Part 20 (2/2)

Be angry. Anger is good, whispered a dry, almost masculine, voice inside her mind.

Jenny s.h.i.+vered with fear. Shut up, I don't want you. You're not real. I'm losing my mind.

You are losing nothing.

Jenny shut her eyes, trying to block out that voice. She had heard it for the first time right before the earthquake. No words. Just an incomprehensible murmur. Not part of her. Something else, a presence inside her head.

That sea witch, crone, shape-s.h.i.+fter-whatever she was-had a terrible sense of humor. What would it have taken for her to point one claw at Jenny's head, and say, ”Look there?”

That would be too easy. Think of Grandma and Grandpa.

Always showing, never telling. A lesson given, they liked to say, was never learned.

A philosophy they had stuck to every time something new and strange needed to be introduced into Jenny's life. She'd learned about shape-s.h.i.+fters that way. Eight years old, at the circus. Her grandparents had taken her to see a special performance-a small, elite troupe of actors and performers, who had danced and sung, and done magic that seemed like real magic, and cast illusions so fantastical, so rich and bleeding with life, that Jenny had found her imagination-and heart-bursting with the strength of possibilities.

Not all the performers, of course, had been human.

Jenny hadn't known that, at the time. Her grandparents had planned her introduction to that side of their lives so carefully-arranging the performance as a way to open her eyes. Not with fear. But with love.

Even so, one performer had stood out above all the others. Serena McGillis. A tall, lithe, red-haired woman with golden eyes-those golden eyes that were so important, Jenny had later discovered. Serena's act-or genius-had been with big cats. Lions. Tigers. Panthers and leopards. Gorgeous, sleek predators. Prowling and dangerous.

No jumping through hoops of fire. No standing on hind legs like trained pets. Jenny had seen those kinds of performances on television and despised them. She had been ready to despise Serena, too. No animals like them should be kept in cages, pacing bars or walls, hungry to run. Nothing meant to be so free should ever be locked up, simply for the amus.e.m.e.nt of people who thought they had power.

But in the end, she hadn't despised Serena. Because Serena had understood freedom.

And Jenny, in her own way, had dedicated herself to making certain that those like Serena remained free, and secret, and safe. Just as her grandparents had known she would. Jenny just wished they had been as clever about the rest of the family.

She s.h.i.+vered again. Perrin looked down at her. ”You're cold.”

”No,” Jenny said, still trembling. The kra'a is attached to my head, she wanted to tell him. Hey, look there. Remember what the witch said? It's with you. I'm with you. Take a closer look.

He sighed and turned away to the fire he had been trying to start. Jenny wanted to howl with frustration, but her mouth wouldn't open. Not in any way, and she felt that presence at the back of her mind, tied to her thoughts. Knowing her thoughts, her intentions.

Stop it. Get out of my head. You don't want me. I'm human. Perrin will know what to do with you.

We chose you, it said simply, with chilling calm. And it is not time.

Not time for what?

But it did not answer, and Jenny remembered what the sea witch had said, inside her mind: Time is running out.

Time. Running out.

For a moment she found herself six years younger, sixteen years younger, knowing something was wrong, unable to make anyone listen. No proof. Just instincts that no one paid attention to because there was no flash behind them, no psychic fire. Just ordinary Jenny, with her obsession with the sea and her silly little notions that something wasn't right.

Something wasn't right, now. In so many different ways.

Except for Perrin. Her touchstone in the chaos, and she couldn't even explain why. Those instincts, again. Her heart and gut, moving in together.

”Safe,” was the word she thought, watching him fuss with the fire.

And then, shockingly, another word filled her.

Mine.

Jenny had never felt possessive about a man. Never. But the need to make him hers, to keep him, rose up and overwhelmed.

He is yours, whispered that dry voice. You are his. Your hearts have rested too long on the edge of dreams.

Jenny closed her eyes. Who are you?

But the parasite did not answer.

She opened her eyes and found Perrin watching her. Stole her breath. There was nothing kind about his face, not one thing soft. His scars, the slant of his mouth, those sharp bones. He wore his face like a mask, but she suspected that he had seen enough to warrant all the hard lines. She hurt for him.

I know what it is to be alone, she wanted to tell him. I know heartache.

”How did you learn English?” she asked him, needing a distraction. ”You don't have an accent.”

Perrin hesitated. ”I couldn't speak English when I came to land, but I understood the language when I heard others use it. I credited our . . . dreams. Perhaps I absorbed something from you. I don't know. Just that in under six months I could speak and read. But that was the only language I learned with any real fluency.”

Jenny had other questions-so many-but Perrin frowned at the smoky patch of wood he was trying light, and she said, ”Tinder. Dry leaves, gra.s.s. Something small and easy to burn. Place small twigs over that.”

Perrin followed her instructions, and she watched him work, unable to look away. His scars were silver against his pale skin. So many scars. His long hair s.h.i.+mmered in the half-light, skimming muscles that were hard and lean, and powerful. He had carried her easily, and she was no lightweight.

Her gaze dropped to his hands, rawboned and large, his fingers moving with surprising delicacy as he plucked small vines, leaves, anything that would be easy to burn. Her bruises ached, shaped like his hands.

Nightmare. Screaming. Begging. Gunshots.

Jenny didn't remember what Perrin had seen inside her head, but knew that dream, or one variation of it.

The bruises seemed like a sign. She'd been frightened when she'd opened her eyes and found Perrin holding her down-desperate wildness in his eyes. Once she had calmed down, though, a small part of her had begun to take strange comfort in those bruises he'd left behind. As though they were proof she had not been alone in that dream.

f.u.c.king twisted, she told herself. And maybe it was, but so what? All of this was nuts. Her own life, not just what was happening now.

Perrin finally started a fire. Small. Not much heat, which was fine. The air was oppressively hot. Hard to breathe. Sweat made her thighs stick together, and her clothing was soaked through. Not that it stopped her from s.h.i.+vering.

Perrin gave her a long, grim look. ”This is my fault.”

”I don't know how,” she told him, but all he did was sit near her, not quite touching. He dragged the fish close and began cleaning them with a gentleness he hadn't shown earlier. Jenny could smell their bodies. Made her nauseous. She didn't say a word about it, though. Just closed her eyes and s.h.i.+fted closer to Perrin until her arm brushed his bare leg. It was stupid, but she needed to touch him.

Needed to. Had to.

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