Night Forbidden (5 page)

His breath was coming faster now, shallow, making his head light and his lungs ache. He spun and ran off the tree trunk, back to shore, dashing through brush and over trees along the edge of the water, trying to get closer to Tanya. But she was in the center of the pool, drifting away from the branch.

“Help!” he shouted again, standing there, looking out over the pool of water—which seemed to have grown wider and larger since his arrival. “Help! Here!”

A hand appeared . . . a little white hand, the fingers curled . . . and then went back down into the cold, dark, heavy water. Fence stood at the edge, his belly churning, his body trembling. More sweat streaked down his spine. His mouth was dry, his limbs cold.

You have to do this, you mother-fucking idiot. You can’t let her drown. You can’t stand by and let her drown.

He took off his shoes, socks . . . quickly, without allowing himself to think about what would come next.

Just close your eyes and do it . . . or she’ll drown.

She’ll drown.

His shirt—he stripped it off and flung it away, the air cold, chilling his body despite the sun beating down.

You know what she’s feeling right now . . . the water coming into her nose and mouth, choking her. You can’t let her die.

Fence realized tears had begun to leak from his eyes: tears of terror and shame as he fought his own weaknesses, staying safely on shore while a little girl drowned. His fingers shook and his stomach heaved violently. He stepped into the water, literally forcing his legs to move, focusing on the other side of the pool. Not on the water.

She’s just a bitty thing. Weak. Tiny. Small.

The cool sensation made his teeth chatter, the terrible water, rising to his knees, and he stopped, gasping for air, his head pounding.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,
he screamed inside.

The water was still; the only ripple was from his own movement. Tanya was falling to the bottom . . . down into the deep, dark, heavy water.

God help me, help me . . .
And then, somehow, he made himself move out of the paralysis. Or something pushed him, but the next thing he knew, he was in the water.

The horrible weight covered him, just as dark and cold and heavy as he’d remembered, and he immediately began to panic. His limbs wanted to thrash and flail, his chest felt constricted, his heart pounded. He wanted to gasp air in, desperate and needy, but forced his eyes open, praying for strength, and somehow made himself move.

The water was surprisingly clear, and he saw Tanya’s shadowy figure, suspended midway between the bottom and surface. Her long hair floated eerily in the pool, her arms loose and one of her legs half bent at the knee. Around her were other random shapes, or perhaps tricks of the light: snakelike and undulating, perhaps a submerged tree or some twisted metal remnant of life before the Change.

Fence’s brain screamed, his body rebelled in terror as his limbs moved awkwardly and then more smoothly as he found his rhythm and forced his way to her.

She was slender and light, nothing like Brian, who’d desperately fought and kicked, and Tanya hardly moved as he wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her as he kicked up, up, up . . . seeming to take forever. He felt it when her head broke the surface, and then the cool air on his uncovered head, and he gasped a draft of oxygen-laden air.
I did it. I did it.

He focused on those thoughts, kicking toward the shore, praying he hadn’t been too late, that he could get her there, push the water from her lungs . . . for she hadn’t moved since he touched her.

Then something caught at his leg, scratching it, curling around it, and Fence lost his tenuous hold on sanity. Blind with panic, he thrashed wildly, lost his grip on Tanya, began to descend into the darkness of terror. The tug on his leg seemed to grow stronger and he felt his eyes bulging wide in the water. Something sharp cut into the sides of his torso, beneath his arms, and he kicked, crazed and desperate, the water growing darker and his lungs full and hard, painful, as he tried to free himself.

He needed oxygen, he needed to breathe . . . he kicked, but now his other leg was captured, and he felt himself being pulled down, deeper, deeper . . .

And then he gave up. He just . . . gave up.

I guess this is the way You want me to go, huh, God? You’ve tried twice already . . . so the third time’s the charm.

He gave up, let the last bit of air out of his lungs, and knew that when he could no longer hold off, the next breath would be water, rushing into him.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save Tanya. I tried.

He felt oddly free now, oddly relaxed . . . and then he saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye, above, near the surface.

And suddenly, Tanya’s legs, which had been floating near him, were gone. Someone was there! They’d pulled her free!

The panic rushed back, the terror, and the desperation—
save me, save me!
—and Fence gulped in a relieved breath of air a split second before he realized he couldn’t.

But it came in, deep and filling, and he didn’t choke. He didn’t cough as the water rushed into his lungs, the cuts on the sides of his torso stinging a bit. This is what it’s like to die, he thought . . . and breathed out, and in again.
Painless. Numbing. It’s like breathing in the womb.

His panic had receded, and with it, he began to move, dreamlike, in the water. He saw now what had caught on his leg . . . what had caused him to tumble into such panic: some vinelike plant that wasn’t pulling him under but simply made him feel that way as he panicked; and the more he’d struggled, the tighter it seemed to get.

His leg freed, for an instant he lingered between life and death, almost enjoying this protected, womblike state, suspended there in the water.

Was this how it had been for Brian?

And then the shadow appeared above him again, and Fence looked up, a sudden desperate desire to
live
rushing through him. He kicked, hard, and then, with an absurd lack of effort after all of his struggles, he broke through the surface.

Fresh air—oxygen—filled his body, and he realized where he was and what had happened. The terror barreled through him again—almost as if now that he’d lived, the panic that had eased during those comalike moments came rushing back in full force.

His arms flailed awkwardly, his legs tried to kick, and the black paralysis once again overtook his consciousness as he battled the water and his fears. He might have connected with or struck someone—he felt as if he touched human skin—but his terror was complete. Panic ruled him, and he could only focus on getting out. Getting out. Getting safe. Desperate, desperate . . .

When his foot struck ground, Fence had a surge of hope. The deep, black terror, the blind desperation, fell away as he found purchase with his other foot, and he lunged through the water, toward shore, blindly rushing to safety, his body shaking and weak, his belly surging. There were pangs from the wounds on his body as he stumbled onto shore, and then his stomach rebelled.

Fence collapsed on the ground, puking violently into the rubble-filled grass. His body shook like a leaf in strong wind, and he couldn’t even lift his head. Tears—he wasn’t certain if they were of gratitude, fear, or shame—streamed down his face, which he kept buried in the ground. His fingers curled desperately into the grass and stones and he couldn’t stop shaking. It was as if he were having a seizure, completely uncontrollable and violent.

A hand touched his bare shoulder, a voice asked, “Are you all right?”

“Leave me
alone
,” he snarled in a broken voice, mortified and furious with himself, with his display of weakness and cowardice. “Go away.”

He tried to get himself under control, to sit up and breathe normally, but his body would not cooperate. He felt as if he’d been pummeled and thrashed on the football field without any gear . . . and the terror, the dark nightmare, still lingered, still made his belly ache and churn.

“Go away,” he said again between clenched teeth as he half rolled and propped up on a shaky elbow. And then, as he looked at the new arrival, his stomach surged violently again and a renewed wave of disgust flooded him.

It was Ana, the sun goddess, who crouched next to him.

Chapter 3

A
t his furious command, Ana eased away from Fence. A little stung, a little shocked, and very concerned, she pulled herself gracelessly to her feet and limped a step away. She had no idea what this man was doing here, so far from Envy, yet she’d recognized him even from a distance by his sheer size.

But the sight of him now, collapsed on the ground and fighting some sort of internal demon, chilled her. At first she’d thought he was drowning, but then he came staggering out of the water, and now . . . he was reacting so oddly.

He vomited, but not water from his lungs as one who nearly drowned would have done; it was the full contents of his belly that came up. And the violent trembling and shuddering of such a massive, powerful body . . . it was almost as if he’d had some terrible reaction to something.

A low cough from Tanya caused Ana to turn, checking on the girl. She’d spewed up a good lungful or two of water, and her eyes were red from the effort—but she seemed fine now. “Hi, honey,” she said, gathering her best friend’s daughter back into her arms again, giving her a tight squeeze. “How are you doing?”

She rested her cheek on top of Tanya’s cool, damp head and closed her eyes for a minute, holding the precious little body close against hers and trying not to think about what had almost happened. Tanya was the closest thing to a daughter Ana had—and would ever have. The memory of her small white hand slowly sinking under the water still made her cold and sick. If Fence hadn’t gotten here first . . .

She glanced over. His hand was over his face, his thumb and forefinger rubbing his eyes. Even from where she stood she could see his fingers trembling.

The little body squirmed in her embrace, and Ana gave a soft laugh as she released the slippery, twisting girl. Obviously, she was feeling better. “Are you okay now?” she asked.

“I fell off that log,” Tanya said, pointing to a large tree trunk over the water. “It was really scary.”

“I’m sure it was. But that man tried to save you,” Ana said, glancing from Fence to the girl and declining to mention that he hadn’t done a very good job of it. If she hadn’t arrived, Tanya wouldn’t have made it out, and it was unclear whether he would have either.

Maybe Fence couldn’t swim and he’d jumped in anyway. She’d heard his shouts for help, which was how she came to be there. Her horse stood placidly, his reins looped around a sapling, as he nibbled on a bit of grass. If it weren’t for Bruiser, she would never have made it down that steep incline.

“He ’stracted me and made me fall in,” Tanya told her, folding her arms mutinously over her little chest.

“How did he do that?” Ana asked as Fence dragged himself to his feet with the help of a tree. She watched him stumble to his shirt and shoes, taking care not to look in her direction. Whatever.

“He told me I was going to fall, and I
did
!” she said with all the logic of an eight-year-old.

Just then, they heard the shouts of Tanya’s parents at the top of the ridge. Ana watched the tearful reunion of the little girl with Pete and Yvonne, all the while trying to keep her own emotions at bay.

The sight was heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. The emptiness billowing inside her mingled with affection and love for Yvonne, and the quiet knowledge that she’d always be an observer rather than a member of a close-knit family. She’d always be a surrogate mother instead of one herself. She’d always have to be on her guard about letting anyone too close to her.

She’d always have to remain a little . . . apart from the people who lived on land.

By the time the family left together and Ana went over to get Bruiser, she realized Fence had disappeared.

With a mental shrug, she used a tree trunk to climb onto the horse—something she preferred to do without an audience because it was as difficult as it looked—and started back home. Today or tomorrow, Dad was expecting someone to arrive from Envy to take a load of—

Oh.

Ana gave a little
tsk
of understanding. It could be no coincidence that Fence, a man from Envy, had appeared around here on the very day someone from Envy was expected to take some of Dad’s medicine back to the doctor there. She could picture George in his bright little laboratory, peering into plastic and glass containers. He grew medicines like penicillin from moldy bread and was working on growing other possible curatives from sea algae.

At least, he did when he wasn’t lecturing her with those big, sober eyes about all the time she spent in the ocean.

Ana took her time riding back through the woods toward the house she shared with her father, unsure whether she wanted to see Fence again—and certainly wondering whether he’d want to see her. The fact that he’d disappeared without a word spoke volumes.

So when she felt the beckoning of the sea and tasted salt on the wind, it wasn’t a difficult decision to blow off meeting up with Fence in favor of a dive, or at least sticking her feet in the water.

Sure, the guy was rock hard and solid—those
shoulders
!—and he was so good-looking with those luscious lips and square jaw it made her mouth want to water, but she could already tell he’d be too much trouble. He had an ego, that was one thing. You had to be on your toes when sparring with him, not to mention he seemed more than a bit prickly. She didn’t have time for anything that complicated . . . and she couldn’t let it get into anything past a flirtation anyway.

Ana’s heart squeezed and she felt that familiar dull, empty feeling. Yvonne was so lucky to have Peter and Tanya. A normal life. A family, a child. Someone to share her deepest self with.

A partner.

She’d thought at one time that she, too, might be able to have a normal life—especially when she met Darian. He, at least, was someone from whom she hadn’t had to hide her past. Too bad he’d had other plans.

That was an unpleasant memory, to say the least, and Ana put all thoughts of Darian and Fence out of her mind as she tied Bruiser to a tree. Fortunately, she had an apple and a pear tucked into her pockets—both of which he liked, even though they were dried and brown—and she offered them to him before kicking off her shoes.

Despite her off-balance hips and curled foot, she shimmied easily out of her shorts and let them fall to the ground in a wad. Around her waist she wore a small belt that held her knife, and she checked automatically to make certain it was there, in its slot. Then, dressed only in her panties, a tank top, and bra, she waded into the water.

Ana would have been more than happy to swim naked, or even in her underwear, but if someone should see her, they’d surely notice the crystals. Even now, as she smelled the tangy brine and felt the familiar surge of water around her calves, those very gems began to grow warm in her skin. They vibrated with energy as they always did in or near water; a soft, tactile buzz that told her they were alive.

The eight small blue crystals, four in the front and four in back, studded the left side of her torso between the bones of her ribs. Their placement was random, and each was no larger than a child’s fingernail, but because of them she could spend hours underwater, and at the greatest of depths.

And it was because of these tiny crystals that the ocean called to her, that her heritage must be kept secret—and it was because of them that her leg had been destroyed.

Ana dove into the surf and was immediately immersed in a world of wonder and comfort. The crystals helped her breathe, using their ancient energy to enable her left lung to pull the oxygen from water while her other lung worked like that of a normal human being. She didn’t fully understand how the Atlanteans had managed it, and her father had never tried very hard to explain it—but after all, those living in the depths of the ocean had thousands of years to figure out the powers of the deep-sea crystals.

Thanks to her mother’s heritage and her ability to spend hours beneath the surface, Ana knew every ripple of sand beneath the water, every rock formation, every spire, chimney, or rooftop from every ancient and waterlogged building near her home. She even followed long-submerged roads and streets, using them for direction just as she did on land. Now, she was twenty feet below the surface. The sun’s rays still filtered down and the plants and animals were still in full, vibrant hues.

As she swam along the edge of a deep, dark crevice, she could make out a group of automobiles another twenty feet below. When the road had cracked and split, they tumbled into the depths. She knew from past dives that coral and sea grass had begun to grow tenaciously in the dirt and sand caught in the edges and dents in the metal. It gave the vehicles a scruffy, overgrown look.

Her hair streamed behind her as she darted about, her injured leg as smooth and agile in the water as her other one. This was the place where she felt whole and uninhibited, and fully at home. Was it any wonder it was the sea that had brought her and Darian together?

They’d swum together, sleek and cool, their bodies entwined, lips and mouths fused . . . Ana felt a rush of longing, of loneliness.

She hadn’t had to hide her crystals from Darian, of course, because he had his own . . . but he’d wanted more than she was willing to give. And now she was alone.

Being alone is better than going back.

At least, that was what she told herself. She could never be part of that world, accept that race. So she put the impossible out of her mind and enjoyed the beautiful, comforting embrace of the sea.

As she slipped and ducked and dove above and through the remnants of a world left behind, she absorbed the essence of the sea into her consciousness: its scent, its sounds, the pattern of its movement, the changes in the sand and grit and positions of regular landmarks—even the taste of the briny water. And, again, as she’d known for weeks now, there was something different. Something was changing.

It was a subtle difference—not as noticeable as the pull of the moon as it changed the tides. Not as if a storm were brewing, ready to lash out into the sea and stir up towering waves. Just . . . an uneasiness, as if She—the Sea—knew something was about to change.

Ana would have dismissed this sense of wrongness weeks ago if not for the sparkling gray gloppiness that washed ashore in Envy. She managed to sneak a little sample of it, which was the reason she’d rushed back here to Dad, hoping he could help her identify it. After all, she was only thirteen when they escaped from Atlantis, and her memory was understandably faulty.

Now, she paused near an algae-covered column of brick she suspected had once been a chimney and smacked her palm against the top of her fist three times in rapid succession. The sharp sound carried through the water. She followed it with a clicking sound deep in her throat. It echoed through the water just as other occasional clicks and whistles did.

But other than those occasional noises, the world was silent.

Ana skirted the brick column and swam through the glassless window of another building, where furniture rotted and strands of sea hair swayed with every ripple of movement. A school of red and black fish appeared and swarmed like large flies around her head. When she shooed them away, they darted into the next room of the house.

She noticed the sand-strewn concrete driveway with the mailbox that still stood at the end. Cracked and uneven, the drive sported a few bunches of seaweed springing up from the dirt, swaying in a water breeze. The door on the mailbox was long gone, but out of habit—more compulsive than anything—Ana couldn’t resist a peek inside. Of course there was nothing there, other than a lot of sand and grit, and a disgruntled crab, but it was compulsive: she always had to check, even though it reminded her of Darian. They used to leave little gifts for one another in old mailboxes, as Ana imagined other lovers might have done long ago on land.

If it was empty, that meant he hadn’t found her, and she could relax

Just then, a long, dark shadow eased through the water above her. Ana made the clicking sound in her throat again and shot up from the rusty, waterlogged mailbox with a powerful thrust.

The long shadow was joined by another, and she made a slightly different clicking sound of greeting as she slipped between them, sliding her hand along the smooth, warm skin of a dolphin. Jag, the female, turned her sleek body belly-side toward Ana in greeting as they swam together.

The other dolphin, one of the two males who visited Ana regularly, was on her other side. Marco was a bit less subtle than Jag, and he bumped insistently against Ana until she patted him on the dorsal fin in what he considered an appropriate greeting. She grinned in the water at his maleness, for he reminded her of Fence with his need to be recognized by a member of the opposite sex. As she smiled, Ana felt the cool ocean against her teeth and in her mouth, and she used the energy of the crystals to push out from her working lung and spew the water from her mouth and nose.

The flush created a wake of bubbles in front of them, and the dolphins opened their own mouths in an attempt to capture the luminescence. They each had neat rows of small, sharp teeth that had long ago ceased to concern Ana. She’d had those teeth around her arms and legs more than once. Her mammalian companions seemed to simply like to run them over her skin, as if they wanted to learn the texture of her outer covering, just as she’d wanted to learn theirs. It was a dolphin thing, she decided.

And so was the distraction of a school of fish.

Jag and Marco, the latter of whom had spotted a group of fish, darted off after them.

Ana made the slapping sound of hand on fist in farewell and swam off on her own. Despite her own niggling worry that something was wrong in the water, Jag and Marco didn’t seem to be acting any differently, and that comforted her.

When the sea had rushed in during the Change, covering cities and villages for hundreds of square miles over what had been California, Nevada, and parts of Washington and Oregon, many of the buildings were intact, and remained so, despite being waterlogged and algae-laden a half century later. But there were also tsunamis and earthquakes and storms that destroyed some of twenty-first century western America, sending houses, stores, and highways toppling into each other or down into deep valleys before the Sea had Her way.