In the Dark of Dreams

by Marjorie M. Liu

  A’lesander’s answering smile was bitter, cold—but that wasn’t mask enough to hide the hint of uncertainty in his eyes. His skin was darker than Perrin remembered, hair a lighter shade of golden brown. Sun rich. His grandmother had been human.

  “Same to you,” he said.

  Three words. Just three. But Perrin was astonished at the emotions that filled him, simply by hearing the sound of that voice—like a hot poker searing an unhealed wound. Hurt like hell. Cut the breath right out of his lungs in ways that simply seeing A’lesander did not.

  All he could do was harden his heart. He had no time for anything less.

  Perrin drifted carefully to his right, just out of arm’s reach, and saw the woman on the periphery of his vision—head above water. “You thought I was dead,” he said, forcing himself to focus on A’lesander: every word, every nuance. “Why would you think that?”

  A’lesander’s expression hardened. “I might have been exiled before you, but I was finally allowed back into the sea, within my clan territories. I suppose you never had that . . . luxury. What you did, I heard, was beyond forgiveness.”

  Perrin said nothing: still circling, assessing. Burying all the emotions riding hard in his heart. Might be the sea, but this was still a prison yard: only one person could leave free.

  A’lesander watched him, eyes narrowing. “Imagine. Perrin O’doro, getting exactly what he always wanted. A life on land.”

  “Yes, imagine,” Perrin replied. “But you’re still denied what you want most. Nothing can change that. And,” he added slowly, “these territories don’t belong to your clan.”

  “But what do you think the others might give me if I dragged you home?” A’lesander cut the water with his hands, finally baring his teeth. “You shouldn’t have come here, Perrin. They won’t just take your life. You know that.”

  “I know,” he replied—and lunged for the other’s throat.

  Just a feint. When A’lesander raised his fists, Perrin dropped his right hand and shoved two fingers hard into his side, a trick he had learned in prison. Humans and Krackeni might be two different species, but the physiology was close enough to cripple. A’lesander cried out, twisting away—his expression not just pained, but shocked.

  “Yes,” Perrin muttered. “Things have changed.”

  A’lesander panted, clutching his side. “You won’t stop me.”

  “I’m not here for you.” Perrin sensed the woman behind him, and watched the other Krackeni’s gaze flicker past his shoulder. His mouth tightened into a hard white line.

  “No—” A’lesander began, still looking at her—but Perrin slammed a fist into his head before he could finish. He followed with another punishing blow, and another, and another. He gave him no chance to recover. Long ago, he might have. Long ago, he would never have raised his fists. But those days were gone.

  Blood spurted from A’lesander’s nose. Part of his cheek looked dented. He fumbled in the water, trying to dive, but Perrin grabbed his hair and finished him off with one last blow. Suffering, for a brief moment, A’lesander’s dazed gaze, which was hateful and stunned, and brought back too many memories.

  The Krackeni went limp in the water. Perrin didn’t let go. He stared, breathing hard, taking in that familiar, broken face. Wondering how the fight could be over so quickly. It didn’t seem right.

  Nor was it right to see him again. Now. Here.

  He looked for the woman, but she was gone. Panicked, he released A’lesander and dove beneath the surface. He found her only a foot or so down, kicking hard, staring in his direction with those clear green eyes. His pounding heart stopped, again.

  He had found her. This was no dream. He could see her face. She was here, flesh and blood. Looking at her for the first time in sixteen years had left him so stunned, it was a wonder he had managed to bring her to the surface.

  Now was no different. She was so beautiful.

  He was suddenly afraid to touch her. She was much smaller than him, more delicate than he had imagined. His memories of her, as a child, were larger than life.

  He held her carefully, hands curling around her bare arms. She was hot to the touch, feverish, and the light from above cast a white glow across her skin. Her gaze sought his, and he searched it for any sign of fear. Found none. Just a stunned sort of wonder, and awe.

  Like time travel, as though Perrin was stranded on the beach again, little more than a boy. He could still see that girl in this woman’s face—in the curve of her cheeks, in her mouth—and those eyes. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him, if she even remembered that day the same way he did; or whether the dreams meant as much. Assuming she had ever understood their significance.

  You don’t know her, whispered a small mean voice. Eight years of silence. She’s changed. You have, too. Be careful.

  Careful. If he had been careful, he would never have been exiled in the first place. Or come back.

  Perrin pulled the woman to the surface, holding her head high. She sucked down a deep breath that ended in a raw, hacking cough.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked roughly, rubbing his aching eyes with the back of his hand.

  “No,” she replied, hoarse. “Y-you?”

  He was surprised she asked. All he could do was shake his head, feeling dumb, throat too tight for words. His mind couldn’t wrap around what was happening: seeing her, seeing A’lesander. All this, and the darkness stirring below them all. It was too much.

  Perrin twisted around until he floated on his back. The sky was so blue. He held the woman close, one arm wrapped around her upper waist. She had no way of holding on to him with her hands, but he was nonetheless startled by the sensation of her leg sliding across his lower torso and tail. He flinched, and she froze.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I need —”

  “Yes, I know,” he replied tersely. “It’s . . . fine.”

  More than fine. He savored the sensation of her body pressed against his own. Not a dream. This was real. She was here. Same voice, that glint of red hair. He had found the girl.

  And it made him feel as though he were losing his mind.

  Perrin swam them toward A’lesander and grabbed a fistful of his hair. The woman exhaled sharply, her breath warm against his shoulder. All of her was warm, so much so that he feared she was ill. Her gaze, too bright, traveled down the Krackeni’s bobbing body.

  “He’s not dead,” Perrin said, but that elicited no response. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to ask who had tied her hands and put her in the water, but he knew the answer. He couldn’t imagine how this woman had gotten mixed up with A’lesander. His presence here, now, was a very bad sign.

  Perrin pulled them back to the boat. Only when they were close to the ladder did he let go of A’lesander, and grab the bottom rung. His tail shifted, bones cracking; skin rippling in silver streaks as his legs re-formed. The woman stared down through the water, first in astonishment, then with a thoughtfulness that made Perrin feel ill at ease, exposed. Like he was a guinea pig. He tightened his hold around her waist.

  “This may be uncomfortable,” he said.

  She gave him a questioning look, which ended in a grunt as he tossed her over his shoulder. She made no other sound as he climbed the ladder, taking care not to let her slide away from him. She almost did, and he was forced to dump her, rather awkwardly, onto the deck.

  Perrin followed. “I promise to free your hands, but I need rope, quick. For him.”

  “Equipment bin,” she said, without hesitation. Perrin scanned the deck—but stopped when he saw the body near the bow. Dolphin. He thought of Rik, and shook that thought from his head.

  The woman followed his gaze. “I think he did that last night.”

  Perrin said nothing. He knelt beside the corpse. His hand hovered over the cold cracke
d skin, and that black glazed eye could have been a fragment of polished stone. The wound was vicious.

  He heard a shuffling sound. Found the woman staggering toward the equipment box. He beat her to it, placing a steadying hand on the small of her back. She froze when he touched her, and he snatched his hand away.

  “I’ll take care of this,” he said, glancing back at the dolphin. Anger filled him, a primitive rage that started in his chest and rose high into his throat until he wanted to scream in frustration.

  “Do you know why?” asked the woman, gesturing with her chin toward the corpse.

  “Dolphins talk,” Perrin replied, and sensed her frown before he saw it.

  He grabbed the rope and strode quickly to the ladder. A’lesander continued to drift, but his fingers were twitching. Perrin jumped into the ocean, and hauled the Krackeni close, tying his hands behind his back with one end of the rope. He carried the other half up the ladder—braced his feet into the deck—and began hauling A’lesander into the boat.

  The woman peered over the rail. “I suppose you know that you’re pulling his arms out of their joints.”

  Perrin grunted. “You care?”

  The woman gave him a long look. “Not in the slightest.”

  A’lesander slipped onto the boat, his arms twisted in odd directions. His dorsal fin flopped, and silver scales rippled from his torso down the muscular length of his tail. Perrin looped the rope around the Krackeni’s neck—once, twice—and tied the end around his bound hands. No good restraining the rest of him until he shifted shape.

  “Do you have a place to secure him?” he asked the woman.

  She had been staring, and blinked hard. “Yes. Follow . . . follow me.”

  Perrin grabbed A’lesander’s hair and dragged him off deck through the door that the woman passed through. Bits of scalp tore away. He didn’t shift his grip except to tighten his fingers, and refused to let go until she led him to a room that had to be hers.

  “It’s already been emptied of anything that could be a weapon,” she explained, voice breaking on that last word.

  Perrin tossed A’lesander on the floor and rubbed his hand against his thigh.

  “Your knuckles are bleeding,” said the woman.

  “So is he.” Perrin backed out of the room and closed the door. A thick board was in the hall. He laid it lengthwise across the floor—bracing it against the wall and door—and found that it fit perfectly as a rough lock. He suspected it had already been used as such.

  The hall was small. Perrin had to bend over to keep from brushing his head against the ceiling. His shoulders touched the walls. The woman stood before him, a good deal smaller, though her gaze was bold—if not a little wild. A tic in her right cheek betrayed a hint of nerves. Perrin didn’t know what to say to her, how to explain anything—or even how much he could say. He had no time.

  “My hands,” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Knives.”

  Her bottom lip trembled, and she backed away from him, slow and careful. He followed, holding his breath, afraid he was losing his mind.

  She led him to a kitchenette. He found a knife in a drawer. Her shoulders tensed when he picked it up. He wanted to smile for her but could not. Reassurance had never been his strength.

  “Turn around,” he said roughly. “Hold still.”

  She did not move. “Are you real? Did I imagine all this?”

  Perrin slid around her, studying the plastic strip binding her hands. “Your wrists are raw. Are you imagining the pain?”

  He received no answer and set the blade against the restraint. Her skin was so warm. Definitely a fever, he thought.

  “You’re sick,” he said.

  “Later,” she replied, voice strained. “I need to be free.”

  He cut the plastic carefully but caught her hands in one of his before she could pull them apart.

  “Slowly,” Perrin said, swallowing hard as her scent filled his nose. Fresh as the sea, and clean. He set down the knife and drew her back against his chest, wrapping his free arm across her upper shoulders. Her feverish warmth flowed into his body. “How long have you been bound?”

  “Days,” she said, stiff inside his embrace.

  He wanted to kill A’lesander. “This is going to hurt.”

  She nodded, and he loosened his grip on her hands, just a little. Her breath hissed, and he held her tighter, bracing her shoulders against his chest as she spread her hands farther apart. Another small sound of pain escaped her.

  “Easy,” he murmured.

  “You act . . .” she swallowed hard, breathless, “ . . . like you’ve done this before.”

  Perrin smiled, knowing she couldn’t see him. “You’ll be sore for days, but it’ll pass.”

  She was silent a moment. “I know your voice.”

  He stopped breathing and closed his eyes. When he did that, when all he could count on was touch and sound, it felt like the dream again, on the beach in the cold sunlight.

  “How do I know your voice?” she whispered, trembling beneath his arm.

  He didn’t know how to answer her. Except, after a moment of dead quiet, a melody coursed through his head, and he hummed it. Just a few bars.

  That was enough. The woman sucked in her breath, leaning hard against him—and then, with a hiss of pain, pushed away. She staggered across the room, arms hanging limp at her sides. Tangled red hair covered half her face, but he could see her eyes—wild, haunted, as though he had cut her with that song.

  “You,” she whispered.

  “Me,” he said, just as quietly.

  She shuddered, backing away. He did not follow. His feet were frozen to the floor, just like his heart. All he could see were her eyes, the eyes he remembered from childhood and his vision—wide with wonder, then wide with rage, and now stormy with emotions he could not name, but feared. He was so afraid of her, of what it meant to find her. Now, of all times.

  “I don’t . . .” she began, and touched her head, swaying. She tried to speak again, looking at him with an urgency that made him step toward her. She held up her hand as though to stop him but didn’t. Her eyes were turning glassy, blood draining from her face—which was hardly enough warning when her legs buckled. He dove to his knees and caught her. The base of his skull throbbed.

  He cradled her close, breathing hard, pressing his hand against her brow. Her skin burned him, and she wouldn’t open her eyes. The pain worsened in his head. So did panic.

  “Come on,” Perrin whispered, pulling her tight against his chest as he found his feet, awkward and unsteady. He didn’t know where to take her, and the helplessness that hit him was almost too much to bear.

  He finally remembered seeing a bed in some room he had passed while dragging A’lesander. He made his way down the corridor, and the bed was where he remembered it: unmade, rumpled, thick with the Krackeni’s scent. Turned Perrin’s stomach to lay the woman on those sheets, but he did, and rushed to the nearby bathroom to wet a rag. He placed it on her brow. She never stirred.

  Fevers killed. He knew that about humans. About himself, too. He had suffered terrible illnesses for his first several years on land. No immune system. Common colds were devastating. The seasonal flu, before he had learned about vaccinations, had nearly killed him.

  Perrin rummaged through the bathroom drawers but found nothing useful for bringing down a fever. Nothing in the main cabin, either. The drawers were full of clothes and maps—cash in one, books, a passport with A’lesander’s picture in it—all the trappings of a normal human life, one that had been lived with ease and safety. Put a bitter taste in Perrin’s mouth.

  He checked the woman, flipping the rag to the cool side, and left the cabin. He needed to find aspirin, ibuprofen—even antibiotics. After that, radios. She needed a doctor.

&nb
sp; Perrin passed a metal door with a glass insert. Inside, he saw lab equipment. He entered, scanning the room, opening drawers. No first-aid kit, no medicine. He didn’t give much thought to anything else he saw, though it seemed to him that this must be some kind of science vessel.

  There was another door at the end of the room. He pulled it open, got hit with a blast of cold air—and stopped in his tracks.

  A dead woman lay on a stainless-steel table. Not just a woman. A Krackeni.

  He knew without getting close. Blood knew blood. She was long and white, and her hair was silver. He stared, breathless, leaning hard against the doorway. He could see her face where he stood. Not well, but enough.

  Bile pushed up his throat, and he bent over, gagging. He couldn’t stop. He vomited nothing but air and spit, so long, so hard, his throat and chest felt like they were going to crack open. Tears burned his eyes.

  By the time Perrin stopped retching, he was on his hands and knees. He nearly had to crawl to reach the corpse. Reached up, tentatively, to touch a cold, still hand. He glimpsed her face—closer now, familiar—and looked away. He pressed his brow against the rim of the icy steel table. Scented death and rot.

  “Pelena,” he whispered, shaking. “Pelena, Pelena.”

  He finally managed to stand, his gaze falling upon gaping wounds, bruised flesh. A white sheet lay on the floor beside the table, as though someone had torn it off her body and not had enough respect to replace it.

  I’m sorry, Perrin thought, suffering a trembling grief that he didn’t know how to express. Gone eight years, and now this. He forced himself to touch that cold face, heart breaking as he traced a line against her familiar cheekbone.

  And then, swallowing hard, he used both hands to turn her head—and felt the base of her skull.

  He found a hole. But nothing else.

  Perrin hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath, but it left him in a rush. He picked up the sheet and very carefully pulled it over her body. He stood for a moment, staring at that long white lump—exhaustion bleeding into his bones.