Fish Out of Water

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “If they’d had the sense to understand what I handed them,” Farrem ground out, “they would have understood my people weren’t getting enhanced, they were swimming about the world doing—isn’t this a funny phrase?—wet work.”

  “What’s—” Jonas began.

  “Assassinations,” Thomas said.

  “Of course that’s what it means.” Jonas sighed. “And here I thought they were designing water parks.”

  “Will you stop talking?” Farrem shrieked. They were clearly ruining his gloating supervillain moment by not being terrified. “I paid for my enhancement . . . for the drugs, and the treatments, the years of biopsies and operations and experiment after experiment—I paid Sanibel Station with my people. They did the work and I got enhanced. Enhanced enough to hide them from you, Mekkam, you pious whale. Enhanced so that you will not move or speak unless I wish it.”

  “Truly inspiring leadership,” Thomas commented. “Making the team do the dirty work while you lie around on a Valium drip getting experimented on.”

  Jonas laughed.

  Farrem glared dead into Fred’s eyes. “I will kill them if you don’t shut them up.”

  “Like you wouldn’t kill them anyway?”

  “I’d kill us anyway,” Jonas said. “Thomas?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’d have quit babbling ten minutes ago and killed us, to be honest.”

  “In fact,” Jonas added, “if you’re going to keep talking, would you please kill us? Right now?”

  “Your worm friends think they’re funny. Shut them up if you value them in any way.”

  Fred shrugged. “Believe me, I’ve been trying for years. But kill them if you can. Problem is, you fucked up, Farrem. Big-time.”

  “You really are enormously stupid,” he marveled. “Even now, you cannot comprehend it is over. I am king. Very soon Mekkam and Artur will be dead. Don’t you understand? I can make them kill themselves! I won’t even have to lift a finger! And you! I can’t have you breeding.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to do it right this minute.”

  “You’re disgusting and your deficiencies will die with you.”

  She was fairly certain no one had ever looked at her with such loathing—not even that waiter at the Hancock Tower Legal Sea Foods.

  “You’re a freak, a genetic joke. You’re not a worm and you’re not one of my people. You can’t be allowed to breathe for another minute.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and you’re going to ground me and take away my car keys. Can you think of the part of that story you shouldn’t have told me?” she asked sweetly. She forced her fingers to loosen on the armrests.

  She had to keep him on land. Had to. If they went in the water, he’d have the upper hand and it would be all over. And not just for her. She could never take on a full-blooded UF in the water. Certainly not a psychotic one.

  And she had to get him out of the house, keep him away from Jonas and Thomas. No hostage-taking today, thank you.

  She prayed Dr. Barb wouldn’t be back anytime soon, but kept her tone light and teasing.

  “Daddy-o? Can you?”

  Jonas was waving a hand in the air. “I know, I know! Pick me!”

  “Yeah, you should pick him.” Thomas yawned. “He always gets picked last.”

  “Shut up!” Farrem said.

  “But it’s true,” Jonas said earnestly. “I do always get picked last.”

  “The thing you shouldn’t have told me is the part about how you’re the enhanced one. Not your followers.”

  Then Thomas produced his switchblade—from where, Fred had no idea. One minute his hand was empty, the next there was a snick of sound and Thomas was holding a knife, turning, throwing it.

  Right into Wennd’s throat.

  Forty-five

  Farrem shrieked and clutched his head. He was powerful enough so that his grip on Artur’s and Mekkam’s and Tennian’s minds did not lessen, but hearing Wennd’s death screams in his head couldn’t have been too comfortable.

  Fred dove across the table at him, her momentum carrying them both through the glass patio door. The sound was a thousand teacups breaking at once.

  Good. Good. Get the fight away from Thomas and Jonas. And keep Farrem out of the water. If he ever got into his tail form, the fight was over.

  And so was everything else.

  His fist looped toward her face but she ducked, and then they were rolling across her lawn, Farrem choking and gagging on grass. When they stopped, Fred was on top and the pool was less than seven feet away.

  “Your girlfriend’s having a real bad day, did you notice?” she asked, then brought her head down and broke her father’s nose with a muffled crunch. It hurt her forehead, but not as much as it hurt him, and that was just fine.

  He howled and punched out at her, but he was distracted by the blood running down his throat and, she imagined, Wennd’s dying screams running through his big, stupid brain. She tried to follow up but he managed to buck her off. He scuttled like a crab, clawing through the grass in an attempt to get to the pool. She leapt forward and caught a handful of his thick green hair, so like hers.

  She hated her hair. She yanked. Hard. Farrem yowled. A lot.

  She dragged him away from the pool. Yep, he was stronger than she was, no doubt. Probably smarter, too, she’d give him that—it was a good plan. Everything had come about the way he predicted it would. It would have worked, if not for the Freak That Was Fred.

  But she’d spent her life hiding her mermaid nature, blending with surface dwellers. She’d been raised by hippies, for God’s sake. She was a helluva lot more comfortable on land than he was. Banished or not, big houses or not, he still couldn’t stay out of the water for very long. And the longer he was out, the weaker he got.

  She could stay out of it for weeks, and had.

  She yanked harder, a thought

  (am I actually enjoying this?)

  there and gone before she could catch it. His hair (and some of his scalp) came off in her hand and then he was again getting to his feet, this time heading for the dock.

  Too slow. Again. She leapt for him, landing on his back like dear old Dad was giving dumb Daughter a piggyback ride. She grabbed his chin in both hands. And wrenched to the left, hard.

  The crack was undramatic, the sound a walnut makes when it’s crushed in the nutcracker. But Farrem dropped like a rock.

  A big, green-haired, psychotic, dead rock.

  She didn’t even have time to comprehend she had won—it had been so fast! He’d only revealed himself, what? Fifteen minutes ago? But there was no time to understand what had happened because someone from behind yanked her off his body.

  She rolled, trying to scramble to her feet to face the new threat

  (oh, man, which henchmen is this now?)

  only to see Thomas standing over her father’s corpse. He brought a foot down on Farrem’s rib cage, hard.

  “You were dead the minute you called her stupid, motherfucker! When you said her mother should have drowned her! Your girlfriend’s dead! You’re dead! You can’t touch her, ever! Get up, you piece of shit! Get up so I can feed you your balls!” Another crunch as the left ribs caved in.

  “Thomas!” She grabbed him from behind, dodged (barely) the elbow he brought back, and carefully pulled him away from the corpse. “He’s dead, Thomas. He’s already dead. It’s pointless. The prick can’t feel a thing. Unfortunately,” she added.

  “Put me down, please, Fred,” he said, perfectly calmly.

  She did.

  He turned, grabbed her face with both hands, and kissed her so hard she felt it in her knees.

  Which, of course, was the moment Artur and Mekkam and Tennian came staggering out the broken patio door.

  Thomas pointed to Artur. “And you can’t have her, either.”

  “Holy shit!” Jonas said, peeking around Tennian. “What’d we miss?” Then, “I’m not cleaning any of this up.”

  Forty-six

  They were all s
prawled in various spots in the living room.

  “Thank God,” Jonas moaned, “thank God Barb was out shopping for a wedding dress.”

  “Thank God he made the classic Bond villain mistake,” Thomas said.

  Fred, who was sprawled almost prone, sat up. “That’s exactly what I thought!”

  “I cannot believe,” Mekkam was muttering, “that Wennd fooled me.”

  “And me,” Tennian added. She and Artur and Mekkam were moving very gingerly and holding their heads; it was clear they had crushing headaches. “I’m sorry Thomas killed her; I so wanted that pleasure for myself.”

  “And Thomas! Way to stud up, man! You threw that knife, what? Eight feet? Zam, right into her neck.” Jonas shook his head. “How many of those things do you have? And where do you keep them?

  “Enough.” Thomas looked grim. “We got lucky. I was aiming for her eye.”

  “But what was she doing here? Farrem said himself that he was the enhanced one, that he was lending his power to his followers.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Jonas asked. Fred scowled, because it wasn’t. “He had her here just in case Fred didn’t warm up to him. He had no guarantee she’d be friendly—shit, he was probably amazed when she offered him a guest room.”

  “Not one of your brighter moves,” Thomas needled.

  “Tell me. And that reminds me. Call the fumigator.”

  “So she was his ‘just in case.’ And he made sure the captain had the file,” Jonas added, clearly warming to his subject (he’d been a huge Encyclopedia Brown fan in elementary school), “because it was the one thing that would make Artur yell for his dad. Once Mekkam got here, it was inevitable that Fred would suggest what she did. Then Farrem had all the royals—the ones in this area, anyway—in one spot. If Fred had been vulnerable to his giant evil brain blasting power, it would have worked perfectly.”

  “Fortunately,” Fred said cheerfully, “I’m defective.”

  “So are all his followers,” Mekkam said, gingerly holding his head. “They died when he died. I felt it. He could no longer hide them from me, and without his protection, they were helpless.”

  “But he knew Fred was—what was it? Mind blind? Why’d he still try it?”

  “Because he was sure he and Wennd were more than a match for two worms and a freak,” Fred said sourly. “Classic Bond villain mistake number two.”

  “Fredrika.”

  “At least it’s over,” she said.

  “Fredrika.”

  “What?” And then she realized. It was Artur, and he wasn’t calling her my Rika, or Little Rika, or any term of endearment.

  “Will you step outside with me?” he asked quietly and, with a glance at Thomas, she rose and followed him through the hole that used to be her front door.

  They stood in the front yard (Farrem’s corpse was still on the back lawn), Artur with his arms crossed over his chest, Fred fidgeting.

  “Thomas seemed quite sincere about his intentions toward you when he finished with your father’s body,” he said, mildly enough.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “What are your thoughts on that?”

  “That I’m a coward.”

  He smiled. “Hardly.”

  “I’m not in love with you, Artur, but I like you an awful lot. I think you’re awesome. But I can’t be your queen.” Among other things, I can’t do that to the Undersea Folk gene pool.

  And Thomas wants me. He wants me!

  “Part of the reason I said yes was because I planned to spend the rest of my life hiding in the Black Sea. Running away from the messiness of hybrid life. It’s a rotten way to start a marriage, never mind a family. It would have been a shitty thing to do to you.”

  “You were wrong. In your interview, you were wrong.”

  That was so unexpected, she couldn’t immediately process it. “What?”

  He took her hands in his, looking down into her eyes. “When you save an Undersea Folk—at least, when you save this one—you do get a wish. I release you from your word. You are no longer she-who-will-be-my-mate.”

  She wrenched her hands away and flung her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Artur. Thank you, thank you. I’ll always be your friend. And the next time a megalomaniac tries to kill the royal family, you better come get me!”

  He kissed the top of her head and hugged her back. “Agreed, Fredrika.”

  And if he had seemed the smallest bit relieved, she was going to pretend she hadn’t noticed. She didn’t know if he had fallen out of love with her, or if he had realized that the chase was more fun than the engagement, and she didn’t care.

  They would always be friends. He was, after all, her prince.

  Forty-seven

  It seemed like they were cleaning up the mess (it was considered strictly an Undersea Folk matter and, thank God, the nearest neighbor was too far away to have heard anything amiss) for hours.

  Mekkam ate six Advil and took charge. Little by little, the bodies were taken away, the damage to her home was repaired (or at least boarded up), and by the time she had the house to herself (and her roommates), Fred was exhausted.

  And slightly amazed. Because the Undersea Folk treated her like royalty. Ironic, given that she wasn’t ever going to be royalty.

  They were anxious about the repairs to her rental—did they meet with her approval? Would she prefer another table? Was it all right if they couldn’t replace the patio glass until tomorrow? Because if not, they would see to it that—

  The fight, it seemed, had been seen in the mind of all the Undersea Folk in the area. Farrem had been projecting everything, a sadistic touch to ensure their cooperation, to make sure they knew who was in charge. Knew who had taken over. Knew who was going to kill the king and prince.

  Knew who was going to get his neck broken by a half-breed mind blind marine biologist with split ends.

  “It’s almost a shame you’re not engaged to Artur anymore,” Jonas whispered to her, watching their deference in awe. “Also, I’m not speaking to you because I really, really wanted to plan a royal wedding.”

  “Go soak your head,” she whispered back.

  Amazing! All you had to do to earn their admiration was break your father’s neck on your back lawn.

  “What a week,” she groaned, stumbling into her room. It was two thirty in the morning and she needed a shower in the worst way.

  “Say it twice,” Thomas said. She heard the bedroom door close and realized with a start this was the first moment they’d had alone all day.

  “Sit,” he ordered, and, sighing, she obeyed. He would go into M.D. mode, of course, even though she was perfectly fine except for a few cuts (from the patio glass) and bruises (from the fight). But she was a fast healer, and he didn’t need to poke or prod.

  “Thomas, really, I’m—”

  “I love you,” he said, bending so he could look her in the eyes. She could feel her own eyes widening. “I’ve always loved you. And I was stupid about it. I thought Artur was the best thing for you and I didn’t fight for you and I damned near made the worst mistake of my life. I’m scared shitless you’ll get hurt. I’m scared shitless I’ll have to hurt you again to fix you—like in Boston.

  “But I’m even more scared at the prospect of a life without you. So we’re getting married. Right away.”

  “Are you asking me?” she asked, feeling the bubble of joy spread from her heart all the way into her throat. It was actually hard to talk, she was so happy. “Or telling me?”

  “Shut up and kiss me,” he said, smiling, and she did. In seconds they were rolling around on her bed, groping and kissing and moaning and clutching.

  “Wait, wait,” she gasped. “I’m gross. I’ve still got Farrem’s blood under my nails.”

  “I could use a shower, too.” For a moment he looked grim, and she realized the healer was wrestling with the avenging lover. “It’s not every day I throw a knife into a woman’s neck.”

  “A woman who helped Farrem plot the deaths of
hundreds, at the very least. Or did you think he was going to pick some other ridiculously beautiful woman to be his queen?”

  “True enough. Come on.” He stood and held out a hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll wash your back.”

  “That’s nice. I’ll wash your front.”

  And so they did, and when they were clean they stayed under the pounding spray, kissing until their lips were numb, soaping breasts and balls and buttocks, running slick hands all over slick flesh, gliding, sliding, and Fred was actually having trouble determining where one of them stopped and the other began.

  And then, ah, God, he was lifting her, and entering her, and she was arching her back and meeting his thrusts, her fingers were digging into the heavy muscles of his shoulders, and at the height of her orgasm he kissed her on the side of her throat and she thought, Home, home, I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere but right this minute I’m home, oh, thank you, God, I’m home at last.

  Epilogue

  “This dress itches.”

  “Quit bitching, Fred.”

  “And this bouquet has made me sneeze twice.”

  “I mean it, Fred.”

  “And I’m hot. It’s fucking ninety degrees out here and I’m in a floor-length dress!”

  “So is Barb, so shut your hole.”

  “When is this thing going to start already?”

  “It has started. You’d just rather be off somewhere banging Thomas.”

  “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  “Disgusting,” Jonas said smugly, adjusting his bow tie. “You two are like monkeys. Loud monkeys.”

  “Look who’s talking! How many scenes of debauchery have I walked in on? At least we’ve got the decency to keep to our bedroom.” And our shower. And the hot tub. And the pool when everyone’s asleep. And—