Destiny Kills

Chapter One

Some things I remembered.

Some things I couldn’t.

Like who I was.

Or why I was sitting naked on a beach next to a dead man.

And yet I knew why I was here. I was waiting for the dawn to give him a final kiss good-bye before she guided his soul on to its next life.

The breeze that curled around me was cold, as cold as the sand was harsh. And yet these sensations were a fleeting thing. Goose bumps might tremble across my skin, and sand might grate against my buttocks and thighs, but both failed to register on anything more than a flesh level. I felt no cold, no pain, no sorrow.

Nothing.

It was as if I were dead inside. As dead as the man lying beside me. Yet, for some reason, I was still breathing and he wasn’t.

Why?

That was a question that haunted me, teasing the frozen edges of my thoughts and memories.

Why him and not me?

I didn’t know, I just didn’t know, and yet I knew it was a question that was important. I knew my life might well depend on the answer.

I drew my knees close to my chest and studied the distant horizon. Though dawn had yet to stain night’s cover, it was coming. Already its warm power vibrated across the air, an eager humming that was both familiar and alien. I didn’t understand the sensation, didn’t know the reason behind it, and yet the mere fact that I could feel it had relief sweeping through me.

It was frustrating, this not knowing. Not remembering.

I let my gaze move across the ocean, watching the waves roll lazily toward the sand, seeing nothing out there in the vast expanse of white-capped blueness. No ship. No boat. No pursuit.

But I didn’t bother questioning why I was expecting any of those things, because the past remained hidden under a blanket that was almost absolute.

Almost.

I rubbed a hand across eyes that felt like they’d cried a thousand tears, then glanced down at the body of my friend. I might not remember my own name, but I knew his. Egan Jamieson. Not only my friend, but also my guardian, my lover, and a man to whom I owed a debt more important than life itself.

He’d saved me.

He’d given me freedom at the cost of his own.

The need for revenge welled deep and fast and furious, until I was all but shaking with it. They would pay for this. Whoever they were, they would pay.

For Egan.

For all of us.

And it was a vow that was useless unless I could damn well remember who, exactly, I needed to take revenge upon.

I grimaced and returned my gaze to Egan. In the fading moonlight, his skin seemed to glow with a rich warmth, as if the sun itself still burned beneath his flesh. A birthmark marred his back, a snakelike stain that seemed to dive into his skin and out again, until it almost seemed coiled around his spine. In the night, it took on a reddish-gold appearance and contained a sheen oddly reminiscent of scales.

I shifted and ran a gentle finger down the mark. It was cool and leathery compared to his skin, as if it were indeed scales. Mine was all blues and greens and silvers, as if the brightness of a sunlit sea danced upon the surface of my skin. An inheritance from my mother, not my father.

I blinked at the thought, then grabbed it hard and tried to follow it back. But the fog of forgetfulness snapped in place, and all that was left were questions.

Yet more fucking questions.

I blew out a breath, then stretched out my left leg as the throb of pain finally began to impinge on my senses. There were scrapes across my kneecaps, and deeper cuts down my shins, accompanied by darkening patches that indicated bruising. But none of the wounds were currently bleeding, and there was no blood dried against my skin.

I glanced at the sea. No footprints marred the pristine sands. Not for as far as I could see. Nor were there any vehicle tracks of any kind. Though I guess with the tide coming in, none of that was really surprising.

But still, I had a feeling we’d come from the sea, that my skin bore no stain of blood because it had long since been washed away. That the wounds themselves were clean and healing rather than festering because of the saltwater.

I let my gaze follow the gentle curve of the beach until it reached the distance point. No lighthouse, no buildings of any kind, no indication of movement or life. Nothing to say where we were.

Maybe we were both dead. Maybe this was nothing more than the dream of waiting that came before the soul moved on to the next life.

I glanced down at Egan. I knew if I rolled him off his stomach, I’d see the bloody stain in the sand. See what remained of his chest after those bastards shot him.

I closed my eyes and pushed the resulting images away. There were some things I didn’t want to remember, and the way he’d struggled to survive and remain free was one of them.

And yet, while he might have fought them to the very end, he’d done it for my sake. He’d once said that for all intents and purposes, he was a dead man, so why did anything matter? I didn’t understand it at the time he’d said it, and now I never would get the chance to do so.

The hum in the air intensified. Energy danced across my skin, a crazy tingling that warmed the chill from my soul. I studied the horizon, waiting, as the hum of power crescendoed and slivers of red and gold suddenly broke across the sky. Warmth began to flood through my body, as if the rising of the dawn was also a rebirth of my emotional and sensory centers. A stupid thought, really, when I was just at home in deep, dark waters that had never seen the sun, never known warmth. . . .

God, it was so damn frustrating getting little snippets and hints here and there but never any real, definitive answers or memories.

I drew my knees close again, ignoring the slivers of pain and the blood that began to trickle down one leg, watching as the sunlight spread, smothering the stars and warming the night from the sky.

Watching as the growing light gradually flushed across Egan’s unmoving body.

The warmth still radiating under his skin seemed to stir as the daylight caressed him, growing brighter as the day did, until the intensity made my eyes water and forced me to look away.

Still the heat and the brightness grew, until my own skin glowed under its radiance. But flesh was not designed to contain such heated iridescence for long, especially when that skin no longer belonged to a living, breathing soul. As the light broke free, reaching skyward with exuberant fingers, tears began to trickle down my cheeks.

“May the Gods of sun and sky and air guide you on your journey, my friend,” I whispered, my voice croaky, hinting at long disuse. “And may you find in the next life what you could not in this.”

Then the radiance caressing my skin began to die, taking with it the underlying hum of energy. Day had broken. It was only those in-between times—first light or twilight—that held the moments of great power.

There was nothing left of Egan. Nothing except the stain of blood on the sand and an odd glint of silver. His ring.

I reached out and carefully plucked it free from its resting place. In the growing sunlight, the rubies shimmering in the coiled serpent’s eyes glowed like fire. It had always sent a shiver down my spine, this ring, despite the obvious workmanship and beauty.

When I’d asked him about it, Egan’s golden eyes had grown somber. “It belongs to a man who once took something very precious from me,” he’d said, and in his normally calm tones there’d been an undercurrent that was an odd mix of anger and heartache. “So I took something very precious from him.” And then he’d given me a cold, hard smile and added, “But I will return it. When the time is right.”

I closed my fingers around the serpent, pressing the cold metal into my palm. I might not be able to do anything else for Egan, but I could do this. Find the ring’s owner and return it. And perhaps along the way discover its history and the reasons why Egan had murder on his mind.

Because it was an odd desire for a man who claimed nothing mattered anymore.

I pushed upright. A dozen different aches came to life, and weakness trembled through my limbs, the sort of weakness that came from long hours of constant activity. My gaze went to the ocean, leaping across the waves to the distant horizon.

Somewhere out there lay the answers.

Somewhere out there lay my home.

But until the fog encasing my memories cleared, I could not blindly walk out into the sea and just start swimming. The ocean was a vast and often angry being, and I could not tempt her waters without a destination in mind.

It was a thought that raised my eyebrows. I might not be dead, but madness was surely a possibility. I mean, what sane, rational mind contemplated swimming oceans?

I did.

Because I could. Because I had.

I rubbed my forehead wearily, aware for the first time of the slight ache behind my eyes. Maybe when it went, my memories would fully return. Maybe then I’d know what sort of creature contemplated swimming the oceans as easily as a bird might fly.

Because whatever I was, it wasn’t human. That was a belief I felt deep in my bones, deep in my soul.

But until memory resurfaced, one thing was certain. I couldn’t stand here naked and exposed on a beach. The mere fact that someone had blown a hole through Egan’s chest suggested that someone would rather see us dead than free. And that, in turn, meant they’d surely be looking for me.

I turned around. Rugged cliffs ranged high above the pristine sands, lining and isolating the long sweep of beach. There were trails—paths made by the passage of feet over time, meaning this place, wherever it was, was at least reachable. Which meant there surely had to be some sort of city or town or at least a dwelling nearby.

The first thing I needed was clothing—simply because the last thing I needed was to attract attention.

I glanced over my shoulder, studying the rolling waves for a moment, then resolutely made my way to the cliffs and the nearest trail.

No one but goddamn goats had been using that particular trail, let me tell you.

I was sweating, shaking, and wheezing by the time I finally got to the top. I leaned my hands on my aching knees, sucking in great gulps of air as I studied the surrounding countryside.

The slope rolled down to a small cottage. The area around the cottage wasn’t fenced, and a blue car sat out front, indicating that someone was home. Beyond the house, the slope rose again, and the tops of pine trees were evident behind it.

I glanced back at the house. The cottage didn’t look big enough to be a permanent residence, so maybe it was one of those places vacationers rented out short term. I hoped so, because vacationers were more likely to go out for the day, leaving their possessions—or, more particularly, their clothes—unprotected.

Of course, to steal their clothes, I first had to get there. Right now, collapsing in a heap seemed a much better option.

I blew out a breath and forced my feet down the grassy slope. My legs protested the activity, and warmth began to trickle down not only my shin but the side of my face as well. I swiped at it with a hand, and it came away bloody.

Maybe Egan wasn’t the only one who’d sustained serious injury. And a decent blow to the head would certainly explain the gaps in my memory.

I rubbed my hand down my thigh and kept on walking. What else could I do? I was in the middle of goddamn nowhere, with no idea who I was or how I’d gotten here. And no idea who I could trust. If I could trust.

As the slope flattened, the grass became long enough to brush my butt. Which in turn made me wonder if the grass was actually long, or if I was short. I felt long—long and rangy—but self-perception is an odd thing when the memory can give no references. I held my hands out and studied them critically.

Dirt-covered as they were from scrambling up the goat trail, they were still somewhat elegant—all long and slender. Neither my fingers nor my palms had calluses of any kind, so I obviously didn’t do anything too strenuous for a living. A fact backed up by the length of my nails—or at least what remained of them after the climb.

I glanced down at my feet. There was nothing elegant about those. Given their length and width, they could be described only as paddles. Getting shoes had to be hell.

The thought intrigued me for some reason, and I stopped to lift a foot. Thick, hardened soles. Obviously, I didn’t wear shoes all that often, if that foot was anything to go by.

A door slammed, and laughter ran across the meadow. I dropped to my knees, my bruised left leg hitting a rock and making me wince. Two people emerged from the cottage, the woman still laughing and touching her companion. Newlyweds, I thought, for no particular reason.

They climbed into the blue car sitting in the driveway, the man opening and closing the door for the woman before getting into the driver’s side and driving off.

On the right-hand side of the road. And though three quarters of the world drove on that side, I was suddenly sure that I was in America. Which in itself wasn’t much help, because America was a damn big country, but at least it was a starting point.

I waited until they were out of sight, then rose and made my way quickly toward the house. The front door was locked, as was the back. But a window along the side was open enough to slide a hand in and push off the screen. After that, it was a simple matter of pushing up the window and sliding in.

Which I did. I hit the floor with an awkward thump and sat there listening, waiting to see if there was anyone else in the house. Which is something I should have done before I started breaking in.

Obviously, I could cross “thief” off my list of possible past professions. Unless, of course, I was a very bad thief.

The only sound to be heard was the soft ticking of a clock. The air was still, and smelled faintly of age and lavender. This particular room had been made up as a bedroom, but the bed was a single and obviously unused. Which probably meant I wouldn’t find anything in the wardrobe or small dresser. I checked them anyway. Nothing but mothballs.

I walked to the door, my footsteps echoing noisily on the polished floorboards. The room directly opposite was a bathroom, complete with an old claw-foot bath and a shower big enough for two. The main bedroom sat to my right, and the kitchen to my left down the end of the hall.

I glanced back at the bathroom, eyeing the shower and wondering how much time I had. Surely enough to get cleaned up. I could no more run around looking like something the sea had coughed up than I could run around naked. Not if I wanted to avoid detection.

Besides, I might not have noticed the bite of the sand when I was sitting on it, but I sure as hell did now, and it was nasty.

“Stop with the excuses,” I muttered, even as I wondered if dithering was a habit of mine.

I marched into the bathroom. After a quick, hot shower that seemed to uncover a dozen more cuts and bruises, I toweled myself dry, then moved across to the mirror.

It was an odd feeling, seeing a face I knew was mine and yet having no memories to correlate to the fact. The loss was so complete that part of me wondered if I’d ever been in front of a mirror.

My face was lean and angular, with a nose that was almost too big and a mouth that looked prone to dimples. My eyes were the green of a deep ocean, framed by long lashes that were as black as my hair. Under the bright bathroom light, highlights of dark green and blue seemed to play through the black, as if the sea itself had kissed it.

My gaze moved to the massive black-and-purple bruise smeared from my temple to my cheek. Someone had hit me really hard. Hard enough to split my skull open. The bruise, and the almost-healed three-inch gash on my head, proved that. It could also explain why my memory was working in fits and starts.

But what on earth had I done to deserve such treatment?

For the first time since waking on the beach beside Egan, I felt scared. Scared of the past I couldn’t remember, scared of where the future might lead.

Scared of the fury that lay waiting deep inside me.

I rubbed my arms. In the mirror, Egan’s ring gleamed, the rubies afire with life as my hands moved up and down. A shiver ran down my spine. I didn’t like this ring, didn’t like its touch against my skin. It never seemed to warm up, as if its metal soul was as cold and as unforgiving as the waters underneath the arctic ice.

I frowned at the thought, then pushed it away as I headed into the main bedroom. A quick search through the woman’s clothes revealed an inclination toward skimpy and revealing. She was also several inches shorter than me, and the skirts that would have been minuscule on her were positively indecent on me.

I tried several combinations of track pants and tops, but they all clung too tight, making me feel oddly restricted. Eventually, I settled on a loose pair of black pants that fit me more like three-quarter-length shorts, and a blue sweatshirt that showed off plenty of midriff, and left my thieving at that. Anything else she might miss.

I padded down the hall to the kitchen, which turned out to be a combined kitchen-living area. After peering through a curtained window to see if I was still safe and alone, I flicked on the TV, changing the channel until I found the news, then walked across to the fridge. Opening the door revealed a nice selection of drinks, including Coke with lime. Very cool. I grabbed a bottle of that, as well as enough stuff to make a hefty sandwich, then dumped it all on the kitchen counter and began putting it together. I might be able to live for several weeks without food, but I’d grown used to eating every day. . . .

The thought trailed off into nothingness, and I swore softly. With a little more force than necessary, I thumped the top slice of bread onto the sandwich, then squashed it down and cut it. After finding a plate, I grabbed my Coke and walked across to a chair to watch the news. Hell, maybe I’d get lucky and find out what part of the damned country I was in.

“And in overseas news this week,” the anchorman said, his tone one of false charm anchormen the world over seemed trained to use, “scientists from the Loch Ness Research Foundation are today refuting the many monster sightings that have been reported over the last week. Dr. James Marsten had this to say. . . .”

The picture flicked to a craggy-faced, gray-haired man, and something within me stirred. It was something more than recognition. Something stronger.

Hate.

The type of hate built on a foundation of fear. Years and years of fear.

“As much as I might wish otherwise,” he said, “our findings do not reflect or confirm these so-called sightings. Quite the opposite, in fact. Our sonars and sensors have picked up no unusual movements in the loch. If anything bigger than an eel had swam through these waters, believe me, we would have recorded it.”

The anchor came back, but I didn’t hear anything he said because I was too busy staring at the picture of the scientist frozen on the screen behind him. Fury rose, until my hand was shaking so hard I had to put the bottle of Coke down. He was the cause of all this. And I wished he were dead so badly I could practically taste it.

The sheer depth of what I was feeling was scary, but at least it gave me some sort of starting point. You had to know someone pretty well to hate and fear them that much, and that meant Marsten was someone I had better find out more about.

Other news reports came on, and the anger began to fade. I munched on my sandwich, watching but not learning anything more than the fact that I was definitely in America.

I sighed and took a final swig of Coke to empty the bottle. Watching the news for information had been a long shot, at best, but at least it had given me someplace to start. Though how I was going to find out more information about Marsten without him finding me again . . .

The thought faded. Frustration swirled through me as I picked up my plate and headed back to the kitchen.

Outside, a door slammed, and my heart just about crashed through my chest. I dumped the plate and Coke bottle in the sink, then ran to the nearest window and peered out.

The newlyweds were home.

And a cop had come back with them.