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Not only had I survived shark-infested waters, I had lost at least a day somewhere. Cradling my left arm to my chest, I lurched to my feet, swaying for several steps before finding my balance. My shirt was all but gone, and scratches covered my bare skin.

  I hadn’t been the only thing to wash up. The white motorboat rested in the surf, its bow submerged while the rest of it stuck up in the air. Dents and gouges marred the paint, and there were dark brown stains caked on the side. I staggered to it, keeping my distance while looking it over.

  Something large had taken a bite out of the side of it, and I recognized the triangular shape of a shark’s tooth lodged in the wood. I pried it out. It was well over four inches long; I struggled to imagine the shark it had come from. Maybe there were gaps in my memory, but I remembered the great white’s tooth-filled mouth far too well, and none of its teeth had been as large.

  Whatever had taken a chunk out of the boat was worthy of starring in a horror film, and I’d somehow managed to survive. While I was scratched and bruised, there was no evidence of any shark bites. Lying in the sun had bronzed my skin, and I thanked the mix of Mom’s Italian heritage and Dad’s African American for the fact I wasn’t burned to a crisp.

  Even tanned, I favored Mom more than Dad, something he often complained about. Maybe on the outside I looked more like her than him, but I gave my arm a skeptical look and decided Dad’s contribution of genes had given me a fighting chance to live.

  I shook my head to clear it, climbed into the boat, and searched it for anything of use.

  My kidnappers hadn’t prepared much, which annoyed me into cursing and kicking the trashed boat. The knife I found under one of the seats would come in useful, but I was otherwise screwed. I discovered how they’d planned to torment Mom and Dad with my death; they’d brought an internet-enabled satellite phone with them. By some miracle, it still worked. Sort of.

  Unfortunately, it was so low on battery it refused to do anything useful, like place calls. I couldn’t tell if its low-battery state had rendered it useless or if its antenna had been damaged.

  Before its battery died, I managed to check through the phone’s storage, grimacing at the pictures my kidnappers had sent to Dad’s cell number. Judging from the perspective, Bent Nose had captured a photo of Tweedledee kicking me overboard. In the background, shark-filled waters waited, and one of the great whites had photobombed the picture, showing off its many big teeth.

  Dad knew the ocean, and I had no doubt he believed I was dead, which put my chances of him coming to the rescue at approximately zero. However, my knowledge of Fenerec males gave me the hope he’d come hunting revenge, although I had no idea how he’d track down where my kidnappers had taken me.

  If I wanted to make it home alive, I’d have to make the best of a bad situation and find a way to rescue myself. The first thing I needed was fresh water. If I found water, I could figure out the rest. Maybe I wasn’t a werewolf like my father or a witch like my mother, but I wasn’t helpless.

  I glanced at my throbbing, blood-caked arm. One day, I’d learn to stop lying to myself.

  It didn’t take me long to make a full circuit of the island. It had a spring, and bracing for the worst, I tried a sip.

  Sweet, pure water washed over my tongue. My mouth was so parched the first swallow didn’t even make it to my throat. While water alone wouldn’t save me, it elevated my chances of survival. Shelter and food would be a problem. The island had some scrub, nothing I recognized as edible, and offered very little shade from the sun.

  My best—and only—option was to pillage the wrecked boat for supplies and do the best I could. Help would come or it wouldn’t.

  I crossed the island, glaring at the wooden vessel. With my left arm out of commission and no idea what to do about it, I lacked the strength to dismantle the thing. The seat cushions came off easily enough, and I tossed them onto the beach. I had no idea how they’d help, but something was better than nothing.

  Without tools and unwilling to take a chance and possibly break my knife, there wasn’t much I could do with the boat. I sighed, shook my head, and stared out over the ocean.

  Shark fins cut through the waters, circling and waiting. A shiver ran through me. One of them was far larger than the rest, and I scrambled away from where the surf washed over the sand.

  Only someone insane or desperate would enter the water with sharks, and I wondered how long it would be until I classified as one, the other, or both.

  Two days after waking up on the beach, I braved the ocean, wading so I could wash the sand and blood off my arm. It throbbed, and I recognized the waves of heat and chills as fever setting in, something I could do nothing about. It wasn’t like I could trot myself down to the doctor, get a prescription, and hit the local pharmacy for antibiotics. With my luck, I probably had a bullet lodged in me as a grizzly memento of my brush with death.

  Bracing myself for the pain, I prodded my arm and located the entry and exit wounds. Once I confirmed both shots had gone through, I focused my efforts on removing the caked blood and sand from my undamaged skin first. If I reopened the wounds, I had no idea if I could stop it from bleeding. If the holes were infected, would exposing them to saltwater make them worse?

  In the future, I’d pay more attention to Dad’s ranting and raving about emergency medical care. While I wanted to be a lawyer or judge rather than a cop, paramedic, or anyone who needed a lot of medical skills, I liked living.

  Having no idea what to do about the two holes through my arm was raining on my stay-alive parade. I was so absorbed in the task of cleaning my injured arm I didn’t notice the shark until it bumped me with its nose.

  Humans couldn’t fly, but I made it halfway into orbit before I landed with a splash, somehow managing to stay on my feet. I had no idea what species it was; it was too small to be a great white, although it had a lot of teeth, beat me in size, and looked hungry.

  Sharks always looked hungry.

  I scrambled backwards, tripped, and landed on my ass in the water.

  Instead of tearing into me, the shark used my lap as a pillow and stared at me with big, dark eyes. It beat at the surf with its tail and fins, and I got the disconcerting feeling it was waiting for something. Torn between horror, shock, and disbelief, I froze, aware of each and every one of the sharp teeth it displayed so predominantly.

  As though sensing my fear, it closed its mouth. It wormed its way closer, pressing its snout against my stomach. It continued to flap its fins and slap its tail at the water while it watched and waited.

  Life among Fenerec had taught me to go with the flow; werewolves reacted to life in unexpected ways, often flying off the handle at each other over nothing. I had survived a childhood surrounded by men and women who could transform into wolves.

  Maybe the shark would change its mind about eating me later, but for the moment, it seemed content. I considered my options. It weighed enough I doubted I would be able to free myself until it got bored of me. Once it got bored, it’d probably eat me.

  Until then, I was stuck. With my left arm too injured to use, I didn’t have a lot to lose. If it took off my hand, I wouldn’t last long anyway. If, by some miracle, I did escape the island and find my way home, at least I could say I had petted a shark.

  The shark had friends, and they all wanted a turn on my lap. When one tired of my attention, it rolled away, made room for the next, and before I could get up, I had a new toothy predator to keep me company.

  Each and every one of them wanted their fair share of petting, leaving my right hand raw and stinging. The water helped numb my left arm, although I found it difficult at best to use my hand. Of the sharks who visited me, the smallest fit in my palm while the largest was at least ten to fifteen feet long. None of them were great whites, which relieved me; they were larger and kept to the deeper waters.

  However, I did recognize several of the sharks by their stripes. I’d heard nothing good about tiger sharks, and I had an entire quartet of them hanging ou
t within biting range. At least three other species lurked nearby. To my relief, some of them lacked flesh-rending teeth.

  I liked those the best. My tolerance for things bigger than me with a preference for meat frayed the longer the sharks insisted on toying with me. By the time the sun set, my throat burned from thirst, I craved sleep, and my stomach gurgled its demand for food, something I couldn’t provide even though I wanted to.

  When the last of the sharks retreated, I staggered to my feet and slogged towards shore. My jeans weighed me down and clung to my legs, hampering my ability to walk in a straight line.

  I had almost made it to the waterline when something slapped into the back of my head. I yelped, twisted around, and fell. A fish flopped into the surf. Instead of darting away, it thrashed.

  A ring of tooth marks circled its belly.

  I jerked my head up and stared at the dorsal fins slicing through the water.

  A flash of scales gave me a split-second warning before a fish smacked into my face. Like the first, holes marked where sharp teeth had pierced through its protective scales. A tiger shark breached, and when it disappeared beneath the surface, the rest of the sharks followed, leaving me alone.

  I grabbed the fish by their tails and tossed them onto the beach. Worst-case scenario, I’d have sushi and a debt to some of the ocean’s most dangerous predators.

  Like most of the island, sand blanketed the spring’s shore. The presence of scrub offered a little shade during the day and served as a windbreak, which made it the ideal place to sleep.

  The shelter, such as it was, couldn’t protect me from the strengthening waves of hot and cold radiating from my arm. Whenever I moved my arm, I had to choke back a scream. Maybe it made me a coward, but I refused to look at where I’d been shot.

  Seeing the infection I knew was there wouldn’t change anything.

  The fever drove me back to the ocean’s cool waters, and I waded in deep enough I could sit without the waves knocking me over. It didn’t take long for the first of the sharks to join me. Through the fever haze, I recognized the stripes of a tiger shark. I should’ve been alarmed at its massive size, but like its friends, it didn’t seem interested in eating me.

  It wanted to cuddle, but instead of using my lap as a pillow, it lounged beside me. At first I hesitated, but when it waited patiently, I leaned against its side.

  I barely noticed the rough texture of its skin. When I spotted several baby sharks swimming nearby, I realized the tiger shark was probably their mother. I hadn’t thought tiger sharks had maternal instincts.

  I’d seen videos of female tiger sharks eating males who bothered them.

  Living with Dad had introduced me to the phenomenon of predators desiring affection. Whenever Mom got tired of his bullshit, he would hunt me down seeking attention. His Second, Jeremiah, was his third target, followed by Jeremiah’s mate and wife, Lilith.

  No matter how many Fenerec denied it, they were all attention whores. All things considered, I could’ve used a large dose of my father’s affectionate protectiveness. His medical knowledge would’ve been welcome, too.

  I stretched out my legs in the surf. One of the smaller tiger sharks surged out of the water and flopped near my feet, drawing my gaze to my shoes. My sneakers had seen better days; it amazed me I hadn’t lost them in the ocean.

  The shark toyed with the laces, and the babies joined the hunt. I had no idea how they managed it, but they stole my shoe. I gaped at my bare foot, astonished it seemed intact. Wiggling my toes captured the attention of the babies, and they swarmed me, brushing against me. One of them gave me a nip but didn’t break the skin.

  Despite the throbbing pain in my arm, I laughed at the beige and black sharks.

  One of the babies nestled against my stomach, and emboldened by the fact its mother hadn’t eaten me yet, I stroked its tiny back. Warmth spread from my fingertips and up my arm. I had no idea how I knew, but the baby’s name was Hunting Still Waters, and she liked me.

  I blamed the fever for my hallucinations.

  Sharks loved shoes. They robbed me of mine, and after they bored of playing with them, they turned their attention to my watch, which no longer worked. The babies, especially Hunting Still Waters, enjoyed gnawing on the band right up until their sharp little teeth chewed through the leather.

  Several of the adolescents fought for it before one of them snatched it and swam off with it. The others gave chase and vanished beneath the waves.

  Despite the fact it no longer functioned, its loss bothered me. Dad had given me the watch for my sixteenth birthday. I only took it off when I showered, and my wrist felt naked without it. The effort of sitting up sapped my strength, and I swayed in the steady rhythm of the surf.

  The ocean wore away at the blood and sand caking my arm, and the sharks brushing against me opened the gunshot wounds. When I bled, the baby sharks swarmed me, poking me with their snouts. It hurt so much I choked on a scream, jerking away from them.

  Hunting Still Waters bit me in rebuke, and I plunged into a dark, painless void.

  I woke to a shark ramming me in the gut, and I submerged long enough to inhale a lungful of salty water. Coughing and spluttering, I flailed. A rogue wave bowled me over, rolling me towards the safety of the beach. I scrambled out of the water, choking and gasping for air. My teeth chattered, and my skin had wrinkled from exposure.

  I made the mistake of looking at my left arm.

  Red lines streaked from the bleeding wounds, and tiny holes marked where the baby sharks had gnawed on me. I made it to where shore and sea met, panting from exertion. Several of the sharks pursued me to the water’s edge, and I got the sense they wanted to make sure I stayed on land. I yanked my bare feet out of the surf beyond the reach of their teeth. Dorsal fins circled in the deeper waters for several more minutes before disappearing.

  Hunting Still Waters remained, and she played nearby. Several times, she beached in her effort to keep near me. Somehow, I found the strength to scoop her up and return her to the water.

  She liked when I held my right hand in the water so she could nuzzle my palm.

  While I had welcomed the ocean’s chill before, my teeth chattered, and I shook from the cold. I knew I needed to get warm and away from the water, but the thought of putting in so much effort was enough to tire me, so I stayed.

  At least I wasn’t alone.

  At first, I thought I hallucinated the shape on the horizon, but as it drew closer, I recognized the swarm of sharks surrounding a ship. Unlike my kidnappers’ boat, they didn’t seem interested in capsizing the vessel, although I doubted they could even if they wanted.

  Hunting Still Waters darted for the safety of deeper waters and her mother, and as one, the sharks submerged, leaving me to stare at the ship. It was white with a large red, vertical stripe marking its bow. It wasn’t until an auxiliary boat reached shore I realized the ship belonged to the US Coast Guard. The middle-aged man who splashed into the surf and hurried to me gaped as though unable to believe his eyes.

  I understood the feeling. Dad had drilled a lot of things into me as a child, and giving the proper authorities my name topped the list. “I’m Dustin Walker. I live in Las Vegas, Nevada.”

  The Coast Guard would be able to figure everything out. There weren’t too many others with my name. With one call to Vegas’s police, the Coast Guard would be able to get positive identification on me. I regarded the smaller boat with a scowl.

  Why did I want to stay in the water with sharks rather than get on another boat?

  The man from the Coast Guard told me his name, but it went in one ear and out the other. He pulled out a radio and talked to someone for a few minutes. A second small boat came to shore, and the Coast Guard ignored my protests at going back to sea, herding me to the small boat rocking in the surf.

  It took a little over three hours to reach port. The entire time, a member of the Coast Guard checked me over. He spared me the obvious; the gunshot wounds were infected. I lost co
unt of the number of injections he inflicted on me before he began treating my arm. The injections numbed my arm, and the relief was so intense I sank into a drug-induced haze.

  While my kidnappers had left from Marina del Rey, the Coast Guard docked at Long Beach. An ambulance waited, and within twenty minutes, I was subjected to a full battery of tests at a nearby hospital. I endured more injections, and once everything was said and done, I had a list of prescriptions long enough that I grimaced at the thought of swallowing so many pills.

  My arm was infected, but by some miracle, I dodged being hospitalized.

  Instead, a nurse left me with a clipboard and a pen. Under normal circumstances, the paperwork wouldn’t have bothered me, but the words blurred into one another. I ended up staring at the sheet without a single clue what to write. Without my wallet, I had no hope of filling out the insurance information.

  “Dustin.” Dad’s voice jerked me back to reality. I blinked, realizing I hadn’t managed to write anything down. I looked up. Mom and Dad crowded the doorway, growling at each other as they vied for the privilege of entering the room first.

  Mom stomped on Dad’s foot, bumped him aside with her hip, and swept into the room. She cupped my face in her hands and bowed her head, resting her forehead against mine. “Thank God.”

  “I have no idea how to fill this out.” The medications made me whine.

  Dad growled, earning a glare from Mom.

  “Rob, you know better.” Mom’s voice lowered, and she straightened, glaring at my father. “There are Normals around.”

  Dad quieted, and his expression smoothed into a calm mask. “Are you okay, Dustin?”

  Regarding my arm, which was wrapped in a bandage and restrained in a sling, I sighed. “It’s infected.”

  “Okay.” Dad hooked a chair with his foot, dragged it close, and sat, taking the clipboard out of my hand. “We already talked to the doctor. We’re cleared to head home; Federal investigators will come to the house to question you, but they thought it wise to hold off for a few days. There are some things they need to know, but I’ll handle most of it.”