Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (41 page)

The tenderness of the last two days together—the slow glow of happiness was obliterated. How could he pretend to be falling for me, and all the while lying to my face! I couldn’t comprehend it. I may be overshadowed with blackness, but he awoke parts of me that had been dormant. He made me want to fight against the suck of insanity; to rebel from the sweet temptations of the voices inside.  

Storming to the old copper sink, I used the scrubbing brush to clean my hands. Scouring hard, I watched detachedly as blood swilled down the plughole. I washed once. Twice. Three times. And still, blood stained my hands. The blood of my family's killer. My rapist. My nightmare.

Something tickled my chin. My hand swiped and came away with a mixture of nosebleed and tears. Why was I crying?
I know why. Because you’re royally fucked up, that’s why.
 

Callan’s face, when I pummeled Adrian Mathieu to death, haunted my memory. He was repulsed. Disgusted. He
hated
me in that moment. How many times did he ask me to stop? And had I really punched him? Everything was shrouded in a red haze that took over my motor control, my speech. I was a passenger in my own body. 

I didn’t like how my thoughts turned from hating him to hating myself. I wanted to loath him. He kept things from me, but at the same time, it didn’t compare to what I made him live through. I made him stand by while I killed an old man.

But I couldn't let Adrian live. That would’ve been blasphemy. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. I owed it to my family to annihilate him, and when I found the other unnamed man, his fate would be the same.

“Ocean?” Maurice appeared from the lounge. His eyes dropped to the sink and the streaming faucet.

My lip wobbled, but I bit it hard, tasting metallic on my tongue. “Not now, Maurice. Leave me be.”
Go away so you don’t see what I’ve become.

Warm male hands landed on my shoulders. I flinched as fingers grazed my stitches. They burned with agony. Did I tear them when I killed Adrian? How the hell did I end up there?  Even now, I didn't know what city or country we landed in. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

I waited for the guilt of leaving Callan behind, and it didn’t disappoint. If Maurice wasn’t so close, I might’ve crumbled to the floor under the pressure of it.

I wished I could turn off the pain. I was cold anyway, a shell of who I used to be. Maybe I should just give in and allow the voices to take me. I was tired. I didn’t want to fight anymore.

“What happened, child? You were supposed to stay in Bali till next week.” Maurice rubbed my arms, moving to turn off the tap and take my hands in his. Water dripped on the slate tiles. “Stop that. You're clean.”

Temper flashed. “I'm not clean, Maurice. I'm dirty. I need to wash away the blood.” My voice slurred with an angry accent not my own.
Keep it under control.

Maurice's face grew scared. “There is no blood, Ocean. Only a little on your lip from your nosebleed. You're clean. Come.” He guided me to the kitchen table, and pushed me into a chair. “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing.”

He tutted. “Obviously something happened. Tell me. I won't let you leave this table until you explain what you're doing here. Where's Callan?”

My eyes unfocused. Where was Callan? I’d left him. I left him with the carcass of my rapist. Why did I do that? Why would I do that to someone I cared—

You did it because you’re like us. He’s a lying piece of garbage. You were too gentle on him.
Oh my God. I needed help. Desperately. I put my head in my hands.
What’s happening to me? Do I even still exist? Is there nothing left…

Sniffing, I asked, “Maurice, my gift allows me to go to any address I focus on, and yet I've never been able to port straight to a person before. If I had, I would’ve just thought about my target and been swept to their location. Why do you think I’m so limited?”

Maurice watched me closely. “I don't know, child. I’ve never understood how your gift worked. Unfortunately, I don't know how to find out more to help you. But perhaps you can't port to certain people as it would be too easy? Your power must have limitations, otherwise you'd be invincible. Nature doesn't work that way.”

Did that make sense? I guess. So Callan was the one who took us to Adrian Mathieu? Was it because he forced me to port and take him with me? Was he thinking about Adrian at the time?
How?!
Trying to solve the puzzle was good. It kept my mind active.

I put my head in my hands. “I ported by accident, Maurice. I travelled directly to Adrian Mathieu. I have no clue where he lives, but I arrived in his living room and killed him.”

Maurice sucked in a breath. “He's dead?”

I frowned. “Does that bother you?” My voice was a hiss.
Careful, Ocean
.
Don’t let yourself slip into that dead place again.

“Of course not. You're half-way through your promise of stopping. I'm glad he's dead after what he did to your family. But how did you get there?”

“Callan.”

He pursed his lips. “Callan took you?” His mouth fell open. “The blasted cop can teleport too?”

My eyes flew to his. I'd never believed others would have the same gift. Was that possible? A small glimmer of hope bloomed. Perhaps I wasn't so alone? I stomped on the idea. That was stupid to wish. I was the only one. I would’ve found others by now.

Callan couldn't teleport, although he was affected by my power when we landed in Adrian's apartment. He shouldn't have been able to feel the pressure—the torture—and yet, he did.

“No. He can't port. But he took me to Adrian.” I looked up. Maurice was stony faced. “How did he do that, Maurice? I don't understand.”

“He saw you kill?”

I couldn't keep his stare. I knew embarrassment or fear should run rampant, but there was nothing but chilliness in my soul. “Yes. He tried to make me stop. He hated it. I disgusted him.” I straightened my back. “Which is for the best. I left him there. I never want to see him again after he lied. He broke my trust.” My voice sounded dispassionate, removed, even as I lied to myself.

“You left him at the scene of a crime?” His voice rose. Maurice stood, standing behind me. “There's something off about you, Ocean.” He touched me. “Your skin is freezing.” He grabbed my chin, looking deep into my eyes. “Your spark is missing. Your eyes are. . .” he gulped, “dead.”

I spiraled into my chasm of emptiness. I was dead. It was done. The marks took me as their own. There was nothing more I could do. “Oh.” I couldn't say anything more. I should’ve been screaming and crying in terror, but my heart pumped evenly, my pulse never spiked. Maurice was right. I was dead.

“Ocean. What have you done, child.” Terror glossed his eyes. “I can't believe you threw away your life to kill others.” Anger flashed on his face. “I love you, you blasted girl. And you've let those marks steal you away from me. From Callan. From your future. How
could
you?”

I stared straight ahead. Not flinching. What could I say?  Callan and Maurice didn't understand I owed other would-be victims. I was their dark savior. They needed me.

Standing, I tucked wayward hair behind my ears. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Maurice. I'll leave. You won't see me again.” I wanted to cry, to feel something.
Anything
. But there was nothing—only a strange, cold aloofness.

“Um, excuse me for interrupting.”

Both Maurice and I looked up. Mamello stood in the entrance to the kitchen, dressed in mismatched clothes that were too short in the leg and arm. For some reason, I still thought of him as Clark. It would take time to get used to his new name. Time I didn’t have as I was about to leave for good. I couldn’t be around innocent people. Not when the worst had finally happened: I’d turned into a monster.

“I didn’t mean to listen, but I couldn’t help it when you mentioned marks.”

Maurice narrowed his eyes. “If you have something to say, spit it out, Mamello. Now is not the time.”

Mamello came toward us, lifting the bottom of the cream shirt he wore. “Is this like the mark you talk of?”

Maurice pushed me in his rush to get to Mamello. He inspected the splodge left when I healed him. The weird sensation of ice turning to mist in my soul returned as I remembered what I did. I didn’t have any explanation as to how he was still alive. I was glad he was, though—instead of killing someone, I saved them for a change. At least I did something right.

Maurice turned, frantic hope in his eyes. “Turn around. Lift up your top.”

“Excuse me?”

Maurice bumbled in my direction. “Do it, Ocean, for Pete’s sake.” I didn’t think I’d ever seen him so anxious. I faced away, and Maurice lifted my t-shirt. “Oh, my gilly aunt.”

I wanted to chuckle, but there was nothing but emptiness. “Nice turn of phrase there, Maurice.”

Ignoring me, he asked, “What did you do to Mamello?”

Mamello answered, awe in his voice. “She saved me, sir. I was dead. I don’t know how she did it. I felt a strange tugging and a weird cold sensation in my lungs and heart. My skin tingled and sewed together. I woke up to find her passed out beside me.”

“Really… um.” Maurice thrummed his finger against his lip in thought. His eyes flashed from mine, to Mamello, and back again. When I couldn’t take his thinking any longer, he jumped and clapped his hands. “Ocean, my dear.” He kissed me square on the lips. “I think I know how to save you.”

“What? How? What was on my back?” My fingertips climbed my spine. What did he know that I didn’t?

“How many marks should you have?” Maurice asked.

I frowned. Counting was hard. After a minute, I answered, “Eighteen. There should be eighteen marks after my kill today.” My voice was monotone. It sent shivers down my skin. I was an automaton.

Maurice jumped on the spot. “So far, my theory is proving correct. Fantastic.”

Confusion flared, and the red fog that settled over me in Adrian’s apartment stole my thoughts again. “Fuck, old man. Tell me what you know, goddammit!” The minute I said it, I wanted to run far away. Tears blossomed in my eyes. “Maurice. I’m so so sorry. My God… I—” I couldn’t continue. What Maurice didn’t know is those words came from a new slimey part of me and had an Australian accent.
Holy crap, why did I sound like Adrian Mathieu?

Maurice blinked, but his smile stayed in place. “That’s all right, child. I know you must be stressed.” He couldn’t hide the wariness in his eyes as he added, “Ah, where was I? Ah, yes, there are only seventeen marks on your back.”

I never believed people could faint in a second—snap straight out cold. Bye, bye. But that’s what happened to me. Legs buckled, lights blinked, and I came to being carried by Mamello. He placed me in the wingback. I had one less mark than I should! How? Did I count them wrong?
Seventeen instead of eighteen!
My brain couldn’t see what Maurice did.

I wanted nothing more than to believe Maurice was correct, but how was that possible? Needing to see with my own eyes, I asked, “Do you mind?” I motioned to Mamello’s shirt.

“Not at all.” He pulled it up. The mark was like an old enemy. I recognized it from my own: a splash of blackness. No set border, no uniform pattern. Literally just a splash. What did this mean?

Maurice wasn’t far, talking excitedly on the phone. He cupped the mouthpiece when he noticed I watched him. “I’ll be there in three minutes.”

Mamello smiled. “You saved me, and in turn, I might help save you. I’m glad.” He took my hand, whispering. “You aren't damned, Ocean.”

“Damned?”

He nodded sanguinely. “Yes. You think you're damned. I've watched you. You run from what your heart wants. You surround yourself with monsters because you don't feel worthy. Whatever happened to you in the past doesn't make you who you are. You’re not damned. You’re a savior.”

Helium bubbled in my chest as hope unfurled. I never considered what Mamello said. But it made so much sense.
Did
I think I was damned? Was I that fucked up?

Maurice bolted toward us. He was acting like a twenty-year-old, not his seventy-plus-years. “Ocean. My dear.”

My heart pittered, pattered, stuttered. He grasped my hands. I squeezed as hard as I could. “Tell me.”

“Let me see if I can explain this. You’re filled with coldness when you kill, correct?”

I frowned. “Yes. The branding burns me, but then morphs into ice.”

“And you said you’re not feeling yourself anymore. That your personality is shrouded. I already know the answer to that, of course. Your spark has gone. And that outburst, well, that wasn’t you at all.”

Why was he rehashing everything? “Yes.” I gulped. “I hear voices, Maurice. Inside. They’re taking over.” I sounded like a lunatic saying it out loud.

Maurice nodded, as though what I said made perfect sense. “What if we had it wrong? What if you soul
isn’t
being sucked dry? Doesn’t it make more sense that you aren’t being emptied? You’re being filled up.”

My mouth fell open. “What?”

Maurice shook his head at my expression. “Sorry, I didn’t explain it very well. I don’t believe your soul is stolen. I think you’re intact, but there isn’t enough space inside.”

I was boggled. “What are you talking about?”

Maurice patted my cheek. “I think you have seventeen other souls inside you. This is a guess, but if I'm correct, and believe me I need to do a lot of research, but it looks as though you
absorb
the soul you kill.”

Oh my God. Something twisted inside, angry as hell at this information, while another part sucked in a breath and hoped for a miracle. I shook my head. “You think I steal
their
souls when I kill? Not the other way around?”

He nodded hard. “Yes. Each soul is captured by you, and because you're killing black-riddled souls, they're filling you with darkness.”

Holy shit, if he was right, I was full of murderers and rapists. It resonated within. It made… sense. It was the first answer to my marks that brightened me with a glow of hope. The fierce joy battled the emptiness. A bright ray of sunshine burned away the evil ghosts and fog sharing my body for just a moment.