Monstrum (12 page)

This ship, on the other hand, is much more like a state-of-the-art submarine than a cruise ship. I have to fight the urge to watch for James Bond or Jason Bourne to dart around the nearest corner, weapon drawn.

Instead of bright and soaring atriums, there are narrow walkways with utilitarian overhead lights. Everything seems to be made of a gleaming gray metal, including the bare floors and walls, and there's no polished teak in sight.

There is, however, a windowed radio room, which I peek into as we pass. It looks really cool, with all kinds of screens, computers, receivers and blinking radar, but when I linger too long, staring, the crew member sitting at one of the computers frowns at me as though I'm a Peeping Tom.

Stung, I back up a step.

The crewman who's leading our group hurries back to collect me and puts a hand to the small of my back to gently push me along. Maggie and An, who are up ahead, glance over their shoulders at me but keep walking with the others.

“Wow,” I say to the crewman as we continue on. By this point, the brandy has loosened me up quite a bit, and my curiosity has been piqued. “That's some technology you've got there.”

A pause. “We're proud of it,” he says, bowing his head.

“What do you do with all that stuff?”

“Communications. Research. Whatever needs to be done.”

“What kind of research?”

He hesitates, increasing the pressure on my back. I get the feeling he wants to hand me off as soon as possible. “The captain will explain all that to you.”

“But you're not from the Coast Guard, are you?” I persist as we turn the corner. “Because I didn't see any—
whoa
.” I stop dead and gawk through the next window. “You guys don't mess around, do you?”

We've come upon another room, and this one is seriously wild. Glass cabinets line the walls, and standing inside the cabinets, just waiting to be grabbed, locked and loaded, are enough weapons to take down a terrorist compound.

What I know about guns could fill a thimble and still leave room for my finger, but I do recognize some things. Rifles. Assault rifles. Harpoons. Crossbows. Hunting knives. Grisly looking spears with serrated points. And, most interesting of all, especially for fencers like me, these sick, three-foot machetes with wooden handles and curved blades of gleaming stainless steel.

I'm not the only one mesmerized by this arsenal. All forward progress screeches to a halt when everyone else stops to gawk. The other kids and Murphy all have wide eyes and dropped jaws as they line the window and stare into the weapons room, so I'm guessing it would take a nuclear strike to get them moving again.

“Wow,” Carter breathes, pointing. “Look at the pangas.”

“The who?” I ask.

“The machetes, dude.” Carter whistles with appreciation. “See the curved blades? They use them in the Caribbean for chopping crops and the jungle vegetation and stuff. You could win a few tournaments with those babies, couldn't you?”

“Doubtful. Each one of those probably weighs two or three times more than my saber. I'd be more likely to wear myself out with the thing and then accidentally cut my arm off.”

Carter snickers, but I feel a sudden ripple of foreboding, probably because I don't have to be a genius to connect a couple of dots.

“You're after that thing out there in the water, aren't you?” I ask the crew member, the mere idea making my voice whispery with fear. “That monster whale?”

“We must keep moving.” The guy now has a red flush creeping across his face but otherwise shows no sign that he heard what I just said. Clearing his throat, he gestures for us to continue and is universally ignored. I glare at him, but he resolutely stares over my shoulder. “As I said, friends, the captain will explain—”

“Hang on,” Carter interjects, sounding awed, while Gray emits a low whistle and Mike presses his palms and nose to the glass. “Are those XCRs?”

I'm clueless.

So is Maggie, who asks exactly what I'm thinking: “Whatty-who's?”

“XCRs,” Carter says impatiently, pointing to these vicious-looking assault rifles. “Developed by Robinson Armament for SOCOM?” The other girls and I exchange blank looks. “Special Operations Command? NATO?” Carter continues, tapping my forehead with an index finger. “
Hello?
Is anybody home in there?”

“Oh,” I say as the lightbulb goes off over my head. “NATO. Got it. Thanks, G.I. Joe. And what about the rifles in the cabinet next to—”

Sammy interrupts me. “What's the tank for?” he asks.

At first I don't know what he's talking about, but then I see it in the next cabin, only partially in our field of vision: a room-sized aquarium filled with beautiful blue water, undulating seaweed in all colors and, as far as I can see, absolutely nothing else.

I stare, unwillingly riveted. In an unconscious gesture, my fingers go to my necklace. I rub the aquamarine and try to regulate my breathing, which has become shallow and inadequate.

“The captain will—” the crewman begins.

“What's with the secrecy, boyo? You can fill us in on a few of the pertinent details until the captain talks to us. We're not in a bleedin' James Bond movie.” Murphy has apparently had enough of the party line, and his unsmiling face and thinned lips reflect it. It also reflects his age, which seems to have increased exponentially since we boarded that plane in the Bahamas. His skin, which was wrinkled but nicely ruddy from the sun, has turned to a crinkled roadmap of shoe leather, and his cheeks have sharpened to bony cliffs. Fixing the crewman with his flinty blue gaze, he says, “I suggest you use the tongue God gave you.”

The guy stares at his shoes, rocks back on his heels and rubs a hand over his neck. Then he picks his words with the delicacy of a soldier tiptoeing his way across a minefield.

“This is a . . . scientific research mission, Señor. We discuss it on a need-to-know basis only. We must get going.”

“So you're trying to catch that rabid whale out there?” Gray demands.

Without another word, the guy pivots and walks off, leaving us speechless and dissatisfied. Muttering, we frown at each other and watch him go, trying to decide whether to follow him or not. Finally, we walk after him.

Well, everyone except Espi, that is.

I've taken a few steps before I realize she's fallen behind the rest of us. When I look back, I see that she's standing in the middle of the hallway, where we left her, with her hand holding the two ends of the blanket at her throat and her blank eyes staring at nothing.

“Espi,” I say quietly, approaching her.

No answer.

I glance around for help, but the group has disappeared down a corridor to the left, leaving me and my sorry comforting skills with Espi. The only thing I can think to do is put my arm around her shoulders and lead her, silent and unresisting, the rest of the way.

A flapping door tells me where the others have gone, and we follow them into a small dining room, and a nice one at that.

The decor is nautical and highly masculine, as though the room was transplanted from some retro men's club where women aren't allowed. There's a small collection of ornate globes standing in a corner, and the brass chandelier overhead provides a nice change from the fluorescent lighting everywhere else. All kinds of gleaming brass sea instruments dot the surfaces, and a plush navy rug covers the floor. One of the wood-paneled walls is covered with nicely framed antique maps of the Bahamas and nearby islands.

The long table in the middle is set with covered plates at each chair, which is lucky for me because I'm suddenly starving. The smell of onions and butter hits our nostrils, and we take seats down the sides of the table and converge on the plates like hyenas devouring a bloody antelope carcass. A crew member in white bustles back and forth, handing out bowls of tossed salad and pouring iced tea.

Not everyone's recovered an appetite enough to eat, I notice as I take my first bite of seafood risotto, which is delicious. Maggie and An pick at their plates, and An dabs at her eyes with the cloth napkin. Espi and Axel, who are next to each other on the other side of the table, are sitting motionless and wearing identical haunted expressions. I feel terrible for them because I know that vacant look. I've lived that look. When your eyes have seen your parent die, it's hard to get them to focus on anything else.

Murphy also doesn't eat, although there's nothing shell-shocked about his look. His nostrils are flared, and the only thing in sight redder than his cheeks are the tomatoes on our salads.

The crewman who's been serving us, having finished passing around the sourdough rolls with butter, eyes Murphy with concern. “Is everything okay, Señor? Can I get you something?”

Murphy cracks open one side of his mouth and manages to speak around his gritted jaw. “This is all bloody civilized,” he says softly, “but we've got dead that need to be accounted for and families that'll be looking for their children. Children I'm now solely responsible for. So if it wouldn't trouble your good captain too much, I'd appreciate it if he'd put in an appearance.”

The crewman blinks. I'm sure he was hoping for a simpler request, like a glass of ice water or cup of coffee.

“Here I am,” interjects a deep new voice from the doorway. “And I do hope my crew has been giving you everything you need and treating you like family.”

Captain Romero strides into the dining room flanked by another man and the boy from the rescue mission. The rest of us all stand, ready to greet our host and his companions, but Murphy seems distinctly unimpressed and rises just enough to give the captain a gruff nod and shake his hand. After that, Captain Romero makes his way down the table to meet us individually. The other two newcomers, meanwhile, take the remaining seats near the head of the table.

I put my fork down, dinner forgotten. My heartbeat kicks with sudden excitement as I study our host.

“I'm Captain Romero,” he says solemnly, extending his right hand to Gray and covering his heart with his left. “I am sick about the plane crash. I want to make sure you're comfortable. You must tell me if there's anything—
anything at all
—you need.”

Gray murmurs a response, and then the captain comes to me, hands outstretched.

His double-handed grip is powerful, and he focuses on me with the kind of direct attention that's a little unsettling—as though it's been his life's ambition to have me aboard his boat, and nothing could please him more than shaking my hand.

“Captain Romero,” he tells me, and for the first time, I detect the vague remnants of a Spanish accent. “Welcome to the
Venator
.”

He pronounces it
vee-nah-tohr
. A bell chimes distantly in the Latin-speaking portion of my brain, but I'm not trying to translate anything now. Not with that unblinking black gaze glued to my face.

“Bria Hunter,” I say, fighting the urge to snatch my hand away from his cool fingers. “Thank you for helping us.”

“It is my great honor,” he says, hanging on to my hand and taking a closer look at me.

Something about him compels me to stare back, and I decide that it's because he reminds me of this one movie actor whose name I forget.

Olive-skinned and probably around fifty-ish, with sleek black hair that tries to curl around the ears of his ruthlessly short cut, he's tall and square-shouldered. His face has the weathering and fine lines of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. He wears a starched khaki shirt and slacks, and the effect is of an officer in some branch of the military that I can't put my finger on.

The overall effect is striking.

“Bria Hunter?” Frowning, he turns to glance over his shoulder at the boy. “This is the one you told me about when you came to the bridge to give me a report, yes? The señorita who was going to rescue all her friends with no help from us?”

“That's the one,” the boy confirms.

I don't dare look at him. He's still got that trace of amusement in his voice, and my hot cheeks are in imminent danger of blushing, which I will absolutely not allow.

Luckily, Captain Romero turns back to me and grins, which is a breathtaking sight, I must say.

“You didn't tell me that she was so beautiful as well as brave,” the captain chides. “For this one, I am more than happy to make an exception to the tradition about not allowing females on my ship.”

This makes me think of the glaring eyes painted on the ship's hull, no doubt to keep evil spirits away. I'm about to tell him that I don't believe in sailors' superstitions when he winks at me and continues.

“And these eyes!” he exclaims. “What color do you call these eyes?”

“Umm,” I say, trying hard not to be dazzled by this attention. And so much for not blushing. Normally, I'm not big on flowery compliments, but I still find myself swiping a hand through my bird's nest of hair, which feels like spring-loaded wire at this point, and trying to tame it. “Hazel?”