Next to her, Natalie slipped her hands inside her hoodie pockets and slid a little closer.
“I did,” Brent said. “But I couldn’t risk a code blue—this isn’t a hospital, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“What about JT?”
“You’re concern is touching. I’ll be sure to tell him.” Brent half-turned toward the doorway. “He’s dozing again, but he had dragged himself halfway off the cot.”
“Maybe you should have paid more attention to your dosing, Brent.”
“Maybe you should have shown a little more restraint when you enucleated him, Veronica.”
Camilla stood up. “But Travis… we can’t leave him stumbling around outside, half-drugged, with a dislocated shoulder—”
Mason raised a hand. “I’m okay with that.”
“Oh god, shut up already.” Camilla grimaced at him. “Who’s coming with me?”
Veronica stood up also. She looked down at Natalie for a moment, then nodded to Camilla.
“I’ll go with you—mostly because I don’t like the idea of him creeping around at night while we’re asleep. But just inside the barricade; if we don’t find him, he’s on his own.” She dusted off her hands. “Are you coming, Brent?”
“No, Travis has caused me enough headaches for one day.” His eyes rose, moving back and forth between the two women, and Camilla’s heart sank, seeing how wide his irises were, the pupils drowning in a glittering sea of blue.
Brent’s gaze locked on Veronica’s face, and his brows tightened. “Just make sure you don’t kill him.”
J
uan sat at the edge of his cot, staring out the open doorway of the blockhouse he shared with Jordan. He would close the door again tonight and padlock it from within, but for now the cool air wafting from outside felt good. With no windows, the blockhouse got stuffy quickly once the door was closed, and the cloying odor of mildew bothered him in a way that the strong natural smells of the seals didn’t.
Ordinarily, he enjoyed the animal noises, too—the barking, yelping din of the seals lulled him. But he had developed a feel for Año Nuevo’s rhythms, learned the normal nightly cycle of its seal populations, and he could tell they had changed.
Something was not right.
He closed his eyes, listening, letting his mind free-float. He had sensed the strangeness on the second night—an ill-defined unease rippling through the barks and yips that swelled and subsided through the dark hours, until dawn. The third night, it was worse. The seals’ cries were more muted, cutting off faster, the silences in between deeper. Juan had initially ascribed the change to the contestants’ own presence; with ten humans moving about the island during the day, the seals would no doubt find their activity disruptive.
But now he was sure, it was more than that. Because by the fourth night, he could put a name to the change in Año Nuevo’s night rhythms, to the new tentativeness in the barks and yips of the seals.
Fear.
Nightfall on Año Nuevo had become a time of terror.
• • •
The flickering yellow light of a candle lit the blockhouse. The door was closed, shutting out the night. Shadows danced on the walls. Soft light glowed from Jordan’s high cheekbones, her straight nose, her elegant neck, her wide sensuous mouth. She sat cross-legged on the other cot, watching him, very still. Juan liked how she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. He liked the way she watched him. Last night, he had woken more than once to see her lying on her side with her cheek on her forearm, watching him from across the dim room. He had wanted to go to her, but something inside had stopped him. He thought of what he had hidden from her, under the cabinet floorboards, and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. His throat was suddenly tight.
With a gentle rustle, Jordan uncurled her legs and stood up. She glided over to the counter and stopped there, her back to him. Juan admired the graceful way she moved—like a dancer, a ballerina, but with an aggressive purposefulness that made most dancers look like pale, flighty imitations. She intrigued him, puzzled him.
Jordan raised her hands in front of her. Her shoulders moved gently, rhythmically. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but he knew she was rubbing her finger—the pinky she had once broken. It was an unconscious gesture he had learned to recognize, an indication of stress or indecision. The Jordan he was coming to know was a very different creature from the vivacious, bubbly, outgoing woman she had first seemed. He had to admit, he did not understand her at all. And that scared him.
She turned and glided over to his cot, sitting on the edge where he lay. Her slim fingers brushed his hair, slowly sweeping it away from his forehead. Juan’s heart sped up. He looked up into those large emerald eyes, their irises flawless. Her pupils were very large in the candlelight, her unsmiling face beautiful in repose.
Jordan’s index finger traced the scar at his hairline, rubbing it gently, softly, barely making contact. Juan turned his head away and swallowed, feeling the old sorrow rise up inside him. Gently grasping his chin, she turned his face toward hers again, and her mouth drifted toward his. She stopped an inch from his lips and slid upward until her full lips brushed his scar in a light, feathery kiss. Then she pulled back and tilted her head, staring down at him.
Her expression didn’t change. He reached for her face to trace its lines, its contours, but her hand rose between them to intercept his, palm to palm. Lacing her fingers through his own, Jordan squeezed hard. She curled her wrist, drawing his wrist toward her chest, and laid the back of his hand against her heart. He could feel her heart beating, fast and forceful, through their joined hands.
Jordan’s head dipped again, bringing her lips to his.
• • •
The air was filled with her scent. Their scent. Juan opened the door, enjoying the coolness of the night breeze for a moment, before returning to her. The wind swirled through the blockhouse, drying the sweat on their bodies. He inhaled, enjoying her musky, clean smell. The dive knife in his hand was a distraction but, with the door open, an unpleasant necessity.
“You realize we probably gave them quite a show,” Jordan said.
He nodded. He wasn’t too concerned about cameras right now. Listening to the sounds outside the doorway, he relaxed. The seals he had startled by opening the door were settling again—they would provide him some warning if anyone approached. Lying beside Jordan, he placed the knife on the ground next to them. She raised herself on one elbow, running a finger down the center of his chest. Then her curious fingers traced the circular scars on his chest and abdomen.
“I saw you change your shirt yesterday. I wondered about these.”
She tapped the center of his chest twice with her finger. “I’m
still
wondering about them. Your story was bullshit.”
He slid the side of his thumb down her spine, feeling the bumps and recesses, the smooth, firm muscle to each side. “Why?”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s some truth to parts of it. Not bad for something you made up on the spur of the moment. But Juan…” Her fingers stroked his chest, the sides of his neck. “No ink.”
“Tattoos can be removed.”
“There’s also the way you speak. Diction. Your vocabulary. Your manners. I give it exactly zero likelihood that you grew up on the streets. You went to very good schools, learned flawless English young enough to have no accent at all.”
“So you think I’m Julian’s plant? The fake contestant?”
“No.” Jordan put a finger on his lips. “You’re not.”
She kissed him, lingering, and his hands buried themselves in her hair, holding the sides of her face.
“I trust my instincts about people,” she said when they stopped to breathe. “I think your reasons for keeping quiet are your own, and not Julian’s.”
Juan kissed her again. It would be so easy to lose himself in this bubble of suspended time with Jordan, to forget why he had come. He stared into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking.
What about after this was all over? What would happen then?
He remembered the hurt, betrayed faces of the other contestants when Julian outed the two of them, revealing their shipboard deception. Best not to set himself up for a similar betrayal, game or no game. He pushed the thought away, not liking the sharp pang it sent through his chest.
Jordan’s fingers spread behind his head, gripped his hair tight. Her mouth opened, hungry against his. Juan rolled, and she moved beneath him.
T
ravis stumbled through the darkness, across the open ground. Ahead lay the barricade, a low-lying line of darker black. Every step sent an explosion of pain through his shoulder, neck, and chest, making him want to puke. But he had survived worse. Much worse. The shoulder wasn’t actually broken, he reckoned; it was dislocated.
The pain wasn’t the worst of it. The sickening pressure yanking at his shoulder and arm was worse. He knew it came from ligaments and tendons and what-all, stretched out of place by a bone that wasn’t where it was supposed to be. That old crackhead hadn’t fixed it; he’d just given Travis some weak shit to knock him out. Son of a bitch was probably saving all the good stuff for himself.
Travis shook off the light-headed feeling the drug hangover had left him with. He knew what needed to be done. Fuck the doc. He had learned to rely on himself for a lot of things, and he could take care of this by himself, too.
Getting over the barricade one-armed hurt like hell. Grunting with pain, he rose from a squat on the other side, sending seals skittering away from him. Gritting his teeth, he took a couple of steps after one of them, overtaking it. Travis kicked it as hard as he could, feeling bone give beneath the toe of his boot. The pain that detonated in his shoulder dropped him to his knees but he grinned through the agony, listening to the injured seal’s cries.
How do you like
them
apples, Julian?
He struggled back to his feet.
• • •
A few minutes later, Travis stood at the island’s highest point. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the rusty scaffolding of the downed lighthouse tower. The night sky was featureless and overcast, a lighter gray than the ground and sea below. Cold wind rippled his jeans and work shirt, making crisp crackling sounds in the near-silence.
Trying to brace himself for what he had to do, he found himself dallying. But then he thought about Natalie.
Unknotting the sling from his injured arm, he held it in his teeth and grabbed his bad wrist with his good hand. Resting his forehead against the cool metal of a rusty spar, grunting and gasping with the pain, he lifted his bad arm in front of him to head height. Bracing it against the metal, he took the fabric sling from his mouth and looped it around his wrist a few times, tying it securely to the spar.
He took a deep breath, then another. This was going to hurt like a bitch—he couldn’t let himself think about it for too long.
Skidding both feet forward, he let his body drop. He collapsed to a half-sitting position at the base of the tower wreckage, hanging from his bad arm.
The explosion of pain unfolded through his body, worse than he had expected, but his shoulder popped back into place. Throwing his head back, he slammed it against the metal of the tower over and over, gasping. He sucked in a huge breath, scrambling to get his legs back under him. The pain expanded like a red wave, crashing over him, washing him away, but it felt almost good, now that the terrible pressure in his shoulder was gone.
Travis passed out, slumped at the base of the tower with one arm tied above his head.
C
amilla pulled herself through the orange-lit darkness, surrounded by screams and sobs, dragging her useless legs behind her. Patches of fire glowed here and there, seen through the rubble. The broken roof pressed in overhead, crushing down onto the warren of broken, soot-stained tunnels she crawled through. She hit dead end after dead end, where fire reflected off the shiny hubcaps, crumpled car panels, and fractured, sloping walls of concrete. It was always the same, this terrible place of her dreams, almost comforting in its familiarity. Voices, echoing and muted, cried out in the orange dimness, calling the names of loved ones, pleading for help.
There had to be a way out. But she had never found it.
Somewhere under here, she had also lost her little mermaid doll. She missed it, even though it had gotten all dirty and yucky: sticky with something dark.
But there was a difference this time. She wasn’t alone. Something else was in here with her, moving amid the fire and screams, crawling through the darkness close behind. A person, an adult. She looked over her shoulder to see who it was, but for some reason, she could never turn her head quite far enough to glimpse a face.
Camilla pushed ahead, driven deeper into the maze by her pursuer. She was in unfamiliar territory now. Or was she?
Up ahead, a slight clearing, hazy with smoke. A familiar blue car, crushed beneath the lowered ceiling that brushed her head. The upper half of the driver’s-side door, the window frame bent outward, folded almost double. Dark wetness trailing down the lower half of the door in thick, syrupy streams. Small, dark handprints everywhere.
She turned her head away.
The fire cast just enough light for Camilla to finally see her pursuer: a man with long black hair, in an elegant suit smudged with blood and soot, his adult frame looming over her child’s body. He raised his head, meeting her eyes.
Julian grinned at her from above. His mouth gaped impossibly wide, cheeks tearing with a meaty rip, skin peeling back as his jaws cracked apart, splitting his face, ripping his head open until she was staring into a yawning, bloody cavity lined with jagged, triangular white razors.
Shark’s teeth.
J
uan lay on his back. Jordan moved above him in a slow rhythm. She was leaning forward over him, her elbows straight, her palms atop one another, pressing down on his heart as if she were trying to restart it. She watched him, her face serious, her eyes sometimes glazed, sometimes widening, sometimes fierce with concentration.