He went to find A’lesander.
Still unconscious. Or just pretending. Perrin stood in the doorway, watching his old friend. He didn’t have time for this, but he couldn’t move. Too tired, in body and mind. It had taken him all night to get here. He was not as strong as he had once been, but being in the ocean was a better high than heroin, and the adrenaline that surged through his body was power enough to keep him going. Bittersweet though it might be.
He had been seen, of course. Sharks, small schools of fish—and from a distance, a pod of dolphins. He couldn’t be certain any of them recognized him, but word would get around. Only a matter of time before one of his kind learned he had returned. No such things as secrets in the sea. Eyes everywhere. It pained him that he couldn’t trust those eyes. Hurt more than he thought possible. Being home, in the sea, did not fill his heart with comfort as he had fantasized it would. It just made him feel emptier—and, perversely enough, homesick for land.
Perrin went to the bathroom and found plastic cups. He filled one with water, which he splashed on A’lesander’s face. When that elicited little more than a twitch, he grabbed the Krackeni’s broken nose and twisted. The Krackeni jerked awake with a scream.
“Fuck,” he gasped, tilting his swelling face to peer at Perrin. “Gonna torture me now?”
“Maybe,” Perrin replied evenly. “I just saw my cousin’s body.”
A’lesander’s gaze darkened. He had legs again, and lay on his stomach, arched backward to accommodate the rope around his neck and hands. No good way to hide his face, which he tried to do—jerking sideways, pushing his cheek into the floor. Perrin swayed closer, following him. Rage pulsed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. If he let go now, he wouldn’t stop until A’lesander was dead. He couldn’t afford that. Too many questions needed answering.
After that, anything was possible.
“Pelena,” he said, voice breaking on her name. “She was always kind to you.”
A’lesander’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know why you think I hurt her.”
“Didn’t you?” Perrin grabbed his shirt, hauling him close. “She was murdered. Any fool can see that from her injuries. Murdered, A’lesander. She was the only Guardian for this region, and her kra’a is gone.” He jammed his fingers through the Krackeni’s hair, feeling around the base of his skull. All he found was solid bone. No warm lump, no second heartbeat.
“I don’t have it,” A’lesander snapped, but there was a strangled note in his voice, like grief.
Perrin shoved him away. “But you tried. I know you did. What did you possibly think would happen if you harvested her kra’a? Did you think it would bond with you, simply because you willed it? You were rejected from the process for a reason. It takes —”
“I know what it takes!” A’lesander snarled, wrenching sideways. Not far, and the effort made him pant—but the hate and grief in his eyes was strong and too real. Perrin stared, and then leaned backward until his shoulders hit the wall with a hard thud.
“You killed her for nothing,” he whispered. “You must have known that. And you know, too, what happens next. What’s happening even now. If someone—anyone—could find her kra’a, there might be time to bond another Guardian—”
“Like you?” A’lesander interrupted bitterly.
“No,” Perrin breathed, head aching. “But there are always candidates. Even one of the children would be better than the alternative.”
That earned him only silence. He stood, slowly, dragged down by despair. “I had a vision, A’lesander. I saw the darkness, and the awakening, and the end of things. I came here to deliver a warning—just in case. It was too important to risk doing nothing. And now I’m here, and the only person who could have prevented all those deaths is gone. Her kra’a is gone. Unless you do have it? Please . . . please say you do.”
“I told you,” A’lesander whispered, closing his eyes. “No.”
Perrin wanted to kill him. Just looking at his face made him want to step on his throat until he stopped breathing. But he blinked, and looked again, and A’lesander was suddenly pathetic, broken. Not worth the effort, or stain, of becoming a murderer. Again.
“The woman is sick,” he said. “I need to bring her fever down.”
“Jenny?” A’lesander twisted around, finally meeting his gaze. “What’s your interest in her?”
Perrin stared. “Is there medicine on this boat?”
He almost didn’t answer. He took so long, Perrin began to back out of the room. At the last moment, though, he cleared his throat. “Her bathroom drawer, I think. Try that. And there’s a first-aid kit near the radios. But those . . . I destroyed those.”
“Of course you did,” Perrin replied, ready to rethink his resolve not to crush his throat. “Anything else I should know?”
A’lesander wet his cracked lips. “The earthquakes have begun.”
Perrin went still. “More than one?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t be certain.”
“Maybe this was what you wanted all along.” He forced himself to walk to the bathroom and watched A’lesander’s restrained body in the mirror. “But I never would have imagined it. You were spiteful, but not insane.”
“Still not crazy,” he muttered, hoarse. “But some things just have to be done.”
Perrin gritted his teeth and closed his hand around a bottle of ibuprofen. It had already been opened, some of the pills spilled on the counter. He scooped them back inside, replaced the cap, and walked out—refusing to glance at A’lesander. As he closed the door, the bound Krackeni said, “Why Jenny? How do you know her?”
Perrin finished shutting the door and reached for the wood bar. On the other side, A’lesander shouted, “You don’t know who she is. Men will be coming for her. She’s marked, Perrin. Hunted.”
“Won’t matter in a week,” he mumbled, uncaring if A’lesander heard him. She might be safer out here than anywhere else.
He walked back down the hall to the room where he had left her. She curled on her side now, and the wet rag had slid off. She was still too warm. He cooled down the cloth and dabbed it against her brow as a nurse had done for him, long ago when he was still living in Sweden.
“Jenny,” whispered Perrin, her name strange in his mouth.
He found water, shook three ibuprofen into his hand, and tried to wake the woman. She remained deep in sleep, and he gave up—moving a safe distance away, near the door. It was difficult being close to her. Difficult, in so many ways he hadn’t anticipated.
Fate, he thought. All those twisted knots, binding him so tight he couldn’t breathe. Grief made it impossible.
Pelena was dead, and her kra’a gone. The others must have realized by now that something was wrong, and perhaps—perhaps, by some miracle—the kra’a had been found. If that was the case, then Perrin needed to do nothing at all. And if that was not the case . . . then nothing he did would matter.
Guardians soothed the dreams of the beast. And the beast was waking.
Chapter Seven
Her skull burned. Dreams, hot with fire. Jenny rolled through a vast darkness cut by rivers of lava. Fissures cracked open, split apart by a heaving body so massive, even a fragment of its scaled flesh loomed in the night like a mountain. When it breathed, the earth groaned; and when it twisted in its sleep, earth shattered and broke her bones.
“Come on,” said a man, in her dream. “Hurry.”
Jenny knew his voice and reached blindly for his hand. Nothing reached back. Her fingers slipped through air.
“Hurry,” he said again, louder; and somewhere beyond his voice, thunder rumbled into a growl.
Jenny woke. Pushed from darkness to shadows. She glimpsed hair so pale it was almost silver, and stared, and stared. Confused, thirsty, sweat soaking her skin and clothes. She was afraid to
move, watching as all that hair shifted, revealing a man with ice blue eyes—eyes that were impossible to look away from, though small details stood out on the periphery of her vision: high cheekbones, a firm mouth; his size, immense and rawboned. Faint white scars covered the edge of his face and chest. One looked like a bullet wound.
She remembered a melody, hummed softly.
She remembered everything else, too.
“Your fever broke,” said the man, and picked up a plastic cup that looked ridiculously tiny in his hand. “You need to drink something. And take these.”
He showed her the ibuprofen tablets. Jenny stared, struggling to focus—but all she could think of was the beach and a silver boy with a silver tail, and those blue eyes—eyes like the ones looking at her now. That alone would have been difficult enough, but his voice, the deep familiarity of it . . . as though she had listened to him speak for more nights than she could remember . . .
It’s him, she thought, and then: No, impossible.
Despite everything she had seen in her life, despite the fantasies that had driven her from childhood onward, this was the one thing she couldn’t believe was real. No matter how much she wanted it to be. Maybe the parasite was messing with her brain. Maybe she had finally cracked. Maybe, maybe.
“Hurry,” he said.
Jenny sat up. Her shoulders hurt, but the weakness was everywhere, in her bones. She took the cup—uneasy when their fingers brushed. That felt real enough.
The water tasted bitter, metallic. She almost spat it out, but thirst raged, and she couldn’t help but wet her tongue again. It was better on the second try. She drank the whole cup and swallowed the pills. The man watched her with frightening intensity, and she felt unaccountably small and fragile beside him—more so in her heart than her body.
“The radios have been destroyed,” he said.
Jenny froze, about to ask for more water. “Les?”
His gaze hardened. “Les. Yes. Yes, it was him.”
“How . . .” she began, and shut her mouth, shaking her head. How this man knew Les wasn’t important. Not yet, anyway. “Did he damage the rest of the boat?”
The man pried the plastic cup from her fingers. Jenny let go, surprised she had crushed it. He tossed the cup into the trash bin beneath her desk and stood, pacing to the porthole window. “I don’t know. There are other things we need to discuss.”
“I can’t imagine what,” she muttered, dazed.
The man didn’t seem to hear. He prowled across the room to the door, peering up and down the corridor. Incredibly graceful, but too contained, as though all the energy bottled beneath his skin was ready to explode. Watching him made her feel claustrophobic.
He finally glanced at her, long hair shrouding much of his gaze: thoughtful, unreadable; alien in his utter remoteness, as though part of him was a million miles away. Jenny wished she could say the same about her own emotions. “I set us on a northerly course, toward a nearby chain of islands. I’m sure there are other places you would prefer to go, but we’re being pursued.”
Jenny stared. “Pursued?”
“Three vessels. That’s why I woke you. We’re now dead in the water.”
She held up her hand, desperate for a moment to think—without passing out—and tried to get off the bed. She managed to move a full inch before the man crossed the room and held her still. It was like hitting a wall. He wore shorts, she noticed belatedly; swim trunks that belonged to Les.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“The only thing that scares me,” she replied, hoarse, “is the possibility I’m losing my mind. Now let me up.”
He removed his hand. Jenny stood. Or tried to. Her knees buckled, and the man caught her against him. Her face pressed against a rock-solid chest that smelled like salt and minerals, and kelp.
“You’re not crazy,” he rumbled. “But I understand the feeling.”
Jenny swallowed hard. She could hear his heartbeat, as well as her own. And, for a moment, a third pulse, in the base of her skull. All three, beating together at the same time. The sensation frightened her.
She shuddered, and tried to push him away. His arms tightened. “Easy. You’re still weak.”
“Doesn’t matter. I need . . . space.”
“No time,” he replied. “Our pursuers appeared less than ten minutes ago, circled, got close. The boat had been having trouble before that, and when I pushed the engines, they stalled out. Someone had begun the process of breaking down the wiring.”
“Les,” she muttered, though that didn’t make sense, despite everything he had done. He seemed to need the boat. Ismail, on the other hand. . .
“The outer door,” she added, and the man shook his head.
“Locked. But I don’t trust that. This is a cage now.” His voice dropped so low when he said the word cage, she almost didn’t hear him. “The men have made no attempt to board. It’s as though they’re waiting for something.”
Jenny pushed against the man with all her strength. Which wasn’t much. She was incredibly weak. “Get out of my way. I need to see them.”
He gave her a look so grim, Jenny felt afraid. But he surprised her by bending down and scooping her into his arms. His strength was effortless, and she swallowed her gasp, barely. “I can walk.”
“I’d rather not scrape you off the floor,” he said, with surprising dryness. “The first time was hard enough.”
She stared. “You’re a smart-ass.”
The man grunted, but it might have been with laughter. “I’ve been told that, in less polite terms.”
There was barely enough room in the corridor for him to carry her, and the lab door stood ajar. He kicked it closed. Jenny glimpsed the cold locker on the other side of the glass. That door was open so wide she could see the mermaid’s sheet-covered body.
She gave the man a sharp look. He was staring inside, faint scars even more pronounced against his face—battle scars, marks of war, violence. Bad things had been done to him. Maybe he had done bad things to others. The look in his eyes—unforgiving, distant—suggested yes.
He had been in that cold locker. Jenny knew it. But the way he stared at the body was heavy with more than just memory. He had known that dead woman, and the idea was horrifying. Not just because it meant he had lost someone. In all Jenny’s dealings, in every part of the world, the right perception—how strangers viewed each other—meant the difference between life and death. Here, now, especially.
“We found the woman several days ago,” she said, afraid of what he would do. In all her fantasies, finding him again was not supposed to feel dangerous, like walking on a minefield. “She had washed up onshore, alive. I believe she died soon after she was found.”
He seemed to think about that. “You were looking for her?”
“Not her, specifically,” she replied carefully. “We received word of something . . . strange . . . about her body. That’s what we . . . I . . . do. Search for . . . odd things in the sea.”
I didn’t kill her, she wanted to add, but couldn’t speak those words. She was afraid it would sound like begging. But he looked at her as though he could read her mind, and said, “Breathe. I don’t blame you for her death.”
Relief made her voice embarrassingly ragged. “Why wouldn’t you? You don’t know me.”
He stared dead into her eyes. “Not even a little?”
Jenny’s breath caught, and after a moment of her continued silence, his mouth twisted into a bitter grimace that was too mysterious and unhappy for Jenny’s comfort. He started moving down the corridor, hunched over to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. His long hair was soft on her face.
The man managed to squeeze them up to the bridge. The radios had been smashed. Wires and plastic covered the floor. He put her down but kept
an arm slung around her waist like some supporting brace. Which, unfortunately, she needed in order to stay upright.
“Right there,” rumbled the man, gazing out the window. Jenny looked, and saw a boat circling them almost one hundred feet out. It crossed paths with two other small vessels, going in the opposite direction: both little better than cheap tin cans, though their twin-engine propellers appeared new. The men on board were armed with machine guns and machetes, weapons strapped over flimsy T-shirts and shorts. They had already donned black ski masks.
The first boat was different. Newer. Sleek. Driven by only one man. He wore little except black slacks, a sleeveless black muscle shirt, and two guns holstered in a shoulder rig. No mask. Stone-cold face. He stared at The Calypso Star with dark eyes.
Looking at him sent chills through Jenny. She had never seen that man before, but she knew his type. The others might be local fishermen turned pirates. But he was a mercenary.
A mercenary . . . or something else. With the Consortium, you could never tell if what you were dealing with was fully and boringly human. Not until it was too late.
Sweat broke out. Feverish, but this time it was from fear. It was starting all over again. She had avoided her family for six long years, taken herself from the fight and all the bad memories she still couldn’t shake—but the old war had come to her anyway.
What had Ismail said? The Consortium needed her.
Well. Fuck that. Fuck them.
If she could just stop shaking and untwist her guts from her throat.
“You’re right,” she said, sounding calmer than she felt. “They should have boarded by now. They’re waiting for something.”
“Or testing you to see if you’ll attack and make yourself vulnerable. If that’s the case, they won’t wait much longer.”
She hoped the mercenary was not psychic. “The windows are tinted to prevent anyone from seeing inside, and the glass is bulletproof. They can be opened, just enough. I have guns.”
He was quiet a moment. “Do you want to kill them?”
The question took her off guard. Made her think about what it would mean to point a gun at someone and pull the trigger.
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