by Michael West
Karl caught sight of her and flashed a seductive grin. Christine offered him a slight smile in reply, but she knew he sensed her uneasiness.
Her thoughts turned again to Principal Monroe. All they’d wanted was to keep him away from this business at the pool. But something had come over Karl, something dark. He’d crushed the man’s skull and slapped Christine hard enough to leave a mark, and she didn’t have a clue as to why.
Maybe father’s right. Maybe he is crazy.
She shook her head. No. Insanity was a human quality, and Karl was not now, nor would he ever be human. Being human meant being weak, frail, and worse; it meant being one with the breed who murdered Karl’s mother, who mowed her down with the spinning blades of their motorboat and left her bobbing in the surf like so much flotsam and jetsam. No. Karl had more in common with the insects that roamed the beach than with human beings.
Their people had been imprisoned for nearly three hundred years, waiting for someone like Karl to come along. A leader who had no fear of humankind. He’d told them it was finally time to put the Man in his place, to crush him the way —
The way Karl crushed poor Principal Monroe’s skull?
Christine shuddered. Yeah, just like that.
The gathering now filled the entire chamber. Bleachers were crammed to capacity, and the tiled floor lay buried beneath countless feet. Out the door, the onlookers spilled into a connecting hallway, trying to observe Tellstrom through fogged glass walls. Karl moved through them, shaking hands, patting shoulders, embodying all their hopes and dreams.
If they’d seen what Karl had done to Mr. Monroe, would they be so willing to follow him?
After all, Monroe was no human murderer. He was a Paralicht, no different from Christine.
An accident.
What about that slap?
She unconsciously rubbed the tender flesh of her cheek.
Was that an accident?
Before Christine could think of a reply, Karl moved to her side. He spread his arms, as if trying to hug the entire congregation, then began to speak.
“Last night, I walked the streets of this town, and no human being looked twice at me. I stood inches away from them, and they just went on about their business without fear. Some have argued for centuries that this is how it has to be. In the light of day, they claim we must act like the humans, we must speak their language, and above all else, we have to look like them. I tell you now that it’s a lie. I’m not human. I’m Charodon, one of the three clans of Poseidon...created by the gods as a race superior to all others. Bred to hunt, to kill.
“Charodon.” He beat his muscular chest with his fist, then pointed to Christine. “Paralicht.” And then he motioned to a man at the end of the bleachers. “Kraken.
“The humans have always known we were stronger, have always feared us. Their ancestors chased our people across the globe until they finally trapped us on this rock...and within our own flesh.
“We no longer need to be confined to these prisons.”
Someone clapped, sparking a wildfire of applause that spread through the audience until the entire chamber resounded with a cacophony of echoing war cries.
Karl held up his hands to quiet them, smiling that darkly charming grin. “We’ve been hunting Landers as they trespass into our territory, the sea. And tonight...tonight we’ve shown that we can claim them on their terrain as well.”
He motioned to the chamber door.
A figure entered, Jason Duke, and draped across his arms was the carcass of a man. The coppery smell of blood wafted through the humid room, adding to the restlessness of the audience. The crowd parted, and Jason laid the body at Karl’s feet.
Christine stared at Jeff Wilson’s lifeless form, her heart beating faster. She wished she could have met the man in that dark alley instead of Jason, could have tasted his flesh when it was still warm. She licked her lips, hoping she might get to dine when this meeting adjourned.
Karl looked out at the congregation, his congregation; his army. “You see! They’re not the demons your parents scared you with as children. Perhaps, hundreds of years ago, they were stronger, but not anymore. They’ve forgotten us and denied their own past. They bleed, they die...and when enough of them are dead, they will fear us again.”
The crowd erupted in fresh applause.
Karl smiled down at Christine; she knew it was meant to be affectionate, but tonight, it gave her chills. She took his hand just the same, rose to her feet to stand beside him, queen to his self-appointed king.
“Today,” he announced, “is the dawn of a new age. Today, the children of Poseidon are free.”
Members of all three clans joined together in chanting Karl’s name. If they’d been Contras or Sandinistas, they might have thrust their rifles into the air. Instead, they held up their bare fists. They had no need of Man’s weapons. They were weapons.
A single voice rose above the din; Sue O’Conner, the Shirt Shack owner, “I hear another woman got attacked tonight. I hear she lived.”
A shocked silence settled over the congregation.
Karl’s eyes dove to Jason. “Is this true?”
The boy lowered his head and fell to his knees. “Sorry, Karl. She started screaming, people heard her, and I didn’t wanna be seen, so I took this first kill and ran.”
Karl blinked; his ice-blue eyes became black, inhuman orbs. He reached down, grabbed Jason by the throat and lifted the boy off the tile. Karl’s hand changed, shaped itself into a large, webbed claw. His features altered as well, as if an unseen seamstress were unraveling his tissues like yarn and then re-knitting them. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he asked, his teeth honed to jagged spikes. “If she lives, she’ll be —”
“She’s dead,” Jason croaked, fighting against Karl’s grip, trying to draw breath.
Christine spoke up, “Even if she lived, there’s no guarantee she’s infected.”
Karl glared down at her with shark’s eyes, dark and soulless. She felt her body tense, preparing for a slap. Instead, he thought for a moment, his skin becoming tiger-striped, orange and black; emerging gill flaps expanded and contracted from his neck and upper shoulders.
The audience stared at him in silence.
Karl let Jason go and stared right back at them, trying to regain his composure. “We’ll find out if this woman’s alive, and to what extent she’s been influenced.”
He glanced at the entrance; a lone silhouette nodded, then left the room.
“But now, Poseidon’s children,” Karl went on, “it’s time to play.”
The crowd cheered once more, a shifting sea of flesh, congealing into new and exotic contours.
Karl’s gaze fell on Christine, and he mouthed, “I love you.”
She smiled in spite of herself, banishing her doubts, if only for the moment. Karl bent down to kiss her, his lips now thin slivers, and, as they embraced, she began a metamorphosis of her own. Her skin turned semi-transparent, and her own lips inflated as if to fill a mold.
Together, they left the bright confines of the school for the dark freedom of the night.
TWENTY SIX
Bright mist swirled around white Greco-Roman columns. Peggy thought she’d stepped onto the porch of a plantation house from one of her novels. Past the pillars, however, she saw no fields or Spanish moss.
People moved by her, descended marble steps toward a cobblestone street below, their multicolored robes surfing the wind. A bridge stood directly across from her, red and black stone arched across a canal or river. The crowd converged on it, everyone going to the same event.
Peggy lifted her eyes to the horizon.
A pyramid of gold and sable glass towered high above the haze. She felt drawn to it, as if it were vital that she get inside. The strange compulsion took control of her, forced her down the steps. She became one with the moving mob, a fish caught in a current.
Darkness moved over the crowd, halting its march; each and every person turned their attention skywa
rd.
Peggy awoke to the sound of her door opening.
Larry?
No. As she concentrated on this shadowy figure, Peggy noticed it was female.
Mom?
Peggy’s mother always brought her chicken broth and Ritz crackers when she was sick. She was sick now, wasn’t she? She was in bed and there was a dull ache, a pain crying out to be heard but lost somewhere in the fog that coated her eyes. And then her brain peered out from beneath the hazy blanket, reminding her that her mother was gone.
“Who’s there?” Peggy muttered, and the words echoed in her ears.
The shadow was caught by the wall lamp beside her bed; the woman from the gift shop. “I don’t know if you remember me.”
Peggy blinked, fanning the mist. “Mrs. DeParle?”
The woman grinned as if flattered. “That’s right.”
“I —” Fog crept back in and she rubbed her eyes to try and clear it. “I sound dopey, don’t I? They have me on this medication...Great stuff.”
Barbara’s tone was quite maternal. “No need to apologize, dear.”
“Why are you...” Peggy yawned. “...you here?”
“Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Word spreads quick in a small town.”
“I’m sorry.” Peggy’s voice turned childlike, her cheeks rosy with embarrassment. “Are you mad at me?”
“Mad?” The old woman’s face...so much like Peggy’s mother; the same light of concern in her eyes, the same caring warmth to her hand as she reached out to cover Peggy’s fingers. “Why would I be mad?”
“I shouldn’t have gone in that alley. I knew I shouldn’t have...”
“No, child, I’m not mad at you. Just wanted to see how you were mending.”
Peggy smiled and gave a sleepy nod. “They said I’m gonna be just fine.”
Barbara’s eyes roamed her injured shoulder.
Peggy turned her head. The room strobed and a semi-circle of gashes, tied closed with surgical thread, peeked into view. Self-conscious, Peggy reached up to cover the wounds; her blue hospital gown was flimsy, but it did the trick. She returned her cloudy eyes to Barbara, wondering briefly how bad the scars would be. “Looks worse than it really is.”
DeParle nodded. “I’m sure. You were tossin’ and turnin’ when I walked in.”
“Oh, that.” Peggy’s lids grew heavy. She felt her head drop and forced herself to snap back to attention. “I don’t know...I’ve had the weirdest dreams. Maybe it’s the...the stuff they gave me. Great stuff.”
“Yes, you said. Weird how, dear?”
The surgical tape that held Peggy’s IV in place was making her itch. She absently rubbed at her arm and slowly shook her head. “Oh...just strange, stupid stuff. I was...going to bore you to death.”
She giggled nervously, but the look on the old woman’s face was serious.
“My mother used to have these dreams that would come true,” Barbara told her. “I don’t think she was psychic or what have you, but sometimes they would. Since then, I’ve always been fascinated by the meaning behind them. What are the dreams about, if you don’t mind me bein’ nosey, that is?”
There was no mystery behind the first dream. Peggy was vacationing by the ocean, and every gift shop they’d visited, with the exception of this woman’s, had been filled with dolphin images and nick-knacks. Add that to the fact that Natalie had been haunting Peggy almost as much as Larry and bingo. No need for psychoanalysis there. The second dream however...that one was just odd. “I was in this Roman city, and everyone was headed for a huge pyramid...Are you all right?”
DeParle swallowed. Was that a tear in the corner of her eye? “Fine, dear.”
But Barbara wasn’t fine. Something Peggy said had upset this woman, just as something Larry said when he purchased the siren figure had. Peggy was about to ask about it, but her eyelids slid closed again, and when they opened, the old woman was gone. She looked about the hazy room, feeling it spin around her. Finally, the medication pulled her deeper into the fog, and she gave in to its demand for sleep.
•••
Barbara paced across the living room so fast and furiously that she thought the carpet would begin to smoke beneath her feet. Ed brought her some tea, his attempt to calm her down. She took the cup in her trembling hands, drank quickly, and returned it to him empty.
“You even taste that?” he asked.
“She’s Callisto, Ed!”
He viewed her with skepticism. “You know that for a fact?”
“She’s been bitten and lived...she dreamed about the pyramid. What more proof do you need?”
“Barb, there hasn’t been a Callisto since Roanoke.”
“No attacks since then...least, none we know about.” She caught sight of the framed photo that sat on a nearby end table; the smiling image of Christine. Happy. Innocent. A lump rose in Barbara’s throat and she forced it down again. “I was hopin’ Chrissy would’ve come to her senses by now...before it got this far.”
Ed nodded. “You ever wonder if we weren’t too old to start a family?”
“Never really gave it much thought.” And then the night she gave birth was immediately in her mind, as vivid and as fresh as if it were yesterday. “I just remember how happy she made us when we had her.”
As Ed walked to the window, Barbara saw joy overtake his face, as if he were sharing her memory. It didn’t last. “I shoulda never let you talk me into that damned ritual.”
Barbara shrugged, suddenly feeling an itch at the small of her back. “That’s the way it’s always been done.”
“Still don’t make it right.” Ed watched the sun rise outside his window. “The look in my baby’s eyes when I had to...had to hold her down so you could go an’ draw on her.”
Barbara thought back to her own marking ceremony, remembering the pain of it all. There had been the pain of the needle on her skin, creating the image of the trident for all to see, then came the pain of her responsibilities. The first was a sting that had faded with time, but the second never lessened.
“She never looked me in the eye after that. Never.” Ed turned to Barbara, his face filled with a horrible blend of anger and disgust. “If we hadn’t gone and done it, she wouldn’t have —”
“Wouldn’t have what, Ed? Run away?” It was Barbara’s turn to vent. “Who wouldn’t let her go swimmin’ at night?”
“Someone might see her, or worse. You want her to end up like Tellstrom’s mother?”
Barbara shook her head. “Tellstrom might be crazy, but he sure has one thing right. Our people can’t go on hidin’ forever.”
Ed threw up his hands. “What else can we do, Barb?”
She had no answer for him, and so they stood and stared at one another, neither willing to give.
TWENTY SEVEN
The Sea Wasp raced toward New Hampshire coastline.
Carol Miyagi studied her map, tried to keep the wind from taking it prisoner. Beside her, Alan stood with his hand on the throttle. He’d spoken no more than five words since they’d left New York. She tossed him a glance. Normally, she could look into his eyes and tell what he was thinking, but his mirrored sunglasses showed her only a reflection of the sea ahead.
“Let’s hear it.” Carol folded the map and pushed the hair from her face; wind caught it, blew it from her scalp like a tattered black pennant.
“Hear what?”
“Hear what’s on your mind.”
“Just wondering what you’re hoping to prove. You know there’s no way that carving in Hays’ office came from Atlantis. It’s a driftwood sculpture like any number you’d find at seaside souvenir stands.”
“But whoever carved it has to be using an Atlantean artifact as a model,” Carol pointed out. “Someone has actually been to the city. Who knows how many valuable treasures they’ve robbed from the site, artifacts that could aid us in research.”
Alan smiled. “Or maybe the sculptor is from Atlantis?”
Carol grinned back.
> The notion of Atlantean descendants was nothing new. Spanish conquistadors encountered natives on the Canary Islands who claimed to be from the great city. These villagers presented stone tablets of alien writings, writings they could no longer read. But conquistadors cared little for history; they slaughtered these people and searched their villages for hidden gold. Though they found no precious metal, they kept the glyph-covered stones. Fresh out of Harvard, Carol spent more than a year studying the symbols, and, while they shared similarities with the markings of Atlantis, many looked more like crop circles than hieroglyphics.
“I don’t think we’ll find any Atlanteans,” Carol sighed. “And I don’t know what I hope to prove. I only know that I need to check this out.”
“I love seeing you in Nancy Drew mode. Very sexy.”
Carol giggled. “Glad to know I have your support.” Because I love you, her mind added.
Love.
She loved her work, but interpersonal love...that was something of a mystery to her. Carol never had a boyfriend growing up, and in college, she’d even toyed with the idea that she might be a lesbian. Her flirtation with that notion was brief, however. She didn’t love women, but she could at least connect with them. She’d never been able to do that with men. Not even her father.
Actually, he’d never connected with her.
He’d kept her at arm’s length. Perhaps because he was old-school Japanese, believing that women should remain second-class citizens. Or possibly it was due to the fact that he’d lost his entire family at a young age, and, as a result, vowed never to grow close to anyone again. Carol was no shrink, but this second analysis had given her some comfort growing up. She’d rather see her father as a heartbroken man than as a chauvinist, a man who’d prefer his daughter grow up a proper geisha and not a scientist.
Then there was Alan. He’d never been afraid to care for her. When the rest of the world seemed to be against her, he was consistently there to cheer her on, to believe in her when no one else would. When she went off on her wild hunches, he was always with her, trying to hold the reigns as she fought to be free of them. And above all else, he was the only person on earth she trusted.