Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze)

by Jade Hart

  Callan took a step toward me. “Ocean, are you alright? Here, sit down.” His hand grazed my elbow and I fractured a little. The ground grew soft as smoke. The room shimmered with air wisps, stealing the solidity and replacing it with a dream of kimono and filigree.

  “We are nothing alike and you're right. I am different than other girls,” I panted, tugging his shirt so he stumbled into me. His wild, salty scent suffocated me as I whispered in his ear, “I kill monsters. I'm the grim reaper and my work is never finished. I'm not what you think. Goodbye, Callan.” I had no idea why I told him—it was an impulse that I followed recklessly. The migraine burst a rainbow of colors into my brain, and the sushi restaurant disappeared with a pop.

  An imprint of shock and amazement in those sea-foam eyes haunted me as I spiraled into speed and nothingness. I wished the transportation power worked faster, but it took a good ten minutes of stomach warping momentum and brain hemorrhaging pain before downtown Manchester wisped around me, condensing from dream to reality, followed quickly by sounds of car horns, voices, and smells of mini doughnuts.

  I was in England.

  Chapter Three: Callan

  The precinct was bloody worse in daylight than in the scumbag of night. Its only purpose was to show criminals the law didn't care about the dinginess and lackluster accommodations. But shit, it sucked working in a hell-hole. Personally, I always thought the dinginess was more to do with the city not having the budget to enforce the law, therefore, renovations were on the never, never. Soon, good cops wouldn't exist, as more and more corruption leached into the force. Most of the time, I wondered if I was the only intelligent, untainted one left.

  The metal door slammed shut as I stalked toward my cubicle of an office—also known as my stink-ass shoebox.

  My eyes were gritty; my brain was fried from lack of sleep. My entire fundamental belief in the world crushed by one woman. Ocean bloody Breeze. Either the raw tuna I ate was laced with a large amount of mercury, or she really had evaporated into thin air. Ludicrous to even contemplate, but something in me refused to believe it wasn't real.

  Yes, I had a sci-fi addiction—totally hooked on shows like the X-files. But it didn’t mean I found a real-life crazy anomaly. . . did it? For the thousandth time, I ran my hands through my hair. Shit. She was a woman, for Christ's sake! Hot as hell and poofed into bloody nothing in front of me. If that wasn’t a red flag to my copper’s brain, I didn’t know what was. She was way too tantalizing for me not to chase.

  Jerking my chair out from my scuffed, ancient desk, I sat and slouched. I didn't have to be here; my shift wasn't until tomorrow. After a roster of four red-eyes, I should be in the surf, purging my mind of the atrocities I'd dealt with. But no. Here I was, lurking in an office I hated, thinking about a woman who survived a truly fucked-up childhood, and seemed to have superpowers. Awesome way to spend a day off.

  I groaned, scowling at my stapler. This wouldn't do me any good—acting hung-over and thinking like a broken record about a woman with a disappearing fetish.

  Wrenching my laptop from my bag, I placed it on my desk and logged onto the police database. While I waited for the connection, I made my way to the filing room. The station was drab and painted in nothing but shades of depression. Not exactly encouraging for go-catch-a-bad-guy morale. More like, just give up and let the world implode in its own stupidity.

  I entered the filing cave, and a short man with his iPod blaring looked up.

  “Morning, Steveo.” My voice was a gravely mess, lack of sleep making itself evident.

  He removed the ear-buds. “Sup, Callan? What ya looking for?” Steveo's black hair was military tidy, his uniform pressed to razor sharp pleats. I looked like I'd rolled in mine. I lost my iron two days ago; it lurked somewhere in my apartment, hiding. Bloody thing.

  “Can you give me the file for a female, aged twenty-four? Last name Breeze, first name Ocean.” Just saying her name gave me chills. Was it because I thought she had a wicked name? That was part of it, but mostly because I was drawn to the spine of steel glinting in those black eyes. Eyes that swallowed the very light in the room; eyes that reminded me of a great white shark I dived with in Perth once. Calculating. Deadly. Super intelligent.

  Steveo's eyebrow rose. “For real? Ocean Breeze? She sounds like air-deodorizer.”

  A low growl formulated in my chest. I froze. Where the hell did that come from? She was nothing to me. A conundrum, that's all. The cop in me couldn't rest until it understood how she pulled the disappearing trick. Bloody woman.

  “Just look for it, will ya?” I was not in the mood for his attitude. Coffee. I needed coffee.

  “Sure thing.” He disappeared into the gloom of towering filing cabinets. How anyone worked in that cave was beyond me. I would never admit it, but claustrophobia clawed. I needed wide open spaces. Probably why I loved the ocean so much.

  I slapped my forehead. That's why I thought her name was awesome. I fucking loved the ocean. Why wouldn't I have been drawn to someone named after the sea? I was such a loser.

  Steveo returned with the file. His face green. Shit, he read it. He had no right, her story was hers. It shouldn't be reading material for the likes of Steveo, who owned more penthouse mags than I did newspapers.

  I snatched it out of his hands. “Next time I order you to fetch, you keep it closed.” My voice bordered on feral.

  Steveo's blue eyes widened. “Crikey. I meant no disrespect, Officer Bliss.” He drawled my name impertinently. His cocked eyebrow put me in my place.

  “Sorry, mate. Cheers.” I flashed him an apologetic smile and sauntered out of the filing dungeon. By the time I threw the file on my desk, my computer link was active and ready to search.

  Ocean Breeze. ENTER.

  The system kicked in. Within seconds I captured all the arrest warrants of one Ocean Breeze, born: 18th of April, 1988.

  Shit, the girl got around.

  Five arrests in Australia, and I guessed a few more she either expunged or was too young to have added. Her infractions included disrupting the peace, larceny, and domestic interference. Nothing major. Oh, hang on—grand theft auto was kind of major.

  I wiped off the grin that stupidly stuck to my lips. She was quite a character.

  I pulled up her mug-shot and fingerprints. The mug-shot was taken three years ago. I leaned closer to the computer. Her eyes—they were different. Slivers of blue danced with black—like a fractured orb—a jagged mixture of the two, but definitely more blue than black. Was she wearing contact lenses last night?

  Her hair was different too. In this photo she wore it as a short black bob, cut with a precision slice along her jaw. Her entire outfit was a rockin' Japanese animae. This really wasn't helping me keep a cool hunters head. I found Japanese animae characters smokin' hot.

  Christ, this girl was stunning. Stop ogling the criminal, Callan. The only reason I was doing this was to find answers to how she disappeared. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Wrenching myself from the photo, I glanced at her fingerprint. Then took a double look. Huh. That was strange. The swirls and patterns of a normal fingerprint were disrupted. A vague shadow, a few lines, distorting into nothing. Either the guy who recorded it was drunk, or something was seriously odd. The same problems existed with the ones we took last night. Only parts of her print showed up. Yet another reason to hunt her. My mind burned with questions.

  With her file open, and my stomach rock hard from rereading the details of what happened to her, I did a search for known contact details or aliases.

  Nothing.

  Why was I not surprised? The woman seemed too smart for her own good.

  I leaned back and cracked my knuckles. Running hands through my hair, I prepared to do some creative computing. I had secrets of my own.

  I told Ocean the truth when I admitted to living in Korea on a school exchange. Who knew my exchange family’s father would turn out to be a ninja-hacker and take me under his wing? Mr. Kim was responsible for a lot
of my unusual skills and habits.

  Needless to say, the Sydney police force didn't know about my special talents. It wasn't exactly legal, but I had a knack for finding people who didn't want to be found.

  And I wanted to find Ocean Breeze.

  Chapter Four: Ocean

  I paced through the age-stained cobble streets of Manchester, pondering my next move. England was a totally different planet compared to Australia. The atmosphere seemed brighter in Aussie, the horizon a deeper teal, the sun an orb of flaming gold. Here, in England, everything was grey. From the drizzle misting from the grey sky, to the concrete pavements mirrored in grey buildings. Luckily, I could escape whenever I wanted, otherwise depression would crush me. I wanted eye-shattering brightness. Exoticness. Heat.

  Sea-foam eyes slammed into recollection, followed quickly by a semi-naked figure in the surf. Officer Bliss had lived in Bali. Surfing, relaxing. Lucky freakin' cop. Bali was one of my favorite places. The vibe was so chilllax—something I needed. I didn't know how to unwind. A constant drive urged me forward. If I didn't keep hunting, keep purging, then guilt was an intolerable affliction stealing my soul bit by bit. I could never stop.

  But right now, I had business to complete. I needed cash. With the ability to port, there were countless untapped avenues of money. Robbing banks, for one. But I refused to be a thief. I may be a killer, but I had morals to uphold.

  Taking note of which grey street I stood on, I sucked in a breath, and straightened my shoulders. My breasts teetered on the cusp of popping from my silver boob-tube, and my exposed midriff looked hoochy. Definitely not acceptable attire for wandering English streets at lunchtime, but I didn’t need to go far—Maurice lived on this block.

  The imposing black and white Tudor home beckoned me with old world charm and ghostly wonkiness. The facade was well cared for—a much-loved home, but the stories were melting. Instead of the crisp lines of modern architecture, the building slowly sagged. Gravity extracting its toll as the centuries lashed at the structure.

  It was the one and only place I was safe, and I'd avoided coming here for six very long months. Stupid. So stupid.

  My pride. . . my fear kept me from the one person I loved. I could blame the last hunt. Blame my responsibilities. But it would be a lie. How I lasted six months away from Maurice, I couldn’t contemplate. I needed him as much as I needed food to port.

  Smoothing my chocolate fire hair—courtesy of Garnier hair color—I gulped some courage and knocked on the twisted Tudor door. Eyeing the prehistoric plaque stating how historical the dwelling was—1597 to be exact—I thought, not for the first time, how cool it would be to port to the past, to see how people lived without electricity or indoor plumbing.

  “Ocean.” The door remained closed.

  Frowning, I looked for the voice. A small communication panel crackled as I pressed a button to respond. This was new. Looking directly into the small security camera staring me in the face, I said, “Open up, Maurice. Don't make me lurk on your doorstep dressed in these clothes.”

  He chuckled, and the door clicked open.

  Stepping over the threshold, the house seemed to sigh and hug me with its dark paneling, faded oriental rugs, and a welcoming musty smell. Crap, it had been too long. Way, way too long. Me and my stubborn pride.

  “Come in here!”

  Was he in a grump or excited? I couldn’t tell. If he was mad, I supposed it was fair for how I left last time. Still didn't stop me from shaking my head at the command. For a whippet of a man, Maurice was bossier than the queen.

  I followed his voice toward the drawing room brimming with porcelain figurines and trinkets. The exposed redbrick fireplace roared with heat. The cognac colored walls glistened with a fine layer of coal dust. Maurice did his best with housework, but a renovation was in dire need.

  “My dear! I can't believe it. You're here. You're back.” Maurice's weathered face glowed as he motioned for me to come closer. Perhaps he wasn't angry after all. His legs were encased in a tartan quilt and his old sheepdog, Tessie, was sprawled on his feet. Two old codgers—they were as grey as each other.

  Maurice sported a new comb-over, which made me chuckle, but the rest of him was sprightly. Vibrant eyes and glowing skin spoke of happiness and health. I kissed his powdery cheek, inhaling deeply. If it wasn't for old people and newborns, talcum powder factories would have gone out of business years ago.

  “Hello, Maurice.” I smiled, very aware of the tightness in my chest. My emotions continued to be traitorous against my strict orders to remain icy cold. My heart didn't like to be locked in a fridge around Maurice. “I'm sorry it's been so long. Life got in the way. . .” What a pathetic excuse. Life never used to get in the way of visiting this man I loved as a father. My own pitiful fear kept me away. Fear of what I was becoming.

  He squeezed my hand. “Don't fret, child. Come, sit down. Tell me everything.” Maurice's bushy white eyebrows rose. “You look thin and tired. How fares the hunt?” His clear hazel eyes were knife-sharp.

  Maurice was the only person who knew what I did. Apart from the cop who I'd told my deepest, darkest secret to before disappearing, of course. I wanted to groan at my stupidity. Why, oh why did I do that?

  Maurice found me when I was fourteen. I’d been hunched over a male corpse with a stolen steak knife in my hand. It had been my first kill; I'd been sloppy. Instead of reporting me, Maurice bundled me into a black Jag and ferreted me away in his historical house.

  Our first conversation had been interesting. He didn't blame me for killing the man. He'd heard the news, assumed I was a victim and it was self-defense. I allowed him to think that for a week, before his empathy and acceptance thawed a small part of me. Finally, I admitted: I hunted and killed the man. I wanted to stop him from hurting others.

  In the middle of our heart-to-heart, I teleported by accident. Emotions were a hair trigger for me. Dangerous. However, I didn't go far. It only took me a couple of hours to find his house again. I didn't know why I returned to Maurice. He knew my secrets—he was a liability. But he touched me in a way no one had before or since, and I loved him. I wouldn't have survived, nor grown into the person I was, without his help and guidance.

  “The hunt went as well as can be expected,” I hedged. I kept the gore from him. He didn't need to know the graphic details.

  Maurice eyed my garb. “You were bait again, weren't you? How many times do I need to tell you, Ocean. It's too dangerous to lure men with your body. You should sulk in the shadows and attack as a ghost.”

  He was absolutely perfect. Any other person would’ve handcuffed me to the bed and reported me to an insane asylum.

  I pinched his cheek. I knew how he hated it. “I am a ghost. How many people do you know who are like me?”

  A gloss of pain filled his eyes as he patted my hand on his cheek. “None, child. You are unusual with your gift, but you must learn to let your past go. It will come back to haunt you otherwise.”

  I straightened. “First, my gift is also a curse. And second, I have let go of my past, but I'll never be able to erase it completely.” My soul shattered that day, and in the left over pieces seeped the blood of my parents and brother. “It's not a simple task of washing it away, Maurice. I take my vengeance on perpetrators of other crimes.”

  “And what of your promise? That you will stop when you find the men who took your innocence?”

  Ah, yes. That freakin' promise. Maurice had bargained with me. He’d tolerate me killing, but only until I found the two men who ripped my life away. When that toll was paid, I was to stop my murderous ways. It was a condition I agreed to, but never intended to keep. I couldn't stop killing, couldn't stop purging the world of monsters. I couldn’t let more victims suffer if there was anything I could to do prevent it.

  “I’ll keep my promise. But the chances of finding those two men are slim. We both know that.” Was that my attempt at gaining his approval to keep killing?

  Maurice shook his head and stood
. The tartan quilt fell onto his dog; she didn't seem to mind. Maurice shuffled toward the fireplace and lifted the lid of a small copper box sitting on the mantle. He removed a piece of paper and handed it to me.

  I frowned, unfolding the newspaper article.

  Him! Oh my God. Him.

  My heart lurched into my mouth as I froze. Eyes of a soul swallowed by evil stared back. I knew those eyes: they lurked in my nightmares. I’d never forget them. How could I forget one of my rapists? I swallowed against the acidic taste of hatred.

  He was older. Face lined and furrowed, his hair a grease-ball of ink. He was skinny—if I didn't know any better, I'd say he was disease-ridden. A disease of the soul for the atrocity he'd committed.

  I choked, “How?” My eyes were seared by the image. Him. The devil. The man who stole my family. “The police said there was no way of identifying them.” I was eight, and traumatized. They wouldn’t listen to a blood-splattered child and her adamant descriptions of the psychopaths.

  “The neighbors saw. They spoke to the police, but the sketch artist never lodged his drawings.”

  Heat boiled in my stomach. I had trouble breathing. “What?”

  “I pulled a lot of strings. Used favors that were owed to me, and managed to get the two drawings.”

  Maurice had more secrets than me. I still didn't know much of his past. Favors? From who? Did it matter? He’d identified the two men I desperately wanted to kill.

  “Show me the two drawings,” I demanded. The newspaper clipping shook in my hands. I wanted to shred it to pieces, but I stuffed it in my mini-skirt pocket instead. It wouldn’t leave my side until he was dead.

  Maurice gave me a long look before nodding and disappearing into the kitchen. By the time he appeared with a portfolio and placed it in my hands, my breathing was erratic. Oh God. Why did it take so long for identification? What I held represented years and years of guilt, hatred, and anguish.

  “I’ve only been able to track down one name. The man in the newspaper is Adrian Mathieu. It will take me a little longer to discover the other.”