Again.
She still had nightmares. All these years, she hadn’t let herself consider what it would feel like to live through that again. Not in the heat of the moment, unthinking—but deliberate. Intent. Picking up a gun to take the offensive.
Good. Bad. Maybe she would feel nothing at all. Perhaps some part of her would shut off, dead to taking another life—those lives, those Consortium lives.
“I want to live,” she said, feeling ill again. “But no, I don’t want to kill them. Most are probably just locals, hired to do a job. Pirates. Bad guys. But not . . .” Jenny stopped, unable to finish, unsure what she was trying to say. Stupid pawns? Poor, ignorant men trying to make a living? Whatever. Even if that was the case, it didn’t make it better. Most of them probably had blood on their hands. They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her if that was what they had been paid to do.
Truth was, she just didn’t want to take a life. Not again. Not unless she had to. Killing a stranger wouldn’t be any easier than killing a family member. She didn’t want it to be easy.
“Do you want to kill them?” she asked, tripping over the words.
“No,” he said, after a moment that lasted just a little too long. “This isn’t the O.K. Corral,” he added, surprising her with the reference. “And men who are shot at shoot back.”
She glanced at the old bullet wound in his chest and felt relieved by his answer—though she didn’t know why. It shouldn’t have mattered.
Always matters, her grandfather would have said, as memories flashed, memories of that bad day. Jenny’s nausea kicked up another notch. She wished she had chewing gum, and barely noticed when the man pointed to the unmasked mercenary. “That one is no simple pirate.”
“No,” she admitted, touching her throat, trying to think very hard about bunnies and daisies, and—and blood—all that blood from the bullets, and oh, oh God, the pain in her stomach—
Jenny bent over, gagging. Covering her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes. The man’s strong arm stayed around her waist. She tried to wriggle free, or at least turn away from him—tried to make herself as small as she could without actually curling up on the floor—but he moved with her, holding her, until finally she gave up trying to maintain even one ounce of her pride.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, wiping her mouth.
“Don’t be,” he said, with surprising gentleness. “You’ll feel better now, I think.”
Jenny wanted to disagree with him, but the truth was, her nausea was gone. Even if her mouth tasted like shit, and the base of her skull throbbed.
She straightened slowly, still wiping her mouth and eyes, and stared blearily through the window at those speedboats and the men inside them. Her heart thudded. It was hard to breathe.
“I hate them,” she heard herself say, and stared at the mercenary in his nice boat, trying not to flinch or back away when his gaze settled on the bridge—and, seemingly, her. “I hate them so much.”
The man drew her from the window. “A’lesander warned me you were being hunted.”
It took her a moment. “Les?”
“Who wants to hurt you? Besides him?”
Jenny fumbled for words, still grappling with the idea that Les wasn’t human. “I don’t know how to explain. We were double-crossed by a person who works for a . . . a rival organization. He tried to kidnap me.”
“That was more than two days ago. If he was supposed to contact someone—”
“Wait,” Jenny interrupted, frowning. Hit, again, with how little she knew about this man. He wasn’t human, he was frighteningly familiar—he had sung the song, the song she had sung to the boy, the boy on the beach, oh my God, oh my God—but that was all.
And she—who was usually so careful—had let him assume a peculiar command over this situation. She had even accepted medication from him, drinks that could have been drugged. Based on nothing more than instincts that were so insidiously rooted in her unconscious, she hadn’t even given it a thought until now.
You know him, whispered a tiny voice. Don’t fight it. He won’t hurt you. He could never hurt you.
Jenny shook her head in denial. “How do you know how long it’s been since the attack? Why are you even here?”
He hesitated. “I was in the region on . . . other business. We found an old man in the sea. He said there was a woman in trouble, and I had . . . strong reason to believe it might be you. So I came.”
There was a great deal in those words that needed questioning, but Jenny could focus on only one thing. “Old man?”
“With a bullet wound. Alive when I left.”
Jenny felt feverish again. “Let go of me.”
“I don’t think—”
“Let. Go.” Her voice was so cold, so hard, she didn’t recognize it.
The man’s jaw tensed, his gaze utterly unreadable. Jenny suspected she should be afraid, but right then, she was too numb for fear—so close to losing it, she couldn’t even feel her own body anymore.
The man’s arm slid from her waist. “He was very concerned about you.”
Jenny shoved him. He didn’t have to move, but he did, and she staggered past him to the control station, leaning hard against it. Staring at him with new eyes, unsure what she was looking at anymore. Merman one minute, man the next, something else . . . something else now.
“His name is Maurice,” she said, hoarse. “I watched Les throw him overboard. We were . . . attacked. Someone shot him, but Les . . . finished the job. Are you sure he was okay?”
“Not okay, but alive. Fighting to stay that way with . . . friends of mine. The Malaysian Coast Guard was coming for him when I left.”
Friends. Malaysian Coast Guard. Business in the region. Words that registered, and skipped like stones through her mind.
Oh, God, she thought. Oh, my God. Maurice.
“I need to get to him, and contact . . . contact our . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she peered at the man, blinking hard as light trickled briefly through the clouds, from the sun behind his head. His hair resembled a silver halo, and she could see, finally, the boy he had been—in those cheeks, in that mouth. A hard, terrible loss settled in her heart, and it wasn’t because of betrayal or attempted murder.
“You,” whispered Jenny, and the moment she spoke, she had to escape. Runner, she accused herself, but she didn’t care. She’d finally found the impossible, and it hurt too much to be near him.
She pushed away from the control station, heading for the stairs. Not thinking. Acting only on instinct. He caught her before she went two steps.
Jenny elbowed him in the gut. He grunted, loosening his grip—which nearly sent her toppling over. She managed to catch her balance and staggered backward, fighting for distance.
“Stay away,” she warned, breathless, light-headed. “Stay the fuck back.”
But there was nothing Jenny could do when he grabbed her arms with his big rough hands and leaned in, breath hot. She had to crane her neck to meet those glittering blue eyes, and it made her dizzy, nauseous.
But what was worse was the eerie resolve in his face. Not fury. Nothing cruel. Just a cold determination that sank through her like a knife.
“Maybe I don’t know you,” he whispered impatiently. “Maybe you don’t know me. But there is something between us. You feel it. I know you must. So trust that. Please.”
Jenny swallowed hard. “And if I don’t?”
Disappointment flickered. “Too bad.”
He let go of her, far too abruptly. Jenny sagged backward against the smashed console. Outside, men shouted, but she hardly heard them. Her heart pounded too loudly, and there was a roar in her ears when she stared at the man. He wasn’t looking at her now—away, out the window—but she felt his eyes on her all the same, burning ice in her veins. She suffered a gnawing, grinding hunger
, pushing and pushing until she thought she would explode with the sensation, the terrible knowing of it.
“There was a beach,” she heard herself whisper.
His shoulders sagged. “And I was a boy who had never seen red hair.”
Her legs couldn’t hold her weight. Jenny sank to the floor, trembling. Wondering, dimly, what was wrong with her. She had waited a lifetime to hear those words. She had never stopped looking. Never stopped hoping.
But this was not the fantasy she had built in her mind. This was not the sweet boy of her memories. Not the frightened boy who had looked at her with wonder and fear, and tentative friendship.
A very large part of her, she realized, had never expected to find him—not the boy, and certainly not this rawboned, scarred, giant of a man he had become. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t know what to do, or how to react. She didn’t even know if she could trust him.
Her mouth tasted like a bitter pill. “Why are you here? Why . . . after all these years?”
He finally looked at her, and for the first time she realized that constant cold expression was nothing but a mask—a mask that slipped, briefly, to reveal raw heartbreak. “Because I found you.”
Because I found you. If there had been a gun to her head, she still wouldn’t have found words to answer that. All Jenny could do was drink him in, listening to his voice, blind to everything but his eyes. Those eyes.
She tried to stand when he crossed to her side, but her aching legs wouldn’t work. He reached down and picked her up in his arms. His touch was uncannily familiar. His skin, hot.
“You were expecting something else,” he said, quietly. “Not . . . this.”
“I’ll settle for your name,” she replied, allowing her head to rest against his chest, too sick and weary to fight. She felt reduced to taking life in moments, one at a time. Too much had happened for anything else.
He hesitated. “Perrin.”
“Perrin,” she repeated, unable to help the grim smile that ghosted over her lips. “I’m Jenny.”
“Jenny,” he said. “We’re leaving this boat.”
Les had dumped the scuba equipment in Maurice’s room. The old man’s scent was everywhere when Perrin opened the door. Cherry tobacco and beer, and the sea. His bed was rumpled, sheets limp. His desk, cluttered with fossils and shells, and old books he collected in every port. No computer. Maurice didn’t like them. If he had, Jenny suspected it would be gone. Les had left nothing that could be used to call out.
Air tanks, suits, masks—everything had been dumped on the floor. Perrin stood just inside the room, holding Jenny in his arms. Staring at the mess.
He made a small sound of frustration. “You’ll have to tell me what you need.”
She blamed exhaustion for the tears that burned her eyes—certainly not being near Maurice’s things, or the man holding her. Certainly not.
Either way, she didn’t want him to see her cry. “Put me down. You’re making me dizzy.”
Perrin loosened his arm and set her gently on her feet. “Sorry.”
Jenny really did feel dizzy. “Don’t be. Just . . .”
“Calm down,” he finished.
“You seem perfectly calm.” She craned her neck to see his eyes. “If you’re screaming, I can’t hear you.”
“Good,” he rumbled. “I’d sound like a girl.”
Jenny coughed, staring. Tears slipped over her eyes, and she wiped hurriedly at them. His strong fingers slid around her hand. “Sit down on the bed.”
She couldn’t stop looking at him, and felt like a fool. “You don’t have to help me.”
His hand tightened, though his expression remained unreadable. Such a familiar touch, even if the face didn’t match the warmth of his skin. Such a familiar voice, even if its low rumble didn’t fit the cold glitter of his eyes. Never mind any of that. Every time he spoke, or touched her—she felt herself sliding from reality, and it was all she could do to snap herself out of it and wall up those memories. Not now. Not here. Not the time.
But he said, “Pretend this is the beach,” and all her resolve shattered, making her feel uneasy and fragile.
“Pretend,” he said again. “Pretend, and stop telling me I don’t have to help you. Don’t wonder why. Just accept it.”
“You wouldn’t accept it,” she whispered, frozen under his touch and stare. “You don’t get that many scars and accept just anything.”
Perrin blinked and stepped away from her. Not much room—his back hit the wall. Jenny couldn’t move. Wondering where those words had come from and how they had hit their mark so hard.
He circled her. Just a couple steps, until he stopped, turning slightly. Not looking at her. She was glad. Afraid he would see her trembling. Or staring at his scars. There were so many of them—all over his back and sides, his arms, even his legs. The same scars, as though he had been cut open with the same knife, the same hand. She thought of the boy on the beach, whose skin had been unblemished except for the wound on his chest, and wondered what the hell had happened. Had he received the other wounds then? Later? Why would anyone hurt him?
She stumbled to the bed and sat. “Where are we going?”
He hesitated. “There’s someone I need to find.”
Someone. Another mystery. She had so many questions. Les, that murdered woman . . . was that his business in this region? And what kind of business did a merman have? How was it possible that he spoke English, or made references to the O.K. Corral, or—
Stop, she told herself sternly. Stop it. Focus. Prioritize.
You need a doctor.
You need to stay out of Consortium hands.
You need to make sure he stays free from the Consortium.
The rest could wait. The rest didn’t matter until they were safe.
“You mentioned friends,” she said. “Calling the coast guard. You must have a radio.”
“It’s too far for us to reach. I assume, though, the old man—”
“Maurice,” she corrected him.
“Maurice,” he said, still turned away her, “probably already contacted someone. Assuming he was conscious enough to do so. My . . . friends would have.”
He stumbled over the word friends. Not an easy word for him. Maybe those people weren’t his friends. Maybe he was lying about helping Maurice.
Maybe, maybe.
But if he was telling the truth, it also meant she could wait this out. Help would come. Pathetic how much she relied on her family for help when she didn’t even want to see them anymore.
You want to be a sitting duck? You think you can trust them to come in time? Is that so much easier than fighting your own fight? When did you become a coward?
Six years ago on a bloody day, that was when.
But she had been a sitting duck then, too, for different, important reasons. And Jenny never wanted to feel that helpless again.
Perrin bent and hefted up an air tank, already clamped into the black harness. “What about the suits?”
Jenny didn’t move. “I want answers.”
“Answers with no questions.” Perrin stared at her, dangerous, inscrutable—until the corner of his mouth twitched. “I want those answers, too.”
She swallowed hard, unable to understand her reaction to that ever-faint, barely there, smile. He put the tank on the bed and pulled a wetsuit from the pile. “Do you need this?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He shook it out, knelt in front of her, and held open the legs. She had to tell herself to move. Had to concentrate in order to push through the moment. It was all too strange.
Jenny shoved her feet into the wetsuit, and studied his bowed head as he pushed and pulled her into the skintight gear. Being so near him, just a breath away, sent a roar of heat through her, matched by an e
qually cold tingle that rushed over her skin and made every hair rise on her arms. She wanted to touch him, desperately, just to tell herself that he was real.
Just to touch him, for the sake of a touch.
When it was time to stand, he said, gruffly, “Put your arms around my neck.”
“I can do it alone,” she lied.
Perrin took her hands and placed them around his neck. His touch was gentle, firm, his skin warm and dry. Her palms brushed the rough ridges of his scars, and it felt too intimate, touching them. She suffered the sudden, striking feeling that no one else ever had.
He also stilled, and did not look at her face.
“Hold on,” he whispered, and stood. Jenny rose with him, until her feet nearly dangled off the floor. Pressed together so tight she could feel every hard line, warm, intimate in a wholly different way. His presence, larger than the world. She refused to look at his face, afraid of what he would see in her eyes. Too deeply affected. Frighteningly so. Her heart, raw and naked.
Perrin pulled the suit over her clothes. The material felt hot, stuffy. Jenny regretted saying she needed it even though it wasn’t safe to enter the sea without protection for her skin.
“What about Les?” she asked, watching his jaw tighten.
“What about him?”
“If you leave him, and others discover what he is, there’ll be trouble. Not just for him, but all your kind. Same with the . . . the woman.”
“No time for trouble,” he muttered cryptically, and picked up an air tank. “Come on.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he snapped, but with an unmistakable tremor in his voice that made Jenny close her mouth. “Anything else you need?”
Jenny hesitated, then grabbed one of the waterproof packs. “Something from my room.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Perrin held her gaze. “I don’t want you near him. Tell me what you want.”
“A pouch,” she whispered. “In my top desk drawer.”
In the Dark of Dreams Page 13
