In the Dark of Dreams

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “I’ll kill you,” whispered the old man. “I’ll fucking snap all your necks if you t-touch her.”

  “No,” Perrin said, voice strained to breaking. “If she’s the woman I think she is, I will help her. I will do anything to keep her safe. You have my word.”

  “Bullshit.” Tears of frustration gathered in his eyes. “God help me, but I won’t l-let you hurt her.”

  “Perrin,” Rik snapped. “Perrin, stop this.”

  Perrin searched the old man’s eyes. “There was a house where bad things happened. A house near a beach. And it’s happening again, those bad things.”

  Eddie, who had been reaching for him, hesitated. The old man’s eyes narrowed, but the sharpness was fading into fatigue, and pain. “That wouldn’t be a s-secret if you’re C-Consortium.”

  Rik froze. Eddie made a small sound of disbelief. “How,” he began, then stopped himself for one long, thoughtful moment.

  “Sir,” he continued, very deliberately. “We’re not . . . them. We’re part of an agency called . . . Dirk & Steele.”

  The old man twitched, staring—then closed his eyes. “Oh, hell.”

  Perrin didn’t think he sounded particularly relieved. Sajeev pulled the blanket away and peered at the bullet wound. “His bleeding is slowing.”

  Eddie crouched. “Sir? Who hurt you?”

  “Never mind that,” Perrin muttered, leaning past the young man. “The woman. Where is she?”

  The old man’s eyes snapped open, and he focused on Perrin with new, raw intensity, a searching gaze, relentless and cold. Perrin stayed still, letting him take his fill, hiding nothing.

  “Red hair, g-green eyes,” he whispered finally. “That’s my Jenny. She’s on a boat. Been drifting a long t-time, so I don’t know where. She might even be d-dead by now.”

  “She’s not,” Perrin said, thinking of his dream. “Where were you when you were attacked?”

  The old man rattled off coordinates that made no sense, but Sajeev nodded as if he understood and looked at Eddie. “Many islands near that place, but the waters are deep. Good fishing. Not far, either.”

  “We have to go there,” Perrin told him. “Right now.”

  Eddie grabbed his arm, fingers burning against his skin “We need to talk.”

  Perrin opened his mouth to argue, but the look in the young man’s eyes stopped him. He nodded once, began to stand—and a cold, grizzled hand grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. Bloodshot eyes burned into his own.

  “I still need that radio,” whispered the old man, but even as he said the words, his grip loosened, that crazed gaze becoming glassy, dim. Perrin caught his hand as it slipped away. The old man struggled to stay conscious, his eyes rolling around in his head, mouth moving. A visceral fight. Perrin could not look away, and a hot streak of admiration filled him. The old man was strong.

  But he finally closed his eyes, and his grip went totally slack. Sajeev pressed fingers against his neck.

  “Still alive,” he announced. “Bleeding again.”

  “Telekinetic,” Eddie murmured raggedly, and gave Perrin a hard look. “What is going on? I thought we were here because of a problem in the ocean.”

  “We were. We still are. But this”—Perrin steadied himself, seeing those green eyes again—“is something else. Something I didn’t expect.”

  “Right,” Rik said sarcastically. “You expect us to believe that?”

  Perrin didn’t answer. No good protesting. But Eddie searched his face, shadows gathering in that old hard gaze. “Yes. I believe him.”

  “I need to find her,” Perrin said, surprised at how his voice broke.

  “And this man needs medical attention,” Eddie replied. “Malaysian Coast Guard is coming. We’re going to meet them. But if we go off course—”

  “I know.” Perrin took a deep breath and stared at the ocean. He could feel it beneath him, all around him, cold and immense and sleeping with endless power. Entering the sea would be a death sentence, but he had known that. Death now, death later.

  But if the others of his kind discovered his presence, and he died too soon . . . so many would suffer. Might suffer anyway. He wasn’t certain he could stop what had begun.

  “I’ll go alone,” he said quietly, making his decision. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  “No.” Rik stood, golden light burning in his gaze. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but we came here for one thing only. You won’t abandon that for some—some—”

  “Woman,” Perrin finished for him. A friend, he almost added.

  Rik made a rough sound. “A woman. You going to kill this one, too?”

  Perrin flinched. All he could hear for a moment was his heartbeat, the rasp of his breathing, all the essential parts of him scuttling into the dark corners of his soul. Hiding. Small. Afraid of remembering too much.

  He knew which woman Rik was referring to.

  But there was no way he knew about the second woman whose life Perrin had taken.

  “You will never understand,” he said to Rik. “I don’t expect you to. I told you then I was sorry.”

  Rik snarled, swaying on his feet. He looked ready to kill. Under other circumstances, given the history between them, Perrin might have given him the chance. But there was a girl with green eyes on a boat who needed him, and for the first time in eight years, Perrin had a purpose beyond mere survival. His hand twitched into a loose fist.

  Eddie stepped in front of him, giving them both a disgusted, weary look. “Go, Perrin. You said yourself, from the beginning, that you only needed us to get you out here. I hope this is close enough.” He focused on Rik. “You going with him?”

  Rik set his jaw and said nothing. Perrin smiled, grim. “Sajeev. What direction are those coordinates?”

  “West,” he said, holding a new bottle of water against the old man’s slack mouth. “Follow the stars west, and when you hit your first island, head south.”

  “Might as well look for Never-Never Land,” Rik muttered, which was a reference Perrin did not understand though he comprehended the meaning. These were terrible directions. A needle, as humans might say, in a haystack. But if that was all he had, then it would have to be enough.

  Perrin stripped off his clothes. Sajeev began laughing quietly, which he ignored as he walked naked to the rail. Both Rik and Eddie stared as well, which bothered him only slightly more.

  So few had ever seen his scars.

  But that was nothing to the sea. His heart thudded, with fear and anticipation; but every step he took, every breath, cemented his resolve. Dreams had kept him alive as a child.

  That dream. That girl.

  If you’re wrong? If it’s not her? What are you sacrificing, for nothing but a possibility?

  Perrin almost laughed out loud. Eight years, surviving on land. Eight years, living broken, trying to rebuild his heart. Utterly, unrelentingly, alone. All that had kept him going was defiance, and a small shred of hope. Hope, that one day he might find a good reason to keep on breathing, and fighting.

  This was it. Even if it was a mistake or the wrong woman. Even so. He had to take that chance. Fate had conspired to create a possibility that he could not abandon.

  He gripped the rail, and a dull ache settled in the base of his skull. Eddie joined him. Rik stood back, radiating tension.

  “You sure about this?” asked the young man quietly. “From what you told us in San Francisco, there’s a lot at stake.”

  Perrin glanced at him. “I was exiled from the sea for following my convictions. Not just exiled. What was done to me was . . . worse, even. But I’ve never been sorry for what I did. Never. I would do it again.”

  “This is another one of those moments, for you.”

  Perrin smiled bitterly. �
��It won’t end well. But it’ll be worth it.”

  Eddie’s gaze remained steady. “Go, then. Hurry.”

  He nodded and sucked down a deep breath, staring at the waiting sea. Home. Death. His hands tightened, and he pulled himself over the rail. No time to second-guess.

  He dove into the ocean.

  Chapter Five

  Jenny attacked Les the first time he untied her hands.

  It was in the bathroom. She tried stabbing him in the throat with her toothbrush. He knocked her into the wall, and that was it. Les was strong. And her head was killing her. Maybe literally. Her skin prickled like she was developing a fever though the sensation soon faded.

  That was the first night, only hours after Maurice’s death.

  The next morning, while Les fed her oatmeal, Jenny pretended to choke. This was harder to do than she had anticipated, and the result was that she very nearly did get food lodged in her throat. Enough to be convincing, anyway.

  Whether or not Les believed she was actually dying, he nonetheless stood from the table—at which point Jenny leaned back in her chair and kicked him hard in the crotch. That worked long enough for her to run for the pistol he had placed on the galley counter, tantalizingly in sight.

  That probably should have been her first clue. When she tried to shoot him, hands still tied behind her back, the pistol merely clicked.

  “No bullets,” Les said, wincing. Jenny did not have time to find a knife.

  That afternoon, she finally tried talking. Les had led her out on deck, where it was sunny and warm, and placed her in a lawn chair. He also set a soft drink on the table beside her, complete with a straw, so that she could drink something if she got thirsty. She watched him open the can, so she knew it wasn’t drugged—but she hated taking anything from him.

  He stood at the bow, watching the sea. Islands touched the horizon, far away, but none looked familiar. Not that Jenny would recognize any.

  “We have to be careful,” Les said, suddenly. “I don’t know if Ismail managed to radio anyone before I . . . killed him.”

  “You were gone,” she replied. “In the water. Your skin was wet.”

  “I took a swim,” he said shortly, but it sounded like a lie. She wanted to kick him again in the nuts, but this time with scalpels tied to her toes.

  She had to settle for staring holes into the back of his head. “If you’re not Consortium, then why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.”

  “We are still friends,” Les replied, glancing over his shoulder at her. “That’s why you’re alive.”

  “But Maurice,” she began, choking on his name—unable to finish what she wanted to say, which was fuzzy in her mind anyway. Every time she thought about the old man, coherence left her, until all that remained was sorrow and rage, and disbelief.

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Les whispered.

  “That’s not your fucking choice,” Jenny replied, throat thick with grief. “He was alive and you . . . you tossed him overboard like a piece of shark bait.”

  “He drowned.” Les’s voice was flat. “Painless, Jenny. Better than bleeding out slowly from a gunshot wound.”

  “Bullshit,” she whispered. “Bull. Shit. You’re a fucking animal, Les. I would have preferred to stick with Ismail.”

  He finally turned to look at her, and his gaze was cold and weary, and hard. “Think about what they took from you, and say that again.”

  Jenny went still. “You don’t know anything about that.”

  “Sure I don’t.” His gaze dropped to her stomach. “Not like people talk, or anything.”

  She almost jumped right off that chair, hands tied and everything, but forced her backside to stay glued to the wood. “Tell me why, Les. Why are you doing this?”

  Les smiled grimly. “How long have you been hunting monsters, Jenny? All your life? I always wondered what put that burn in you. Never mind your family . . . that drive you’ve got, it’s more than just some tradition. You hunger. You stay on this boat, and sail the world, because you need to. You need to so badly that nothing else matters.” His smiled dimmed. “I need something that badly, too, Jenny.”

  “Something worth killing for.”

  “Or just finishing the job someone else started.” Les walked to the equipment bin and pulled out a fanny pack that he belted around his waist. He dropped in a set of keys that had been clenched tight in his fist. “I’m going for a swim. I disabled the biometric locks for the old-fashioned kind, so don’t bother with the door. Sit tight, Jenny.”

  Fuck you, she thought, but clamped her mouth around the straw and took a long swallow of soda. Les gave her one last glance, his expression unreadable, and climbed down the ladder into the ocean. The minute he was gone, she jumped to her feet and tried the doors to the interior. None opened, and it was no good trying to break the glass. If bullets couldn’t make a dent, then neither would her elbow—or skull.

  No weapons around, and the air tanks had been cleared from the equipment bin. So had the emergency ax, the flares. The only things Les had left behind were some nylon rope and a little AM/FM radio.

  If only MacGyver were here, she thought dryly.

  She took the radio anyway, nearly bending backward to reach into the bin for it. Hit the on switch—listened to static—and carried the thing back to the chair. Her skin was prickling again, feverish. The dull ache in her skull, which had faded but never really left, began throbbing. Not as bad as before, but even the promise of worsening pain made Jenny break into a sweat.

  Reception was bad. She found only two stations that worked, even a little. One of them, luckily, was for English-speaking listeners. Like a zombie, she sat through a jaunty melody sung by a girl with sunshine in her voice, about boys and love and shit like that—but it didn’t do much to distract Jenny from her problems. She didn’t want to be distracted.

  Les had betrayed her and Maurice. Not just them, but A Priori. And she didn’t know why.

  Someone killed that mermaid. Someone used a gun like the kind we have on board. He could have gone out like he did last night, in secret, while everyone slept.

  But that was ridiculous. How could Les even find one of those creatures?

  Maybe he’s a treasure hunter, then. Black market, illegal, on the side. That is what he did before he joined the company. Old habits die hard.

  Along with people he had called friends.

  Jenny’s throat itched. She sipped more soda. The prickling sensation worsened, and for the first time, she noticed an ache in her legs.

  Fever. Muscle ache. The beginning of a sore throat.

  And a parasite attached to her head. The two had to be related.

  Tell him. Tell him as soon as he gets back.

  And, what? What did she expect Les to do? Rip it off her head? Maurice had tried, and—no thanks—she wasn’t going to attempt that again outside of a hospital. Jenny wasn’t even certain she trusted Les to keep her alive if he knew she was sick. Might be too much trouble.

  Grin and bear it, she told herself. Not much choice, anyway. She lay back on the lawn chair, trying to ignore the worsening ache in her body and head—as well as the unrelenting sun on her face, which didn’t help the heat rising in her skin. She closed her eyes. The radio played. She focused on music and Maurice, mermaids and Les, trying to wrap all the pieces together. She slept, too, but did not dream.

  When she woke, her neck was stiff, and her throat dry as dust. Almost took too much effort to drink the warm soda, but she managed—and settled back in the chair with a groan. Maybe she should talk to Les. That had to be better than leaving this parasite attached to her head. It was an unknown species, after all, and people died from less.

  The radio crackled, and the news hour binged. Jenny hardly noticed the broadcaster speaking until she heard, suddenly, M
alaysia.

  “An earthquake measuring 7.6 on the Richter scale has struck deep in the ocean less than a hundred miles off Malaysia’s coast,” said the man on the radio. “A tsunami alert has been issued for that country, and surrounding nations.”

  Jenny heard a choked cough behind her. Les. He had lost his swim trunks somewhere in the water, and stood naked except for the fanny pack belted to his waist. Dripping wet, staring at her. His gaze was terrible, intense. Frightening. All the hairs rose on her neck, and she scrabbled off the chair when he rushed toward her. Except, it was the radio he grabbed.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, and looked at Jenny. “What was that he said, about the earthquake?”

  She stared at him, aching and feverish, head pounding. “What?”

  “The earthquake.” Les reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “When did that happen?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped, trying to break free. “Recently, I think.”

  Les let go, though it felt more like a push. Jenny staggered back, breathing hard. Her head felt woozy. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Les set the radio on the table by the soda, and his hand shook. “You seem unwell.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your skin is hot.”

  “Been sitting in the sun. I’d like to go inside now if you don’t mind.”

  Les studied her, and after a moment, stepped sideways to the door and unlocked it. He gestured for her to precede him, which was fine. She didn’t particularly want to see his naked ass.

  Jenny walked in silence until they passed the lab. The steel door was ajar, and when she looked through the glass, she saw that the cold-locker door had also not been properly shut.

  She teetered to a stop. “What did you think you would learn from her body?”

  Les went still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You examined her body. That first night we had her. And you’ve done it again.” Jenny leaned against the wall, aching and dizzy. “Does all . . . this . . . have anything to do with finding her?”