by R. J. Blain
“You look it. The first thing I’m doing is getting you out of here. I don’t know what’s going on, but I heard gunfire while you were still out; that’s what sent the bitch off. It’s been quiet for a while.” Brandon pressed his hand to my forehead. “You’re clammy, too.”
The worry in his voice alarmed me almost as much as the idea of someone shooting holes into the Wave Dream’s hull. “Gunfire?”
Brandon clapped my shoulder, cursing as he almost knocked me over. After steadying me, he said, “Don’t worry, it’d take some serious firepower to sink this ship. Even if they tear a few holes, it’s nothing a pump and a patch can’t fix until we hit port—if they hit something below the waterline. Cargo bay is just above it.”
That didn’t reassure me, and I told him so. With a chuckle, he grabbed my elbow and led me through the maze. “Here’s hoping she’s kept occupied for a while. If we can make it to the office, we can summon security.”
I halted, blinking at Brandon as I forced my fogged thoughts to remember my first meeting with the woman. “Oh. I knocked the phone off the hook.”
“Did you? Damn, I hope it was our guys doing the shooting, then,” was his worried reply.
“Why hadn’t you?” I leaned against the nearest crate to catch my breath. The cargo bay spun around me, and when I closed my eyes, the sensation worsened. I grunted, forcing myself upright once more.
“She caught me when I was leaving to use the head. Wasn’t even out the door before she jumped down on me,” Brandon admitted in a grumble.
I was relieved I hadn’t been the only one caught like that, although I didn’t tell him so. “How long does it usually take them to respond to an off the hook, anyway?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If it’s breakfast, lunch, or dinnertime,” was Brandon’s rueful reply.
“Dinner.”
“Two hours, three if we’re not lucky—if we’re really not lucky and the dinner shift just started, four or five hours.”
I groaned. “It had just started.”
“You’re cursed, Boss. Sorry, but you are. Anyway, if it’s more than an hour, Zach’ll have someone’s balls for certain, especially if security knew you were down here.”
“Ouch.” I cringed at the thought and wondered if Zachary would literally or figuratively live up to Brandon’s predication.
“No shit. He’s bad enough about the cargo bay’s sec—”
The concussive burst of gunfire startled me into whirling around. My knee gave out, and I crumpled. Brandon caught my arm, easing my descent to the floor. He crouched beside me, pressing a finger to his mouth. I nodded.
Several more shots were fired before the cargo bay fell silent. Brandon drew a deep breath and whispered, “We better lay low. If I let you get hit with a stray bullet, he’ll have my balls.” After a moment, he pointed at a narrow gap between two shipping containers. “Think you can fit in there?”
“I’m tall, not wide,” I muttered, eying the space doubtfully. With Brandon’s help, I got back to my feet, hobbling over to the passage. I’d fit, but it’d be tight. I kept quiet about my reservations. While I wasn’t claustrophobic, I didn’t like the idea of being trapped in such a cramped space, unable to escape it easily. Brandon slipped in first, leaving me to squeeze in behind him.
With my knee throbbing and barely able to support my weight, a turtle could’ve run laps around me. If Brandon was impatient with my slow progress, he didn’t show any signs of it, keeping a firm grip on my arm in case my leg gave out again.
“She really did a number to your leg, didn’t she?” Brandon asked.
“I’m counting myself lucky she didn’t take off my kneecap.”
“It looks like she did to me, the way you’re limping.” The passage opened to a three-way intersection. Brandon pointed to the right. “That way leads to the office.”
“I’m pretty sure smart men run away from sources of gunfire, not towards it. The first place people are going to hole up is in your office,” I hissed. “If that woman’s an Inquisitor, I’m a petite, eight-year-old girl. If the Inquisition gets involved, we’ll be caught in the middle of a three-way gunfight.”
“Four way,” Brandon corrected.
“Four?”
“Well, five. Us, the Inquisition, the Canadian Fenerec, Zach and the crew, and the woman and her posse.”
I groaned, leaning against one of the containers. There wasn’t enough room for me to sink down to the floor. I ran my hands through my hair, wincing as my fingers caught on the duct tape still adhered to my head. “Wonderful. Is there any good news?”
“You don’t sound like you had just finished downing a bottle of whiskey anymore. You sound almost coherent.”
“Small blessings,” I muttered.
“Were you aware that your brother’s on board? He’s pissed, too.”
With a low groan, I banged the back of my head against the metal container. At the first dull thud, Brandon elbowed me in the ribs.
Avoiding the situation wasn’t going to help anything, so I asked, “I know my brother’s on board. Do we know for certain the woman has a posse?”
“We’re pretty certain. We got some video from the park and got a few hits when we compared to the stills of everyone boarding. That’s part of why your brother came. It’s personal, and he wasn’t about to let the Inquisition handle matters for him. Good job, by the way. You had us planning your funeral. It was going to be a nice one, too. Zach didn’t let us in on things until after he had you in his quarters.” Brandon chuckled, elbowing me in the ribs. “That girl of yours really is gorgeous, though.”
“She has teeth,” I muttered, flushing a bit. After my run in with the crazy cat lady and her noose, I would think twice about rejecting Evelyn’s advances; at least with her, I had a basic expectation of survival, among other things.
If I kept company with her for much longer, I’d find out what those other things were, which interested me almost as much as escaping the cargo bay alive. Muttering curses over how Evelyn was getting under my skin, I staggered after Brandon. I was fairly certain he was silently laughing at me, but was too polite to make a fuss over it.
“You need to be more careful, Boss. At the rate you’re—”
A thump against the shipping container silenced Brandon. I caught myself before I spun, preventing a dizzying one-way trip to the floor. I checked above me and behind me for the source of the sound, but saw nothing.
Thump.
A low growl heralded an ear-piercing shriek. The cry cut off in a gurgle. Shivers spread down from the base of my skull, zapping down to my toes.
“What the hell was that?” Brandon hissed.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I whispered back. The growling continued from somewhere unnervingly close.
Brandon pointed in a direction I hoped was as far away from the sounds as possible.
“I think I’d rather meet a Fenerec in a dark alley than repeat this experience,” I confessed.
Twisting around, Brandon poked my collarbone. “No cracking jokes until after we’ve gotten out of this alive.”
“I blame the drugs.” Without them, I suspected I’d be in a lot more pain, but also a lot more useful. I’d probably be a lot more frightened than I already was, too.
After being hunted by a group of Inquisitor-murdering humans, blowing up my twin’s truck, staying with Evelyn, and enduring asphyxiation and drugging by the crazed woman on the loose in the cargo bay, I doubted things could get much worse.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, stop it,” Brandon demanded, glaring at me.
“What?”
“You have that ‘how can this possibly get any worse’ expression, Boss. Stop it.”
“I do not,” I protested. When we came to another intersection, Brandon crouched down. I sat down with a groan. “I hope you’re not expecting much out of me. My head’s spinning. You’re lucky I haven’t thrown up on you,” I warned.
&nbs
p; “You’re not going to win any races on that leg of yours either. Relax, Boss. We’ll take it as slow as you need.”
I flinched at another round of gunfire and the ping of ricocheting bullets. “The passengers must be freaking out over all this noise.”
“I’ll be surprised if they’ve heard anything. Zach’s had the place soundproofed. The cranes are noisy, and it wouldn’t do to disturb the guests.” Brandon pressed his hand against my forehead. “You’re still clammy. At this rate, Zach’ll have legitimate reason to call in a lift to get you out of here. You’re still dilated all to hell, too.”
Stiffening at the thought of flying over water, I hissed, “There is no way anyone is flying me over the ocean in a fucking helicopter.”
Brandon’s eyes widened at my cursing. “Okay, okay. I got it. No helicopters. How is it that you own a cruise liner you use for smuggling and vacation on at least four times a year, but you can’t handle a helicopter? Aren’t you a pilot?”
“I don’t own the cruise liner.”
Brandon snorted. “You own those who do. Same difference.”
“Life jackets and scuba gear,” I replied in the most dignified tone I could manage, considering the circumstances. “I’m also less likely to die on impact with the ocean on a cruise ship. If I don’t drown, I’m okay.”
Shaking his head, Brandon sighed. “I thought all of you pilot types enjoyed mimicking birds.”
“Just because I can fly a plane doesn’t mean I like it. I got my license so I could if needed. And anyway, flying over land isn’t the same as flying over water.”
“Only because you sink instead of swim,” Brandon countered.
“Water likes me. The feeling isn’t mutual. I’m trusting you not to let Zach fly me off this boat, okay?”
“Relax, Boss. I got your back. Let’s get deeper into the maze so we don’t get caught in the crossfire. I wish we had a phone or a radio.”
“Ditto,” I muttered. “It’d be nice to know who the friends and foes are. Let me guess, no weapons this run?”
“We’re legit; profitable for what it is, but all legal. A cargo rig broke down and we picked up part of their load. And yes, we scrubbed every bit of it before we brought it on board, so don’t worry about that,” Brandon said.
I worried anyway. “When did you get contacted about the load?”
“Monday afternoon.”
“Monday? What is it with this week?” Groaning at the thought that there was somehow a connection between the cargo and everything else going on, I staggered back to my feet. With Brandon leading the way, we made it to the Wave Dream’s hull.
“Good question, Boss. We can access the catwalk if we climb the nets and crates here; they’ll hold your weight. We used Max to test it, and he’s got more muscle than you do.”
“You’re expecting a lot,” I muttered, eying the step-stacked cargo doubtfully. While the drugs had worn off enough I could function, I suspected I’d pass out the instant the adrenaline rush faded.
“I’ll help you up, no worries there.”
“Oh, believe me, Brandon. I’m worried.”
~~*~~
Bursts of gunfire punctuated our climb to the catwalk, and by the time we reached the top, I was shaking, bathed in sweat, and ready to collapse. I leaned against a pallet gasping for breath while Brandon scoped out the rest of the cargo bay from our vantage point.
I sank down in the relative safety of several crates. “How does it look?”
“Like a madhouse.”
“What’s going on?”
“There are a bunch of wolves, a handful of folks smart enough to be wearing body armor, at least one witch, and some ragtag group armed to the teeth with enough firepower to punch big holes in the hull if they’re not careful, and they’re all duking it out. How the hell did they get that shit on board?” Brandon joined me in my hiding spot. “I saw the braid bitch, too.”
I groaned. “Wonderful. What was she doing?”
“Hanging from a pulley hook. Her boot’s in the jaws of the biggest damned Fenerec I’ve ever seen, and it looked like she was about ten seconds from a very bloody end,” Brandon reported, sounding rather pleased with the situation.
The mental image made me shudder. “Wonderful.”
“I bet we could make our way to the center if we’re careful.”
“And I bet we’ll get hit with ricochet.”
“Possible,” my partner in crime admitted.
“So much for not having violence on the ship. The armor’s likely on Inquisitors. Are they carrying Berettas?”
“Looked like it to me.”
“Standard issue for them. The others are probably part of the group who killed the team I was with along with an entire pack of Fenerec.”
“Ah, the same people who took out your brother’s truck? Damn.”
I chuckled. “The truck was all me.”
“What?”
“I needed a distraction, and I wasn’t about to try to drive a weapon-loaded vehicle into an ambush that I knew about,” I replied, dragging myself up so I could peer over the crates.
The first thing to catch my eye was the woman with her hangman’s noose clinging to a crane hook not far away. One of her boots was missing, and it was held in the teeth of a red wolf that wasn’t much smaller than a car.
The wolf’s jade and gold eyes glowed. While she was far larger than I remembered, I recognized Evelyn.
With a shrill scream, the woman reached down with her free hand, pulling a gun from her boot. Evelyn snarled, snapping her teeth before leaping up at her prey. With a swipe of her paw, she batted the crane hook and sent it swinging over the cargo bay. Coiled around the hook several times, the woman’s braided noose swayed back and forth.
Evelyn waited, ears cocked back, for the woman to swing back within her reach. Jumping more than twice her height, Evelyn caught hold of the woman’s bare foot, burying her fangs in deep. With a vicious jerk, Evelyn dropped back down on top of one of the shipping containers without letting go of her prey. Blood gushed from the gaping rends in the woman’s foot.
The noose bounced in the struggle between wolf and woman, and as though someone guided it with unerring accuracy, it settled over the crazed woman’s neck.
Her screams cut off when she lost hold of the hook and Evelyn yanked her down.
The woman’s name was Scarlett Svedberg Swann, and as the last of her life died away, I felt her surprise, terror, and dismay.
Pain lanced down my neck and spine. The last thing I saw was Evelyn savaging Scarlett’s corpse while pulling her down from where she hung, killed by her own noose.
Chapter Seven
The spirits of those I had murdered clung to me, clawing away at me in their need for vengeance. I knew their names, but there were so many of them their identities slipped through my hands like falling rain.
My name was Scarlett, and there would be no peace for me in death. I had been killed as I had killed, and the ghosts of my victims wanted what remained of my soul.
~Dante,~ they whispered, their nails once again tearing at me.
The name confused me. I was Scarlett, and like them, I was dead.
~No,~ the ghosts insisted.
Their denial baffled me. I was Scarlett. I was dead. Why were they disputing those facts? The shock of agony in my foot had been followed by a jerk at my neck and numbness. The disbelief that I had been killed by a mere dog lingered. I had slipped into the final darkness without so much as a ripple, unable to do anything to save myself.
~No.~
Their denial ignited my anger. When their insubstantial, frigid claws tore into me, I struggled to escape them.
How could I fight them off? They could move. I couldn’t. My helplessness, fear, and uncertainty surged as the dead surrounded me. A torrent of names washed over me, smothering me with their countless numbers, and I was powerless to stop them.
~Dante,~ they howled.
My name was Scarlett… wasn’t it?
&n
bsp; Doubt and confusion clouded my mind. I searched for the memories proving who I was and found nothing beyond the brief flash of pain, dismay, and shock of my death.
The spirits clawed and hacked away at me until nothing remained but their presence crowding in around me, their voices swelling in intensity. They were the violent waves of the ocean pounding away at me, the crumbling shore.
If I wasn’t Scarlett, who was I?
I didn’t have an answer, and that frightened me even more than the chilling presence of the ghosts cocooning me. Was I doomed to float in the darkness, lost without identity or memory for the rest of eternity? I considered the problem with a numb sense of detachment, which was interrupted by the howls of the unseen phantoms flitting around me.
~Dante,~ they hissed in demand. ~Dante, Dante, Dante.~
With each repetition of the name, the weight of their presence grew, clinging to my shoulders and dragging me deeper into a maelstrom of emotion and memory. But whose memory? Dante’s? Who was Dante? Why was he important?
The spirits snarled their frustration. I was a rock beneath a waterfall of names, and Dante was but one of them cascading around me.
Through the cacophony of voices, one rang out over the rest, screaming, ~Dante Jackson Emmett Anderson!~
Her voice, speaking a true name—mine—severed me from Scarlett and her death. In the darkness, I caught a glint of green, but before I could remember what was so important about the color, the other spirits once again closed in on me, separating me from Scarlett.
The shock of realization left me helpless in the grip of the dead, who chanted my name in endless repetition.
My name was Dante Jackson Emmett Anderson, and I hadn’t been the one to die. I knew the names of the dead, and in turn, they knew mine. It was the first time they had spoken to me, breaking through the barrier separating the living and the dead. The spirits shrieked their triumph, singing my name. Fragments of memory returned. I was five again, and the first true name I had learned belonged to the family dog. We had called him Jiffy, thanks to my twin’s love of peanut butter. I couldn’t pronounce Jiffy’s name; it was too growly and deep for me to mimic and also included the way he cocked his yellow, floppy ear.
