a fair amount onto her daughter’s leg.

  Ivory yelped in surprise at the burning pain. Ronan watched curiously as Visola bent over his sister with a first aid kid and began to sew up the injury.

  “With any luck,” Visola told the girl, “this will leave a little scar, and you can tell people the story of when you got shot by the CIA. You can tell them how brave you were, and how you didn’t even cry. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, Mommy,” Ivory said, trying very hard not to cry. “It doesn’t hurt at all, really. I could get shot all the time, if it’s this easy.”

  Vachlan’s deep, throaty laugh filled the plane. “You’re lucky our enemies don’t have your mother’s aim, squirt. When Mommy shoots someone, she does it in all the places that hurt the most; and she always hits her target.”

  Visola paused in stitching up her daughter’s leg to send a glance over her shoulder at her husband. Her lips curled in a secretive, sultry smirk.

  “Can I go back to napping when you’re done?” Ivory asked with a yawn. “Ro-Ro woke me up.”

  “Because you were bleeding,” Ronan said defensively. “What if you bled to death when you were sleeping and woke up dead?”

  “I wouldn’t wake up then, stupid!”

  “Yes, you would!” Ronan argued. “Auntie Zuri did!”

  “Hey, hey,” Vachlan chastised. He had moved forward and begun running his hand along Visola’s spine as the kids argued, trying to distract her from her handiwork. His hand grazed over her back from the nape of her neck, where her short, wet hair clung to her skin, down over her armor to her lower back. He slipped his hand beneath her armor and drew circles on her tailbone as he watched her fingers create tiny, even stitches in their daughter’s leg. “You kids should stop arguing and be happy that you’re both alive,” he advised. “How would you feel if your brother got shot, Ivory? I bet you’d be worried about him too. Don’t be upset that he cares about you!”

  Ivory became grouchily silent at this as her mother finished up the stitches.

  Leaning forward, Visola placed a giant kiss on her daughter’s cheek. “All done, darlin’! When we get home I’m going to tell Auntie Zuri and Cousin Vari about how bold and fearless you were tonight. Then we can show them your bloody pants. Cool?”

  “Very cool!” Ivory said with a smile and yawn. She leaned to t
he side and rested her head against her brother. “I wanna sleep now.”

  “Go ahead,” Visola said, planting an equally generous kiss on Ronan’s forehead. “Dream of colorful Spice Fish, playing guitars and singing you a rock ’n’ roll lullaby.”

  Visola was startled when she felt Vachlan’s hand slip into hers, pulling her away to a far corner of the large and empty plane. He pushed her into a chair before crouching to the ground before her, as if he had something private to say which he did not want the kids to hear. After a moment of trying to find the words, Vachlan allowed his head to fall forward and rest in Visola’s lap. Her armored pants did not make the most comfortable pillow, but her presence and nearness did. She wordlessly reached out to stroke her fingers through his black hair, combing along his scalp to ease his stress.

  “Did you want to talk about that fight?” she asked softly. “I’m not sure why they were using oxygen tanks and not Sionna’s serum, but I’m sure it’s a mistake they won’t make again. We should make Sionna’s serum unavailable to them, if we can—I know we’ve been trying to control the distribution, but there is a growing black market for knock-off imitations of the serum. Luckily, most of these aren’t effective, or at least not military-grade effective. Either way, I want you to know that I signaled my men to…”

  “Shh, Viso,” Vachlan said, raising his head from her lap. His grey eyes looked up at her gravely. “That’s not what want I want to talk about.”

  He had changed—or perhaps something new in her mind was altering his appearance. Although Ronan had Visola’s green eyes, Ivory had her father’s smoky grey irises. Visola no longer saw the tragedy of losing her first daughter when she observed her husband’s face. She saw the promise and potential of her second daughter, and the worrisome intelligence of her little son. She was not sure how it was possible, but she understood Vachlan a little more because of her children; they were helping her to forgive the things she thought she would never forgive, and on some days, hardly remembered.