Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (34 page)

M
y room popped into existence and I collapsed on my bed. My nose gushed crimson, and my shoulder, which was full of embroidery, was tight against my body in a sling.

I moaned, willing my headache to disappear. The sandwich was barely enough energy to get me here. It was the anger at Callan, for putting himself as my next of kin, that allowed me to arrive safely. I suppose I should thank him for that. However, I was fuming furious at him. Husband, my ass.

That man had no boundaries. Whenever I gave him a little piece of myself, removed one brick from the wall around my heart, he went and got the bulldozer. I knew deep down that his intentions were good, but hell, he drove me insane. And after my revelation in hospital—that I was selfish to think I could keep him and continue my murderous ways—it was obvious I needed to tell him to stop. He deserved a woman who
wanted
to be smothered in affection. I wasn’t right for him, not while images of smothering monsters kept me alive. It didn’t matter if he told people in the hospital I was his wife, it wasn’t true; it could never be true.

I sniffed as something heavy settled inside me. I knew what I must do. 

My bedroom door sailed open, Maurice appeared. How did he know I was back? His face said it all. A cocktail of concern, worry, and anger darkened his features.

I groaned, swiping my face. “Don't start, please.”

“You stupid, reckless girl.” His voice caught and I allowed myself to be tugged into a hug, wincing as his arms squeezed me within an inch of my life. “You're going to kill me, Ocean.”

Wasn't I the one who almost died? And now I had another scorch mark to show I took a life. I was freezing cold, empty inside. The murmurs of voices inside my brain were getting stronger. Either I was demented or something seriously wrong was happening to me.

Maurice pulled away, eyes glued to my shoulder.

“He called you. Didn't he?” He knew full well who I spoke of.

Maurice nodded. “Callan called, yes. He's as furious with you as I am for letting yourself get hurt. He threatened to jump on another plane, but I told him I wanted to rip into you on my own.”

Uh oh. Maurice rarely let his temper fly, but he tore shreds off me once when I was sixteen. I didn't fancy being battered by guilt and whipped with words. “Please, Maurice. Not now. Let me rest.” Sadness tore inside me. Why was I sad? I should be happy! I killed Bazeer. He was dead. Unable to hurt more women. So what if I earned a few stitches? Every thread was a trophy for his life.
Be happy, Ocean!

Maurice sat on the edge of my bed, twisting his arthritic hands, huffing as he held his temper in check.

I patted his leg. “Thanks. You can yell at me later. I just want to sleep now, and tomorrow I need to find out what happened to those twins I didn't save.”

Maurice captured my hand, holding tight. I gave him a weak smile, but he didn't return it.

“Ocean. I want you to do something for me.” The serious tone of voice hinted I wouldn't like it.

I tugged my hand from his, sitting up. I cocked my head. “What now?”

“You have to promise me you'll do it.”

“I'm not promising anything until I know what it is.” I took a deep breath, trying to guess. Did another request come through his ledger? My life seemed jam-packed with death and destruction. Things were out of control.

“What do you feel toward Callan?”

His question surprised me. I slouched. He was still determined to set me up. Why was it so important to him to push me together with the Aussie cop who had as many secrets as I did? I had my suspicions he wasn't a cop any more. How else did he get his hands on international information?

Then a horrid thought. “Are you okay, Maurice? You're not dying, are you?” Was that why he was so adamant I find someone? Fear pulsed the more I thought about it. “Maurice?”

“No, child. I'll keep ticking for many years yet, don't worry about that.” His eyes lightened; he even cracked a smile.

“So why is Callan so important? You do know he's bordering on stalker-like behavior?” I listed the reasons on my fingers. “He demanded to take me to dinner the night he freakin' arrested me—hardly appropriate. He flew half way around the world because he couldn't get in touch with me.”
He seduced me in his kitchen
— I didn't say that out loud, but it screamed itself known in my head.
Ah, but you seduced him in his bed. Shut up!
“
And
he listed himself as my husband on my medical file!”

My voice rose in indignation. “The man has over stepped every boundary I can think of. Interested in him? Definitely not.” I wished I could believe my own words.

A slow smile crept over Maurice's face. “Would you have paid any attention if he hadn't done those things?”

I glared at him.

“He's strong enough to deal with you, Ocean. Any other and you'd walk all over him.” Maurice sighed good-naturedly. “He cares about you. He wants to take care of you.”

“Stop me from my antics, you mean?” I conveniently ignored how Callan kept trying to prove that wasn’t his motive. I still didn’t believe him—a cop could never be that open-minded. 

Maurice met my stare with a cold one. “You've been injured twice this week alone. Your other injuries haven't healed yet, and now you have an arm full of cross-stitch. And for what? So you can kill?”

Anger shot through my veins. How could he ask that? “You
know
I do this to help others. If I kill the monsters, then people like me might never have to grow up without love or family.”

“You can't kill them all, Ocean.”

“Watch me.” I pouted like a twerp.

“You'll kill yourself trying. Or be killed. Either way, I don't intend to watch you waste away.”

My heart thudded. Was he disowning me? Tears pressed behind my eyelids. I didn't know what I'd do if Maurice decided it was all too much and abandon me. What about the people in the ledger? What about the good I did?

“What are you saying, Maurice?” My voice wobbled as my scalp prickled.

His eyes softened, and he reached to caress my cheek. I fought the urge to lean into his touch. “Don't ever think I’d stop loving you. I always will. You are my daughter. I’d never walk away from you.”

“Then. . . what?” My brain couldn't connect the dots.

“I want you to take a break. Promise me you'll stop. Until you're healed, at least.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Maurice beat me by continuing, “I have two conditions.”

A crooked smile lit my face despite myself. Trust Maurice to bargain with me. Many a night I'd lost a few quid to his poker habit. “Spill.”

“You don't teleport.”

My mouth fell open, but he held up his hand and added, “And you see Callan.”

Shaking my head, I muttered, “Why are you so keen on me seeing that man? And porting? Why can't I do that?”

Torment glossed his eyes. “It hurts you, Ocean. I don't want you to be in pain. Especially with your arm in a sling and slashes on your back. And—”

My shoulders fell. I knew what Maurice was going to say.

He knew I understood. His voice lowered. “If my guess is correct, you now have eleven marks on your back?”

I dropped my eyes. “Seventeen. I killed four guards and one ringleader in the game reserve. I didn’t correct you the other day.” My voice was a whisper. At least I didn’t have twenty-nine marks on my back. The splodges began three years ago, on my twenty-first birthday. My kills before then weren’t tallied on my skin.

Maurice froze. “Until you know what's happening, it might not be a bad idea to stop.”

Say it, Maurice. Say it out loud.
“Kill, you mean?”

Maurice clenched his jaw. “How many? Since that day I found you in the alley?”

I crossed my arms. I'd never laid it out before—never spilled my gruesome toll. “Are you sure you want to know? Won't it keep you up at night?”

Maurice snorted. “I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know. I have a number guessed. Prove me wrong.”

“What's your number?” I bit my lip, then stopped. It was a sign of weakness, and I was proud of my tally. Proud of the number of sick bastards I'd put down like rabid dogs.

“I'm guessing in the late teens.”

I gave him a sad smile. “You really think too highly of me, Maurice.”

His face fell just a tiny bit.

“My current number, including Bazeer, is twenty-nine.” I'd averaged three kills a year. Not a lot, all things considering. But definitely enough to classify me as a mass murderess. But each and every one was justified: researched and confirmed. I’d never harm an innocent. I'd rather die first.

“I'm proud of you.” Maurice knocked the breath out of me. I expected repulsion. “And what are the marks doing to you? Tell me how you’re feeling.”

He wanted to know what the marks—the brands the universe decided to lump me with—did to me? 

Taking a deep breath, I hung my head. “I’m a black-hole. Light and joy no longer filter through me. I’m constantly angry or sad or full of emptiness. My skin is as cold as the arctic; my happiness is a pit of despair.” It sounded so dramatic, but it was the truth. I wasn’t me anymore.

Maurice swallowed, patting my knee. “For me, Ocean. Take a break. Take a holiday and figure out what your body is telling you.”

I practically snarled at the suggestion. “Murderers, rapists, and sadist pricks don't take holidays, Maurice.”

“No, but you can’t work fulltime. You're running yourself ragged.” Then he played his trump card. “You're making mistakes, and you’re no good to those you want to save when you're in this condition. Stop, Ocean. Not for me, but for them.”

I growled, “That's low. Real low.” But it hit home and he knew it.

He stood and disappeared, before returning a moment later with an envelope. He sat again, pushing it toward me. “For you.”

Now what? If it was more jewelry, I wouldn't accept it. I loved my peacock-phoenix necklace, but I refused to take any more glitter from him. My fingers hesitated as I opened it.

Inside was a one-way ticket to Denpassar, Bali. My eyes flickered to his in shock. “You bought this for me?”

“Not me. Him.”

Chapter Thirty-five: Callan

T
he window seat gave me a picturesque view of an island full of palm trees, terracotta roofs, turquoise ocean, and sprawling beach resorts. Bali glimmered below me like a 3D painting.

We soared lower, skimming the sea before touching tarmac. My thoughts turned to my old apartment in Legian, just north of Kuta. Living there wasn’t relaxing: constant traffic, loud tourists, and never-ending construction. But I wasn't returning to a cramped one-bedroom apartment full of computers. I was going to a five-star resort with a woman who’d poisoned me—ruined me for anyone else—the moment her lips met mine.

Excitement bubbled deep in my chest. I hadn't experienced such a rush of shaky happiness since I was a kid. Never before had the soft hiss of tires on runway made me nervous as hell. What if Maurice failed to get Ocean on a plane?

The airport was full of teak sculptures, sashes of color, and wooden floors. The line through customs moved relatively fast and I exited the terminal to a pillow of heat, which hugged me, stole my breath, and replaced it with soupy oxygen.

Absolute heaven.

Sweat beaded on my brow, trickling down my back. Crap, I was over dressed. My white cargo shorts were stifling, the material too dense. I was glad I wore a light blue t-shirt; at least the color reflected the sun a little.

Taking my time, I peered at every woman, trying to locate Ocean.
Please let her be here. 

The bustle of congestion was confusing. Hundreds of tourists looked bewildered, tens of hundreds of taxi drivers all yelled, “Where you want to go? I take you. Cheap, cheap.”

Someone tried to steal my bag—it was a tactic to lure tourists to a taxi. I glared at the local. “I don't need transport. Thank you.”

And then, just like that. She was there.

Standing in an oasis of commotion, a small suitcase next to her, and brown hair shimmering with red highlights. Her back was to me and I couldn't tear my eyes away from her firm ass. Her jeans hugged her like I wanted to. The purple shirt she wore set off her hair to a firecracker color.

Taking a deep breath, I walked up to her and took her elbow. My fingertips burned. She was here. I was touching her. Could anything be better? She was the antidote to whatever she’d done to me.

Ocean jerked her elbow from my hand, not even bothering to look over her shoulder. “I don't need a taxi. Thank you!” Her tone was angry.

My sentimental feelings mixed with mirth. I chuckled. “I'm not a driver.”

She sucked in a breath, spinning to face me. The cuts on her chin and forehead were pink, healed, and didn't detract from her beauty. If anything they added to her appeal—a story lived on her face, and I was the lucky one who got to read it.

“You have some nerve.” Her black eyes glowed. She pursed her lips, cocking her chin.

“You don't want to be here in paradise?” I wanted to add
with me
, but I wouldn't push my luck. Why was she so angry?