Fathoms of Forgiveness (Sacred Breath, Book 2) (39 page)

“Mom,” Trevain said, as he closed the distance between them with his stride. “What happened?”

“I’m perfectly fine, dear,” Alcyone said with a reassuring smile. When her eldest son put his arms around her, she placed a kiss on Trevain’s cheek. “It’s so good to see you, son. Brynne has been reading to me. She’s such a darling girl.”

“Gawd. She’s been reading romance novels,” Callder said with a huge, exaggerated yawn. “It’s all I can do to keep from snoring. Would it kill these writers to have a little bit of action in their stories? Some good ol’ fashioned blood and guts? Maybe some demons raping virgins?”

“I told him to shut up and go away,” Brynne said to Trevain dryly as she looked over the rims of her reading glasses. “Mrs. Murphy and I obviously need some quality chick-lit time.”

“Thanks for taking care of her,” Trevain said to his sister-in-law. He turned back to his mother, assessing her health from her appearance. “How are you doing, mom?”

“I’m strong as an ox, Trevain, my boy,” Alcyone answered promptly. “Don’t worry about me—I just had a little bit of pain in my arm and a dizzy spell. Sionna said it was a heart attack, but I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

“Does Visola know?” Trevain asked as he frowned at his mother’s pallid complexion.

“Oh, yes. Mama has been popping in and out, but she’s very busy preparing for the press conference,” Alcyone said. She reached up and squeezed Trevain’s hand. “Darling, I know I look as old as Methuselah, but I will be fine. You need to focus on finding Aazuria.”

Trevain sighed, feeling how weak Alcyone was in the way she squeezed his hand. “I’m trying my best.”

“It’s all my fault, you know,” Alcyone said softly. “If I hadn’t insisted she follow tradition…”

“Mom! It is not your fault!” Trevain shouted a bit too loudly. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine…”

“Both of you are bonkers!” Callder yelled, jumping to his feet. “It was nobody’s fault. It was just a screwed up, shitty thing that happened, and we’ll get her back!”

Sionna entered the room then, and scowled when she heard all the shouting. “Good Sedna, boys. Is this the way to help your mother relax? Everyone out, now! Alcie, please stay completely submerged in the healing springs. There will be no more visiting until I permit it.”

“Yes, Aunt Sio,” Alcyone said with a sigh, as she lowered herself back down into the water.

Callder grumbled as he exited the room, and Brynne closed her book and followed him. Trevain carefully closed the door behind them and turned to Sionna.

 “I thought you said that by living underwater, my mom would live for several hundred more years,” Trevain said. “I thought you said that her health would improve by being here.”

Sionna nodded. “Yes, but there are other factors. I believe they were giving her some kind of strong, unnecessary medication in the psychiatric facility. Her body developed a dependency on the drugs and she became weakened.”

“We should have taken her out of there,” Callder said angrily. “We never should have left her in that place. And she was perfectly fine all along…”

“Shhhh, Callder,” Brynne said, taking his arm and rubbing it. “Mrs. Murphy is going to be fine. Right, Sionna? You can fix this?”

Sionna’s lips tightened into a grim line. “I think it would be best if we took her to a modern hospital on land. If they know precisely what was done to her, then perhaps they can help to reverse the effects.”

“Mom will never agree to that,” Trevain said, “she hates the land.”

“And with good reason,” Sionna responded angrily. “Alcie is my niece, and I remember when she was a little girl. She was always in good health. I hate that she has been forced to ingest filth for decades, while aging rapidly, separated from her family and the water. They shoveled garbage down her throat! If she had only been at home with us. Sweet Sedna, some of these so-called ‘modern’ methods…” Sionna took a deep breath to calm herself. “I had better stop ranting before I get carried away.”

“Please, Aunt Sio,” Callder said. “Our mom’s awesome, and you have to help her get better.”

“I’ll do my best, kid,” Sionna promised.

Vachlan had been listening from where he stood, still leaning against the wall outside Alcyone’s room. He had been idly running his fingers over the scar on his face. Now, he moved over to his family members with a deep frown further marring his features.

“You can all relax—I’m going to make a phone call, and we’ll have a plane here to pick her up within the hour,” Vachlan said.

Sionna began to protest. “I’m not sure that’s a good…”

“Sio, she’s my daughter,” Vachlan insisted. “If you say she needs modern medical care, I will make sure she gets it. Immediately.”

Sionna nodded, speaking in a low voice. “Fine. But don’t tell Visola how serious this is. My sister has a tendency to overreact. We cannot afford an overreaction at the moment.”

“…such as innovations in sustainable fish farming. In my short time in Adlivun, I have also discovered a wealth of advancements in medicine and science that could greatly aid modern research,” Trevain spoke into the microphone, delivering the carefully rehearsed speech. He had spent hours sitting with his grandparents, preparing and rehearsing this material. Although Visola was angrier than anyone about Aazuria’s disappearance, she had been completely on task in assuming every administrative duty and picking up the slack wherever there was slack to find. She had organized the men with the skill of a true general. Trevain had been impressed.

“We will completely skim over what we need from them,”
Vachlan had advised.
“This whole event is all about embellishing how great we are, and emphasizing what we can do for them. Trust me, I have spent my life dealing with superpowers, and I have seen the rise and fall of too many empires to count. While they’re at their height, you have to suck up and spend 150% of your time demonstrating how worthy and indispensible you are in order to be thrown a bone. Tomorrow, the world will have changed again, and we’ll change with it—but for today, we must do all we can to survive.”

Visola had extended her arm, allowing her hand to rest on Vachlan’s as she had given Trevain her own opinion on the matter. He heard her say the words
military, submarine,
and
navy
dozens of times. He had hardly been able to pay attention as he stared at the way her fingers absentmindedly stroked Vachlan’s hand. He had never seen two people who were more in love than his grandparents. It was bittersweet, because although he was happy for them, it made him miss Aazuria so much that it ached. He wished he could reach out and touch his wife’s hand, but there was just a wooden podium beneath his fingers. He realized that somehow, he was still speaking.

“And in conclusion, as someone who has lived in both countries—you might say, both worlds—I believe that Adlivun has much to contribute in a mutually beneficial relationship with the United States,” Trevain said with excessive confidence and enthusiasm. His mind was distant as he convincingly pretended to make eye contact with the cameras and reporters; he did not actually see anything that was before him.

Trevain felt Marshal Landou touch his elbow, and heard the bald man clearing his throat, and he realized that was his cue to step aside. He did so automatically, moving without really feeling his body or emotions. The marshal began delivering a speech explaining the situation of the war in Adlivun, and the extent to which American citizens had been unknowingly affected by the attacks of the Clan of Zalcan.

“Captain Trevain Murphy’s entire crew was murdered by these bloodthirsty savages,” Marshal Landou explained in a vicious voice, “so it appears we share a common enemy with our undersea neighbors. It is difficult to estimate just how many Americans have been killed by these aquatic terrorists over the years. The Clan of Zalcan, who fittingly wear the emblem of a shark’s tooth, has been known to terrorize the most popular crab fishing spots off the coast of Alaska. It has also come to our attention that this group has been responsible for all of the mysterious disappearances of crafts in the Bermuda Triangle. The Clan of Zalcan has been subjugating the undersea world for centuries, and they have been murdering our people without our knowledge! Many of the tragedies we thought were shipwrecks due to the dangers of the sea have actually been these monsters destroying us for their anarchistic amusement!”

Gasps arose from the audience. Although the bald man was especially charismatic, Trevain found his mind drifting again. He was vaguely aware that the marshal was discussing the complications of whether forces would be offered to Adlivun for protection. Did it even matter anymore? So much damage had already been caused. So many lives had already been lost—or possibly lost. When the marshal began citing various acronyms of economic organizations, Trevain drowned out the words with thoughts of Aazuria. Where could she be? Was she safe? Was she comfortable? He reminded himself that this was an important event, and he needed to concentrate. His thoughts began drifting instead to his sick mother. It was impossible.

He became conscious of the fact that people were beginning to turn to him with questioning looks on their faces.

“Where is she?” one of the army officials whispered.

Trevain realized that Marshal Landou had already finished speaking. It was time for the representative from Adlivun to make a statement. She had already been introduced, but she was nowhere to be seen. Trevain communicated this to the men in a whisper.

“I’m not sure. She might be running late.”

In fact, he was not even sure who was coming. Visola and Vachlan had written a complex and fascinating speech for Elandria to deliver—indeed, in the ideal circumstance, the princess would be the one to make the address. Trevain knew that if the taciturn girl could overcome her insecurities, she would be capable of the most diplomatic and memorable speech ever given.

“The representative isn’t here? This is a disaster!” Marshal Landou hissed.

Trevain shrugged. “I could just read the script…”

“No. We need one of
them
.”

A frown dug itself into Trevain’s wrinkles, enhancing the shadows on his face. He did not appreciate the alienating way the marshal spoke, but there was little he could do to object when he needed so much from the man. It was necessary, as Vachlan had advised, to kiss a little ass in order to survive. Trevain needed firepower. He needed protection for Adlivun.

“This is ridiculous,” mumbled a sophisticated-looking female politician. Trevain could not remember exactly what the woman’s job was, but he vaguely felt that it was important.

The crowd was getting antsy, and everyone could be heard murmuring in impatience. Throats were being cleared and fingers were pounding away on tiny electronic devices. The wind hissed through the bleachers, and banners and flags waved furiously. There was an awkward moment of hesitation and disappointment. Everyone had been eagerly awaiting the chance to lay eyes on the fabled creature of folklore.

A mermaid; an honest-to-goodness mermaid. The concept had enchanted storytellers for millennia, long before even Homer had tied Odysseus to the mast of his ship. Finally, the source of all the stories and legends would be revealed to the world! What would this creature look like?

A rumble in the distance caused eyebrows to crease and eyes to dart around nervously. The sound increased, and voices began to whisper curiously. A sense of apprehension and excitement was palpable in the atmosphere. As the source approached, and the source drew nearer, spectators began to recognize the particular brand of thunder. In the distance, a black blur became visible as it barreled down the road. A motorcycle.

There was no question that the little two-wheeled vehicle had been easily doubling the speed limit, but no one seemed to notice this as they stared spellbound at the figure of the person atop the motorized beast. It was not the silhouette one might have expected. Instead of a brawny fellow clad in a denim jacket with buttons that barely contained his beer belly, there was a slim and shapely waist swathed in black, armor-like leather.

It was a woman. If this was not shocking enough, she turned her bike into the field where the press conference had been set up, and drove directly onto the stage, using the side of the stairs as a ramp. The motorcycle was airborne for a moment before it landed. The important female political official screamed, and vaulted away from the vehicle.

Trevain crossed his arms over his chest. The woman crunched down on her brakes, locking up her wheels and causing the motorcycle to skid across the stage until it was barely an inch away from Trevain. She slammed her leather-booted foot onto the ground to stop the momentum. Trevain sighed as the scent of burnt rubber infiltrated his nostrils.

As the woman turned off her bike and dismounted, Trevain heard a familiar laugh and thought he saw a playful wink through the tinted visor of the motorcycle helmet. The woman used her boot to aggressively knock down her kickstand as she turned to look out at the massive audience. She placed her leather-gloved hands on her hipbones as she considered the crowd for a moment.

Her wide stance and erect posture oozed confidence as she reached up to remove the helmet from her head. She shook out a massive heap of tangled, unruly red curls and gave the audience a smug smile. She shoved her helmet onto one of the handlebars of her bike and began slowly sauntering up to the podium.

The tight leather clung to every contour of her long, muscled legs as she moved. When she was positioned before the podium, she studied the audience with a challenging air of superiority. Her shoulders were set back proudly and fearlessly, and she turned their scrutiny back upon them.
So these are humans?
her expression seemed to ask.
So these are those silly insignificant beings who live and die on land, never knowing all the majesty they’re missing?
No words were required to communicate that she was not a lesser animal for their entertainment. She was not to be exploited or mistreated in the common way society treated biological anomalies—she was too strong. She would never be a circus freak or a laughingstock. She was from a place of culture and sophistication, and she would tolerate no contempt.

All of this was understood before she had even parted her reddened lips in speech. Her entire audience, including those physically present and those watching from the comfort of their living rooms, was effectively mesmerized by her manner. She could feel the humming energy of their awe and fascination as though it were a physical thing she could grasp in her hand. Heat emanated from the object, warming her entire body.

Oh, how she loved an audience. The tall redhead tapped the microphone to check that it was on, before leaning forward to speak.

“I am General Visola Ramaris, the representative from the undersea kingdom of Adlivun,” she said. She paused, scanning the crowd with a poised, yet placid expression. She glanced back at Trevain and smiled at him to reassure him that she had everything under control. Trevain found himself holding his breath, almost afraid of the next thing she would say or do. Visola turned back to the audience, and cleared her throat, before delivering her carefully written speech.

“As you can see, I’ve got legs.”

She paused again for effect, allowing these words to sink deep into the eardrums of her onlookers. “I can also assure you that I know how to use them. Any questions?”

There was a silence as everyone registered her words. Everyone seemed unusually shocked and perplexed at both the simplicity and hilarity of her words. The spectators seemed to suddenly catch themselves staring, and they tightened their slack jaws. An explosion of camera flashes and excited chattering began. It hit Visola like a tsunami of adoration, and she smiled like a parading pageant queen basking in the gaudy glow of fame.

Trevain sighed and lifted his palm to press it against his forehead. Visola had completely tossed out her carefully planned speech, and had instead decided to use cheap theatrics to impress and engage her audience.
And that is how my grandmother became an international sex symbol,
Trevain thought to himself dryly.

“She’s quite the firecracker,” Marshal Landou said quietly, running his tongue over his top lip.

“She’s
married,”
Trevain responded, looking at the bald man with disdain.

“Happily?” Marshal Landou inquired. 

Trevain rolled his eyes and did not gratify this question with a response. He turned his attention back to the charming way Visola was working the crowd—her tactic had worked. Everyone was riveted, including Trevain himself, who had been completely unable to concentrate just minutes before. He had to admit that even the wildest of Visola’s actions made a twisted kind of sense. He could not help but admire how expertly and humorously the woman fielded questions from the reports, frequently sending the whole audience into fits of laugher.