I drew in a shaky breath.
Water cascaded from a hole in the ceiling with so much force it had knocked Mr. Fishnet Stockings off his feet. His gun clattered and skidded across the floor. With a curse, Holly lunged forward. A single kick of her foot sent the weapon bouncing through the growing pool. A Normal would presume her speed was the result of hard work and effort, but I knew better.
The wolf in her showed as a bright golden gleam in her eyes, and the animal’s fury heated even my blood.
Holly rolled the bank robber through the water, drove her knee into his back, and grasped a handful of stockings and hair with one hand and his right wrist with the other. From the end of the line of hostages, Holly’s boyfriend, Barry, jumped through the deluge to help restrain the bank robber.
The Vegas cops stormed in, dressed in full vests and general crisis gear, guns out although no shots were fired. The movement of mouths clued me in that orders were being shouted, but I couldn’t hear them.
With a final spurt, the torrent dwindled to a steady trickle through a foot-wide hole in the ceiling. I shivered, not brave enough to attempt standing quite yet. I’d likely flop to the floor in a trembling heap if I tried. A few collapses thanks to my ongoing fever had taught me the wisdom of staying down when I shook worse than a newborn puppy.
It didn’t take long for the cops to swarm Holly and Barry. I tensed, but within a few minutes, both returned to the wall with several cops in tow while other members of the force dealt with cuffing Mr. Fishnet Stockings.
Dad scowled down at me. “You were trouble from the day you were born.”
While his words were soft through the ringing in my ears and the pain in my head, I understood him—mostly. “Oh, look. It’s my jailer. Hi, jailer. Fancy meeting you here. Guess what I did today?”
“This is going to be good. What did you do today?”
“I met this pretty cool cop chick and watched some dude wearing fishnet stockings rob a bank. Cool, huh?”
“No, Dustin. That’s not cool at all.”
“Which part? The chick or the bank robber?”
“Chick?” Holly asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Chick. Hot lady. Sweet cheeks.” When Barry bristled, I grinned. “Barry’s Babe.”
“Did you hit your head, son?”
“No, but I could’ve used my painkillers several hours ago, and I’m pretty sure I feel worse than I should. In good news, I didn’t go totally deaf when the ceiling went boom.”
“All right, kiddo. Time for you to go to the hospital. When you degrade back to fifth-grade whining, you need more help than I can provide.”
Holly coughed. “Would you like us to go with him, sir?”
Dad glanced at the Fenerec and frowned. After a few long, tense moments, he nodded. “I’d appreciate that. I’ll come to the hospital as soon as I can.” Dad pulled out a business card from his wallet. “If you could call Marcy and fill her in, it’d save me a lot of trouble. You know the routine, I presume. We’ll handle your full questioning later.”
Holly saluted before she grabbed me under my good arm and hauled me to my feet. With inhuman strength, she dragged me out of the bank to the nearest waiting ambulance.
Holly refrained from informing either of my parents my arm required surgery until after the doctors had finished cleaning out the infection and drugged me with enough antibiotics and painkillers to treat an entire ward. Painkillers were truly wonderful things.
They made facing Dad so much easier.
Using a pair of visiting Fenerec as living shields helped, too. Holly bristled and hovered. Barry took the calm, quiet, and effective negotiator route.
Smart wolf. I liked smart wolves, especially ones clever enough to toe the line of my father’s authority.
Barry kept his body relaxed and his eyes lowered. “It was by his request, sir. As we were assured his life was in no danger, we thought it wise to allow you to work without distraction. Considering the circumstances…”
“He’s a smart one, Barry’s Babe. You should keep him,” I slurred, reaching with my free hand to tug on her sleeve. “He wants in your pants.”
“Dustin Walker!” Dad snapped. “I taught you better than that.”
Had he? I tried to think about it, but thinking took too much work. If Barry didn’t want Holly knowing he wanted her, he needed to control himself better.
All three gaped at me, and I realized I had voiced my thoughts. “Oops. Sorry, Hulk.”
“Hulk?” Barry asked, arching a brow.
“Green with envy, able to break me like a twig for running my mouth. You know. Hulk smash?”
Holly giggled. “We’ll discuss your advice in private.”
“Well, that’s how you should handle that sort of thing. In private. Not in here, please. Hey, jailer? Can I go home yet? Take me home. Home jail is better than hospital jail. Oh, shit. I ruined your casino trip, Holly. Sorry. I’d make it up to you, except I’m pretty sure my jailers aren’t going to let me out of jail anytime soon.”
Laughing, Holly turned to my dad. “Is he always so vocal, Chief Walker?”
“Worse. When he isn’t drugged senseless, he enjoys using convoluted vocabulary to make us plebeians aware we have been graced with his dazzling intellect. Want a kid? I’ll sell him cheap.”
“Dad, you’re an idiot. I’m over eighteen. You can’t sell me. Wait. Does that mean I can move back into my apartment now?”
“No.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ll give him to you for free if you bring him back for visits once a week.”
“Wait, what?” I blinked. “Dad? What are you doing?”
“The sober adults are talking, Dustin. Be quiet for a change.”
“Dad, they live in Tucson. I’m going to college here. Stop trying to sell me to strangers.” I sighed. “It’s because of the bank heist, isn’t it? It’s not my fault. It’s your fault. You made me go to the bank. I’m telling Mom you’re trying to sell me because you made me go to the bank.”
“Rob, do you want the spoon?” my mother asked from the doorway of my hospital room.
I truly loved my mother even though she always picked the worst times to show up.
“But Marcy, I found people who don’t find Dustin insufferably annoying.”
“Who are you, and where have you been all of his life?”
I sighed again. “You, too, Mom?”
“You’re joking, right? A chance to get rid of you with the assurance someone might be able to rein you in? Thank God. How much do you want? We’ll pay you. Please take him.”
Holly and Barry stared at each other with wide eyes.
“Run,” I mouthed to them.
The cops bolted for freedom, and my parents gave chase. A curious nurse poked her head into the room. “Is everything okay, Mr. Walker?”
“Everything is fine. Hey. Any chance I can bust out of this joint?”
She laughed. “Yes, Mr. Walker. I have your discharge papers here for you. Once you’ve finished signing everything, you’re free to go.”
I escaped while I could.
3
The Water’s Call
I contemplated the nuances of justifiable homicide. If I killed my father, would I live long enough to face trial? Three months after the operation to treat my infected gunshot wounds, I finally had regained full use of my arm. Dad seemed determined to keep me so busy doing his dirty work I barely had time to breathe.
Whoever had given him the bright idea of subjecting me to an internship with the police and the morgue in exchange for college credits needed to die a slow, painful, and horrific death. I dubbed them the Devil, and the Devil knew better than to reveal their presence to me.
Bastard.
The Devil had convinced the college to give me an entire semester’s worth of credits in exchange for practical experience in the morgue, the majority of my unwanted internship. The school listed it as active lab work suitable for my Forensic Sciences degree. Som
ehow, some bastard—the Devil, I feared—had also turned my minor into a major behind my back.
If I got my hands on the Devil, there would be a murder. If I had to screw another plug into a corpse so the real technician could avoid the unpleasant job, I would snap and kill somebody. I’d done so many disgusting tasks since beginning my apprenticeship in the morgue I’d grown numb to the presence of bodies, the stench of disinfectant and decay, and the horror surrounding death in general.
People would complain if they found out what happened to them after they died, of that I had no doubt.
“All right, Walker. She’s the last one,” my boss announced, ditching his latex gloves in the disposal bin. “Tom’s on cleanup tonight. See you Tuesday.”
While the Devil made me work in the morgue, some angel in human resources had given me a three-day respite from hell. “Thanks, sir. Any files to go upstairs?”
I tossed my gloves in the bin, waiting at the door for my boss to answer. I doubted I’d ever understand why the surgeon had taken an interest in corpses and Forensic Sciences halfway into his career. With my hopes of becoming a lawyer chained to my morgue apprenticeship, I worked hard and pretended the science of dead bodies interested me.
“Not today. You’ve earned an early out. Good job.”
I gaped at him, shot him a salute, and escaped. Without the extra forty minutes of paperwork tacked onto the end of my shift, I would be gone before Dad or one of his pack hunted me down—or, as they liked to say, picked me up so there’d be no unexpected incidents. If I hurried, I could reach the bus station and be long gone before anyone noticed I’d left work.
I made like a bat out of hell, took the quickest shower of my life, and fled the morgue. I delayed long enough to pull a few hundred dollars out of the ATM in the convenience store before making my way to the bus terminal twenty minutes away. A hundred dollars later, I had a ticket to Malibu and two hours to hide out and wait while avoiding Dad.
While it wasn’t technically legal for me to go into casinos until I reached the age of twenty-one, they made a great spot to hang out. The thick crowds worked in my favor; no one paid any attention to me while I fed a penny machine a twenty and prepared to lose. I pretended like I belonged, and the casino staff didn’t card me.
Fortune didn’t often favor the bold and desperate, but she tossed me three hundred dollars out of pity, which I accepted with a grin. With the two hundred already in my wallet, I’d be able to slum it for a few days in California without breaking a sweat.
No matter what, I was getting out of town.
My plan to hide in a casino went off without a hitch, and a little after midnight, I hopped a bus west. In less than ten hours, I’d be enjoying the sun, the sand, and the sea. If Lady Luck continued to favor me, I might even meet a new shark.
They understood me, and they didn’t demand I spend every waking moment dealing with the dead.
I basked in my freedom while the California sun roasted my back. The surf crashed over my bare feet, and the cool water soothed me. Despite having contracted a serious case of water witchcraft, I still couldn’t swim.
Mom became full-out hysterical whenever I got near any water deeper than six inches, convinced I’d manifest in a way my parents couldn’t readily hide. Maybe she wanted what was best for me, but I longed to wade out as far as I could so the waves could wash away my frustrations.
Somewhere in the water, not too far away, a shark hunted, and he didn’t like me in his territory. With a low chuckle, I thought about making a pot of shark fin soup.
It didn’t take him long to retreat to the safety of deeper waters.
“Wuss,” I muttered. Kicking the surf meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, but I’d been on such a tight leash the act of rebellion felt almost as good as not having Dad or Mom breathing down my neck. It also covered my utter lack of a plan. I’d made it to Malibu.
Now what the hell was I supposed to do?
At home, when I wasn’t studying, doing horrible things to corpses, or convincing my parents I still lived, I slept. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone to a movie, visited the firing range, or done something—anything—just for me. Hell, it’d been months since I’d spent any time with someone outside of the pack, let alone tried to find a nice Normal girl, someone uninfluenced by the constraints of the Inquisition.
I’d accept any Normal as a friend. The last thing I needed was a relationship requiring me to explain the rather awkward issues of water witches and sex. I’d been warned I’d ‘enjoy’ a few benefits when I finally found a partner, primarily a front row view of how much she enjoyed my company.
Most thought water witch men were terrible in bed due to the constant sensory barrage. Water witch women, however, were desired for the same reason men struggled.
I’d figure something out—or practice until I could turn my disadvantage into her advantage. A lot of practice sounded like a great idea to me. Like everything else in my life, finding a girl would have to wait until I had better control over my witchcraft. I wasn’t doing badly, but I still struggled to separate what I could sense with my magic versus my eyes, nose, and touch.
At least my work in the morgue had done me some good in that regard. I’d seen so many people killed from accidents in the past few months I could identify something amiss given ten minutes. Cancer gave me the creeps, registering as waves of hot and cold whenever I concentrated on its presence in the body. A lot of people had cancer without realizing it, their tumors so small they weren’t detected. I struggled with illnesses; each one felt a little different, although I had determined colds made the inside of my head itch while digestive issues ensured I wanted nothing to do with food for the next few hours.
I’d also gotten better at ignoring the consequences of my witchcraft.
Sighing, I kicked my way out of the water, retrieved my sneakers, and left the beach, stopping to stare at a surf shop on the otherwise deserted boardwalk. Without knowing how to swim, surfing was essentially suicide, but I still wanted to go out and experience the waves and feel them crash around me.
Surfers usually looked like they were having fun, although I hadn’t seen any catching the waves on my little section of beach.
With nothing to lose, I frowned, shrugged, and headed into the store.
Surfboards lined the walls, leaving the corners for other accessories. The shop was empty except for a tall Hispanic man with enough muscle to snap me in half if he wanted. When I got within five feet of him, the prickling of the hair on my arms and the back of my neck warned me the man wasn’t what he appeared.
I’d found a Fenerec.
He seemed friendly enough, offering a grin and leaning on the counter beside his register. “You don’t look like a surfer, dude. Lookin’ to get started?”
“Just curious,” I replied, marveling at the selection of boards for sale. “I can’t swim.”
“No shit?”
“Sad, right? Been thinking about learning so I could try surfing,” I confessed. Once again, I blamed Dad for my interest. When the waves were down, he fished. When they were up, he tried to drown himself using a surfboard, much to my mother’s endless chagrin.
I looked over the shop’s stock, amused by the longer boards. How could anyone balance on one, cut across the waves, and not drown? On the surface, it looked a lot like magic to me.
“Take some swimming lessons. There’s a pool a few blocks down the street. I’m sure someone there can teach you. It doesn’t take long to pick up the basics. That said, don’t go challenging the waves alone until you’re proficient. That’s a good way to get yourself killed.”
“Noted. Is surfing hard?”
“A little, but it’s fun. It’s a good workout, too. Tell you what, dude. Learn how to swim and come back here. I’ll give you some lessons—on the house. Ocean swimming’s different than in a pool, so I’ll help you there, too.”
“Nice. Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”
He grinned a
t me. “You won’t be thanking me when I get you hooked and you have to buy your own board.”
Since all work and no play made me an ass, Dad wouldn’t be happy after I finished with the family credit card. “I’ll be back,” I swore, ducking out of the shop and waving, off to find out how long it took for a fledgling water witch to learn how to swim.
I found some poor bastard willing to teach me how to swim for a twenty, and it took me less than an hour to figure out the basics. I mastered the holding my breath thing in minutes thanks to a well-timed surprise dunking from the bum I’d hired.
Breathing in water sucked. I wouldn’t make that mistake again if I had anything to say about it.
With a little effort and some tips from my malodorous new friend, I determined I wouldn’t drown if I breathed only when my nose and mouth were above the surface. I wouldn’t be winning any races anytime soon, but I had the doggy paddle down to an art.
I’d blame Dad for that later.
Learning to tread water took a bit longer than I liked, but I managed. When he was satisfied my lifeless body wasn’t going to be pulled out of the pool if he headed to the nearest bar, my so-called teacher abandoned ship and left me to figure out the rest on my own.
Swimming strained muscles I hadn’t even known I had, and by the time I crawled out of the pool several hours later, I ached from head to toe. My left arm hated me for exercising it so much, too. Physical therapy had helped my arm recover from being shot, but I’d underestimated how much work swimming was.
Surfing would have to wait until my legs no longer wobbled beneath me. In the meantime, I’d check off a few more things from my impromptu list of immature runaway rebellion.
I picked an action-adventure movie with more explosions than plot, discovering I’d learned a lot more about what killed people from working in the morgue than I cared to think about. Each time someone died, I watched with morbid fascination, unable to resist the urge to compare their fictional deaths with reality. In the film, the heroes reminded me of Fenerec and were equally difficult to kill.
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