by Anne Renwick
He rose from the chair, wincing as his damaged knee straightened, and she caught his glance at her trunk. Was he actually going to look? Of course he was. Alec wasn’t one to leave a stone unturned.
She caught his hand in hers. “I’m not a selkie.” Time to tell the truth before she lost his trust, his respect. “There’s no such thing. But I am Finn. Mostly.”
“Finn?”
“There’s a thread of truth to every myth.” She twisted a finger about a strand of her hair. Red hair. Scottish hair. “But if you tug at it hard enough, it all unravels. No one can shape shift, turn into a seal. Such ridiculousness.”
Wearing a half-smile, he lifted an eyebrow. “Is your liver overwhelmed, or is there a point to—” All trace of amusement vanished. Alec’s head snapped around, his free hand falling to the knife at his belt.
“Sorry to interrupt.” A man—a familiar man dressed much the same as Alec—stood at her door.
Alec relaxed. “One of my team,” he explained. “Mrs. McQuiston, meet—”
“Aron?” Isa stumbled to her feet, grinning. “Is that you?”
Chapter Fifteen
ALEC SLID HIS KNIFE back into its sheath and tried to dial down the glare he threw at Moray. A better man would be pleased that backup had arrived so swiftly. He ought to be grateful as well. Ten minutes later and Alec would have been caught taking advantage of a tipsy, wounded woman. “You know each other?” His question was more of a demand.
“We grew up together on Lewis.” Isa’s smile fell away. “My uncle’s wife, Maren, is his cousin.”
Curious. Moray was related—in a roundabout way—to Commodore Drummond. Isa’s uncle. The one who had dropped her into an unhappy marriage. Or was there more to it? He was beginning to suspect the latter.
“I’m so sorry,” Moray began, dive mask shoved onto his forehead, dripping swim fins in hand. “Leave was denied, or I’d have been at Anton’s funeral.”
With a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand, no doubt. Alec didn’t like the daft look that had overtaken his friend’s face. Had Isa not tugged the wool blanket tighter about her shoulders, Alec might have growled. Jealousy was an ugly beast, and its arrival completely unexpected.
“Four years, is it?” Alec drawled. “Since you joined BURR?”
Easy enough to do the math. Three years of marriage, a year of mourning. If Moray had wanted to stake a claim, he’d missed his chance. Alec wasn’t stepping aside.
Moray sliced a sharp look at him. “About.”
“Mrs. McQuiston and I have been working together.” He moved to stand beside her, wrapping an arm about her shoulder to steady her when she swayed. “Her medical practice brought her into contact with two, now three, victims of this biomech octopus.” The acousticotrans system would have alerted Moray to Alec’s rescue mission. “She’s aware of the megalodon.”
With a nod, Moray acknowledged the unspoken message. Straightening, he gave his report. “Shaw circled back to watch the rescuers. The woman—the sole survivor—is safe in their hands. They did note Mrs. McQuiston’s unusual rescue.”
“There were fourteen people on that boat, Aron.” Face pale, she lowered herself back onto her chair. “Children.”
Moray’s voice softened. “My survey, though cursory at best, indicates there were significantly less remains in the water than those numbers would indicate, even accounting for the hyena fish.”
“Men were taken aboard the megalodon,” Alec said.
“Possibly women.” Moray cleared his throat. “We need to leave. The higher ups back on base are certain to have noticed our absence and will be asking questions. And the—er—evidence ought to be placed on ice. The pilot has offered to hurtle us home using the afterburners.”
“Come with me, Mrs. McQuiston.” The formal name felt odd on his tongue. Dangers lurked beneath the water’s surface. She was tipsy. And he wanted to know what—exactly—a Finn was. He dangled before her the one thing she could not resist. “Between the samples collected today and other information that has recently come to light, your laboratory expertise is required. “
He fully expected Logan to be waiting, steam billowing from his ears as he devised any number of ways to make his brother suffer for going over his head. Logan could yell at Alec all he wanted, provided he granted Isa security clearance and handed over those damned punch cards.
“Inside the Glaister Institute?” Her face brightened, then paled. “I can’t.”
Silently he cursed her husband. Why refuse such a brilliant woman entrance? What had he done to make her think… wait. She was shaking in his arms. He tipped her face upward with a single finger and frowned. Again she held something back. “Why not?”
“Someone needs to interview the survivor. I can’t abandon my boat.” Her voice shook. “And air travel makes me ill. Severely ill.”
Moray snorted, and Alec gave him a quelling look. “What happened to the brave woman who swam through hyena fish dragging a severed leg? Who nearly unmanned me while underwater during my misguided rescue attempt?”
She scoffed. “You would regret putting me on a dirigible.”
“I’ve dealt with airsick passengers before. It’s only three hours.”
“If you’re willing to go with him, Isa, I’ll handle the situation here.” Moray made the offer through gritted teeth, grudgingly ceding the win to Alec. “The elders will respond better to me.”
“Elders?” He’d heard that term before, applied to the Carrs. Finn, she’d said. A community of some sort that shared a number of biological traits. His gaze slid to Moray’s fingers. A few scars, but nothing that would indicate a past surgery to correct syndactyly.
Isa and Moray shared a look, the same one he’d seen Lieutenant Dunnet give her brother, Mr. Guthrie. Moray was also in on the secret. Good. If necessary, he could beat it out of him.
“Go,” Moray said to Isa. “Apply your expertise where it’s needed. I’ll leave the boat with your brother.” The corner of his mouth hitched as he turned toward Alec. “You’d better hope there’s a bucket on board.”
While Isa dressed, Alec stood on the deck outside the cabin beside Moray, signaling for a lift line to the dirigible hovering overhead.
As a rope unfurled, Moray cleared his throat. “She deserves to be more than another notch carved into your bedpost.”
“She’s a grown woman, Moray. And widowed. Not some innocent, young virgin with stars in her eyes. She can decide for herself what she wants.” Alec caught the rope, checking the equipment tied to its end—stirrups, the handles, and the gears of the clockwork winch mechanisms that would haul Isa and himself skyward.
“What if she wants marriage? Children?”
Alec barked a laugh. “Then she won’t choose me.”
Moray looked away.
Alec swore. “You’re in love with her.”
“Once.”
Isa stepped out onto the deck, her auburn hair tightly bound, dark wool covering her from neck to ankle. Puritanical and self-effacing once more. Was it only he who could see a certain wildness bubbling beneath the surface?
Perhaps not. A wash of regret darkened Moray’s face, but he said nothing, silently clipping her valise to a transport winch. With a flip of a switch, an internal spring uncoiled, turning a multitude of interconnected gears to send her bag—twisting and spinning upon the wind—into the clouds.
If Moray was a rejected suitor, Isa gave no sign as she tipped an anxious face upward and pressed a hand to her stomach. “A rope, dangling from the sky. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to this.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ve done this a time or two.” Isa might be petite, but she was tough. “Hold tight, and we’ll be aboard in seconds.”
Alec slid her right foot into a stirrup and passed her a handgrip, then adjusted his own transport winch so that he could keep a tight arm about her waist as they ascended. Isa buried her face in his c
hest, clutching at the rubber of his dive suit with a white-knuckled fist.
“Send a report ASAP,” he said.
“Will do,” Moray answered. “Bon voyage.” He flipped their levers, sending them rocketing into the clouds.
~~~
Gagging, Isa staggered onto the floor of the airship’s gondola. “Bucket,” she gasped, slapping at Alec’s hands as he tried to escort her to a nearby seat.
He refused to let go.
She clamped her lips together, but there was no stopping the involuntary contractions of her stomach. Every last ounce of whisky not already running through her arteries spewed forth, running down his chest and dripping onto the floor.
From somewhere in the vessel, she heard the deep rumble of men laughing.
“Bet you’ve never been so grateful for a rubber suit,” one snorted.
“Shut it, Rowan,” Alec growled as he lowered her into a rough metal chair that was bolted to the wall. He dragged wide canvas straps across her shoulders, across her lap, fastening them tight.
“Bucket,” she repeated. The floor beneath her feet swayed, and waves of nausea rolled over her. And the dirigible had yet to move.
“Here.”
A man pressed a blessedly cold metal bucket into her hands. She clutched it to her chest, emptying what little was left in her stomach. When she finally looked up, Alec was crouched beside her, his eyebrows drawn together.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
The concern in his voice made her wish she could reassure him, but Finn belonged in the water, not in the air. She shook her head. “How long?” she whispered.
“Three hours.”
Too ill to cry, she groaned. Then fell forward, gagging once more above the bucket.
“Buckle in, McCullough,” a man barked. “Wouldn’t want your knee to snap in half. Again.”
Alec dropped into the seat beside her. Somewhere deep beneath her feet, an engine rumbled. The entire dirigible seemed to shudder. A second later, she was thrown backward into her seat as they lurched forward.
The laugh of a madwoman escaped her lips moments before the dry heaving began. Though Alec murmured words, and the damp cloth he pressed to her forehead was welcome, true relief arrived in the form of a swift and sudden loss of consciousness.
~~~
The entire trip back to Glasgow, Alec held Isa as she drifted in and out of consciousness, rousing long enough only to heave bile into the metal bucket. Nothing he did seemed to help, and she swatted away his water flask no matter how many times he held it to her lips.
Shaw gave a shake of his head. “And we thought Moray turned green around the gills.”
Alec was never so grateful to land. Dehydration was becoming a serious concern. He ought to take her directly home. Locate her brother and pass her into his care. But as he scooped her limp form from the chair and leapt from the gondola onto the gravel of the airstrip, her skirts flew upward.
With bandages wrapped about her calves, she’d not donned stockings, and there was nothing to obstruct any remaining bare skin. A web-like net of blueish streaks radiated from beneath the wrappings. Icy needles crystalized in his stomach. An infection? If it was, it was like nothing he’d seen before. Cursing, he pressed a hand to her forehead. No doubt about it, she was running a fever. Focused on easing her airsickness, he’d failed to note the rise of her body temperature. He needed to take her to the Fifth Ward, immediately.
Alec drew breath to holler to his teammates for assistance, when he spotted more trouble already among them. Five military guards dressed in black uniforms and holding prominently displayed weapons were arguing with Shaw and Rowan, waving at the canvas-wrapped body parts they carried. Pressing Isa against his shoulder, he lengthened his stride. As instigator of their mission, he couldn’t abandon his team.
“Our orders come directly from Commodore Drummond,” the guard barked, holding out an official document.
Isa’s uncle was involved? He frowned, recalling her ramblings about selkies and fins. Commodore Drummond was a member of her community, why would he obstruct the BURR team? Were their communal secrets valued above those of individual lives?
“What the hell?” Rowan yelled at the guard, his hands lifting into the air. “Civilians on that boat were brutally murdered. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
“Stand aside,” the guard ordered. “Your mission was unauthorized. All materials collected are to be confiscated and destroyed. We are to take you and your team into custody if necessary.”
The guard’s voice held a slight tremor as he knew damn well that his men were no physical match against a BURR team. But to disregard a superior’s orders was career suicide. Possibly a prison term. The only way to combat this was through official channels. Or to make his brother call in a number of favors. He needed to find Logan posthaste.
“I intend to challenge those orders,” Alec said to the guard, glaring daggers. “Store our materials on ice. Fill out the paperwork with precision, then stand watch over them while I find out what the hell is going on.”
Turning, he strode away. Isa stirred against his shoulder, her forehead damp with sweat, reminding him he had a more critical situation to address. A sinking feeling overtook him. Whatever infection spread rapidly across—through? —her skin had likely originated from the mouths of the hyena fish. Hyena fish that had emerged from the mouth of a biomech megalodon. Chances the infectious agent could be easily controlled were slim.
He picked up his pace.
Chapter Sixteen
“SHAW!” ALEC YELLED AS he jogged to his friend’s side, ignoring the slight crunching sound his knee made. “Your bite, did the hyena fish infect you?” He flipped up the edge of her skirt.
Swearing, Shaw yanked up his sleeve. A nasty bite on the side of his hand was swollen and bloody, but not blue. “What the hell?”
“Help me get her to the Fifth Ward.”
Leaning on the horn of a conscripted Armored Navy Steam Demon, Shaw careened down the city streets at breakneck speed, weaving wildly through any pedestrians or vehicles unfortunate enough to be in his path. Alec held Isa tight, clasping her limp form against him during an interminable ride through Glasgow. The Demon screeched to a halt beside a small, obscure sandstone building—a back entrance to the Glaister Institute. The guard snapped to attention, flinging the door wide. A spiral staircase led down three stories to an iron door. Shifting Isa against his shoulder, Alec pressed his finger into the identification slot, praying for the pectin coagulator to recognize his signature and respond.
The light blinked green, gears turned, and a thick iron bolt retracted.
He strode down its tunnels, shoving doors open with his shoulders as he barreled into the research ward where doctors and nurses confronted the unknown on a daily basis. “Find Dr. Grant!” Alec bellowed.
A nurse stepped into his path, blocking his access. “Sir! This is not standard procedure.”
“My name is Dr. McCullough, and this isn’t a standard ward,” Alec replied, again flipping up her skirt. The nurse gasped. “Her infection is cryptic and spreading by the minute.” He tempered his voice. “Please, find Dr. Grant.”
Eyes wide, the nurse sprang into action. “Follow me.” She held open the door to an isolation chamber. “Stay here. I’ll bring him directly.”
He carried Isa inside, laying her gently upon the bed. Her head lolled to the side, her breaths shallow, face pale. He brushed aside stands of hair to press a palm to her forehead, noting an elevated temperature. Would she chastise him for the guilt that tightened his chest? She’d insisted on being a part of his investigation, insisted she not be left out. His team always had his back, but a woman? The only woman he knew who ran toward, rather than away, from trouble was his sister, and his feelings for Isa were anything but sisterly. Would he lose her before he had the chance to know her? Worry clogged his throat.
Determined to exhaust every possibility to save her, he threw ope
n the doors of a supply cabinet and grabbed a pair of scissors. Dragging up her skirts, he cut away the linen strips that bandaged her wounds. Red and swollen with inflammation, a blue tinge overlaid the jagged bite marks, converging into bluish tendrils to form a fine web-like mesh beneath her skin, a gossamer net that crept proximally, edging toward her thigh.
His stomach clenched. In the time spent traveling from airstrip to hospital, the blue streaks had gained an inch.
Several excruciatingly long minutes passed—spent cleaning Isa’s wounds with a more potent antiseptic—before the door opened again. A stooped man entered, peering at Alec through thick glass lenses perched upon his hooked nose. Dr. Grant might appear feeble, but his mind was razor-sharp. Years ago, his discourse on infectious water-borne organisms had made an impression upon Alec as a student—impossible to forget the gruesome images projected by the magic lantern upon the lecture hall’s screen.
Dr. Grant’s mouth opened—perhaps in greeting, perhaps in reprimand—but closed again as he caught sight of Isa’s bare leg. “Aether, what happened?”
“Approximately four hours ago, she was bitten by hyena fish. I cleaned and disinfected the wounds, suturing the deepest one. En route to Glasgow by dirigible, she vomited repeatedly before passing into unconsciousness. Though ascribed to airsickness, upon landing, I discovered this. The streaking pattern brought to mind your research into filamentous mycobacteria infections.”
“It does,” Dr. Grant said, dragging an overhead argon light directly over the wound site, bending close. “You were right to bring her to me. Fortunately for the lady, the creatures did not enter her body via the central nervous system nor do they appear interested in her blood vessels or lymphatic pathways.”
Alec nodded, forcing his mind to focus on the infection and not the patient as he fought to speak despite the lump in his throat. “They appear to be moving beneath the epidermis.” A surgeon by training, sterile procedure was second nature, but he knew little about infectious disease beyond those that were common to field work.
