Night Forbidden

by Joss Ware

  “He’s already dead,” Elliott told her, and Jade’s expression eased as she slid her hand around his arm. Fence noticed their easy affection, the silent support and connection between them, and was reminded sharply, sadly, of his parents. “But not for very long. Maybe an hour or so, but not much longer.”

  “It looks like a horrible way to go,” said Jade, transferring her attention to the bloody body.

  “He’s not an Elite,” Marley said, her voice low and tight.

  Fence saw that she’d turned pale and was gripping the edge of a nearby table. “Hey, sugar, better sit down. Now’s really not the time to be fallin’ to your knees around me,” he said, giving her a grin. “We’ve got an audience.” He pulled a chair around and helped her ease into it.

  “How do you know he isn’t an Elite?” asked Vaughn, his voice cool. “He’s got crystals all over him.”

  “Too many, too small, and in the wrong place,” Marley said in a rush, confirming Fence and Elliott’s previous conversation. Her gaze was averted and her knuckles white.

  “She’s right,” Elliott said, and all eyes turned to him. “These crystals are different—aside from all the other reasons Marley gave, they’re also set into the body differently. In the Elites, the crystals have little fiber-optic-like threads that burrow through the whole body like the roots of a plant . . . or like the circulatory system, but originating from the crystal instead of a heart. But these crystals are like tiny cones fixed in the lungs, and there are—or were—at least a dozen of them. They do have small roots, but they’re much shorter than the other type. And these merge with the bronchioles in the lungs. It’s as if they’re part of the organ itself, as if they’ve taken over their function. Perhaps even changing the lungs’ functionality.”

  Everyone was silent, looking at him. Fence could almost feel the massive churning in the room as everyone’s brains chewed on this new information.

  “My guess,” Elliott continued, “is that these crystals help his lungs to convert water to oxygen.”

  “So what in the hell are you saying? That the guy is a fucking fish? Or was,” Zoë added, her voice going mildly softer as she looked down at the corpse.

  “He’s from Atlantis,” Quent said quietly.

  Fence saw that he was holding a piece of the man’s clothing. “Atlantis? Can you see it?” he asked, his pulse bumping up. “What it looks like?”

  Zoë edged closer to Quent, and Fence saw her link fingers with him. She was his lifeline, holding him in the present or bringing him back when the blur of memories threatened to drag him into unconsciousness.

  “I just saw impressions of the place,” Quent replied. He’d dropped the fabric and his face was pale under its tan. “It’s wavery and bright, and contained. I’ll get more later.”

  “You’re hot damn right it’ll be later, genius,” Zoë said firmly. “Not fucking now. I’m not gonna be dragging your sorry ass—or arse—or what-the-fuck-ever you call it all the way the hell back up to our damned room when your knees give out and you conk your hard-ass head on the floor.”

  “And here we have the softer side of Zoë,” Fence said with a grin, relieved to shove away his dark thoughts. And weren’t pregnant women supposed to be more . . . fluffy and motherly and—what did you call it? Burrowing? No, nesting?

  Zoë whipped her face around to give him a glare that would have shaved his head if he wasn’t already bald. Her brows furrowed in a shut-your-fucking-trap look, and Fence realized he might have somehow stepped squarely in something. And he did not want to be on Zoë’s bad side.

  Especially if she was all hormonal. Uneasiness crawled up his spine when he remembered his sister and her pregnancy. Ugly.

  From the expression on Zoë’s face, and the suddenly pop-eyed warning look Elliott was giving him as well, Fence realized that Quent didn’t yet know he was going to be a father. Oops.

  How the hell had that happened? Everyone else knew except for Quent? Fence glanced at Elliott, who shrugged and gave a brief eye roll toward Zoë. Apparently she didn’t want him to know. Fence had learned the news from Lou Waxnicki, who’d found out from Zoë herself before he left Envy to visit Theo. She’d been bitching about how Quent wasn’t going to let her hunt zombies anymore as soon as he found out she had a bun in the oven.

  That was going to be interesting: Quent trying to keep the type-A, athletic, stubborn as the day was long Zoë from riding around shooting at zombies all the time. Not that Fence would blame the guy . . . he’d want his own wife to be careful with his baby.

  If he ever had one.

  Fence’s light mood dampened and he turned his attention back to the matter at hand . . . including his own women problems.

  Now that they’d come to the conclusion that Mr. Disco here was indeed from Atlantis, the next thing to find out was just how Ana had known it—or known him.

  “I’m outta here,” Fence said, slipping behind Jade to get to the door. “Got some stuff to take care of.”

  He wasted no time getting out of the infirmary and back out to the beach. The tracks from Herb and Wendy’s—and his—footprints were still there, but the spot where Mr. Disco had been found wedged between a rock and an old car was washed over by the waves.

  Fence walked up and along the shore until he found Ana’s tracks. There were marks going into the water but none going out. And he found a shirt and a pair of shoes tucked up in the branch of a sapling, so he knew she had to be coming back this way.

  But as he stood there, shielding his eyes from the fully visible but lowering sun off to his right, he saw no sign of her. No bobbing head, nothing floating. The waves were relatively mild, so it wasn’t as if she’d be hidden by them.

  He watched and waited for more than ten minutes, his apprehension and concern heightening. Where could she be?

  And then, all at once, he saw a head surge up from the water about a hundred feet out. A swath of long hair whipped up and fanned over, sending a spray of droplets glittering in the sun. Long, slender arms and sleek shoulders emerged, glistening and glowing in the golden sun. She was far enough away that he couldn’t see her face or much detail, but he recognized the sun goddess.

  Not sure how he’d missed spotting her all this time, Fence chalked it up to the glare of the sun and the waves. But now that he’d spotted Ana, he could keep an eye on her as she made her way toward him.

  No sooner had he thought that than she arced up and down into the water like a freaking dolphin. She went up so high that he actually saw a half circle between her body and the horizon.

  Crazy. Amazing.

  He was going to have to eat a mighty big helping of humble pie if he ever wanted another chance to get their freak on together. And he did. The deep shiver of desire startled him with its intensity.

  Shielding his eyes, Fence watched for her to reemerge from the water. And watched.

  And watched.

  Nothing. Nothing broke the water. Nothing shot up through the waves. No golden head. Not even a disruption in the pattern of the waves from her strokes or kicks.

  Fence frowned, his heart starting to pound harder. She’d been under for at least three minutes.

  Then four minutes.

  Jesus, God, no. Not again. Don’t fucking do this to me again.

  His mouth had gone bone dry and he was aware of a sickening feeling rising in his middle. The image of the dead guy, waterlogged, limp and naked, lodged in his mind.

  Five minutes. No way.

  He felt light-headed and ill and couldn’t help but rage at the heavens. What in the hell are you doing to me? Why don’t you just take me, God, instead of playing around like this?

  His heart slammed in his chest and his breathing had gone shallow.

  Six minutes?

  She had to be in trouble. No one could hold their breath for six minutes underwater.

  No one.

  Aw, God. Why? He blinked hard and swallowed.

  It was no easier this time, so soon after the last, for
him to walk toward those crashing, rolling, furious waves. Toward the dark, hungry waters.

  Fence flipped off his shoes without acknowledging the reason for doing so. Pulled off his shirt. Sweat rolled down his back, and his skin had gone clammy. He thought he was going to hork right here, or his knees were going to give away . . . but he couldn’t leave Ana.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again, straining to see something, anything, out there . . . then when he saw nothing, squeezed them shut and ran.

  As soon as the water hit his knees, he dove blindly. He knew if he did it any other way, any slower or more deliberately, he wouldn’t make it.

  As the dark, cold water closed around him, his mind went blank with panic. At first his arms and legs wouldn’t move. For a hysterical moment he almost breathed, almost dragged in a lungful of water and let himself go right then and there.

  But he thought: Ana.

  And he pictured her lithe, golden body.

  He forced his limbs into the rhythm he still knew, tried to ignore the weight of the sea, its heavy cloak. Fence opened his eyes, raised his head above the water and looked for Ana, for any sign of her.

  Nothing.

  His lungs and torso seized, tightening as if there were a band around his ribs. He allowed himself to slip under the water, hoping to see a sign of her beneath.

  Shadows rose in dark, jagged spires everywhere, making the situation even more terrifying. He was aware of little bubbles coming from his nose, and for a moment the panic surged and overwhelmed him as he imagined the bubbles that would erupt in a long stream . . . and then end . . . when he drowned.

  Oh God, oh God.

  He forced himself to move, and then all at once, as he floundered around a rusty metal bar, he saw a glow.

  He saw her.

  She was swimming. Long and sleek and elegant, like a dolphin. Something glowed around her belly.

  Fence forgot himself and nearly choked as he started to inhale a shocked breath. Then realizing what he’d nearly done, he blew the air out and the back of his throat began to tickle and a cough threatened. It rose in his lungs, that need to violently inhale and expel, and he was too far below to reach the surface in time, and he had no air left . . .

  OhmyGod, ohChrist, ohJesus. . .

  His mind went blank with terror and hysteria and the water rushed into him, and he flailed and rocked into something hard and rough that scraped his forearm and temple. Sharp, stinging pain sliced beneath his arms around his ribs. Cold water flushed inside and Fence became aware of falling, sinking, of coughing and trying to breathe.

  Suddenly, she was there, appearing like a pale angel, her hair spreading in a gentle ruffle around her. He lunged for her, knowing he’d drown her, too, but he was already breathing the water, dragging it in, and his body would soften and slow and sink . . .

  Chapter 8

  Even through the water, Ana saw the wild panic in Fence’s eyes and instinctively ducked as he reached for her.

  She looped around behind him with a powerful frog kick that sent bubbles spiraling and the water churning. He spun awkwardly, following her, his arms and legs flailing as if he didn’t know how to swim . . . but he had been swimming. What was wrong with him now?

  Somehow—she wasn’t certain how—she managed to drag and swim him back to shore. As soon as his feet hit ground, he loosened the death grip he had on her arm and staggered out of the water, pulling her with him. He was gasping and coughing, and she felt his muscular body trembling as if he were freezing . . . or in some sort of shock.

  Despite all this, he was solid and strong, and Ana not very stable on her own feet, so when Fence collapsed on the beach, she tumbled down with him. For a moment she lay there, the wind knocked out of her, half pinned to gritty, pebbly sand by a heavy, masculine body, confused and yet strangely satisfied. Her wet hair slicked over their skin, strands of it trapped beneath his arm and against his torso.

  Ana didn’t even attempt to move away from where they’d landed, for she was out of sorts and exhausted after swimming fast and hard to Darian’s message place and back, and then she’d had to contend with fighting Fence back to shore. Plus, jeez . . . she sort of liked the feel of him next to her.

  Suddenly, she realized that he wasn’t moving. Had he blacked out?

  “Fence?” she said, giving him a little jolt. “Fence?” She patted the side of his face to try and get his attention, still sprawled next to him on the sand.

  He shifted with a soft, rousing sound. His breathing changed as his eyes fluttered open. “Mmm . . .” he muttered, a little smile curving his lips, as if he’d just awakened.

  His hand moved . . . slid. Curved.

  Settled over her bottom . . . and cupped her close.

  “Well, since you’re right here, and we’re both still alive,” he murmured.

  He shifted. The next thing she knew, his body was not merely next to hers, but lining up along her torso, smooth and solid, as his arms gathered her close. His mouth found hers as one large hand slid up between her shoulders, settling over her hair, fingers curling through the heavy, wet strands.

  Ana’s initial surprise at this mercurial change evaporated as she tasted him again—this time salty and damp and warm from the sea. His mouth was delicious: a sweet combination of sensuality, softness, and lurid, bold coaxing. Along with the deep kiss came the slide of his big, powerful body against hers—his knee easing between her legs, the arch of his foot brushing against her ankle, the shifting of solid, muscular planes beneath her hands.

  Ahhh.

  She closed her eyes and eased into the moment, long harbored desire unfurling in her belly as their kiss deepened. His hands were everywhere, as if they needed to memorize her from head to toe, pulling her tight so every soft curve burned into his skin. In the midst of the deep sensuality, she still had the presence of mind, barely, to keep her crystal side toward the ground and her tank top in place . . . even when he slipped a strap from her shoulder and began to nuzzle along her throat and neck.

  The tickle of his ridiculous lashes over her cheek, followed by soft, gentle nibbles along the curve of her neck, sent sharp tingles of desire through her. Ana couldn’t hold back a soft sigh of pleasure as she rolled her head to the side, shivering when he circled his tongue gently in and around her ear. His hand found one of her breasts through her wet shirt and he closed a large palm over it, the heat of him seeping through the fabric as he molded and caressed, finding the hard nipple poking through her shirt and teasing it.

  She was hardly aware of the gritty sand beneath her, and the little rush of waves surging up and around their toes. She tasted Fence—warm, dark, and so tender for one of such bulk—smelled the fresh, now salty scent from his skin, and wanted more.

  She needed to stroke the broad expanse of his back, to slide her hands flat over his pectorals and up beyond the square of muscular shoulders . . . she wanted to nibble on his ear and slide down along the ridges of his torso. When she shifted, brushing lower against his belly and hips, he made a soft, surprised sound of pleasure in her ear and grabbed her closer. The kiss went deeper and hotter, his tongue sliding and slickly dancing with hers.

  Ana wasn’t certain what happened next . . . they’d shifted and moved during their furious tangling there on the beach—and perhaps the wind kicked up too—but all at once, a surge of water crashed over them.

  It was more than refreshing, and sudden, and Fence yanked his face away. It was as if a bucket of cold water had been tossed on a yowling cat, and he released her with such immediacy that she had to catch herself.

  She blinked, and came thudding back to reality. Crap! What the hell had she been thinking? She’d been about ready to let him take off her shirt . . . a mistake she’d never made with anyone before, except Darian. His hands had been on her breasts, her butt, her everywhere. And she hadn’t cared. Her lips throbbed, and she couldn’t deny the damp ache of desire that still teased her, but at the same time she was filled with regret and fear.<
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  Yet when she looked at him, he didn’t seem to be staring at her with accusation or comprehension. He was looking out at the sea, which had become darker and rougher in the last few moments. “ ’S’cool,” he muttered to himself. “I’m good.”

  At last he turned to her, his face no longer soft with passion and seduction, although those gorgeous lips of his were even more full and sensual now. “What in the hell were you doing out there?” he demanded, doing that quick-change thing again. As he spoke, he pulled his warm, smooth body away from hers, and Ana felt a brush of cool air over her skin.

  “What are you talking about?” She’d expected him to ask her about the crystals. This didn’t make sense. Maybe he hadn’t noticed them after all. Maybe she hadn’t messed things up.

  But he wasn’t looking at her. He’d sat up and was staring out at the water again, as if he’d never seen an ocean before. His chest heaved like he’d been running, and droplets of water glistened all over those dark, broad shoulders and curving biceps.

  Despite myriad emotions battling for her attention—confusion, annoyance, apprehension—Ana couldn’t deny the renewed flare of lust that stabbed her in the pit of her stomach.

  “What in the hell happened out there?” he said, but once again he didn’t seem to be talking to her. He sort of whispered it. Staring out into the distance, he settled a large hand over his breastbone as if to feel the rhythm of breathing.

  “Fence?” she said after a moment, and couldn’t help but remember when he’d raged at her earlier today. This man was . . . odd. Sweltering and sexy, but maybe a little crazy.

  “I thought I was drowning,” he whispered. “I was drowning. I was . . .”

  Ana watched him, bewilderment sliding into disbelief and reluctant comprehension. If he’d been drowning, inhaling water, he would have been coughing it up, vomiting. She would have had to pull him onshore and pummel him to get him to spew it out of his lungs. He wouldn’t have been conscious after all that time under the water.