Blood for Atlantis

by Anna LaVerne

  Author: Anna LaVerne

  Editor: Michelle Hoffman

  Cover Design: RAN DesignCopyright

  © 2018 Anna LaVerne All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  1

  I put my keys on the counter and head to the bathroom for a long hot shower after another rough day at work. I turn on the water, staring at the boring white tiles as steam begins to rise. I am tired of life. Work is the same data entry every day. I have no friends and don’t want any, either. It is as if I am living each day in a fog that I can’t escape.

  Hot water runs over my shoulders, leaving them red and scorched as it flows down my body and into the drain. I watch my toes, forgetting to wash my hair or my body. How did I get to this place in life? I ask myself the same question everyday, yet I never have an answer.

  The water turns lukewarm, signaling it is time I turn it off. I twist my long blonde hair, wringing as much water out as I can before stepping from the shower into my steamy bathroom. I put on my fluffy pink robe, not bothering to dry off completely or to put on any clothing underneath.

  The smell of my after work coffee wafts through my small house, calling me to my quaint kitchen. I pour a cup, adding sugar and milk until it is just right. I pull my Kindle out of my purse and head to the couch. “Alexa, please play Ani Difranco,” I ask as I pull the lever of my recliner.

  The moment my recliner gets in position, I hear a knock on my door. I assume it is my neighbor coming to bitch about the overgrown grass in my lawn again. Rolling my eyes in annoyance, I put my coffee and Kindle down on the end table and get up. I stomp my way to the door, forcefully unlocking each individual lock. Living home alone as a woman has left me paranoid.

  I swing the door open, and before I acknowledge who is there, I say, “Why the hell are you here again? I told you I will get to the grass when it cools off.”

  As soon as the words are out, I realize the man standing in my doorway isn’t my not so neighborly neighbor. Instead, I am looking at a tall, dark, and handsome middle-aged man. His dark hair is silver on the edges, and dark eyes peer back at me from a bronzed face. We both stand there briefly in awkward silence, while I stare at his strong jawline and five o’clock shadow.

  I pull myself out of my stupor to apologize, “I’m sorry, I thought you were my neighbor who keeps pestering me about my lawn.”

  He looks around at the overgrown grass crowding the sidewalk up to my door. I look past him seeing a sleek black Aston Martin. My eyes widen because there is no one I know who has the money for one of those cars.

  “It’s okay. I am looking for a Ms. McNamara,” his voice is deep and almost musical.

  I give him a side eye, “That is me, and you are?”

  “Morgan Allistar. Nice to meet you, Ms. McNamara,” He looks down at his gold Rolex watch. “I am running short on time. Do you mind if I come, in so we can talk?”

  I cross my arms, “I don’t even know you.”

  “Well, it is apparent you don’t remember me, but trust me, you know me,” He responds with a hint of gaelic accent.

  “Where are you from, and how do you know me?” I ask as I place my hand on the door, preparing to slam it in his face.

  “Here and there,” he responds. “I really don’t want to do this, but your lack of memory leaves little choice.”

  Before I can respond, the most beautiful sound caresses my ears. The man standing before me is encased in a blue aura. I stand in place as he squeezes past me into my home. When the sound stops, I turn, blazing in anger.

  “How dare you? I am going to call the police!” I reach for my cell phone in the pocket of my jeans before I remember I am only wearing a robe.

  “Wendy, calm down. We need to talk,” he tries to reason with me.

  “No, you just. . . .,” I trail off when I begin to question what he did to me.

  “Ah, you see. Part of you remembers, otherwise why would you have not questioned me about that first?” Morgan asks. His eyebrow arches, and his mouth curves up into a little smirk.

  He is right, if a normal person saw that display of magic, or whatever it was, they would have fainted. Morgan seems familiar to me, but if I know him, why can’t I remember him? “Why can’t I remember you, if I know you?”

  “Do you remember your childhood?” he asks.

  “What a silly question. Of course, I remember my childhood,” I reply.

  “What do you remember?” he prompts me with another question. We are both standing under the arched opening into my small living room.

  “I was the only child of two parents. I went to school like everyone else, and my parents died when I turned eighteen. I have been on my own ever since.”

  “What were your parents’ names? Did you have any friends in school? Favorite music?”

  My parents’ names? What were my parents’ names? I twirl his questions around in my head in panic. I look around my sparse home. There are no pictures of people I know. My house is decorated in sea colors of blue, greens, and whites. Sea shells I have collected from the beach speckle the tops of tables and shelving.

  “I-I-I don’t remember.” My heart is about to jump through my chest as I press my back into the wall.

  “Breathe, Wendy, you will remember, but right now, you need to trust me and pack your things. If I was able find you, others will be able to as well.”

  I nod, knowing he is right. I don’t know how I suddenly recognize the danger, but I do. Pushing myself off of the wall, I go to my bedroom, shutting myself in. I hear Morgan in the hallway. “Just getting some clothes on.”

  “Let me know if you need help.”

  I pause at his suggestion before he corrects himself.

  “Help packing your things, I mean. Not help getting dressed,” Morgan says then curses at himself under his breath.

  The interaction eases my panic, and I find myself smiling at the words of the handsome middle-aged stranger. I take a white sundress from my closet, pulling it over my head. When I open the door, I see Morgan waiting in the hall.

  “How long will we be gone for, and where are we going?” I ask, not understanding my eagerness to leave this safe life and go with a complete stranger.

  “Just pack some clothing and your most loved items. I don’t know when we will come back. I am taking you home.”

  “Home?” I ask, and for the first time, I have a clear sense of home. I see waves crashing upon rocks and can smell the sea in the air. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. It all feels right. A sense of peace overcomes me.

  I am going home.

  2

  “I don’t understand why you have one small bag of clothing, but five pairs of shoes,” Morgan complains as he triggers the small trunk to open and dumps my shoes in.

  “You wouldn’t understand. I can get by with a few items of diverse clothing, but shoes are different. I don’t know where I am going, and I need to be prepared for any situation. Like, what if I have to go hike through the mountains or to a job interview? Those take two very different types of shoes,” I reply.

  “Look, I will buy you any kind of shoes you need.”

  “I don’t want your money or your handouts.” I say, dead serious.

  “Get in the car, Wendy. And for the record, it is our money. Anything that is mine is yours.”

  I am comfortable with Morgan, it is unexplainable. Packing to leave was easy, because I didn’t own much more than the bare essentials. All of my spare time went i
nto reading, and here I am about to go on a real life adventure with a stranger. I can’t help but smile as I plop down on the leather passenger seat of a fancy Aston Martin.

  “Our money? Are we married?” The thought of a car like this being mine is overwhelming. I gasp before Morgan can answer, “Please don’t tell me you are my brother or father?”

  “Father?” Morgan’s face crumples into a very fatherly scowl. “I’m not old enough to be your father!”

  “Sorry, calm down. I didn’t say you look old enough. You have some silver hairs, that is all I am saying. It is possible you could be my real father.”

  The further we drive from my house, the more my fake memories fade. I can’t even picture the man I once thought was my father.

  “I’m not your husband, father, or brother.”

  My eyebrows move closer together in confusion as Morgan takes his attention back to the road. We are now on the highway heading east toward the ocean.

  My house is in central Florida. Although I visit the ocean frequently, it is still a couple of hour’s drive away. “We are heading towards the beach,” I observe aloud.

  We are so far inland that we could have been heading anywhere, but for some unexplained reason, I know home means water.

  “Yes, sort of. We are heading to my house boat.”

  “You live in a houseboat?”

  Morgan smiles, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Do you take it on the water?” I have always wanted to go out on the ocean.

  “I like to stay mobile.”

  “Everything is so secret. I willingly jumped in this car with a stranger based on nothing but the realization that I don’t know my past. I packed my things not knowing if I will ever return. If you are not open with me, I will go back. As much as I want to see your houseboat, and ride in fancy cars, I want the truth more. I am here because you are a glimpse of something better than what I have. Don’t I deserve to know who I am running from, and who I am running with?”

  “You do, and you will, but I want to wait until we are safe aboard my boat and with the others,” Morgan taps his hand on the leather steering wheel.

  I am late to the game, but I am now skeptical about this trip. “If you drive an Aston Martin, you can’t expect me to believe you keep it parked at a marina. I may not have my memory, but I am also not stupid.”

  “It’s a rental. Charles will return it tonight,” Morgan answers, and it is obvious to me he is trying to say as little as possible.

  “Who is Charles?” I probe for more.

  “My assistant.”

  “Since it is somehow ‘our’ money, then does that mean that Charles is also my assistant?”

  “I guess you can say that. He will help you the same way he helps me.”

  “Interesting. Are we royalty?”

  A high-pitched surprised laugh escapes Morgan before he composes himself, although the smile never leaves his face. “No, we are definitely not royal.”

  “What am I then? Someone that knew too much, so you wiped my memory?”

  “Oh fine; the guys are going to kill me for telling you without them. You’re a mermaid.”

  This time it is my turn to laugh out loud. My hand hits the dashboard as I try to contain the fit of hysteria his words triggered. In the next moment, I realize I am crying. The emotional rollercoaster I am on from hearing someone claim I am a mermaid is unreal. I finally pull myself together a bit to argue, “But I can’t swim, and I am scared of being submerged in water.”

  “It was a protection put on you to keep you out of the water. I saw your house. You go to the beach frequently because it is the only place you find peace in this dry-land world you were banished to.” Morgan’s dark eyes are swimming with tears, like my own. There is more to our story, and I know he is holding back until we meet the others.

  The awkward silence that follows the conversation is deafening. I turn on the radio to give my ears something to listen to. It isn’t long before the sun has set behind us. The highway is dark. I rest my head upon the glass window while staring at the full moon.

  I attempt to think of the home that I left behind, and it is already beginning to fade. It is like my house and my job were a dream. The moon, the car, and Morgan are real.

  The last hour of the trip, we say little. I close my eyes, trying to remember being a mermaid, but everything comes back blank. If I am not royalty, then why am I important? Why take away the only thing I have, my memories?

  I try to will myself to remember. I see nothing, but I can almost feel cold water rushing past my body as I slice through it like a knife. I remember the cold air bringing goosebumps across my arms when I surfaced. Did I read a book on mermaids where the sensations were described? Could that be what I am remembering?

  Looking out the window, I note we are in a city, turning down street after street and heading towards the harbor. “Can all mermaids walk on land?”

  “Yes, and there are two types of mermaids; both are shifters of different origins.”

  “Different origins? What other origin can there be other than human or mermaid?”

  “My dear Wendy, I wish you could remember how big the world is.” Morgan flicks the turn signal on and turns. We are now driving along the docks.

  “I’m not yours, Morgan,” I state matter-of-factly.

  Morgan’s eyes flash towards me, and an exasperated groan escapes his lips. “Well, we are here.”

  I flinch, noticing that my eyes linger on Morgan too long, and I lose track of my surroundings. We are not near the small houseboats, we are approaching large yachts. He turns the car off and steps out. I follow him, and head towards the small trunk to grab my things.

  “Leave those, Charles will bring them in before he returns the rental car.”

  I go to protest, but Morgan is already walking down the wide dock. Taking in a deep breath of humid sea air, I jog to catch up to him. Once we approach the giant yacht, I note the name printed along the side: Meri

  I quickly divert my eyes to my feet after seeing three men leaning over the rails watching us, “Who are they?”

  “My brothers,” Morgan answers, taking my hand to help me over the last step.

  Once we are on the deck, they amble towards us. All of them are gorgeous specimens that stand at least six feet tall. All built strong and graceful like Morgan, but each of them are distinctively different in their appearance.

  The tallest of them strides forward wearing nothing but white board shorts, a devilish smile, and shoulder-length wavy blonde hair. “Ow, Meri, you are still a beaut. I’ve missed you.”

  I step back into Morgan at his words, completely ignoring the Australian accent he said them in. “I’m not Meri.”

  A stout bronze man with dark eyes and short dark hair walks up and and slams a fist in the Australian’s arm, “Breck, stop it. She still doesn’t have her memory.”

  “Ah, yeah, I see that now. Sorry, um . . .”

  “Wendy, you can call me Wendy.”

  Morgan’s hand is on my lower back giving me a sense of reassurance, it is surprising that I don’t mind at all. Morgan steps around the side of me to introduce the three men now standing before me.

  “This ox head is Breck,” Morgan motions to the australian. “This is Laki.” This time, Morgan places his hand on the stocky bronze man who punched Breck in the arm.

  “Laki, because I am lucky and good to keep around,” he winks at me, enticing a smile from my lips.

  “Over here is Aden, he is the quiet insightful one.”

  I peer past Laki to see a handsome man in a white button-up shirt and khaki cargo shorts. Aden has light hair and black-rim glasses that give him that sexy smart guy look. It is too dark on the deck to see the color of their eyes. Only Morgan appears middle age. I assume the other three are in their late twenties like myself. If that is even my real age.

  Aden smiles at me, stepping forward and holding his hand out for me to shake it. “Nice to meet you, Wendy.”

&n
bsp; He has a British accent, causing my stomach to flip into knots. I am very attracted to the quiet shy guy with his English voice. I take his hand, blushing, “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “I see some things never change. Looks like you are still her favorite, Aden,” Laki says before his shoulders slump, and I watch him walk into the cabin of the yacht.

  “This way,” Morgan directs me to follow Breck and Laki inside.

  Once we enter, my mind is blown by the decadence around us. Everything is pristine, clean, and white except for the wooden features. There is an actual chandelier hanging above a dark wooden table in the middle of two large white leather L-shape couches. Behind that area, I see the entry to what I assume is a small kitchen. Along the wall, is a dark walnut bar where Breck is already making an amber drink on the rocks. He doesn’t look like a whiskey guy to me. Breck walks over, handing the small glass to Morgan, who is busy unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt and rolling up the sleeves for comfort.

  I can’t help but notice the sprigs of sexy black hair on his chest, peeking out from the white of his shirt. He is attractive in a commander sort of way. He appears older than the other men, and has the air of a leader. His eyes catch mine staring, prompting his mouth to curve up in a knowing smile.

  “Please take a seat. We will answer any questions you might have,” Morgan motions for me to sit.

  “Yes, absolutely we are just glad to have you back!” Breck exclaims.

  I take a seat on the plush white leather sofa and ask, “How long was I gone?”

  “Twelve years,” Morgan replies, taking a seat not far from me. He stretches backwards sighing, and places his feet on the table in the center.

  “Twelve years? How is that even possible? I am only twenty-six.” I lean forward on the couch, resting my elbows on my knees and run my hands through my hair. None of this makes any sense. “Maybe you have the wrong girl,” I suggest.

  “No, no way we can mistake you for anyone other than who you are,” Laki argues from behind me, circling the couch before taking a seat on the far side.