Authors: Joss Ware
F
ence didn’t try to stop Ana from leaving. Not this time.
Instead, he sank back down onto the coarse sand and rubble and watched the sea grow dark with twilight.
His shoes were still off to the side, along with his shirt, where he’d flung them. Ana hadn’t bothered to pick up the remains of her own clothing, she’d been in such a hurry to get away from him.
The indentations in the sand where they’d rolled and writhed together had only been partially obliterated by the wave that yanked him out of the dark, hot passion and reminded him where he was . . . who he was.
What
he was.
But what the
hell
had happened?
He remembered little about those moments in the water but sheer panic, blind terror. He remembered sinking, the cold sea rushing into him, into his lungs . . . the sharp stinging pain beneath his arms.
Frowning, he felt around his ribs to see what had cut him, for unlike the other scrapes and bumps on his skin, he didn’t feel any residual pain.
He found nothing there but a little ridge, very slender and hardly more noticeable than a scratch—in fact, he’d felt it some time ago, but paid it no attention. But then he realized there was one on each side, just beneath his arms, along the space between the two top rib bones. A delicate little cut. Two of them. Strange.
They weren’t bleeding, nor were they red or even pink. But they were identical in placement and length. He had no idea how long they’d been there—there weren’t a lot of mirrors after the Apocalypse.
He shrugged, smoothing his fingertips over the little ridge one last time, then turned to examining the scrape on his forearm. He concluded it wasn’t serious, but that a good washing and maybe a bandage might be in order. As he’d warned Ana that first time after she came out of the sea, scraped in a similar fashion, the simplest cut could turn into a septic infection.
But even as his attention turned to practical matters, he couldn’t dismiss the niggling thought that continued to prickle his mind. He’d been underwater. He’d sucked water in, he
knew
he’d sucked water in during those panic-stricken moments . . . he’d felt it shoot through him. Cold and unfamiliar. Stinging.
His heart pounded like a riot in Motown and he felt that clammy-skinned, light-headed feeling sweep over him again. He’d been under the water, he’d
breathed
, and he
hadn’t drowned
.
Fence shook his head hard enough to make himself dizzy. Impossible. Simply impossible.
Ana had saved him; that was all there was to it. She’d gotten to him in time and saved him. Dragged him onshore.
And he’d been so damned happy to be alive, to have fucked over whatever grim reaper had tried to drown him once more
and
to end up with a handful of crazy hot woman at the same time that he’d slipped right into that.
In spite of all the horror, Fence grinned in the twilight. Hot damn. That had been the highlight of an otherwise sucky day: his hands and mouth sampling soft, sweet, salty-fresh Ana.
A particularly strong wave tumbled onto the shore in front of him, rushing around his feet and drawing his attention from the pleasant memory to one he’d much rather avoid. As the water receded, he trailed his fingers in the wet sand and allowed his mind to go back to the impossible. His grin faded.
No fucking way.
But . . . if Simon could turn invisible without the use of a cloak, and Elliott could read the inside of a human body and heal with his hands . . . was it so unbelievable to consider the possibility that he could breathe underwater?
He couldn’t take his eyes away from the rolling, foaming sea. The very idea of putting his face in the water and inhaling, trying to breathe, was beyond terrifying. His palms went slicker than a used car salesman, and he put the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t do it.
Even if it had happened before—if he’d breathed underwater—there was no fucking way in hell he’d ever do it again. He simply
couldn’t.
He wasn’t a doctor, he didn’t have any deep understanding of the physiological workings of the human body other than his EMT training. But he knew that he was breathing air just as well as he always had. He had to have imagined it all.
He didn’t have crystals like that guy lying on Elliott’s table . . .
Oh. Wait.
Ana
.
She’d helped him. And he’d seen that glow around her in the water too.
He’d had his hands almost everywhere over that long, golden body . . . wouldn’t he have felt the crystals?
Or maybe he’d been a bit distracted.
Fence’s eyes half closed for a moment, his mind easily rerouted from the unpleasantness of facing reality to the delicious memory of Ana plastered all over him like frosting on a wedding cake—all those sleek curves and nonstop legs and generous handfuls of breast and hip and booty. Even now he felt that sharp, twitching response, that renewal of desire, rising inside him.
And rising outside him as well. He grinned again and lifted his hand to smooth it over his skull. Yeah, he wasn’t finished with the sun goddess yet.
But he paused when he saw his fingers. Recently sliding through the last bit of wave, they glittered with drops of thick, gray glop.
Fence stared at the substance, then saw that it had clung to his bare feet as well. He didn’t know what it was or why it was suddenly showing up on Envy’s shore, but he knew it was time to get some answers from someone who did.
This time he’d do it somewhere
away
from the water.
F
ence couldn’t find Ana anywhere. She wasn’t with her father, she wasn’t in the pub or the common eating area, she wasn’t in the hotel room that he had arranged for her.
She wouldn’t be crazy enough to start back to Glenway on her own, tonight, would she? No—he talked himself down from that sudden worry—she wouldn’t leave George.
In fact, Fence would have stayed with George and demanded some answers from him if Flo hadn’t been lurking about, fussing with her patient’s bedcoverings and giving him “get out of here” glares.
Never one to cross a woman with that sort of “I’ll slice off your nuts” look, he left the room eagerly. A pissed-off or annoyed female was too messy, too dangerous, and too freaking much work. He preferred them soft, smiling, and teasing. Even tears he could handle—all you had to do in that situation was hold the woman, rub her shoulders, dry her eyes while listening to whatever was making her bawl, and then, when things settled, crack a few jokes. And, quite often, his being so “sensitive” led to other pleasant advantages.
The fierce and angry females, however, he avoided like a wild pitch. If he couldn’t talk her down with his melting grin, he was out of there.
He’d given up on finding Ana—who, unfortunately, seemed like she was going to fall into the latter category of women, which wouldn’t make his evening any better—and, with a rising sense of urgency, headed down away from the inhabited areas of the old casino and hotel.
Elliott had mentioned they were going to move the body of the presumed Atlantean to the secret computer chamber, and Fence figured he’d better head down that way to let everyone know what he thought he’d figured out—about Ana, at least.
He sure as shit wasn’t going to mention what had happened to him.
He walked quickly down the dark, dim corridor that was purposely left unmaintained. Despite the cunningly hidden lights that gave a faint, seemingly natural illumination to the area, the hall appeared deserted. Just like every other abandoned structure, it was littered with rubble, rodent nests, and other random junk. The fewer people in this part of the building, the fewer who’d have the chance to discover the working elevator shaft that led to the computer lab below.
The Waxnicki brothers—who were not only computer whizzes but also sci-fi and comic book geeks—had created what they called their Bat Cave, accessible only if one knew the secret code for the elevator. Fence had memorized it: up-down-down-up-up, and when the doors opened, you had to push in another code using the floor numbers. The back doors of the stationary elevator would open then, revealing the secret staircase. The current code for the back doors—it changed every week—was the birthday of someone named Linus Torvalds.
Lee-
nus, Theo had told him—not
Lie-
nus.
Whatever.
Just as Fence came around the corner to approach the elevator shaft, he saw a shadowy figure at the door. A woman. He halted in surprise . . . it wasn’t Jade or Sage, definitely not Zoë.
She was bent over, pushing buttons . . .
He shot forward. Her height and the hitch in her step when she spotted him confirmed that it was Ana, and he caught her upper arm before she ducked away.
She tried to jerk free, but he had the advantage of surprise and strength. His stomach had gone a little queasy with fear and regret, wondering how she’d discovered the secret hideaway of the Resistance. There was no other reason for her to be here, in this remote, empty, old area of the hotel, unless she’d somehow found out about it—perhaps she’d followed Elliott when he brought the body here. Sneaking around like this meant she had to be on the other side—whatever side that was, except that it was the opposite of his.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, backing her toward the wall, mindful of her lame leg, but firm nevertheless, using the leverage of his grip on her arm.
“I got lost,” she told him. And the next thing he knew, she had that little knife in her hand, its blade glinting right beneath his chin in the dim light. Even in the poor illumination he could see the determination in her eyes. And maybe a little fear.
He knew how he appeared: tall and dark and freaking massive. Fearsome, for sure, especially here, in what passed for the proverbial dark alley. Normally, he was very aware of this, particularly around a woman, and he adjusted his approach accordingly. After all, life wasn’t a football field. And hadn’t they just been rolling around in the sand? But now he used this ferocity to his advantage and moved in sideways so his thigh wedged her in place. Jesus, she smelled good. “You got lost? All the way over here?”
“What are
you
doing here?” she shot back. Her knife wavered, but he hardly noticed, for that little thing wasn’t any more of a threat to him than a tattoo artist’s needle.
“Maybe I followed you,” he said, and gripped her hand to move the knife aside.
“I doubt that.” Her voice, though steady, was a little breathless, but she didn’t cower from his gaze. “You were a wasted ball of nerves back on the beach. I don’t think you were in any condition to follow me anywhere,” she sneered.
He tried to ignore the insult, but a wisp of anger and humiliation rippled through him. So much for getting his freak on with her. “What the hell are you up to, Ana?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, and he felt her knife hand go limp in his grip . . . but he didn’t release her. “And you can stop following me. Here, on the beach, everywhere. Leave me alone.”
Fence considered his options. She wasn’t going anywhere, and even though she happened to be a hot bundle of woman, he couldn’t allow himself to soften. If, as he’d come to suspect, she was an Atlantean—or at least aligned with them—he couldn’t trust her. None of them could trust her, but at least they could try to find out what she knew . . . without letting her in on
their
secrets.
He could lift up her tight little button-down shirt right here and see if those crystals that he was certain existed were in fact there in her torso . . . but his mama’s pretty but stern face rose in his memory, along with her wagging finger and fierce, snapping eyes.
You treat all women with respect, all the time, Bruno Paolo Washington, or you’re going to have me to answer to—either now or at the Pearly Gates.
And somehow, he had always suspected that even his mama could take precedence over Saint Peter when it came to the afterlife and which direction he went.
So he couldn’t just reach out and yank up Ana’s shirt. As angry and concerned as he was, as nasty as she’d just been, it just wouldn’t be right. Damn his conscience.
“Here’s the deal, Ana,” he said, leaning in closer—and not only to intimidate her.
She must have showered and washed off the sea salt, because she smelled crazy, like flowers and delicious female. Her hair was almost completely dry, in long, loose waves that looked as if she’d just been tumbled into—or out of—bed. And in contrast to the soft, after-sex look, her shirt was buttoned up practically to her chin, her sleeves rolled up just below the elbows. All suited up and inside her cotton shield.
Despite the precarious situation, heat flared inside him at the thought of what lay beneath. “You can either lift up your shirt and show me that you don’t have any crystals in your skin, or I’ll do it for you. With pleasure.”
He could feel her jagged pulse pounding against him, and the tension vibrating beneath her skin. Too damn bad it wasn’t because of his good looks and charm.
Or what he could do with his mouth.
“You’re disgusting,” she said. “You’ll try anything to get a woman undressed.”
He avoided the obvious mental detour. “I’m going to count to five. If you don’t, I will.” He tried to keep his eyes hard instead of melting into the heat that thought generated. Button by button by button—
Yo, brother.
Focus.
“One . . . two . . .”
Her chest rose and fell as she glared up at him. He thought he read indecision in her eyes, and that alone was almost all the answer he needed. If she didn’t have anything to hide, she’d show him some skin.
He almost forgot to count, distracted once again. “Uh . . . three—”
Her arm moved suddenly—the one with the knife—but he stopped her in mid-strike.
“Jesus, Ana,” he said, more offended than angry. It was a pansy knife, but she was wielding it like she meant it. “Now you’re trying to kill me?”
“I was aiming for your upper arm,” she said defensively. “That wouldn’t kill a big guy like you. It would hardly ni—”