by Jade Hart
My entire body shook. I wanted to stop this madness, but I couldn't intervene. If I did, I doubted Ocean would be gentle. I had to remind myself over and over that the old man at her feet was a rapist and murderer. He deserved this fate. But it was hard. It was sickening to watch. My stomach rolled with nerves.
Adrian roused and screamed. Ocean raised her arm and struck again. And again. And again. The heavy glass crunched against his skull; blood splattered the flowery wallpaper.
Holy shit, this was horrid. I trembled, forcing myself to stay in place.
Ocean’s face was livid, hate resonating with each hit. Her body was tense and raw.
I breathed hard, my hands aching from being clenched.
When Adrian was nothing more than a smashed face and caved brain, Ocean stood. She kept her back toward me, blood dripping from her fingers. A moment later, she dropped the bottle. It thudded against the carpet.
The next instant, she folded to her knees, wrapping arms around herself. Her back arched, tearing a scream from her throat.
I lunged, skidding to rest beside her. “Ocean. My God what's wrong?” My hand rested on her back; a tingling sensation bit my fingers. Ice cold. Burning hot. Seizing pain. Her marks. She was being branded for her kill.
She couldn't speak as she rocked, keening into her hands. I pulled her into my arms, rocking with her. “It's okay. You're alright. It's over. He's dead. I'll take care of you.”
She sniffed, wiping tears from her cheeks. Her eyes were red with moisture, but at least they weren’t dead anymore. I held the real Ocean, not the possessed one. So it hurt even more when she said, “I won’t let you. You’ll never take care of me. Let go, Callan.”
I shook my head. “No. I’ll help you through it. I’m never letting you go, Ocean. I need to be with you.”
She froze, mouth parted. Her frame tensed in my arms. I cursed as her face fell into shadow again. “Don’t touch me!” She wheeled out of my arms, putting her hands on her knees, panting. “Oh, this is too hard. They’re winning. I can’t do this anymore.” Facing me, she flinched at my expression. “You’re repulsed by me.”
I was hurting for her, distraught that the woman I loved suffered so much. And I hated myself that I couldn’t help. “I’m not repulsed. I just wish I could help.”
Her face crumbled; I tugged her into my arms. “Stay with me. Come on, we need to leave. Let’s go back to Maurice’s.” I needed to get her somewhere safe. To someone who might be able to help her rapid descent into insanity.
Leaning in, I kissed her gently. She allowed my lips to touch hers, before pulling away and standing. “No, I’ve made up my mind. You have no choice in the matter. You’ll let me go, as I’ve already let you go. Goodbye.”
A gust of gravity, accompanied by sickness struck. Crap, she was leaving. “Don't go. Wait!”
I reached for her, but it was too late. With a tug that forced me to bump against the wall, she disappeared.
At the same moment, the front door clattered open and a fat security guard appeared with a gun. “Stop right there! I've called the police.” His jowls wobbled as he took in the blood-splattered corridor and Adrian’s corpse. Fuck, this wasn’t good.
The guards eyes widened. His gun wavered in his hands. “You're under arrest for the murder of John Smith.”
I wanted to laugh. John Smith? Could Adrian Mathieu not come up with any other alias? I was stuck here with a bloody murder weapon, a corpse, and no way out of this situation.
I got my sick fantasy. I watched Ocean kill a man, and it was nothing more than cold-blooded murder.
And now I would pay for it.
Chapter Thirty-eight: Ocean
I arrived in Maurice's kitchen. My hands were covered in blood, fingers cramping from holding the slippery whiskey bottle. Black thoughts and murderous whispers still tormented me. Hey, little bitch. You’re fucked-up—just like the rest of us. What’s the fun in killing only men like me? You should kill fresh, innocent girls… that will get your blood pumping. The voice sounded exactly like Atsu Bazeer. It seized me with cold panic, but others joined in, they were coaxing, intoxicating. . . Give in. You know you want to. Join us. Kill for fun. We’ll teach you how. The words swam in my head—tempting, encouraging me to murder.
And I had.
Adrian Mathieu.
He was dead.
I killed him.
He’d no longer haunt my dreams or have any power to hurt me. He was a corpse. His future included rotting somewhere.
I should be ecstatic—dancing on clouds—but my soul was nothing but lead, rot, and ice. I wanted to embrace the emptiness. To run from the constant stream of evil taunting my thoughts.
Callan.
I left him there. With a corpse. He deserved it. He lied to you. You should’ve killed him. Betrayer.
Moaning, I shook my head. He lied, but he doesn’t deserve what I did to him.
No, he deserves death. Go back. Finish him.
“Stop it!” My voice was a garbled mess. Sweat dappled my body—the harder I fought, the louder the voices became.
I must’ve won, because suddenly there was nothing but quiet in my head. But it wasn’t a relief, as my own thoughts turned to hell. All I could think of was Callan. The stab of his betrayal… keeping things from me. His lies. He knew where Adrian was and didn’t tell me. What else did he hide? He lied to me!
The tenderness of the last two days together—the slow glow of happiness was obliterated. How could he pretend to be falling for me, and all the while lying to my face! I couldn’t comprehend it. I may be overshadowed with blackness, but he awoke parts of me that had been dormant. He made me want to fight against the suck of insanity; to rebel from the sweet temptations of the voices inside.
Storming to the old copper sink, I used the scrubbing brush to clean my hands. Scouring hard, I watched detachedly as blood swilled down the plughole. I washed once. Twice. Three times. And still, blood stained my hands. The blood of my family's killer. My rapist. My nightmare.
Something tickled my chin. My hand swiped and came away with a mixture of nosebleed and tears. Why was I crying? I know why. Because you’re royally fucked up, that’s why.
Callan’s face, when I pummeled Adrian Mathieu to death, haunted my memory. He was repulsed. Disgusted. He hated me in that moment. How many times did he ask me to stop? And had I really punched him? Everything was shrouded in a red haze that took over my motor control, my speech. I was a passenger in my own body.
I didn’t like how my thoughts turned from hating him to hating myself. I wanted to loath him. He kept things from me, but at the same time, it didn’t compare to what I made him live through. I made him stand by while I killed an old man.
But I couldn't let Adrian live. That would’ve been blasphemy. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. I owed it to my family to annihilate him, and when I found the other unnamed man, his fate would be the same.
“Ocean?” Maurice appeared from the lounge. His eyes dropped to the sink and the streaming faucet.
My lip wobbled, but I bit it hard, tasting metallic on my tongue. “Not now, Maurice. Leave me be.” Go away so you don’t see what I’ve become.
Warm male hands landed on my shoulders. I flinched as fingers grazed my stitches. They burned with agony. Did I tear them when I killed Adrian? How the hell did I end up there? Even now, I didn't know what city or country we landed in. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
I waited for the guilt of leaving Callan behind, and it didn’t disappoint. If Maurice wasn’t so close, I might’ve crumbled to the floor under the pressure of it.
I wished I could turn off the pain. I was cold anyway, a shell of who I used to be. Maybe I should just give in and allow the voices to take me. I was tired. I didn’t want to fight anymore.
“What happened, child? You were supposed to stay in Bali till next week.” Maurice rubbed my arms, moving to turn off the tap and take my hands in his. Water dripped on the slate tiles. “Stop tha
t. You're clean.”
Temper flashed. “I'm not clean, Maurice. I'm dirty. I need to wash away the blood.” My voice slurred with an angry accent not my own. Keep it under control.
Maurice's face grew scared. “There is no blood, Ocean. Only a little on your lip from your nosebleed. You're clean. Come.” He guided me to the kitchen table, and pushed me into a chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing.”
He tutted. “Obviously something happened. Tell me. I won't let you leave this table until you explain what you're doing here. Where's Callan?”
My eyes unfocused. Where was Callan? I’d left him. I left him with the carcass of my rapist. Why did I do that? Why would I do that to someone I cared—
You did it because you’re like us. He’s a lying piece of garbage. You were too gentle on him. Oh my God. I needed help. Desperately. I put my head in my hands. What’s happening to me? Do I even still exist? Is there nothing left…
Sniffing, I asked, “Maurice, my gift allows me to go to any address I focus on, and yet I've never been able to port straight to a person before. If I had, I would’ve just thought about my target and been swept to their location. Why do you think I’m so limited?”
Maurice watched me closely. “I don't know, child. I’ve never understood how your gift worked. Unfortunately, I don't know how to find out more to help you. But perhaps you can't port to certain people as it would be too easy? Your power must have limitations, otherwise you'd be invincible. Nature doesn't work that way.”
Did that make sense? I guess. So Callan was the one who took us to Adrian Mathieu? Was it because he forced me to port and take him with me? Was he thinking about Adrian at the time? How?! Trying to solve the puzzle was good. It kept my mind active.
I put my head in my hands. “I ported by accident, Maurice. I travelled directly to Adrian Mathieu. I have no clue where he lives, but I arrived in his living room and killed him.”
Maurice sucked in a breath. “He's dead?”
I frowned. “Does that bother you?” My voice was a hiss. Careful, Ocean. Don’t let yourself slip into that dead place again.
“Of course not. You're half-way through your promise of stopping. I'm glad he's dead after what he did to your family. But how did you get there?”
“Callan.”
He pursed his lips. “Callan took you?” His mouth fell open. “The blasted cop can teleport too?”
My eyes flew to his. I'd never believed others would have the same gift. Was that possible? A small glimmer of hope bloomed. Perhaps I wasn't so alone? I stomped on the idea. That was stupid to wish. I was the only one. I would’ve found others by now.
Callan couldn't teleport, although he was affected by my power when we landed in Adrian's apartment. He shouldn't have been able to feel the pressure—the torture—and yet, he did.
“No. He can't port. But he took me to Adrian.” I looked up. Maurice was stony faced. “How did he do that, Maurice? I don't understand.”
“He saw you kill?”
I couldn't keep his stare. I knew embarrassment or fear should run rampant, but there was nothing but chilliness in my soul. “Yes. He tried to make me stop. He hated it. I disgusted him.” I straightened my back. “Which is for the best. I left him there. I never want to see him again after he lied. He broke my trust.” My voice sounded dispassionate, removed, even as I lied to myself.
“You left him at the scene of a crime?” His voice rose. Maurice stood, standing behind me. “There's something off about you, Ocean.” He touched me. “Your skin is freezing.” He grabbed my chin, looking deep into my eyes. “Your spark is missing. Your eyes are. . .” he gulped, “dead.”
I spiraled into my chasm of emptiness. I was dead. It was done. The marks took me as their own. There was nothing more I could do. “Oh.” I couldn't say anything more. I should’ve been screaming and crying in terror, but my heart pumped evenly, my pulse never spiked. Maurice was right. I was dead.
“Ocean. What have you done, child.” Terror glossed his eyes. “I can't believe you threw away your life to kill others.” Anger flashed on his face. “I love you, you blasted girl. And you've let those marks steal you away from me. From Callan. From your future. How could you?”
I stared straight ahead. Not flinching. What could I say? Callan and Maurice didn't understand I owed other would-be victims. I was their dark savior. They needed me.
Standing, I tucked wayward hair behind my ears. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Maurice. I'll leave. You won't see me again.” I wanted to cry, to feel something. Anything. But there was nothing—only a strange, cold aloofness.
“Um, excuse me for interrupting.”
Both Maurice and I looked up. Mamello stood in the entrance to the kitchen, dressed in mismatched clothes that were too short in the leg and arm. For some reason, I still thought of him as Clark. It would take time to get used to his new name. Time I didn’t have as I was about to leave for good. I couldn’t be around innocent people. Not when the worst had finally happened: I’d turned into a monster.
“I didn’t mean to listen, but I couldn’t help it when you mentioned marks.”
Maurice narrowed his eyes. “If you have something to say, spit it out, Mamello. Now is not the time.”
Mamello came toward us, lifting the bottom of the cream shirt he wore. “Is this like the mark you talk of?”
Maurice pushed me in his rush to get to Mamello. He inspected the splodge left when I healed him. The weird sensation of ice turning to mist in my soul returned as I remembered what I did. I didn’t have any explanation as to how he was still alive. I was glad he was, though—instead of killing someone, I saved them for a change. At least I did something right.
Maurice turned, frantic hope in his eyes. “Turn around. Lift up your top.”
“Excuse me?”
Maurice bumbled in my direction. “Do it, Ocean, for Pete’s sake.” I didn’t think I’d ever seen him so anxious. I faced away, and Maurice lifted my t-shirt. “Oh, my gilly aunt.”
I wanted to chuckle, but there was nothing but emptiness. “Nice turn of phrase there, Maurice.”
Ignoring me, he asked, “What did you do to Mamello?”
Mamello answered, awe in his voice. “She saved me, sir. I was dead. I don’t know how she did it. I felt a strange tugging and a weird cold sensation in my lungs and heart. My skin tingled and sewed together. I woke up to find her passed out beside me.”
“Really… um.” Maurice thrummed his finger against his lip in thought. His eyes flashed from mine, to Mamello, and back again. When I couldn’t take his thinking any longer, he jumped and clapped his hands. “Ocean, my dear.” He kissed me square on the lips. “I think I know how to save you.”
“What? How? What was on my back?” My fingertips climbed my spine. What did he know that I didn’t?
“How many marks should you have?” Maurice asked.
I frowned. Counting was hard. After a minute, I answered, “Eighteen. There should be eighteen marks after my kill today.” My voice was monotone. It sent shivers down my skin. I was an automaton.
Maurice jumped on the spot. “So far, my theory is proving correct. Fantastic.”
Confusion flared, and the red fog that settled over me in Adrian’s apartment stole my thoughts again. “Fuck, old man. Tell me what you know, goddammit!” The minute I said it, I wanted to run far away. Tears blossomed in my eyes. “Maurice. I’m so so sorry. My God… I—” I couldn’t continue. What Maurice didn’t know is those words came from a new slimey part of me and had an Australian accent. Holy crap, why did I sound like Adrian Mathieu?
Maurice blinked, but his smile stayed in place. “That’s all right, child. I know you must be stressed.” He couldn’t hide the wariness in his eyes as he added, “Ah, where was I? Ah, yes, there are only seventeen marks on your back.”
I never believed people could faint in a second—snap straight out cold. Bye, bye. But that’s what happened to me. Legs buckled, lights blinked, and I
came to being carried by Mamello. He placed me in the wingback. I had one less mark than I should! How? Did I count them wrong? Seventeen instead of eighteen! My brain couldn’t see what Maurice did.
I wanted nothing more than to believe Maurice was correct, but how was that possible? Needing to see with my own eyes, I asked, “Do you mind?” I motioned to Mamello’s shirt.
“Not at all.” He pulled it up. The mark was like an old enemy. I recognized it from my own: a splash of blackness. No set border, no uniform pattern. Literally just a splash. What did this mean?
Maurice wasn’t far, talking excitedly on the phone. He cupped the mouthpiece when he noticed I watched him. “I’ll be there in three minutes.”
Mamello smiled. “You saved me, and in turn, I might help save you. I’m glad.” He took my hand, whispering. “You aren't damned, Ocean.”
“Damned?”
He nodded sanguinely. “Yes. You think you're damned. I've watched you. You run from what your heart wants. You surround yourself with monsters because you don't feel worthy. Whatever happened to you in the past doesn't make you who you are. You’re not damned. You’re a savior.”
Helium bubbled in my chest as hope unfurled. I never considered what Mamello said. But it made so much sense. Did I think I was damned? Was I that fucked up?
Maurice bolted toward us. He was acting like a twenty-year-old, not his seventy-plus-years. “Ocean. My dear.”
My heart pittered, pattered, stuttered. He grasped my hands. I squeezed as hard as I could. “Tell me.”
“Let me see if I can explain this. You’re filled with coldness when you kill, correct?”
I frowned. “Yes. The branding burns me, but then morphs into ice.”
“And you said you’re not feeling yourself anymore. That your personality is shrouded. I already know the answer to that, of course. Your spark has gone. And that outburst, well, that wasn’t you at all.”