“Shit!” shouted Maurice, leaning over the edge of the yacht. “What took you so long? I thought I was gonna have to jump in after you!”
Jenny was coughing too hard to speak. She yanked down her goggles and grabbed the ladder. Maurice held out a towel when she reached the top, and stood there with his arms folded over his massive chest, watching her with a frown as she took long, bracing breaths. When she could finally breathe normally, she buried her face in the soft terry cloth. It was hot out, humid, but she felt cold to the bone. The base of her skull ached.
“Jenny,” Maurice growled.
“’M fine,” she muttered. “Got distracted.”
“For five minutes?” He gently tugged the towel away from her face. “That’s how long you were down there. I timed it.”
“Thought you were reading a book.”
“My watch beeps every four minutes. I hear you come up for air, then I keep reading.”
Jenny pulled the goggles over her head and dropped them in the bin by the ladder. Her fins were next, but the shorty wetsuit was going to have to wait until she reached her cabin. If she could make it that far. Everything suddenly seemed too tight. She tugged hard on the collar, strangled, ready to jump out of her skin.
“Hey,” Maurice said, and caught her wrist. “If this is about the woman—”
“No,” she interrupted; and then, softly, “Maybe.”
The old man glanced longingly at the beer bottle sitting beside one of the lounge chairs. “Ismail tried to make a call to the Malaysian coast guard. I let him think it went through.”
“How soon can we have him off the boat?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m making him bunk with Les.”
Jenny smiled grimly and patted his hand. “I’m not giving her body to my family, Maurice. You know that, right? I’ll take blood and DNA samples, but she stays with the sea.”
He tore his gaze from the beer and gave her a long, unflinching look. Too long, too thoughtful. Jenny tried to pull away, but his grip remained firm.
“I know you have your reasons,” he said quietly. “But you can trust them.”
Jenny finally yanked her hand free. “You have a short memory.”
“It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know.”
Bitterness twisted her mouth. “I knew. When I was twelve years old, I knew something was wrong. And when I tried to tell them, they didn’t listen. They didn’t listen for ten years, until it was too late. And now look what’s happened.”
Maurice closed his eyes. “The Consortium will be stopped, Jenny.”
The Consortium. Sins of the parents, straight out of hell. If A Priori was the good side of the family, then the Consortium was everything that had gone wrong—in the most terrible ways possible. All the contacts, all the connections, all that power—used not for research or knowledge, or even just to fill a bank account—but to control others. To shape the world in ways that none of them could yet predict.
“They won’t be stopped,” she whispered, compulsively touching her abdomen. Maurice’s gaze dropped to her hand, and pain filled his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I—”
Jenny didn’t let him finish. She couldn’t stand it. She turned and walked away.
It was quiet belowdecks. Jenny had to pass the small science lab on the way to her quarters. The center of the door was made of glass, and she glanced inside out of habit. She was shocked to see Les slipping out of the cold locker.
Jenny froze, backed up a step, and opened the door. Les faltered, but only for a moment. He slid past her, out of the lab, into the hall. Not smiling, but not looking worried, either.
“I needed to see her,” he said. “Because of my reaction today. I had to face up to it.”
Jenny fought down the urge to go and check the body. Trust, Maurice was always telling her. You need to trust.
Right. Fine. She’d wait until after dinner to check.
“You feeling better?” she asked him, turning with difficulty away from the lab and continuing down the hall.
“A little,” he said, following her. “Something large killed her, Jenny. Teeth marks wouldn’t have made those injuries.”
The cuts were too clean for claws, she added silently. Unless they were razor-sharp and thin as a blade.
“There are defensive wounds on her arms,” Less said quietly, as she reached her door.
His voice sounded hollow, preoccupied, as though he was speaking mostly to himself. Jenny caught him staring at his hands, which he closed into fists. An odd gesture, pained, with a hint of violence. Les rubbed his knuckles against his thighs.
Jenny said, “You noticed.”
“You keep me around for more than my good looks.”
She tried to smile. “Sharp man. I know you flirted shamelessly with the Human Resources manager before she hired you.”
“Nah.” Les leaned against the wall beside her door, flashing her a rueful grin. “I’m just good at what I do.”
“The Indiana Jones of marine archaeology,” she replied. “How many shipwrecks have you found?”
“Enough.” But there was an odd gleam in his eye when he said it. Bitterness, maybe. She realized it was the same look he’d had on his face right after he had come out of the cold locker. Before he saw her watching.
The base of her skull began to throb. Jenny didn’t feel like talking anymore. She needed to lie down and think about that dead woman—and what could have killed her. She had been attacked first in the sea. Jenny was certain of that. No other way she would have allowed herself to be stranded onshore. She had been chased, driven on land. And yes, it was possible that the fishermen had added to her wounds. That was the logical explanation of those fine cuts.
But this situation was not logical, or rational. And Jenny had her own memories to draw from.
Her cabin was small but comfortable. She had been in earlier to change into her wetsuit, and had forgotten to turn off her battery-operated candles—which mimicked the flicker and glow of firelight and even gave off a vanilla scent. A bookcase covered one wall, a wooden lip built across every shelf to keep things from sliding off when they hit rough water.
Jenny had painted the walls pale lavender though it was difficult to see behind the tacked-up paintings and photographs she had collected on her journeys. Her bolted-down furniture was white and simple; and her desk was covered with her laptop and stacks of paper, including a handwritten unfinished article for National Geographic that was due in a week. A braided chenille rug covered the floor, and an old quilt had been laid upon the twin-sized bed. Two portholes revealed miles of sea.
She had her own bathroom—all of them did. She glanced to the right and saw Les reflected in the mirror. He was watching her. He hesitated in the doorway, then took that final step into her room, walking up behind her.
She turned before he could get close. “Stop.”
“You always say that,” he said, going still. “No preamble, no discussion.”
“We’ve talked about this before.”
“For years,” he said. “And in all that time, you’ve been alone.”
The base of her skull throbbed. “What do you want me to say? You’re gorgeous, Les. You’re smart, nice, everything a girl could want.”
“Every girl but you.”
“You’re not . . . right . . . for me,” she told him haltingly, wishing he would just leave her alone. Wishing, too, that she were the kind of woman who would ask him to stay. She wanted to be that woman. She wanted to want him. It would be so much easier.
A bitter smile touched his mouth. “You’re looking for . . . magic.”
“Just a feeling,” she whispered. “I’ll know it when I find it.”
And if you don’t? If you never feel that way again?
Jenny swallo
wed hard and turned from Les. She felt him watching her, silence thick between them. Maybe he was angry. He got that way, sometimes. Jenny didn’t care. Some things couldn’t be changed, no matter how much she wished otherwise.
Les walked to the door but paused at the last moment. “You ever think maybe you see everything except what really matters? What you’re looking for could be right in front of you.”
Jenny closed her eyes, and the strain of an old melody poured through her mind, followed by an embracing warmth that felt like sunlight on her face.
Blue eyes. Pale skin. Strong hand.
Followed by another, more recent, memory—and a harder, fiercer, heartache. One that would never leave her, that she could only chase away, in pieces.
“Jenny,” Les said.
“No,” she replied hoarsely. “I never think that.”
Chapter Two
The dolphins knew something was wrong before Perrin did.
He was too busy getting punched in the face to notice. Down on his knees, trying to breathe as blood trickled down his chin from his mouth. He licked his lip, tasting the cut. The salt from his body was good as seawater, and he was so thirsty.
“Crazy fucker,” whispered Dmitry. “Stay away from me.”
Perrin licked his lip again and started laughing. All that got him was another slam behind the ear, but he was ready for it. Knuckles glanced off his skull. Perrin hardly felt the blow. He turned his head to the right and saw his reflection in the blue shadows of the viewing glass: a ghost, pale and sharp, half his face obscured by tangled blond hair coming loose from the knot at the back of his neck.
A dolphin made a pass near the glass, distracting him. Perrin was yanked away. He landed on his back, getting an eyeful of a muddy boot sole racing toward his face. He jerked sideways, missing the blow, and shot upward with his fist—catching the human nearly between the legs, against his inner thigh, just a whisper from the sweet spot.
An intentional miss. A fight was just a fight until someone’s genitals broke. After that, anything was possible—and Perrin did not want to go back to jail. He could not. The first two times had almost killed him.
Dmitry staggered away, hands crossed over his crotch. Perrin pushed himself up on his elbows. “Come on. Don’t stop.”
“Crazy,” said Dmitry again, voice breaking on the word. “I didn’t touch her.”
“You thought about it,” he replied, not caring if he said too much; here, with this piece of shit, it didn’t matter. “You’re still thinking about it.”
“I told you,” whispered the other man, staring up at Perrin like he was a monster. “Stay away, or I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Stay away,” Perrin echoed, nauseas now. “You wish she would say that to you. You want to see her fight. You want to feel her fighting beneath you.”
Dmitry touched the tool belt slung around his waist, lingering on the paint scraper. Sharp angle. Good for stabbing. Perrin stood, unsteady. His mouth and head throbbed. He licked his lip again, but this time his blood tasted sour. Dmitry swayed on his own feet, still handling the paint scraper. Fight or flight. One or the other. Perrin steeled himself for the worst.
Dmitry whispered, “Boss likes me. And he thinks you’re a fag.”
Perrin forced a smile. “Maybe I am. Maybe I should fuck you.”
The man’s knuckles turned white around the paint scraper. “Cut your balls off first. Make you eat them.”
Perrin said nothing. Just kept staring, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile that felt cold and ugly—that came from an ugly place inside him. Nothing beautiful, nothing serene, nothing left of what he had been. It was all ugly now, all the time.
He waited. Dmitry tried to stand firm, but his gaze flickered past Perrin’s shoulder, and the color drained from his face. He took a step back, then another. Stopped himself, and pointed with the paint scraper. His hand shook.
“Later, we finish this,” he whispered, his other hand drifting down to hold his crotch as though the blow still hurt him. He took another step back, but this time didn’t stop, and walked quickly from the viewing room. So quick he might have been running. Almost.
Perrin watched Dmitry go, conscious of his own pounding heart and a throbbing sensation that crawled into his throat. A trembling weakness spread from his chest into his arms. Rage, despair, relief—he couldn’t name what he felt—just that it made him feel weak instead of strong.
When he was certain the human man would not return, he glanced over his shoulder. Four dolphins drifted behind the glass, lined up and staring. Just staring. Nothing easy or gentle about their black eyes—and those singular grins that humans always loved were not in the least bit friendly.
Hurt, one of the dolphins whispered mournfully in his mind.
Perrin rolled his shoulders, ignoring the long searing ache in his muscles. His head pounded, as did his pulse, and when he wiped his split lip with the back of his palm, blood smeared his pale skin.
It’s nothing, he told them, and knelt in front of the glass, beside the tools he had abandoned after Dmitry’s first blow: a spray bottle, a sponge, and a paint scraper. He stared at those very human things, hit with a fierce sensation of alien unfamiliarity. Watched, as though from a great distance, as his fingers wrapped around the battered plastic handle of the paint scraper. It looked very small in his hand. He picked it up and set it hard against the viewing glass, beneath a piece of dried chewing gum. The dolphins gathered on the other side, watching. He was always watched when he worked.
No, whispered the dolphins.
Yes, replied Perrin, and forced his hand to move, scraping against the gum. He hurt, he was tired and thirsty, but this was work—human work he needed to survive—and he had learned years ago to compartmentalize violence, exhaustion, and move quickly from it. A punch was nothing. A threat was nothing. Dmitry was nothing.
Even if the human man’s dreams were not.
It was early. Doors opened for the cleaning crew as soon as the sun rose. Only specialized personnel were allowed near the tanks after eight in the evening, which provided just a three-hour window after the Shedd Aquarium closed to clean the aftermath of eight thousand daily visitors—with their muddy feet, dirty fingerprints, and gum. Not much time to do a proper job, which meant that Perrin and others had arrived at six that morning—as they did, every morning—ready to do battle using paint scrapers and oversized toothbrushes. No chemicals of any kind were allowed near the animals. Just water, an occasional splash of vinegar, and patience mixed with brute strength.
The Boss was off that morning, though. Dmitry had found a corner near the shark tank to take a nap. And Perrin, in passing, had felt the fragment of a dream, a cold thread he could not help but follow. He knew better. But he still hadn’t learned how to stop being a fool.
I hope you run, thought Perrin, wishing the young subject of Dmitry’s fantasy could hear him. Just a girl, not quite a teenager. A stranger whose name and face he did not know, only that in Dmitry’s dream she had pigtails and freckles, and a wide, white smile that was sweet—
—and reminded him too much of another young girl he had known briefly, in another life.
Run far, stay away, he thought again, jamming the paint scraper against the dried gum in a burst of violent strength. Don’t let him get close enough to touch you.
The gum popped off. Perrin tossed it into the garbage sack, stifling the urge to sneeze as the chemical scent emanating from the plastic made his nostrils burn. He wore no gloves, unlike the human men and women of the cleaning crew. His skin was sensitive to rubber and latex, as were his lungs—a weakness that had grown worse over the years.
He plucked a small razor blade from his tool belt, beginning the more detailed work of removing the gum residue. Dolphins drifted even closer, jostling each other for space as they pressed near the glass. P
errin tried not to look at them.
You’re distracting me, he said.
You are breaking, they whispered. You are broken.
Perrin stopped working. Staring at them. No one else was around. Just them, him. He tried to breathe but found his throat too tight. Like he was drowning in air.
He placed his palm, then his forehead, against the cool barrier. His eyes drifted shut, and a sigh filled his mind—soft and melancholy, tugging so sharply on his heart that he placed his other hand on his chest, clutching at his soft gray uniform.
You should not be here, whispered one of the dolphins. Even we, who have never been free, know this. We know you, in our blood.
But you have no time left to punish yourself. No time for regret.
Something is coming.
Perrin gave them a sharp look, but when they said nothing else, he gathered up his tools, prepared to move on. He had a men’s bathroom to scrub and more displays to check for fingerprints and gum. Dolphins were far too fond of riddles.
It took him several moments to realize they had begun screaming.
He had never heard such a sound. It started first in his mind, like the swell of a wave: soft in the beginning, just a pulse from four directions. Enough to make him freeze in midstep, trembling as those spectral voices gained in strength. Haunted with terror.
Perrin tried to block them out—and pain exploded through the base of his skull.
He doubled over, choking, and reached back to touch the shallow hole hidden by his hair. His hand traced the lines of scar tissue radiating down his neck, feeling for blood. There was none. Instead, he suffered a spidery sensation across his thoughts, like the light scrape of nails. Premonition, burning. It made him want to rip off his head.
Perrin tried. He dug his fingers into the hole at the back of his skull—and those four voices hit him so hard, with such fear, he doubled over again, gasping.
He turned, tears of pain blurring his vision as he watched the dolphins twist inside their tank, writhing violently through the water. One of them came too near the glass and hit it so hard Perrin heard a crack from the other side. The dolphin went still, drifting to the bottom of the tank. The others took no notice, still lost in their seizures.
In the Dark of Dreams Page 3