In the Dark of Dreams

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “We’re here,” said the cab driver, swerving to the curb. Perrin paid him and slipped out onto the sidewalk. He did not have a suitcase, just a backpack. No need for anything else where he was going. Not even the clothes he wore.

  He stood still as crowds parted around him—searching for a building number, anything at all that fit the brief instructions he had been given over the phone. Just an address, really. A simple reassurance that someone would be there to meet him. Even in dark jeans and a T-shirt, Perrin didn’t think he was hard to miss. All he saw, though, was a Starbucks and a small Italian pizzeria. He smelled chocolate, too. No sign of an office.

  Until, from within an alcove so narrow his gaze nearly passed over it, Perrin glimpsed movement. A door made of copper and leaded glass, which pushed open slowly. A young man stepped out: tall, slender, dressed in black jeans and a white T-shirt frayed with burn marks. He looked at Perrin without hesitation, as though he had been watching him for some time already.

  “Mr. O’doro?” he asked quietly.

  Perrin hesitated. The young man quirked the corner of his mouth into a faint smile but said nothing else. Simply waited in the alcove, like he had all the time in the world. Perrin also waited, studying those eyes—finding them dark and old, and unflinching.

  He forced himself to take a step, then another, until he stood in front of the young man and that open door, feeling like it was ready to swallow him into darkness. Which was true, more or less.

  “My name is Eddie,” said the young man, breaking the silence. He held out his hand. Perrin found his grip strong, and very warm—almost hot.

  “Perrin,” he replied, and walked through the door into an empty lobby, where the rubber soles of his shoes squeaked on the granite floor. Eddie pointed to the single elevator.

  “The Dirk & Steele agency owns the building,” he explained, voice echoing faintly in the cavernous room. “The elevator will only go to the top.”

  Perrin did not feel like small talk. He remained silent as he stepped in, feeling the skin on the back of his neck crawl as Eddie walked in behind him and hit the topmost button, for the eighth floor. Without pausing, he also flipped the stop switch—preventing the doors from closing.

  Perrin frowned. “You better have a good reason for doing that.”

  A faint flush touched the young man’s cheeks, but his gaze remained steady. “You came at a bad time, sir. I apologize for anything . . . anything you might hear upstairs.”

  “Should I come back?”

  “No.” Eddie released the button, and the doors closed. “I wanted to warn you, that’s all.”

  Warnings already. Perrin swayed as the elevator groaned upward. “I was told things about you people. That you’re . . . different.”

  “Different enough. But we try to do good.” Eddie smiled, but it was tense, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the handrail. He glanced at the ceiling, then the floors and walls. Perrin took a wild guess that it was not being around him that made the young man nervous. It was the small space.

  Indeed, it suddenly felt very warm inside the elevator. Hot, even, as though he stood in front of an open oven. Perrin shifted on his feet, uncomfortable—and smelled something burning. A whisper of smoke drifted upward from behind the young man. Eddie’s face drained of color.

  “Um,” Perrin said.

  “Almost there,” Eddie replied tightly, staring at his feet like he was going to be sick. “Sorry.”

  Perrin wasn’t certain he wanted to know what Eddie was apologizing for. He was more relieved than he wanted to admit when the doors finally opened and the young man rushed out, cold air pouring into the elevator in his wake. Eddie leaned against the nearest wall, breathing hard. No more smoke, but on the back of his shirt there was a new hole, singed black around the edges. Perrin had trouble looking away from it.

  He forced his gaze past the young man, taking in the undecorated hall—and beyond that, immense floor-to-ceiling windows. The lights of downtown glittered on the other side of the glass, only slightly obscured by the golden reflection of a lamp burning on a low table. He also heard shouting, but the words blurred together. Too many voices.

  Wary, he stopped beside Eddie. Surprised, again, by the heat radiating off his body. “You all right?”

  The young man nodded though his shoulders remained hunched. “I was sick for a while. Getting better.”

  He sounded embarrassed. Perrin considered pretending that nothing had happened—no smoke, no heat—but he had leaned on his own share of walls, ill and alone, and frightened. Some suffering was universal.

  “It’ll pass,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

  Eddie peered over his shoulder, his gaze weary, old. At the end of the hall, a hulking figure stepped into view. Perrin felt again that sense of ugly premonition, just a tickle in his mind, followed by a short throb within the hole at the base of his skull.

  Eddie followed Perrin’s gaze and pushed himself off the wall. “Roland. Mr. O’doro is here to see you.”

  “You okay?” asked the man, ignoring Perrin.

  Eddie shrugged, still tense. And, too, there was something else in his eyes when he looked at the man who stood at the end of the hall.

  Anger, thought Perrin, his fingers curling against his palm, a loose fist, which he hid against his thigh. He had rarely fought with his hands before coming on land, never fought much at all. As a child, defiance had been discouraged in numerous, painful ways. As an adult, no one had dared confront him.

  But all that had changed, in the end—and he had learned hard lessons over the past eight years.

  “Go rest,” said the man to Eddie. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Eddie shook his head and gave Perrin a measuring look—or a silent warning. Made him uneasy, either way. He strode past Eddie, footsteps light, ready for anything.

  “M’cal contacted me,” said the other man gruffly, as Perrin approached. “Months ago. Said there might be a time—”

  “—when I need someone like you,” Perrin interrupted coolly. “Yes, I know.”

  The man—Roland—made a small, dissatisfied sound. He was tall by human standards, though several inches shorter than Perrin. Broad like a bear, grizzled. His brown hair needed a cut, and though he didn’t sport a beard, the bristles around his neck would be long enough for one in a day or two. His dark eyes were bloodshot, and his checked flannel shirt and sweatpants were wrinkled. He smelled like beer.

  Not impressive in the slightest.

  Roland looked him up and down, his gaze flat, as though he found Perrin just as lacking. “Come on. We’ll try not to scare you away.”

  Perrin held his tongue and followed the man. Eddie remained a short distance behind, a silent, warm shadow. They passed through a large room filled with antiques, couches, and books—newspapers scattered on tables, most of them printed in different languages. Perrin smelled something sweet, like hot pie, and heard pots clanging beneath an exasperated tangle of voices. The argument, which had faded, seemed to be starting again. It got louder when Roland turned to walk down a narrow flight of stairs.

  “It’s ridiculous, and you know it,” snapped a woman, but whatever else she was going to say choked into silence when Perrin reached the bottom of the stairs.

  He found a kitchen. Quite possibly the largest he had ever seen, dominated by those immense floor-to-ceiling windows. The entire floor felt as though it were floating in the heart of the city—a sensation enhanced by the shadows enveloping almost everything except the kitchen core: long counters, numerous glass-fronted refrigerators, gleaming golden tile set in the wall, and other copper accents. Nearby, a pit of deep couches surrounded a gas fireplace. And on his right, a cream-colored curtain covered the entire wall. A gap in the center revealed more glass and darkness on the other side. Not the city. A separate room.

&nb
sp; Fleeting impressions. And, for a moment, the only things his mind could handle. Because, despite what he was—what he had been—it was too hard, too impossible, to accept the presence of the two people before him.

  One of whom was not human.

  Perrin saw the gargoyle first. Impossible not to. Perched on an iron stool, he was huge, his leathery wings hanging loose down his back and trailing against the stone floor. Silver skin, red, glinting eyes; a glimpse of horns from within the long thick hair bound away from his craggy face. He wore human clothes, which was an incongruous sight—straining T-shirt, jeans—and he held a stainless-steel thermos in his clawed hand.

  He gave Perrin a look that was wary but unafraid, and quietly assessing—his reaction as much of a surprise as his presence. Perrin would not have been so calm if strangers found him in his sea form. Even now, he struggled.

  A woman sat on the counter beside the gargoyle, her bare feet balanced on his thigh. She was muscular and round, with smooth brown skin and a mane of tight dark curls that brushed past her shoulders. She gave Perrin a sharp look and glanced at the gargoyle.

  “Told you,” she said; and then, to Roland: “Don’t even think about using this as a distraction.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re done talking.”

  “I think not,” said the gargoyle. “You know what the Consortium has done, again and again, to others. Experiments, kidnappings—and this latest incident in Africa —”

  “Breeding programs,” snapped the woman, pressing her fists hard into the counter. “We have to go after them, Roland. I don’t know why we haven’t already.”

  “It won’t stop, otherwise,” rumbled the gargoyle. “And if they continue to recruit the people I think they are, it’s only going to get worse. If they involve witches—”

  “Enough,” snapped Roland. “We have a guest.”

  “Don’t,” Perrin muttered, giving him a cold look.

  The grizzled man raised his brow. “Excuse me?”

  Perrin swept his gaze over the room, trying to make sense of its inhabitants, deciding it didn’t matter. Air breathers, all of them. “I don’t know what is going on here, but the woman is right. Don’t make me your distraction. Don’t make me part of this.”

  Roland laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You sought us out. You’re not human. That makes you a member of the club, whether you like it or not.”

  “Leave him alone,” said Eddie.

  Perrin released the breath he had been holding. “I’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Just the wrong time,” replied the gargoyle, with unexpected gentleness. He scooted off the stool and helped the woman from the counter by wrapping his arm around her waist and lifting her carefully down. She remained pressed against his side, which surprised Perrin. And made his heart ache, just a little.

  There was a woman who had once fitted against his side, just so even if she had existed only in his dreams. Every night, growing with him inside his head, from childhood to adulthood—becoming a woman who had saved his life in more ways than he could name.

  Until eight years ago, when he had stopped dreaming of her.

  Stop, he told himself; and then: Nothing about this place should surprise you.

  He, who was not human, who had come from a world no human—or gargoyle—could survive, should not have found anything at all shocking about this place, or these people.

  The woman, however, suddenly winced—reaching back to rub the base of her skull. Much as he caught himself doing, at that exact moment. The similarity made him uneasy. Especially when she fixed him with a hard look that softened, after a disquieting moment, into compassion.

  And worse, pity.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You should brace yourself.”

  “No time,” murmured Roland, also studying him. “Never enough time.”

  Perrin’s head ached. He stared into the faces of strangers and felt so utterly alone he could hardly breathe. Being here was too much. Too much, too soon. He needed air.

  “I need to go,” he croaked to Eddie, and without another word, turned and began to climb the stairs.

  Or tried to. Someone was standing on the landing above him.

  Another young man, tall, with golden skin, golden eyes, and thick black hair cut with streaks of silver and ocean blue. He held pizza boxes, but they started to slip out of his hands when he saw Perrin.

  “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Not you.”

  Perrin felt like saying the same thing. He sagged against the rail and dug the heel of his palm into his throbbing skull. Lights flickered in his vision, followed by waves of darkness. He fumbled for the vial of seawater shoved into his front pocket.

  He felt very old. Bone tired. This was not what he had expected—or needed. Destiny, he thought, was cruel.

  “Rik,” Perrin murmured, unable to bear the sight of the shape-shifter’s familiar face. “We both should have run farther.”

  Eddie ran up the stairs to the young man, who turned away from him with an expression of pure agony. Perrin sympathized. He heard movement at his back, then a hush. Everyone, staring at him.

  Green eyes. A voice, screaming.

  Darkness rising.

  “What,” rumbled the gargoyle, “is going on here?”

  Perrin drank the last of his seawater. It burned his throat going down. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glanced over his shoulder and studied the strangers watching him. They would have to be enough. There was no one else.

  “Millions of people are going to die,” he whispered. “And I need your help to stop it.”

  Chapter Three

  Her headache wouldn’t go away.

  Jenny was on her fourth ibuprofen and was considering downing another two. Chased with vodka, maybe. Reading was no distraction, either, no matter how much she loved Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice usually took her mind off all her problems, including aches and pains, but even Mr. Darcy could do nothing for the incessant throb at the base of her skull. It was beginning to feel like someone was drilling into her brain.

  It was late, or very early—almost four in the morning—though time had ceased to mean much to Jenny. Sun rose, sun set, and in between she studied mysteries. Searching for truths, history, that had been relegated to myth and superstition. Just last week they had been in Vietnam, exploring Ha Long Bay for evidence of a sea monster rumored to terrorize fishermen. Two months before that, The Calypso Star had anchored in the Aegean Sea, helping another team from A Priori recover a two-thousand-year-old wreck filled with enough artifacts to keep the researchers in the company’s archaeology department busy for years.

  Never about the money, her grandfather would say. We don’t do this for the money. Just knowledge. Preservation.

  Liar, thought Jenny, touching the worn leather pouch resting on her chest. She turned it over, shaking, and a single scale tumbled free.

  His scale. Smaller than the other three she had found, but that made sense. He had been young, a child. His scale, however, was the same as the others in its thickness—hard as shell, silken surface shimmering, glowing, in the dim lights of her cabin. She stroked it with the tip of her finger and closed her eyes, filled with an ache that had burned inside her since that day on the beach. More than sixteen years suffering some delusional, inexplicable need that would never be satisfied.

  It was stupid.

  But here she was.

  You’re using this as an excuse to run away, she told herself. You bury yourself in something you’ll never have, because that’s safer, right?

  If Jenny could have flipped herself the finger, she would have. Instead, she slipped the scale into the pouch, sat up, and dropped the whole thing into her desk drawer. Her laptop screensaver winked at her. She had that article to finish
writing on Ha Long Bay. No mention of sea monsters, thank-you-very-much.

  Jenny frowned. The locals also told tales of underwater people. Several had seen pale human faces in the sea, usually in the evening, there and gone like ghosts. The fishermen called them ghosts—souls of the drowned trapped between human and . . . something else. Dragon, some said. Serpent. Cursed by the spirit of Lac Long Quang, Dragon King of the Sea—a shape-shifter—whose union with the faery, Au Co, had produced mortal and immortal descendants still said to live amongst humans.

  Jenny knew just a little too much about the world to dismiss all of that as complete myth. The shape-shifter part, anyway. And immortals. Maybe faeries, too.

  Right. She needed a drink.

  But one thing first.

  Jenny prowled from her cabin to the lab. It was very quiet. She doubted that Maurice was asleep, or Les—but Ismail had disappeared early in the evening, claiming fatigue.

  The sleeping pills that Maurice had dropped into his wine might have contributed to that. No offense to the man, but Jenny couldn’t risk his getting nosy. Ismail might be good at procuring rare plants and animals, but world-altering secrets were something else entirely. No confidentiality agreement could guarantee that level of trust. If the woman’s body had been more obviously nonhuman, different precautions would have been put into place. Namely, the complete and utter ruination of Ismail Osman’s career—but only if he talked. The family had some morals. Just not many.

  Nothing was out of place in the lab, which on another ship would have been the stateroom. Jenny shrugged on the hooded gray sweatshirt hanging on a wall hook and keyed in the code to the cold locker.

  It was a glorified walk-in refrigerator, built to hold all the biological samples they collected while at sea. Larger than average, because A Priori liked to be prepared for any contingency. Including bodies.

  The body bag had been strapped to a stainless-steel table that unfolded from an alcove in the wall. Jenny stood at the door, staring—chilled by more than the cold air. She had to force herself to take the first step, but after that it was easier. She even managed to unzip the bag without hesitating.