In the Dark of Dreams

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Perrin walked through the yacht, bent over, crammed into its small spaces. He found no one but still felt uncomfortable.

  He walked back on deck, and found Jenny already on board, dripping seawater and hugging herself. She stood near the dead man, staring, and made a small, throaty sound.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Perrin asked her.

  Jenny covered her mouth, swallowing hard. “Yes. You?”

  “All spirits abide,” he replied, and grabbed the dead man’s arms, dragging him to the edge of the yacht. “I just hope this one doesn’t mind what I’m about to do.”

  Jenny made another muffled sound—the beginning of a protest, he thought—but in the end she remained silent as he lowered the dead man overboard, as quietly, and respectfully, as he could manage. He felt her stare, though, like a brand on his neck—and when he was done, he turned to her, and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she replied, but her voice was rough.

  He followed her inside the yacht. Jenny went straight to the controls. The radio had been torn out. She turned around and strode down another set of stairs. Quick, determined. Perrin tried to follow, but he was too large to move with any speed inside the yacht. He found her, finally, in the engine room.

  It was a crammed, hot space. Perrin didn’t follow her inside.

  “It’s good,” she said, sounding far away. “I can get this thing started.”

  Perrin didn’t wait. He backed out and made his way topside. He noted the warm glitter of firelight on the hill above the encampment, and heard the continuing pulsing beat of music.

  He also saw movement on the beach. Four men, dragging a rubber raft behind them and carrying paddles. A cold murderous knot settled in the pit of his gut. Anger. Good sweet anger.

  They would have known a tsunami was coming, because of the earthquake and receding tide. Kept their boats out in deep waters, then moored them in the lee of the seawall after the worst of the destruction. Now, they were coming out to get them. Maybe they needed something from the yacht.

  Perrin ducked back inside. Jenny was just coming up the stairs, skin glistening with sea and sweat.

  “Someone’s coming. Get the anchor up, and the engine going. Don’t wait for me.”

  “What do you mean, don’t wait?”

  “You heard me. Do it.” Perrin turned away, half-expecting her to catch up and grab his hand. He wasn’t disappointed. Except it wasn’t his hand she grabbed, but his hair. Jenny yanked hard.

  “Listen,” she muttered. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not running away again, like I did on the beach—”

  The beach. He remembered that slip of a human girl, standing on the hill, staring—watching him with anguish in her eyes as he was dragged back into the sea.

  Perrin whirled, knocking her hand away, and pushed her hard against the wall. He towered, and she squirmed, pressing even harder against him. He was still naked, and the contact roared, making his blood run so hot, so wild, he almost lost himself in a terrible rush of frustration and lust, and love—love—that swelled inside him with overwhelming, drowning, force.

  “You didn’t run from me,” he growled, filling his hands with her face and forcing her to look at him. “You didn’t abandon me. There was nothing you could do. You would have died if you’d stayed.”

  “No,” she said, but he kissed her before she could say another word, pouring everything he was into that act, gripping her around the waist and hauling her off her feet. She was hot and willing, and tasted of salty tears and something so sweet he wanted to sink, and sink, and never tear himself away.

  But he did. He heard a dog barking, distant, and broke off the kiss with a groan that rose straight from his chest.

  “Perrin,” she breathed.

  “Please,” he whispered, backing away—afraid to look at her face. “Do as I ask. There’s no time.”

  He didn’t wait for her response. He ran up on deck, and dove into the water. His body was already transforming before he slipped beneath the surface, and he swam hard and fast to the anchored speedboats.

  The engines. He had to disable the engines. He heard voices, distant, and peered around the hull. Saw the small raft bobbing in the water. The men were in it, but hadn’t started paddling yet.

  Perrin dove, propelling himself hard to the seafloor. He found a rock with sharp edges and shot back to the speedboat above him. When he broke the surface again, he heard paddles.

  He hauled himself halfway into the boat and slammed the rock as hard as he could against the exposed engine. It made a terrible sound. Sparks flew. He hit it again, and again, until tubes crushed and broke loose, and the fuel line broke. He smelled gasoline and oil.

  Shouts filled the night. Perrin swam to the other boat. He disabled that engine, too.

  The yacht roared to life. He heard more shouts. Bullets pinged the hull. Perrin shot through the water toward that rubber raft, gaining speed. Relentless. Furious.

  He slammed into the raft from underneath, striking it so hard it rose from the water and flipped. Men tumbled, splashing. Perrin did not look at their faces. He grabbed ankles and dragged them under. Deep under. He did not let go until they stopped thrashing.

  He went for the others. The raft had righted itself, and one of the men had already crawled inside. Another was trying to do the same. He grabbed his legs, but the man held tight to the raft, screaming. Perrin slammed his fist into his crotch, then once more into his gut, until his grip loosened. The man let out a broken, strangled cry that choked into silence the moment Perrin dragged him underwater.

  He drowned the man and didn’t let himself think about it. This was life, or this was death—Jenny’s life, his life—and that was all. That was all he needed to know.

  Perrin surfaced one more time, but at a careful distance. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the man in the raft, but he had a feeling.

  He was right. Tattoos stood out in sharp relief against bronze skin, and black eyes glittered. No gun, not one he could see. Maybe it had fallen into the sea, but he doubted it.

  “I know you,” said the man, calm, as others shouted from shore: men running to see why shots had been fired. “You’re the one who saved the woman. She must be close.”

  He didn’t sound afraid, just interested, as though there was a chance he might still catch Jenny. The darkness in his eyes unsettled Perrin. It didn’t seem entirely human.

  “Why do you want her?”

  “Because I’m being paid to want her. What my employers intend for Ms. Jameson is none of my business.” A brittle smile touched that mouth. “But you’re dead. You should know that. Those people who want her have ways. Impossible ways.”

  “Fine,” Perrin said, and sank down into the sea. He listened to his blood hum, along with the vibrating roar of the yacht’s engine as it motored through the water. Deeper than that was the song of the sea—and beyond, a groan. Far away, so quiet it might as well have been in his soul. The sigh of a waking beast.

  It was just as easy to capsize the raft on the second try, but the tattooed man was ready. He hit the water, not with a gun, but a twelve-inch blade in his hand. Good swimmer, agile in the sea. He should not have been able to see Perrin in the darkness underwater, but those black eyes tracked his movements.

  Not just human, Perrin thought, but all he could think of were witches, and there was nothing of magic in the man. Just . . . darkness.

  He surged close, reaching for the man’s ankles, but the mercenary seemed to know he was there, and twisted with surprising agility. He corkscrewed through the water, slashing the knife. The blade almost cut Perrin’s cheek, but he spun sideways and stayed close beneath the water. Waiting for the tattooed man to breathe.

  It had to happen. In that moment when the mercenary tilted his face above water to swallow air, Perrin slammed
into him at full force, ramming fists into his gut. The human didn’t drop the knife, but the attack slowed him long enough for Perrin to grab his wrist and break it. Fingers loosened, and the knife drifted out of sight.

  The tattooed man did not give up. He grappled with his other hand, trying to push Perrin away. For a moment their gazes met, and Perrin stared into black, pitiless, empty eyes. Unafraid, even on the cusp of death. Heavy with promise.

  Perrin sank, grabbing the man’s ankles, and hauled him deep under. The man thrashed and fought, twisting in the water like an eel. Perrin gritted his teeth and pulled him to the ocean floor. His skin felt oily beneath his hands, burning hot, and seemed to leave a scent in the water that Perrin could taste. Like blood or ash. Corpses.

  The tattooed man was dead before he reached bottom. Perrin made sure. He held the man by the throat, looking into that slack face. His eyes did not open. His body was limp. Not even a trapped bubble escaped his nostrils or mouth.

  But Perrin still felt afraid.

  Gut check, his old friend Tom would have said. Homeless Tom, with his thick grubby clothes and dirty backpack, and always a cigarette to smoke, even when he had nothing to eat.

  Trust your gut. Check your gut.

  Perrin’s gut said that this wasn’t over. Death wasn’t enough.

  He did not surface again until he reached the third speedboat, the only one that he had not yet disabled. Men were in the water again, floating inside another inflatable raft, but Perrin didn’t hunt them even though they fired at the yacht. Bullets pinged, but not with the same strength. Jenny was nearly past the lip of the seawall.

  He found another rock and pounded the speedboat engine until it was satisfyingly mangled. He hit it harder and longer than he needed to, burning up on the inside with a terrible pressure that started in his chest, and spread into his throat, his head. Everything felt tight enough to burst.

  A short distance away, he heard a muffled whine. Perrin spun in the water, searching.

  It was the dog, paddling toward him with all its strength, head barely above water. Perrin frowned at it, perplexed. He could usually see inside the minds of animals—or, at the very least, feel their surface moods—but other than a general sense of terrible need, this one was closed to him. He found that . . . unusual.

  Perrin reached the dog in moments and gathered the squirming animal close. It whined and licked his jaw.

  “Hold still,” he muttered. “You’re trouble.”

  The dog yipped, trying to claw from the water onto his shoulders. Perrin drifted onto his back, set the dog on his chest, and kicked hard with his tail to ghost through the sea. Wondering how the hell he was going to catch up to Jenny while trying to keep a dog from drowning.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go. He found the yacht drifting just outside the seawall. Jenny stood on deck, a flare gun in her hands, holding it like she was ready to shoot fire up someone’s ass. Her eyes were sharp and angry, her body lean, her wild red hair coming free of its braid. Beautiful. Glorious. Real.

  She ran to the ladder when she saw him, but frowned as he drifted close.

  “What,” she began, then stopped as Perrin pushed the squirming dog into her arms. He clung to the ladder rungs as his tail shifted, tearing in two. His bones cracked and reset, skin rippling into human flesh.

  He climbed onto the boat and nearly fell to his knees on the deck. A tremor raced through him. Suddenly, he did not feel quite so cold or heartless about the humans he’d drowned.

  And the eyes of that tattooed man still lingered.

  Claws clicked. The dog licked his face. Jenny wrapped her arms around him, warm and tight. Her lips brushed his ear.

  “Rest,” she said, then slipped away.

  Moments later, the yacht started moving. Perrin lay down on the deck, breathless and cold, and did as she asked.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There was a first-aid kit in the main cabin, hanging from the back of the plush captain’s chair. Not the usual place, but a good one. The pirates had not stolen its contents or touched the clothes Jenny found in the closet down in the sleeping quarters. The Frenchwoman’s feet were smaller than hers, but socks stretched.

  All the lights were off, so as not to draw attention to themselves, but her eyesight was surprisingly sharp. Or maybe the stars outside were shedding more light than usual through the broken windows. Perrin lay sprawled on the floor, beside the couch. He’d tried to sit there first, but needed to lie down, and the couch was too narrow for his frame. The dog, however, had made itself quite comfortable on the hard cushions. It thumped its tail as she approached but didn’t raise its head. Jenny frowned at the animal, suspicious.

  “What’s all that?” Perrin looked at the oversized bucket in her hands, sloshing water, and the first-aid kit tucked under her arm.

  “Playing doctor,” she replied. “Your feet are a mess.”

  He grunted. Jenny raised her brow at him, fighting very hard to exude an air of calm competency—and not the fear, the shaken uncertainty, that was rolling through her, making her knees tremble. She wanted to stare at him, all of him, just to make certain he was all right—but, of course, he was. It was all the parts inside that were wounded.

  Jenny sat beside his feet, glad to be on the floor, where she could pretend that everything was stable, solid. She looked up, quick enough to take in his scarred, battered, beautiful body—just before meeting his gaze. His eyes were ice pale, haunting. The rest of his face was as cold as his eyes should have been—too hard and grim to be called kind—but his eyes, those eyes, were all she needed to see.

  What kind of man are you? Jenny wanted to ask him. So we share dreams . . . but who’s the man? Who are you now?

  “Are you ticklish?” she asked instead, slightly hoarse.

  Perrin stared. “Once, I was.”

  Jenny swallowed hard and pulled a soaked rag from the bucket of warm water. She wrung it out, leaned in, and dabbed the soles of his right foot. The cuts bled, and despite his transformation and time in the sea, she still saw small traces of debris. He jerked away from her, and she caught his ankle, carefully as she could.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. He nodded roughly, even more pale as he scooted backward and pushed himself up on the couch beside the dog. Perrin was very quiet, watching her. Made her uncomfortable, but only because what she was doing felt less medicinal than intimate.

  “I killed those men in the raft,” he said, suddenly. “The one with the tattoos. I drowned him.”

  Jenny stilled. “I know.”

  Perrin moved his feet back, like he was going to stand. Jenny placed her hands on his knees, holding him still. Or maybe it was the fact that her palms slid a little higher than she intended, to his thighs, that made him freeze.

  A tremor raced through him. Jenny forced herself to meet his gaze and found that his eyes had darkened to a rich blue, filled with a heat and hunger that thrilled her, almost as much as it frightened.

  But there was loss, too, in his gaze. Grief, and that old broken loneliness she understood too well.

  “I know,” she whispered again, unable to look away from his eyes. “I understand.”

  Perrin searched her face. “I was too angry. I’ve hurt people before in anger. It’s not . . . right.”

  “It’s a fine line,” she said, feeling as though she was walking one herself. “But those men would have hurt us.”

  “Would you have killed them?”

  Jenny hesitated. Perrin looked away.

  “Don’t,” she said, squeezing his knees. “Don’t assume you know what I’m thinking.”

  He made a small sound that could have been a grim laugh or a very sad sigh. “I know what I’ve become. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks.”

  “Liar,” she whispered, and settled back to continue work-ing on
his feet. He gave her a sharp look, which she ignored, squeezing antibiotic ointment onto her fingers and slathering it over his cuts. He shifted his feet. She grabbed his ankle again and held him still, a little more roughly than she needed to. He bore it in silence.

  “We don’t have much fuel,” she told him. “We’re drifting now, but we’ll only have a couple hours once we start up again. We’re already sitting ducks. We need a plan.”

  “Where are we now?”

  “Two hours north of the island. Open sea.”

  “Open sea is good.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Two things,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “The first is you’re right. Open sea does leave us vulnerable. I’m not sure we’re done with those pirates, or the one who hired them. The man with the tattoos was not . . . quite right. He fought me in the water, and he shouldn’t have been able to. He could see me. He was fast. He was not afraid.”

  Jenny hunched smaller. “Something about the way he held himself. His . . . eyes.”

  “His eyes,” Perrin agreed softly. “That means something to you.”

  Cold settled in her bones. If she could have become a mouse, she would have. Which was stupid.

  Be a tiger, she told herself. You’ve got claws.

  She just didn’t feel like it at the moment—especially when she thought about what she wanted to tell him. “My uncle had a wife. Her name was Beatrix. Beatrix Weave. She was never very nice, but it got worse over time. She had a strong talent for telepathy. And then, later, we discovered that she’d been making deals with . . .”

  Jenny had to stop. Perrin slid his hand under her jaw but didn’t make her look at him. He touched her only, just like that.

  “You can tell me anything,” he said, in a voice that wasn’t particularly gentle but entirely straightforward.

  “It’ll sound ridiculous,” she replied.

  “Oh, no,” he said dryly, and raised his brow in mock horror.

  Jenny stared at him, then laughed. “You.”

  “Me,” he said, mouth ticking into a grim smile as his other hand touched her face, ever so lightly.