In The Dark Of Dreams Part 13

But this was not the fantasy she had built in her mind. This was not the sweet boy of her memories. Not the frightened boy who had looked at her with wonder and fear, and tentative friendship.

A very large part of her, she realized, had never expected to find him-not the boy, and certainly not this rawboned, scarred, giant of a man he had become. She wasn't ready. She didn't know what to do, or how to react. She didn't even know if she could trust him.

Her mouth tasted like a bitter pill. "Why are you here? Why . . . after all these years?"

He finally looked at her, and for the first time she realized that constant cold expression was nothing but a mask-a mask that slipped, briefly, to reveal raw heartbreak. "Because I found you."

Because I found you. If there had been a gun to her head, she still wouldn't have found words to answer that. All Jenny could do was drink him in, listening to his voice, blind to everything but his eyes. Those eyes.

She tried to stand when he crossed to her side, but her aching legs wouldn't work. He reached down and picked her up in his arms. His touch was uncannily familiar. His skin, hot.

"You were expecting something else," he said, quietly. "Not . . . this."

"I'll settle for your name," she replied, allowing her head to rest against his chest, too sick and weary to fight. She felt reduced to taking life in moments, one at a time. Too much had happened for anything else.

He hesitated. "Perrin."

"Perrin," she repeated, unable to help the grim smile that ghosted over her lips. "I'm Jenny."

"Jenny," he said. "We're leaving this boat."

Les had dumped the scuba equipment in Maurice's room. The old man's scent was everywhere when Perrin opened the door. Cherry tobacco and beer, and the sea. His bed was rumpled, sheets limp. His desk, cluttered with fossils and sh.e.l.ls, and old books he collected in every port. No computer. Maurice didn't like them. If he had, Jenny suspected it would be gone. Les had left nothing that could be used to call out.

Air tanks, suits, masks-everything had been dumped on the floor. Perrin stood just inside the room, holding Jenny in his arms. Staring at the mess.

He made a small sound of frustration. "You'll have to tell me what you need."

She blamed exhaustion for the tears that burned her eyes-certainly not being near Maurice's things, or the man holding her. Certainly not.

Either way, she didn't want him to see her cry. "Put me down. You're making me dizzy."

Perrin loosened his arm and set her gently on her feet. "Sorry."

Jenny really did feel dizzy. "Don't be. Just . . ."

"Calm down," he finished.

"You seem perfectly calm." She craned her neck to see his eyes. "If you're screaming, I can't hear you."

"Good," he rumbled. "I'd sound like a girl."

Jenny coughed, staring. Tears slipped over her eyes, and she wiped hurriedly at them. His strong fingers slid around her hand. "Sit down on the bed."

She couldn't stop looking at him, and felt like a fool. "You don't have to help me."

His hand tightened, though his expression remained unreadable. Such a familiar touch, even if the face didn't match the warmth of his skin. Such a familiar voice, even if its low rumble didn't fit the cold glitter of his eyes. Never mind any of that. Every time he spoke, or touched her-she felt herself sliding from reality, and it was all she could do to snap herself out of it and wall up those memories. Not now. Not here. Not the time.

But he said, "Pretend this is the beach," and all her resolve shattered, making her feel uneasy and fragile.

"Pretend," he said again. "Pretend, and stop telling me I don't have to help you. Don't wonder why. Just accept it."

"You wouldn't accept it," she whispered, frozen under his touch and stare. "You don't get that many scars and accept just anything."

Perrin blinked and stepped away from her. Not much room-his back hit the wall. Jenny couldn't move. Wondering where those words had come from and how they had hit their mark so hard.

He circled her. Just a couple steps, until he stopped, turning slightly. Not looking at her. She was glad. Afraid he would see her trembling. Or staring at his scars. There were so many of them-all over his back and sides, his arms, even his legs. The same scars, as though he had been cut open with the same knife, the same hand. She thought of the boy on the beach, whose skin had been unblemished except for the wound on his chest, and wondered what the h.e.l.l had happened. Had he received the other wounds then? Later? Why would anyone hurt him?

She stumbled to the bed and sat. "Where are we going?"

He hesitated. "There's someone I need to find."

Someone. Another mystery. She had so many questions. Les, that murdered woman . . . was that his business in this region? And what kind of business did a merman have? How was it possible that he spoke English, or made references to the O.K. Corral, or- Stop, she told herself sternly. Stop it. Focus. Prioritize.

You need a doctor.

You need to stay out of Consortium hands.

You need to make sure he stays free from the Consortium.

The rest could wait. The rest didn't matter until they were safe.

"You mentioned friends," she said. "Calling the coast guard. You must have a radio."

"It's too far for us to reach. I a.s.sume, though, the old man-"

"Maurice," she corrected him.

"Maurice," he said, still turned away her, "probably already contacted someone. a.s.suming he was conscious enough to do so. My . . . friends would have."

He stumbled over the word friends. Not an easy word for him. Maybe those people weren't his friends. Maybe he was lying about helping Maurice.

Maybe, maybe.

But if he was telling the truth, it also meant she could wait this out. Help would come. Pathetic how much she relied on her family for help when she didn't even want to see them anymore.

You want to be a sitting duck? You think you can trust them to come in time? Is that so much easier than fighting your own fight? When did you become a coward?

Six years ago on a b.l.o.o.d.y day, that was when.

But she had been a sitting duck then, too, for different, important reasons. And Jenny never wanted to feel that helpless again.

Perrin bent and hefted up an air tank, already clamped into the black harness. "What about the suits?"

Jenny didn't move. "I want answers."

"Answers with no questions." Perrin stared at her, dangerous, inscrutable-until the corner of his mouth twitched. "I want those answers, too."

She swallowed hard, unable to understand her reaction to that ever-faint, barely there, smile. He put the tank on the bed and pulled a wetsuit from the pile. "Do you need this?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He shook it out, knelt in front of her, and held open the legs. She had to tell herself to move. Had to concentrate in order to push through the moment. It was all too strange.

Jenny shoved her feet into the wetsuit, and studied his bowed head as he pushed and pulled her into the skintight gear. Being so near him, just a breath away, sent a roar of heat through her, matched by an equally cold tingle that rushed over her skin and made every hair rise on her arms. She wanted to touch him, desperately, just to tell herself that he was real.

Just to touch him, for the sake of a touch.

When it was time to stand, he said, gruffly, "Put your arms around my neck."

"I can do it alone," she lied.

Perrin took her hands and placed them around his neck. His touch was gentle, firm, his skin warm and dry. Her palms brushed the rough ridges of his scars, and it felt too intimate, touching them. She suffered the sudden, striking feeling that no one else ever had.

He also stilled, and did not look at her face.

"Hold on," he whispered, and stood. Jenny rose with him, until her feet nearly dangled off the floor. Pressed together so tight she could feel every hard line, warm, intimate in a wholly different way. His presence, larger than the world. She refused to look at his face, afraid of what he would see in her eyes. Too deeply affected. Frighteningly so. Her heart, raw and naked.

Perrin pulled the suit over her clothes. The material felt hot, stuffy. Jenny regretted saying she needed it even though it wasn't safe to enter the sea without protection for her skin.

"What about Les?" she asked, watching his jaw tighten.

"What about him?"

"If you leave him, and others discover what he is, there'll be trouble. Not just for him, but all your kind. Same with the . . . the woman."

"No time for trouble," he muttered cryptically, and picked up an air tank. "Come on."

"I'm serious."

"So am I," he snapped, but with an unmistakable tremor in his voice that made Jenny close her mouth. "Anything else you need?"

Jenny hesitated, then grabbed one of the waterproof packs. "Something from my room."

"I'll get it for you."

"No."

"Yes." Perrin held her gaze. "I don't want you near him. Tell me what you want."

"A pouch," she whispered. "In my top desk drawer."

He frowned and left her.

The moment he was gone, she went to Maurice's dresser and scrabbled around until she found a sheathed blade in his underwear drawer. She dropped it in the waterproof pack, along with a bottle of ibuprofen and a container of matches. On an afterthought, she included a small signal mirror.

Shouts echoed down the hall. She froze, heart pounding, and tried to listen to what they were saying. She caught a few words-no, you don't understand-but then everything switched over into a tangled mess of clicks and snarls. Wood crashed. She jumped, frightened-then took one step down the hall, afraid not to look. If Les had gotten free . . .

She heard Perrin's voice. He sounded calm, unhurt.

"Don't tell me why," he said. "Doesn't matter anymore. But you won't hurt her again."

"Would never," Les said, his voice ragged, pained. "Not Jenny."

She flinched again, hearing her name-then twitched one more time as she listened to another crash, a meaty thud, a long groan. She tried to move, but her feet were frozen.

"Not Jenny?" Perrin echoed, and the quiet fury in his voice stunned her. "You kept her tied up for two days. She had a fever. You tried to drown her. And I saw her shorts. If you touched her-"

Jenny started and touched her waist. Her shorts were b.u.t.toned. She hadn't done that. Had Perrin fastened them while she lay unconscious?

She couldn't listen anymore. Couldn't think about it. Finally, her feet moved, and she wrenched herself around. Fleeing down the hall, another headache brewing at the base of her skull.

Near the engine room, she dropped to her knees and pulled up a loose flap of carpet, revealing a small panel that slid open with one gentle push.

The Russian SPP1M was inside. Along with a box of bullets that had been torn open. She stared, thinking hard, and picked up the weapon. Checked the ammo.

Four shots had been fired. The same number that had pierced that woman's body.

"What is that?" Perrin asked, behind her.

Jenny flinched, startled. "You're so quiet."

"Sorry." He crouched, pointing. "Tell me."

She thought of the conversation she had overheard, the rage in his voice as he had accused Les of hurting her.

"Your knuckles are bleeding again," she said.

His face revealed nothing, nothing but cold and shadows, and a quiet menace that should have terrified her.

But she crouched there, holding his gaze-bold, unflinching-and felt no fear. She tried, she looked for it, she told herself to be uneasy-because that was smart, anyone should be uneasy of him-but her stomach didn't hurt, and she wasn't afraid.

Just tired. Head hurting. Feeling used.

I will never trust anyone ever again, she told herself, thinking of Les.

Except for Maurice, she added.

And this man, an insidious little voice whispered. Trust him.

"My knuckles," he said, slightly hoa.r.s.e, "had to make a point."

She made a small sound. "Does that happen often?"

He looked down, but not quick enough to hide the shame that flickered in his eyes. She also looked away and held up a bullet. Her hand shook.

"This is ammunition for an underwater gun. I found . . . similar wounds . . . on the woman."

She tamped down the desire to explain modern weaponry. He seemed to know more than enough about humans already.