In the Dark of Dreams

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Eight years,” he murmured, with a hint of wonderment. “I went eight years without you in my sleep. And now . . .”

  He stopped. She heard a roaring sound and turned to face the ocean. A wave was bearing down on them, so large it threatened to block the sun.

  And then it did.

  It was too close to escape. No chance in hell. But the man grabbed her tight, spinning them around in a stumbling run. His arm was strong around her waist, and he was yelling something she couldn’t understand. She felt a breath of cold damp air against her neck, and the man slammed her in front of him, dropping into a crouch over her body. His mouth pressed hard against the back of her neck.

  “Breathe,” he whispered, just as the tsunami hit them.

  The impact was immense. No pain, just an all-encompassing, dizzying pressure that was so intense she felt as though she were being squeezed to death inside a giant shaking fist. A scream jerked loose, and her mouth filled with water. She struggled, fighting to salvage what breath was left in her lungs, but the sea poured in and in and in, and there was no end to the hole that her body formed. She could not breathe. She was drowning.

  And those arms around her were gone.

  She heard shouts in the water. A man, screaming in rage. Not her dream man—the dream boy who had become her dream man—but someone else, whose voice she knew but could not name. Just that it was close.

  So close, she woke up.

  No delay, no grogginess. Jenny snapped to consciousness riding a rush of adrenaline that left her gasping for air, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. The pressure on her body wasn’t gone, though—just displaced. Someone was sitting on her back, tying her hands.

  Jenny pushed her forehead into the ground and twisted with all her strength, dragging up her leg to give herself enough leverage to turn over and knock aside the person holding her down. In theory, anyway. She managed to surprise her assailant enough that he loosened his grip on her hands and slid partially off her. Jenny tried to roll away, but the man grabbed her waist and shoulder, slamming her down so hard the side of her face bounced with bruising force against the deck. The impact stunned her into a moment’s stillness—long enough for him to finish tying her hands.

  She was outside. It was still night. That was all she could tell. Something covered her eyes. Her sweatshirt—she had never taken it off, and at some point the oversized hood had flopped over her head. Sweat trickled, and a solid throbbing ache traveled from the base of her skull down her spine in nauseating waves.

  The man tying her did not make a sound. When he finally stepped away, she tried to roll over. This time no one stopped her. She tilted her head, peering from beneath the hood.

  Ismail stood over her.

  His glasses were gone, but he was wearing his paper-pusher clothes from earlier: slacks, loose white dress shirt; unbuttoned and untucked, revealing a rock-hard body that looked as though it should belong to a soldier instead of a pseudo-desk jockey. He was barefoot. Blood spattered his clothes and chest. His eyes were . . . so cold. So cold she wanted to look away and scream though she kept her gaze locked on his and bore the fear.

  “I knew about the sleeping pills,” he said quietly. “Maurice was not careful enough.”

  Jenny said nothing. Ismail crouched, graceful and silent, and rapped the deck in front of her face with his knuckles. Sharp, loud, staccato. She saw a gun holstered beneath his shirt. She remembered that he had come on board with a duffel bag. Extra clothes, he had said. Money for the fishermen.

  Do you know who I work for?” he asked. “Answer me. I want to hear you say it.”

  Go to hell, thought Jenny, afraid of what her voice would sound like if she unclenched her jaw.

  Ismail’s eyes narrowed. He touched her face, brushing his fingers over her split lip. He smelled like blood. Jenny wrenched her head away, and he grabbed a fistful of her hair, pinning her down with all his weight. He wasn’t much larger than her, but he was all muscle—and untied. Her ear felt crushed against the salt-encrusted deck.

  “Where’s the man?” asked Ismail in a deadly quiet voice. “Your lover?”

  Les. But if he wanted to know where Les was, that meant the blood had come from. . .

  “Maurice,” she croaked.

  “Telekinetic. Not a strong one, but he had to go first.” Ismail said the words in a matter-of-fact tone, dry and cold. It was something he should not have known about Maurice. No one knew that much, except the family and a few trusted individuals. He leaned sideways, and pointed.

  It took Jenny a moment to see. Shadows everywhere. But one shadow was darker than the others, shaped like a body. Maurice. Sprawled on the deck. She couldn’t see his face, but she saw his white hair. He was so still.

  Jenny closed her eyes, fighting to keep her breathing steady. Her heart was beating too quickly. Pressure, building inside her skull. She was going to burst, die, lose her mind. Her throat swelled with grief, but she sucked down a deep breath and ground her teeth. No tears. Not yet.

  “Make this easy on yourself,” Ismail whispered close to her ear. “You don’t want me to think you’re capable of anything.”

  “I’m capable of killing you,” she breathed, finally able to speak. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

  Ismail leaned back, giving her a cold look. “You lied about the creature being human. But even if you hadn’t, this would still be happening. You’re a loose end, Ms. Jameson. But the Consortium finally has a need for you.”

  Behind him, something moved in the shadows near Maurice’s body. Jenny didn’t dare look. Ismail was still talking, but she could hardly hear him past the roar of blood in her ears. All she could do was stare at his face, and shift her legs, ready to kick, fight, roll—anything. Anything it would take.

  She was ready when Les lunged out of the shadows. He was completely naked and dripping with seawater. He held a knife in his hand, and swung it down with perfect accuracy toward Ismail’s back. The man must have felt him coming—he glanced over his shoulder at the last moment, and rolled sideways with incredible speed. His fists were a blur. He caught the other man in the gut and face, but Les hardly seemed to notice. He had a longer reach, and was just as fast. He feinted—Ismail backed too close to Jenny—and she kicked up and out with all her strength, catching him in the back of his knee.

  Ismail staggered. Les plunged the dagger in his chest, and held on—held on as the smaller man dropped to his knees, screaming in pain. There was an expression on Les’s face that Jenny had never seen before—wild and determined, and utterly ruthless.

  He twisted the knife as Ismail reached up to grab it. Twisted, and pushed, until the man lay on the deck of the yacht, and died.

  Jenny shuddered, afraid to breathe. Les stared at the dead man for one long moment, then looked at her.

  “You okay?” he asked hoarsely, and all she could do was nod.

  Les hesitated, then looked down at his hands and wiped them slowly on his damp thighs—leaving streaks of blood against his skin. Jenny expected him to untie her, but instead he walked across the deck toward Maurice. He stared at the old man, too—a long time. And then bent down and scooped him into his arms.

  Jenny stared, unsure what she was seeing. Maurice had to weigh at least two hundred pounds, but Les acted like it was nothing. Instead of carrying him toward Jenny, he started walking to the edge of the yacht.

  “Les,” she croaked. “Les, what are you doing?”

  He ignored her, and in his arms, Maurice stirred. She was certain of it, despite the darkness on deck. His eyelids fluttered, and his mouth opened, just a little. She heard a groan.

  “Les,” she shouted, more urgently. “Les, stop. Look at me.”

  Les kept walking. Faster now. Maurice began to open his eyes.

  “He’s still alive!” she screamed. “Les—”


  He tossed the old man overboard.

  Jenny barely heard the splash, choking on her own voice—too horrified to do more than stare at Les’s back, watching that scene replay in her head again and again.

  Les stared over the edge, then turned around to walk back to her. She tried scooting away from him, but he grabbed her ankles and pulled her close with ruthless efficiency. His mouth was set in a grim line, though his eyes . . . his eyes were no longer cold. Just weary.

  “I’m sorry,” Les whispered, and Jenny wanted to kick him in the teeth.

  “You’re working with them,” she whispered. “The Consortium.”

  “No.” He shook his head, and drew in a long, ragged, breath. “This is . . . something else. Ismail was . . . a complication I didn’t expect.”

  Jenny tested her bonds. Her wrists and shoulders ached, and tears finally leaked from her eyes. She couldn’t stop them. This hurt too much. “Why?”

  He didn’t answer. Just stood, and grabbed Ismail’s arms. He dragged the man across the deck, leaving behind a trail of blood, and threw him overboard as well.

  “Why?” Jenny screamed at him, though her voice was muffled with grief.

  Les still said nothing. He walked back to her, and she said brokenly, “You’ll be caught. You know that. It doesn’t matter who’s protecting you now. When the others find out—”

  “I’m not scared of the old women,” Les interrupted, but his voice hitched on the last word, and his hands trembled. “Not scared of the family, or any . . . any of those maniacs they employ. I’m done with that.”

  “Bullshit,” she said.

  Les shook his head. “No one’s going to find you, Jenny. They won’t even know you’re in trouble. And if they do figure it out, it’ll still be too late.”

  “Les—”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. You don’t understand. You don’t have a fucking clue. You never did.”

  He walked away and left her on the deck in Ismail’s blood.

  Chapter Four

  Someone was shaking him.

  Perrin drifted on the edge of sleep. He needed to dream. Whatever it took. If he had been in possession of pills, he would have popped a handful, just to fall unconscious and open himself to possibilities.

  Like seeing her again.

  Even now, she was just an impression—a voice, a small warm hand—but those two parts of her were as familiar as his own voice, his own hand, and he could still feel the press of her fingers entwining with his own, as though she was here, sitting beside him now.

  I miss you, he thought. Come back.

  No damn luck. That dream, the first in eight years, had been fleeting and terrifying—and ever since waking from it two days ago, screaming, he had been unable to go back to that place—or her. Cut off, again. Made him crazy. Made him want to use his fists. Again. He was still picking splinters out of his knuckles from an unfortunate encounter with a palm tree.

  He opened his eyes, tapping his sunglasses to make certain they were there. It was still uncomfortably bright.

  Eddie stood over him, frowning. Sun high in the sky, blazing through scattered clouds. Gulls swooped overhead, crying out their hearts. The sea glittered like a razor blade and smelled sharp, sweet. He could taste it beneath the stink of Singapore’s polluted air. Unsettled him, made his skin chill, and his stomach hurt. He wanted to be sick when he thought too hard about slipping under the water. Of what he would find there.

  He stared at Eddie, saw his mouth moving, and realized he hadn’t caught a single word. “What?”

  Eddie’s frown deepened. “Everything’s been arranged. We’re ready.”

  Perrin stayed seated. “You shouldn’t come with me. You or him. Like I told Roland, all I needed was for someone to get me here.”

  “I know what you told Roland.” Eddie glanced over his shoulder at Rik, who sat a short distance away on manicured grass, sipping some fruity drink through a straw. “He doesn’t want to be with us. But he got on the plane. I guess he made his choice.”

  Perrin also looked at the shape-shifter, studying the sharp angles of his face and that golden gaze, focused on some faraway spot on the ocean horizon. He held a paper napkin in his left hand, which he kept squeezing.

  Eight years changes everything, Perrin thought. Rik had been hardly more than a boy the last time he had seen his human face. Eight years had aged him. Just not enough to make the young man unrecognizable.

  “How did Rik find you?” he asked, unable to stifle the shock he felt at being near the shape-shifter. It was not a good sensation; he would have been happy—happily ignorant—if they had never crossed paths again.

  “We found him.” Eddie gave Perrin a sharp look. “And we’re going to lose our boat if we don’t go now.”

  Perrin pushed himself off the bench. Rik also stood, ducking his head before their eyes could meet. Only when Eddie walked past and murmured in his ear did his spine straighten. He still didn’t look at Perrin, though.

  Eddie hefted a duffel bag over his shoulder, the air shimmering around his body, a heat wave. He seemed very young, no older than twenty or so—but that glint in his eye, especially as he stared at Perrin and Rik, never stopped being old, and slightly worn.

  “I don’t know what history there is between you,” he said carefully. “I’m not certain I want to know. But if we’re going to be stuck on a boat together—”

  “He walks in front of me. I don’t want him where I can’t see him,” Rik blurted out, clenching the plastic cup so hard it crushed, spurting fruit juice all over his hand. He swore, and tossed the cup on the ground.

  Perrin, very calmly, bent down and picked up the trash. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have on the plane. Or in San Francisco.” He walked to a garbage can that had been placed alongside the pedestrian walkway to the dock. “You are not important to me, Rik’agoa. You’re not even a threat.”

  Rik took a step toward him, golden light flickering in his eyes. “Don’t call me that name.”

  “Stop.” Eddie stepped between them. “Just . . . stop.”

  Rik gave him a hard look, but the other young man didn’t back down. Perrin watched, assessing them both, and after several seconds that dragged on far too long, he wiped sticky, juice-stained fingers on his jeans and walked away toward the dock. Rik wasn’t going to stab him in the back—not yet, not with Eddie around.

  Still, his neck prickled. Scars itched. Or maybe those were his new rashes. The pollution in Singapore was worse than he remembered; and the hot air made it hard to breathe. He had started coughing last night and hadn’t been able to stop until he dunked himself in the tub. His chest ached every time he inhaled.

  “The next boat on your left,” Eddie called out from behind. Perrin did not acknowledge him—too focused on the sea beneath the dock. He had not tasted the waters, not even dunked a toe into the dark waves, though he ached to. He glanced down and saw filth, oily scum. Might well poison himself if he tried now. Nor did he dare risk revealing his presence before he was in deeper waters. Timing was the only way he would stay alive. Time enough, hopefully, to explain his return to the others who would come hunt him.

  He stopped in front of a battered fishing vessel, perhaps a decade old, and quite small. Not much room belowdecks for a man of Perrin’s size, but he wasn’t planning on remaining on board for long. All he needed was an engine strong enough to take him out to deep sea.

  Perrin glanced over his shoulder, watching Eddie and Rik approach. He felt strange again—out of body. Eight years ago, in another life, this moment would have been inconceivable. As would the idea of using human technology to travel the . . . the surface . . . of the sea. Seemed so wrong. Alien. Weak.

  Such weakness will not be tolerated, a low voice echoed in his mind; just a memory, though i
t chilled him. You will be strong, or die. You will be strong, or they will die.

  It had been a long time since Perrin had heard his father’s voice inside his head. Months since he had let himself think about him with that kind of bitter self-indulgence. He didn’t need any more sleepless nights, or holes punched in walls. No good ever came from letting memories of his father creep into his thoughts. Just waves of resentment, rage, hurt—and a weariness that ran soul deep.

  But his father, Perrin realized, had been skirting the edges of his thoughts ever since he had made his decision to return to the sea.

  If he saw him again, he had no idea what to do.

  “You,” said a loud voice behind him. Perrin turned and found a man crouched on the edge of the boat. Black eyes glittered, set in a bony face that was sweat-slick and brown. A tattoo of a dragon covered his shaved head, and a gold hoop dangled from his right ear.

  Perrin said nothing, waiting. The man grinned, revealing a row of broken yellow teeth, and pointed at the boat. “Come, giant man. Come for a ride.”

  He had heard similar invitations in prison. His feet remained rooted to the dock. Eddie drew near and passed his duffel to the sailor. “This is Sajeev. He’s been . . . highly recommended.”

  “By who?” Rik muttered, eyeing the smaller man. “The Pirate Association of Singapore?”

  Eddie sighed. “He’s good with secrets. Our kinds of secrets.”

  Perrin grunted and stepped aboard the vessel. Sajeev hopped gracefully out of his way, giving him that same toothy grin—not quite friendly but filled with a delighted sort of avarice that made Perrin’s skin crawl. He didn’t want to imagine how much this man was being paid, but he hoped it was enough to keep their throats from being cut.

  Sajeev untied the lines, tossing them hard at Rik, who staggered back under the weight. Eddie smiled faintly and followed the sailor into the bridge. Perrin joined them, unwilling to leave anything with these strangers to chance—but found nothing suspicious. Just the young man, standing aside with his arms folded over his chest, watching Sajeev start the engine.