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 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 track, 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 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 down the bottle of Coke. 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, and 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.