Siren's Surrender (13 page)

Gwen pulled against the restraints holding her. “I’m fine, damn it. Get these things off of me and I’ll be out of this bed in ten minutes.” She twisted her wrists against the soft leather. “Why am I even wearing these things?”

Addison’s grin vanished. “The convulsions,” she reminded quietly. “The doctors were afraid you’d pull out the IV and injure yourself. It was nothing more than a security measure to keep you from harming yourself.”

Gwen’s brows shot up. “Harming myself?” she snapped. “You make it sound like I was trying to commit suicide or something.”

Addison sighed. Pulling up a chair, she sat down. Her hand slipped into Gwen’s. Her face was pale, taut. Dark circles hung beneath eyes dulled from exhaustion. “I don’t want to alarm you,” she began slowly. “But you went a little crazy on us. For some reason—and don’t ask me to explain how—your, ah, Mercraft went haywire.”

Gwen shut her eyes against the involuntary tremble shaking her to the bone. “Oh, no,” she gasped. “What happened?”

Despite her question, she had a pretty good idea what Addison’s answer would entail. She was already aware her Mercraft was active when she slept.

At first she’d attributed the disturbances to her own distracted nature. Was it all that strange that glasses and car keys occasionally got lost? Her concentration was on the hotel, so she’d rationalized the misplacement of those things as stress. She’d tried getting more rest, drinking less caffeine, exercising more.

But instead of getting better, the disturbances had intensified.

And then they’d become destructive.

Through the last few months, she’d often awaken to find magazines had been ripped apart, potted plants had been tipped and mangled, and clothing shredded. Worse than that, though, was the writing that had begun to appear.

There were only two words:
I need.

Whether written in lipstick across her bathroom mirror or scribbled by a pen dancing across paper with no hand to guide it, the message was always the same.

There was only one problem.

Gwen didn’t know what she needed. It appeared her unconscious mind was trying to converse with its conscious side, but the two never could seem to make a connection. Her Mercraft had become the method of communication.

The events, which were more than a little unsettling, left her confused, frightened, and nervous. The paranormal activity had gotten really crazy after she’d broken up with her boyfriend. It was just as well. After a year of dating, Caden was eager to take their relationship to the next level. Though they’d fooled around, done a lot of heavy petting, Gwen had never been comfortable enough to move to the next stage. Even though they were practically living together, she’d always held him off, citing the need to wait until after they were married to have sex.

So Caden had done what came naturally.

He’d proposed.

And Gwen had freaked.

Then she’d said no.

And that was that. Relationship over.

Although it had been simmering in her mind to share the problem with Tessa and Addison, she’d held back. Both of her sisters wanted her to embrace her Mer side. But that was exactly what Gwen didn’t want to do. So she’d kept quiet and suffered.

She could only hope no one else had.

Addison tightened her grip on Gwen’s hand. Her hold was almost painful. “You, ah, well, you pushed a couple of the EMTs who were trying to help you.”

Attempting to clear away the cobwebs of distracting thoughts, Gwen blinked. “I was kind of out of it,” she started to say. “Maybe I just didn’t realize—”

Frowning deeply, Addison cut her off. “You were unconscious, Gwen. Stone-cold unconscious. But when the techs tried to help you, they went flying.” She made a flinging motion with her free hand. “And I do mean with the greatest of ease. Nobody could get near you but me and Tessa. It took all we had to calm you down and get you under control.”

The silence that followed settled like a smothering cloak in the stark, white hospital room.

A wave of regret washed through Gwen’s mind, covering her in a cold chill. Her instinct was to reach for her soul-stone, but her hands were still tied down. “Oh, goddess,” she groaned, her words heavy with lament. Her grip on Addison’s hand tightened. “Please, please tell me I didn’t hurt anyone.”

Addison winced but didn’t pull her hand away. “They took some really hard knocks, but they’ll be okay,” she finally said. “I’m just hoping you’ll be all right. We’ve got some trouble now, and you’re going to have to be strong.”

That didn’t sound good. Not at all.

“What kind of trouble?”

Addison had no time to answer.

A man clad in a white coat stepped briskly into the room. He was spike thin with a gaunt face and a shock of white hair; his pale skin was pitted with the scars of teenage acne. A thin scraggly beard was the best he could cultivate. Chart in hand, he wore a stethoscope draped around his neck. “Oh, she’s awake.” He offered a smile that might have passed for pleasant had his teeth not been badly stained with tobacco. Ditto his fingers. “Good.”

Addison turned. A look of disapproval flitted across her face, but she quickly squelched it. “Hi, Dr. Sterling,” she greeted.

Checking his chart, Sterling pulled out a pen as he walked over to the bed. “How are you today, Gwen?” He didn’t smile. He didn’t look up. He kept his attention focused on his chart.

Gwen stiffened. She didn’t know this man, and didn’t like him on sight. He looked like some kind of mad scientist. She almost expected him to point at her and cackle, “It’s alive, it’s alive!”

Although Gwen didn’t care for his looks, maybe this man had the power to get those binds undone. “I’m fine, thank you very much.” Her words were simply spoken, polite, and nonthreatening.

Sterling continued to scribble. “Good, good.” Hooking the chart at the edge of her bed, he stepped past Addison. He performed a brief examination with an air of detached professionalism, including checking her pupils with a small flashlight, taking her pulse, and listening to her heartbeat.

As she endured his clammy touch in silence, a flush crept up Gwen’s cheeks. She didn’t like strange men putting their hands on her, but she had no choice.

She cleared her throat. “Everything okay?”

Sterling snapped his stethoscope off his ears, letting the instrument settle around his neck. “Seems normal from what I can tell.” A chuckle escaped him. “Though I’m not sure what’s normal for a mermaid.”

Gwen’s mouth dropped with shock. Lips trembling, her fists curled into tight knots. She unconsciously strained against the straps holding her. “A m-mermer . . .” The entire word refused to come out. She couldn’t say it to save her life. The leather began to stiffen, blacken. No one would hold her where she didn’t want to be. She’d burn these damn things away.

And then I’ll leave
.

Dr. Sterling’s eyes bugged with alarm. “Oh, shit.” He leaped back from the bed with a leap that would have done any Olympic sprinter proud. Brow furrowing with alarm, he quickly made the sign of a cross. “God in heaven . . .” he murmured.

Jumping to her feet, Addison placed her hands on Gwen’s shoulders, delivering a hard, teeth-clattering shake. “Get it under control.”

Straining, Gwen responded to the fear in Addison’s voice. A second later it was gone. The straps held.

Hardly realizing what she’d done, Gwen collapsed against the mattress. The energy had just come, without warning or even the knowledge of her conscious mind. She’d felt threatened and it had responded by rising to her defense.

Her tongue passed across dry lips. “How do they know?”

Shoulders sagging, Addison collapsed back in her chair. “No use trying to hide it anymore.” She pressed her hands against her face and rubbed her skin hard. “The Mer have come out of the closet.”

Gwen’s heart lurched against her breastbone. Just as it seemed her senses were recovering from the shock of her recent trauma, another blow sent her reeling.

“They?”

And then it all came rushing back.

A flood of repressed memories suddenly swamped her mind. She was dragged backward by the current of recollection, revisiting the void of thundering sounds and roiling action. She remembered her annoyance at Agent Whittaker’s arrival. At the time she’d believed he had no business poking around in her family’s business. Nevertheless she’d agreed to take him to Little Mer. She remembered their arrival, how he’d pissed her off with comments he had no business making. She remembered stomping off, heading toward the main house. And then . . .

All hell broke loose.

Gwen blinked, looking from face to face as if she didn’t recognize them. No, no. Surely this couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

A knot of fear leaped into her throat, threatening to strangle her. Her blood continued to pound behind her temples, and her eyes stung with unbidden tears. “I just want to go home,” she whispered, as forlorn and brokenly as a lost child.

Addison shook her head as she leaned forward to deliver a hug. “We can’t,” she murmured. “They won’t let us.”

 

 

Blake Whittaker was not a happy man. In fact he was a very pissed-off man.

He wished he’d listened to his gut when he’d pulled into Port Rock. He’d known going back to his hometown hadn’t been a good idea, but he’d done it anyway. All with the intention of being a good soldier and doing his job.

As if he hadn’t understood what his boss had just told him, Blake repeated his question. “What the hell do you mean I’m being transferred into lockup?” The fact that two military MPs were guarding the door behind him didn’t make him feel any better. Both men were well armed and ready to act at the slightest provocation. The idea of guards watching his back skeeved him out. He didn’t like it one bit. He hadn’t done anything wrong. And what was up with the military guards, anyway? He’s have thought his people had jurisdiction on this one. Apparently he’d thought wrong.

Assistant Director Frances Fletcher adjusted the thick black frames settled across her face. “You heard me,” she snapped crisply. “Your security clearance has just been elevated to all access.”

Blake wasn’t getting it. “What does that even mean?” he snapped. “Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.”

Fletcher laced her fingers over the paperwork Blake had so painstakingly spent the last day and a half putting together. “It means that you’re promoted.” Her tone was flat and droll. “Effective immediately.”

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Blake eyed the thick file Fletcher hovered over like a hawk clutching prey in its talons. He’d already been debriefed, not once or even twice, but three times. Each time he’d stuck to his story, reiterating the events as he’d personally experienced them. As incredible as it might have seemed, every word he’d recounted was true and correct to the best of his knowledge.

More incredible was that those working within the structure of the A51-ASD believed him. Absolutely and without question. After all, Special Agent Whittaker had just stumbled onto something every damn one of them hoped to find through their careers, but few rarely did.

An honest-to-God alien life form. One that was not only alive but very violently kicking up one hell of a fit.

Blake narrowed his eyes. “And just how is being confined on site a promotion?” he asked in a voice more than a little caustic. “Sounds like I’m the one who’ll be in the lockup, not the, ah, hostiles who attacked us.”

He preferred using that term instead of
aliens.

Fletcher sighed and slipped off her glasses before pinching the bridge of her nose. Like him, she hadn’t gotten a moment’s sleep. Too much was happening too fast and the agency was scrambling to handle the crisis that had arisen on Little Mer Island. “You know the procedure, Blake.” She sighed. “Any agent who makes actual alien contact is subject to be confined on site until said alien is effectively controlled. Your specific role will be to act as the main contact between the aliens and the agency as we attempt to communicate with them.”

Blake couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Oh, for Christ’s sake. “If you want to communicate with them, just open your fucking mouth and talk,” he answered tartly. “They can understand you and answer for themselves.”

Fletcher’s hand dropped. “It doesn’t work that way, and you know it.”

Damn. He tried another tactic.

“I can’t put in that much time,” he protested. “I get my kid this weekend. How do I tell Debra I’ve got to blow off my visitation for, oh, maybe years?”

Fletcher put her glasses back on. The heavy frames did her thin face no favors. “It’s policy, Blake.”

Blake slammed his hand down on her desk. “It’s screwed!” he shot back. “Just because I work for the agency doesn’t mean it should consume every hour of my life.”

Fletcher inhaled a sharp breath.

One of the MPs stepped forward, ready for action.

Fletcher waved him back. “Stand down.”

The guard resumed his watch.

Fletcher’s gaze shifted back to Blake. At sixty-plus, she was still one tough old bird, a woman who’d fought her way up the chain of command with an intelligence and cunning most of her male colleagues couldn’t even begin to match.

“You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to uphold the policies of the sciences division,” she reminded. “What we do here has a higher level of importance than even the Department of Homeland Security. Any agent working in this division can’t be a weak link. You should be used to it, too. On-base confinement is a regular occurrence in the military.”

Blake frowned. “I’m not in the army anymore.”

“You were, Blake. And it is part of the reason why we recruited you. Because you understand the chain of command and how to follow orders. That, and your particular—ah, how shall I say it—emotional detachment.”