Clashing Tempest (Men of Myth Book 3)

by Brandon Witt

  My goal was to get a burger down in under ten minutes. The waitress didn’t even bother to give me a questioning look when I croaked out the order for two more cheeseburgers. I knew the change in food could cause problems as well, but I doubted it. Sonia and my grandmother had both always kept a running commentary on how my stomach could handle seemingly indigestible quantities of food.

  The waitress dropped off the new burgers and refilled my water glass. “Will there be anything else after this, or can I get your check?”

  “Sure, the check is fine.” As hard as it was to speak, I was already able to pull it off with a mouthful of food. I wiped at the mayonnaise that escaped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.

  She nodded, looking bored. “Mucho gusto.”

  Now that my stomach’s initial craving was beginning to be satisfied, I was actually able to taste the food. If it had been any other time, I’m sure the burgers would have been lackluster, at best. At least they looked that way. Perfectly round patties, indicating partial life in a freezer, air crusted buns, and sad-looking lettuce and tomatoes. After months with no warm food, they were the best things I’d ever eaten. Despite all that had gone on, the food brought with it a sense of comfort, of home. As if Grandma could be right around the corner.

  Night had fully fallen, and the distant sea was black and endless. A few fires dotted across the beach, with small figures silhouetted against their brilliance.

  Strings of lights were strung through the palm trees up and down the sidewalk, some strands stretching across the street. If anything, the amount of people milling about had increased, probably all returning from their day at the beaches, swimming and surfing. Many of them were still dressed in beach garb. The women in skimpy swimsuits. The men shirtless, clad only in shorts and flip-flops. Several were dressed in more dressy beach attire—linen pants and shirts, long billowy dresses.

  One more burger left.

  I was at a loss as to where I was. Too many languages and dialects. Tourists everywhere. Even the menu didn’t offer much help. There were lots of American-type foods, like the burger, but then lots of dishes with rice and beans, plantains, tortillas, and cheeses. That could be anywhere from Mexico to South America. Hell, I could have been back in Old Town, San Diego, if it were a little farther from the beach.

  On impulse, I angled toward the big man on my right, who’d kept swaying into me with increasing regularity. His unbalanced equilibrium seemed in direct correlation to the beers he continued to chug, as did the increases in his sweat production. Not that the thick humidity was having no effect on me either.

  My voice was quiet enough that the man didn’t hear me the first time. I patted him on the shoulder before trying again. “Can you tell me where we are?”

  I wiped his sweat on my shorts.

  He turned, his head weaving closer, then farther back as he tried to get me into focus. “Whadday say?”

  His words were loud and slurred, making me feel like all eyes in the restaurant had turned to us. I shook my head and attempted a smile. “Never mind.”

  He leaned forward too quickly, and I thought he was going to slide off his stool and into my lap. Amazingly, he did some bizarre weeble-wobble trick and remained planted in place. “What?”

  I sighed and glanced out of the corner of my eyes. It didn’t look like anyone was paying attention to us after all. Maybe they couldn’t hear us over the soft roar of the crowd. “I just asked if you could tell me where we are.”

  The man reared back, again making me think he was going to topple over. He craned his head up, whipping it from side to side in jerky motions. “I couldda sworn there was a sign up on the roof.” He continued his flailing inspection. “I think it’s called The Shack or something. Some tourist shit like that.”

  Giving up, he looked back at the bar, then fisted the beer and took another swig.

  Regretting it even as I did so, I tried again. “Actually, I mean where are we, as in where in the world. What country?”

  His eyes narrowed, his expression darkening. “I don’t care if you are some muscle meathead. I don’t care for you making fun of me. Just ’cause I’m drunk dunnit mean I don’t know I’m in Costa Rica. If you gotta problem—”

  “Costa Rica.” I glanced around at the crowd in the restaurant, then at those rambling outside, as if seeking confirmation. I turned back to the man. “Where in Costa Rica?” I wasn’t even sure why I asked. I wouldn’t be able to name one location in Costa Rica, much less have any idea where any town was located.

  He stared at me, eyes still narrowed. Lips tight.

  I let out a burst of air and shook my head in what I hoped was a gesture of self-annoyance. I tried to speak louder to be heard over the noise. “I’ve been backpacking for weeks now, and I keep forgetting what town I’m in. They all start blending together.”

  He nodded slowly, his expression never wavering. “Playa Carmen.”

  “Oh, right! Thanks. Can’t believe I forgot that.” I was right. He could have said Tokyo for all the good it did me.

  The man leaned closer still, offering me a more direct waft of his beer breath and body odor. “Wait a minute. You asked me what country we were in. You’ve been backpackin’ all over and didn’t even know what country you was in?” He peered over my shoulder, then down at the floor near the base of the stool. “Where’s your backpack?”

  I paused for a moment, uncertain what to do, then looked below me in surprise, before returning to give him a shocked expression. “Oh, shit! I forgot my backpack.”

  Quickly, I reached into the front of my shorts and withdrew a few bills and tossed them on the plate. I gave the man a swat on his fleshy shoulder. “Thanks, dude. Appreciate it!”

  Turning, I swiped the remaining portion of the burger off my plate and stepped into the crowded stream of the sidewalk.

  Twenty-Nine

  BRETT WRIGHT

  Costa Rica. More specifically, Playa Carmen, Costa Rica. I wasn’t sure how that knowledge was supposed to help, but it did make me feel more grounded. At least I could roughly envision where I was on the globe. I still had no idea where to find vampires, but it was a start.

  The next step would be to find other supernaturals. I’d barely learned there were supernaturals before I’d vanished into the ocean, so I wasn’t sure how successful I would be. However, I’d practiced in Wendell’s costume shop. I’d discovered supernaturals had a sort of extra sense about them, something that caused them to seem just a little bit more filled with life. I hadn’t really been able to put my finger on it, but by the end, I’d been batting a thousand. Still, that had been a quiet little space. It would be a lot more challenging among the bustle of this tourist town.

  Vampires—if I saw one, I would know as soon as I saw his eyes. If I happened to see a mermaid wandering around the town, I’d probably catch on to her as well. Beyond that, unless I was able to detect that indescribable quality, I was going to simply have to rely on pure chance and luck—which seemed to have turned in my direction in the past day or so.

  At the thought, I patted my back pocket, reassuring myself Chris Stewart’s identity and credit cards were still there. I wondered what he was doing now without being able to prove who he was. Probably was going to make getting back to Texas a touch more difficult. The pulse of guilt faded before it had finished forming. Whatever inconvenience he had to go through, it was nothing compared to what the mers faced. It was a small price for him to pay to help save a species—whether he knew it or not. That, and buying me dinner.

  Sure enough, as I walked among the tourists, I couldn’t detect a glimmer of anything, other than the evidence of drunkenness and natural herb usage that was a big part of many people’s vacations. Apparently.

  I went into a couple of the gift shops, thinking that looking at a map might help. In the back of the second store was a rack of maps ranging from letter-sized paper with cartoon pictures of all the attractions, to Costa Rica as a country, to one that showed th
e entire Earth. As I looked at it, I was struck by how preposterously close Costa Rica was to San Diego. It felt like lifetimes ago since I’d been home, like it was another planet. Yet here the two places were, less than a few inches apart. Glancing down at the key, I estimated the distance to be only three or four thousand miles. Hop on a plane and I could be home in half a day.

  The notion was bittersweet. No sooner had I wished I could go back and never have experienced any of this, just return to my normal life, than I realized nothing could be further from the truth. Other than Sonia’s fate, my life was better. Stranger, more dangerous, but better. I felt more at home in the sea than I’d ever felt anywhere else. Even the pain of my relationship with Finn didn’t deter me. I was glad we’d our few days together. Especially considering what I’d gotten out of it.

  I placed the atlas back into its sheath and picked up the map of Costa Rica. Even though I had no idea where I needed to be, it was probably a good idea to at least have a frame of reference.

  The crowds had started to die down by the time I made my way back to the beach. The bustle of it all was too much. My eardrums pounded in my skull like I had been front row at a death metal concert. After the steady pulse of the ocean, the clamor of humanity was grating.

  Just a small reprieve watching the waves was all I needed, and I’d try again. Maybe with fewer people around, I’d be able to sense any nearby supernaturals. Surely some were around. Witches, if nothing else. Finn’s family had led me to believe they were abundant all over the world.

  One more round with the lessened masses, and then I’d take refuge beneath the surface again. If I still couldn’t find anyone after I woke, by lunchtime maybe, I’d pick a spot on the map and try there. At least I knew the vampires were in Costa Rica and near the ocean. Or were near it frequently, if Zef was correct in his fear of being close to this place.

  I’d only sat upon the sand for a couple of minutes before I got up and repositioned myself close enough that the surf reached my feet on its journey ashore. Less than five hours on land and my body was already aching for the contact.

  The full moon was high overhead, illuminating the clouds and reflecting off the sea simultaneously. It was nice to see the ocean from this perspective again. It reminded me of the countless hours I’d spent staring over the cliff by my grandparents’ house when I was a kid, letting the steady waves carry me away from my constant inner turmoil. When I was lost in the distant panorama, my grandfather’s coldness didn’t hurt. Even the fears broiling around the fact something was different about me and how I felt about the other boys had dissipated to nothing more than a furtive awareness in the back of my mind. The sea had always been my refuge.

  I never dreamed I’d call it home.

  I had to save my family. Maybe I could never fully be me—not being able to have a mate and having to deny my sexuality again—but it was the closest I’d ever been to really feeling at home. It was home. Home didn’t have to be perfect.

  “You are one intense dude, man.”

  The slow, gravel-filled voice caused me to flinch but didn’t startle me enough to put me in danger of bursting into flames. I twisted around and found a tower of a man standing a couple of feet behind me—far enough away that he didn’t seem threatening but close enough to imply intent. I could tell he was huge, probably as big as me, but a shadow obscured his face from view.

  “First you stare at a water glass like it holds the secrets of the universe, and now I’d swear the ocean was speaking to you.” He gestured toward the surf with a large hand but didn’t step any closer. His voice had a faint hint of a Southern drawl, but not one I was familiar with.

  It was the guy who had been staring at me when I’d been getting ready for the challenging task of drinking a glass of water. Probably not a good sign that he found me now, or at least that it wasn’t happenstance.

  The clouds drifted, allowing the silver moonlight to wash over his upper body. As I took in his striking face, two conflicting emotions hit me and left me frozen.

  He was a werewolf. I’d nearly forgotten about werewolves. I hadn’t even needed Wendell to tell me what the large man in Mascarada had been. It had been written all over him. I’d felt his hatred of my demon blood without him having to say a word to me. Wendell had said werewolves weren’t overly fond of demons. Not that he was able to tell me any other species that felt differently.

  The other thing that struck me was this man’s similarity to Wrell. They could have been twins. At the least, brothers. Same warrior-like handsome face, same nearly shaved dark hair. The only difference was this guy had a good growth of stubble over his jaw, and Wrell had always been smooth. That, and the eyes that looked at me now were fully black, or at least seemed that way in the dim light—I couldn’t make out the irises at all. I heard, rather than felt, my quick intake of breath. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes.

  “Whoa. You okay?” The man held both hands partway in the air, as if proving he meant no harm.

  I nodded and continued to gape at him. My God, he really was Wrell come back to life and in human form. While a little stronger than it had been in the restaurant, my voice still wheezed painfully. “I’m fine. You just look like… What do you want?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, glancing out at the sea, maybe trying to discover what I’d been staring at. When he looked back at me, his voice was even softer than it had been before, almost a deep, warm sigh. “You mind if I sit down?”

  I looked down stupidly at the patch of sand beside me that he’d motioned toward. “Uhm, sure.” It sounded more like a question than an answer.

  He closed the distance between us in two long steps and sat down uncommonly close. Not touching me, but close enough that to do so would be effortless. As he sat, the tide came up and rushed over my feet. He pulled up his legs, keeping out of the water’s reach.

  “I don’t like water.”

  His statement broke my trance, and I expelled a crack of a laugh. “Then why are you at the beach?”

  He shrugged, not answering, the large muscles of his shoulders bunching under his white T-shirt. “I’ve been following you for a bit.”

  The confession should have made me wary, but the blunt honesty of it had the opposite effect. “Why?”

  His dark eyes darted away, the shy expression out of place on a werewolf. “You’re like me.”

  I matched his candor. “No, I’m not a werewolf.”

  He looked back at me, a humorous grin lighting his face. “Yeah, I know. You’re a demon.”

  Okay, then. That was easy enough. “I thought werewolves didn’t like demons.”

  “They don’t. Not too many species do, that I know of.”

  “You’re kinda blunt.”

  His smile grew shy once more. “Yeah, sorry. Saves time.”

  “Not a bad thing. If werewolves don’t like me, what are you doing here? What do you want with me?”

  He focused again on the sea as he replied, “You’re like me.”

  His meaning hit me. Once it did, I realized it should have been my first thought, not declaring his species. I had been under the water too long if I was unaware of his obvious meaning. Before, just the way he’d been standing so close, looking down at me, would have been enough to make me realize I was about to have a great night. I hadn’t been Sonia’s best friend for nothing. She was even more direct than this guy. “Oh. You’re gay.”

  He nodded, still turned toward me. His tone remained soft, but I was pretty sure I detected sadness behind the words. “Yeah. I’m gay.”

  Shame filled me as my arousal spiked. Having never heard Wrell’s voice, it was easy to slip into the fantasy that this body double was truly him, and saying the words I’d fantasized about.

  When I didn’t answer—was incapable of answering—he turned to look at me once more. “You are too, right? I was certain.”

  I laughed. “I’m that obvious, huh?”

  “No. But being a gay werewolf isn’t exactly the hi
p thing to be. We’re not like demons, where anything goes. I’ve learned to be certain of the signs before I make any assumptions.”

  Again the wave of sadness wafted from him. He was as beautiful as Wrell had been, but he had a brokenness that Wrell hadn’t possessed, despite the battles he’d faced. This man also appeared older than Wrell, or at least looked that way. I would have guessed him to be late thirties, early forties. A male in his prime, but the aura of sadness could have added to the appearance of his age.

  “So, me being gay trumps that I’m a demon, huh?”

  I expected him to balk at this, but true to the direct approach he was taking, he nodded in affirmation. “Yeah, it does. From watching you, I can tell you’re far enough removed down the line that you’re not wandering around looking for someone to torture and maim.”

  I opted to not fill him in on how close to my demon ancestry I really was. The tide came up, and the foam covered my feet, offering the instantaneous soothing effect it always had. Again, the man pulled away from the water’s reach.

  “Do you live here?” Maybe luck really was on my side.

  He bobbed his head slowly.

  “But you don’t like water?”

  “Nope. No werewolf likes water.”

  I thought for a second. “There were werewolves in San Diego.”

  “Sure. San Diego is a lot different than Playa Carmen. In a big city like that, you’d never even have to get close to the ocean.”

  “So, if werewolves don’t like water, why in the world would you be in a beach town?”

  His grin returned, pushing away some of his melancholy and making him even more handsome. “Because there aren’t any other werewolves.”

  If werewolves were the ones giving you hell for being gay, move away from werewolves. Even if you are one. “That makes sense, I guess.” The sprig of hope blossomed, triumph covering my arousal. Then it crashed once more. “You live here, but you’re not from around here, right? You don’t have an accent, at least not one from Costa Rica.”