Monstrum (38 page)

“Is that still George?” I ask, tipping my head at the window.

“Dude.” Carter gives me a wry smile. “Meet Tropical Storm Hannah.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Where are we?”

“Still in the Bahamas.” Dr. Baer says.

“Still? But we were heading to Rio, last I'd heard. How'd we get back so quickly in the middle of the hurricane?” A terrible new thought hits me. “Or did we ever even leave?”

They all look at each other and exchange nonplussed shrugs.

“We don't really know,” Sammy finally says helplessly. “Some combination of the hurricane and the chimera's illusions. Maybe other effects in the Bermuda Triangle that we don't understand. We just . . . don't know.”

“And how did we all get back together on the same ship?”

“They picked us up from the escort ship after the evacuation. You can just see it on the horizon,” Gray says, pointing. “And then we picked you up.”

“I see it now,” I say. “And what's this ship?”

“Maybe this is a good time for me to jump in,” the woman says. “The ship is called
Proeliator
. Protector.”

More of the fog clears from my brain. “Oh! This is the ship we raised from the radio room? With Wilkinson on it?”

“Right,” the woman says. “He's my colleague.”

I take a good look at her for the first time. She's a pretty, fifty-something-ish woman with mahogany skin and short white hair that looks like the finest lambs wool. Her face has a naturally stern look that makes me think she'd be a perfect assistant principal at a high school somewhere, because all she'd have to do is shoot the occasional death rays at the kids, and they'd fall in line.

“Bria, I'm Dr. Sharon Waters.” She's got a nice voice, deep and impressive. “I'm the director of the private corporation that owns this ship.”

A warning bell sounds in my head. “Private corporation? Not Burke and Company?”

She and Dr. Baer exchange wry smiles. “No, but that's a very good question. We have nothing to do with Burke and Company, nor would we ever.”

“She's my former boss,” Dr. Baer adds.

“So who owns the ship?” I ask.

Dr. Waters loses the smile. “I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Of course you're not,” I grumble. “Why is everyone in the Bermuda Triangle so cagey with information?”

The edges of her eyes crinkle. “Another good question. What I can tell you is that our mission is to find—”

“Oh, no way,” I snap, disgusted. “Don't tell me you're hunting chimera, too?”

“Yes, actually.” She raises her index finger to silence me before I can get going again. “With the goal of eradicating them from the planet.”

I stare at her.

“Eradicating?”
I say when I get my thoughts together. “No one ever eradicates anything, especially not an entire species. Everything's about conservation these days.”

“There are some species that cannot cohabitate with anything, much less humans,” she says flatly. “The chimera is one of those.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised.

I rest my heavy head against the pillows, exhausted suddenly. This is all too much to take in, and my body feels as though it's gone nine rounds with the current heavyweight champion.

“She's tired,” Cortés says. “We need to let her sleep.”

“I'm okay,” I say quickly. I don't want to be alone with my churning thoughts, and I especially don't want him to leave me right now. “You guys can stay.”

“No,” Dr. Waters says. “Cortés is right. But I do need to discuss something with you before I leave you in peace.”

“Okay,” I say warily.

She eases in closer, resting her elbows on my bed rails, and there's something about the way her face tightens that makes me uneasy. “We're . . . concerned. About the lingering effects the chimera's ink may have on you.”

I stare at her and then glance down at the bandages, remembering the way I used my left arm to cover my head when the chimera inked me.

“Well, I mean, my hands hurt now, but I got burned a little, too, so—”

I trail off when I see the grim look she exchanges with Dr. Baer.

“What?”
I demand. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear the beat inside my ears.

“You guys are getting her riled up for no reason,” Cortés barks, dividing his glare between the doctors. “She's supposed to be resting.”

Dr. Baer raises his hands for calm. “It's okay, Bria. I don't want you to worry—”

“Me, not worry?” I say, taking a closer look at the bandages. “Have we met?
Oh, my God, what's that?
”

I gingerly push the thin edges of the bandage up my left arm and see the marks on my skin. They're not burns.

They look like . . . birthmarks. Or tattoos.

Of . . . flames?

Yes, I realize. They're definitely flames.

The delicate images cover my forearm, as deeply purple as the eggplants Mona and I used to buy from the farmers' market. The flames are raised slightly, just enough to have depth, and they're so vividly realistic it's as though they may spring to life and incinerate me at any second.

Easing the bandages back from the tips of my fingers, which are free, I realize they're on my hand, too.

They'd almost be beautiful if I didn't know where they came from.

Working against the bandages and pain, I try to rub them off, gently at first. But it doesn't take long for my movements to become frantic. I yank at the bandages, ripping them, and work on my caramel skin until it's red and throbbing.

Cortés gives me a few seconds, and then he grabs my hand, stopping me.

“Bria.”

“Get these off me! I want these off!”

“They won't come off,” says Dr. Waters.

“What is it?” I ask sharply.

“A . . . marking.” Dr. Baer shrugs. “We don't really know. We've never seen it before. We don't precisely understand what the chimera's ink is made of, or its properties.”

I struggle to make sense of this. “So you're telling me I'm a permanent freak?”

“We need to study it,” Dr. Waters says.

“I'm not a lab rat!” I shout.

“And there may be . . . other side effects from this particular chimera,” Dr. Waters adds. “We need to discuss—”

“Not now,” Cortés says.

Whoa. His voice is suddenly so sharp and commanding that I forget all about my unwanted body art and look up at him. I get two nasty shocks. The first is that there's a glint in his eye that's so cold and hard it's like seeing his father's ghost.

The second is that the captain's gold signet ring is now on Cortés's right pinky. He twists it idly, staring at Dr. Waters as though daring her to say one more thing to me.

“Where did you get that?” I ask. I'm sick with sudden dread, an emotion exacerbated by the powerful meds I know they've given me. I feel a little dull and a little loopy, and I don't think I'm ready for any more challenges of any kind for the foreseeable future.

He rubs his thumb over the ring, then meets my gaze. “The chimera's shell didn't get blown up. It was floating on top of the waves like a giant bowl.” He shrugs. “The ring was inside it.”

“I'm sorry about your father,” I tell him.

“I know.” He paces away, but not before I see the harsh planes of his cheek, and the way his jaw throbs in the back. “I can't talk about it, okay?”

“Okay,” I say faintly. I want to reach out to him, to call him back, but he seems much too far away for that. I rub my head with my left hand instead, trying to ward off the beginnings of a monster headache.

The others shuffle uncomfortably.

An takes advantage of the brief silence, stepping up and clapping her hands like she's in charge. “Okay, guys. We need to go. Bria can barely keep her eyes open. Let's get out of here.”

A new thought occurs to me. “Hang on,” I say. “How can there be all these ships sailing around out here in the Bermuda Triangle looking for chimeras and we've never heard a thing about it? It's never been on the news, never in the papers—”

“I'll tell you why,” Carter says grimly. “There's a cover-up for some reason.” He shifts his level gaze to Dr. Waters. “Isn't there?”

“I'm not at liberty to comment,” Dr. Waters answers. Carter snorts, turning away from her and shaking his head. She turns to me. “Get some rest, Bria. We'll talk later.”

She leaves, taking the confident sound of her heels clicking on the floor with her as she disappears through the door.

An tries again and begins to shoo people toward the door. “
Let's go,
I said. Visiting hours are over.”

“No. Wait.” Mike steps up, his face clouded and guilt-stricken. “We already told Cortés, Bria, but . . . we're sorry the dinghy left without you. We tried to get them to—”

“Forget it,” I say quickly. “I saw what happened.”

“But—” Mike continues.

“You did your best,” I assure him. “We're not mad.”

Mike looks to Cortés, who shakes his head.

Mike looks relieved as he edges forward to hug me gently. “I'm glad you're okay.”

This triggers a round of careful hugs as everyone leaves the room, and I'm grateful for every single one of them. Cortés comes back, his expression softer now, and touches my left hand again.

It's an unspeakable relief, having him near me. So is the fact that my friends don't seem repulsed by my markings.

Gray hangs behind, waiting till last. His stormy gaze flickers to where Cortés's hand rests on mine against the white sheets, but then he dimples at me.

“Gray,” I begin urgently, well aware of Cortés's looming presence. “Please tell me we're still cool.”

“We'll always be cool,” Gray tells me.

I'm not convinced. “Gray. . .”

“I'll . . . go wait outside.” Cortés takes a step toward the door, his face shadowed.

“No,” Gray says, much to my surprise. “She's your girl. You stay with her. And you take care of her.”

Cortés hesitates. Nods.

“I don't want to have to put my foot up your half-Spanish ass,” Gray warns.

Cortés almost cracks a smile. “Noted.”

Gray gives him a hard stare for a beat or two longer, then looks down at me. “Go back to sleep and get some rest. Stop snoring like a freight train.”

“I will. Hug?”

“If you insist. Don't get clingy.”

We hug, he pecks me on the cheek, and I say the thing that we've laughingly, casually and repeatedly said to each other over the years:

“Love you.”

He turns me loose, averting his face.

The mushrooming silence sucks all the air out of the room. I shrink against the sheets, wishing I could dive under them and disappear altogether. At last, Gray opens his mouth.

“Love you,” he answers gruffly.

He hurries away, still not looking at me.

A hot wave of emotion hits me as I watch him walk out, and I hastily dab at my eyes and battle back persistent tears.

Cortés clears his throat, pulls up a chair and drops into it, leaning his crutches against the end of the bed. He rests his elbows on his knees and hangs his head, pretending he can't see what I'm doing, for which I'm grateful.

“You okay?” he asks after a while.

“Yep. You?”

“Bria. Don't lie.”

I reach my left hand through the rails.

He takes it and stares down at my unbandaged fingertips, his expression troubled. “Have we got a triangle situation going on here that I need to be worried about?”

I hesitate. I'm not sure why. “Not as far as I'm concerned.”

He looks up at me, and the vulnerability in his eyes—he doesn't even try to hide it—makes my heart contract. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Some of the tension eases from his shoulders, and from the room. “Good.”

“That was very civilized of you,” I say. “Offering to leave so Gray and I could talk.”

“Not really. I was planning to listen at the door.”

I laugh and he grins, but something about the humor doesn't feel right, not with all that's happened in the last few days.

“I'm sorry about your dad,” I say, sobering.

He makes a broken sound, quickly stifled, and drops his head into his hands. His wide shoulders heave with silent sobs.