Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (4 page)

He stood. I didn't like the look in his eyes. Gone was the calculating surfer boy trying to read me, replaced with a hard-edged cop who wanted what he couldn't have. “I want to chase
you
. You're like me. I can tell.”

Now that was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. “Yeah. Okay, Callan. We're both so alike.”

I planned on running out the door while he paid the cheque, but it was obvious with the way his body guarded the exit that it wouldn’t be that easy. Fine. I had another plan.

“I'd like to get to know you, Ocean. You're different.”

“You know nothing about me—let’s leave it at that.” I took a deep breath; power swirled from my stomach, erupting behind my eyes. Teleporting was a very convenient way to travel, but fuck it hurt. The migraine took over. I wanted to throw up my dinner. I groaned, letting the pressure build.

Callan took a step toward me. “Ocean, are you alright? Here, sit down.” His hand grazed my elbow and I fractured a little. The ground grew soft as smoke. The room shimmered with air wisps, stealing the solidity and replacing it with a dream of kimono and filigree.

“We are nothing alike and you're right. I
am
different than other girls,” I panted, tugging his shirt so he stumbled into me. His wild, salty scent suffocated me as I whispered in his ear, “I kill monsters. I'm the grim reaper and my work is never finished. I'm not what you think. Goodbye, Callan.” I had no idea why I told him—it was an impulse that I followed recklessly. The migraine burst a rainbow of colors into my brain, and the sushi restaurant disappeared with a
pop.

An imprint of shock and amazement in those sea-foam eyes haunted me as I spiraled into speed and nothingness. I wished the transportation power worked faster, but it took a good ten minutes of stomach warping momentum and brain hemorrhaging pain before downtown Manchester wisped around me, condensing from dream to reality, followed quickly by sounds of car horns, voices, and smells of mini doughnuts.

I was in England.

Chapter Three: Callan

T
he precinct was bloody worse in daylight than in the scumbag of night. Its only purpose was to show criminals the law didn't care about the dinginess and lackluster accommodations. But shit, it sucked working in a hell-hole. Personally, I always thought the dinginess was more to do with the city not having the budget to enforce the law, therefore, renovations were on the never, never. Soon, good cops wouldn't exist, as more and more corruption leached into the force. Most of the time, I wondered if I was the only intelligent, untainted one left.

The metal door slammed shut as I stalked toward my cubicle of an office—also known as my stink-ass shoebox.

My eyes were gritty; my brain was fried from lack of sleep. My entire fundamental belief in the world crushed by one woman. Ocean
bloody
Breeze. Either the raw tuna I ate was laced with a large amount of mercury, or she really
had
evaporated into thin air. Ludicrous to even contemplate, but something in me refused to believe it wasn't real.

Yes, I had a sci-fi addiction—totally hooked on shows like the
X-files
. But it didn’t mean I found a real-life crazy anomaly. . . did it? For the thousandth time, I ran my hands through my hair.
Shit.
She was a woman, for Christ's sake! Hot as hell and poofed into bloody nothing in front of me. If that wasn’t a red flag to my copper’s brain, I didn’t know what was. She was
way
too tantalizing for me not to chase.

Jerking my chair out from my scuffed, ancient desk, I sat and slouched. I didn't have to be here; my shift wasn't until tomorrow. After a roster of four red-eyes, I should be in the surf, purging my mind of the atrocities I'd dealt with. But no. Here I was, lurking in an office I hated, thinking about a woman who survived a truly fucked-up childhood, and seemed to have superpowers. Awesome way to spend a day off.

I groaned, scowling at my stapler. This wouldn't do me any good—acting hung-over and thinking like a broken record about a woman with a disappearing fetish.

Wrenching my laptop from my bag, I placed it on my desk and logged onto the police database. While I waited for the connection, I made my way to the filing room. The station was drab and painted in nothing but shades of depression. Not exactly encouraging for go-catch-a-bad-guy morale. More like, just give up and let the world implode in its own stupidity.

I entered the filing cave, and a short man with his iPod blaring looked up.

“Morning, Steveo.” My voice was a gravely mess, lack of sleep making itself evident.

He removed the ear-buds. “Sup, Callan? What ya looking for?” Steveo's black hair was military tidy, his uniform pressed to razor sharp pleats. I looked like I'd rolled in mine. I lost my iron two days ago; it lurked somewhere in my apartment, hiding. Bloody thing.

“Can you give me the file for a female, aged twenty-four? Last name Breeze, first name Ocean.” Just saying her name gave me chills. Was it because I thought she had a wicked name? That was part of it, but mostly because I was drawn to the spine of steel glinting in those black eyes. Eyes that swallowed the very light in the room; eyes that reminded me of a great white shark I dived with in Perth once. Calculating. Deadly. Super intelligent.

Steveo's eyebrow rose. “For real? Ocean Breeze? She sounds like air-deodorizer.”

A low growl formulated in my chest. I froze. Where the hell did that come from? She was nothing to me. A conundrum, that's all. The cop in me couldn't rest until it understood how she pulled the disappearing trick. Bloody woman.

“Just look for it, will ya?” I was not in the mood for his attitude. Coffee. I needed coffee.

“Sure thing.” He disappeared into the gloom of towering filing cabinets. How anyone worked in that cave was beyond me. I would never admit it, but claustrophobia clawed. I needed wide open spaces. Probably why I loved the ocean so much.

I slapped my forehead.
That's
why I thought her name was awesome. I fucking loved the ocean. Why wouldn't I have been drawn to someone named after the sea? I was such a loser.

Steveo returned with the file. His face green. Shit, he read it. He had no right, her story was hers. It shouldn't be reading material for the likes of Steveo, who owned more penthouse mags than I did newspapers.

I snatched it out of his hands. “Next time I order you to fetch, you keep it closed.” My voice bordered on feral.

Steveo's blue eyes widened. “Crikey. I meant no disrespect,
Officer
Bliss.” He drawled my name impertinently. His cocked eyebrow put me in my place.

“Sorry, mate. Cheers.” I flashed him an apologetic smile and sauntered out of the filing dungeon. By the time I threw the file on my desk, my computer link was active and ready to search.

Ocean Breeze.
ENTER.

The system kicked in. Within seconds I captured all the arrest warrants of one Ocean Breeze, born: 18
^th
of April, 1988.

Shit, the girl got around.

Five arrests in Australia, and I guessed a few more she either expunged or was too young to have added. Her infractions included disrupting the peace, larceny, and domestic interference. Nothing major. Oh, hang on—grand theft auto was kind of major.

I wiped off the grin that stupidly stuck to my lips. She was quite a character.

I pulled up her mug-shot and fingerprints. The mug-shot was taken three years ago. I leaned closer to the computer. Her eyes—they were different. Slivers of blue danced with black—like a fractured orb—a jagged mixture of the two, but definitely more blue than black. Was she wearing contact lenses last night?

Her hair was different too. In this photo she wore it as a short black bob, cut with a precision slice along her jaw. Her entire outfit was a rockin' Japanese animae. This really wasn't helping me keep a cool hunters head. I found Japanese animae characters smokin' hot.

Christ, this girl was stunning.
Stop ogling the criminal, Callan
. The only reason I was doing this was to find answers to how she disappeared. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Wrenching myself from the photo, I glanced at her fingerprint. Then took a double look. Huh. That was strange. The swirls and patterns of a normal fingerprint were disrupted. A vague shadow, a few lines, distorting into nothing. Either the guy who recorded it was drunk, or something was seriously odd. The same problems existed with the ones we took last night. Only parts of her print showed up. Yet another reason to hunt her. My mind burned with questions.

With her file open, and my stomach rock hard from rereading the details of what happened to her, I did a search for known contact details or aliases.

Nothing.

Why was I not surprised? The woman seemed too smart for her own good.

I leaned back and cracked my knuckles. Running hands through my hair, I prepared to do some creative computing. I had secrets of my own.  

I told Ocean the truth when I admitted to living in Korea on a school exchange. Who knew my exchange family’s father would turn out to be a ninja-hacker and take me under his wing? Mr. Kim was responsible for a lot of my unusual skills and habits.

Needless to say, the Sydney police force didn't know about my special talents. It wasn't exactly legal, but I had a knack for finding people who didn't want to be found.

And I wanted to find Ocean Breeze.

Chapter Four: Ocean

I
paced through the age-stained cobble streets of Manchester, pondering my next move. England was a totally different planet compared to Australia. The atmosphere seemed brighter in Aussie, the horizon a deeper teal, the sun an orb of flaming gold. Here, in England, everything was grey. From the drizzle misting from the grey sky, to the concrete pavements mirrored in grey buildings. Luckily, I could escape whenever I wanted, otherwise depression would crush me. I wanted eye-shattering brightness. Exoticness. Heat.

Sea-foam eyes slammed into recollection, followed quickly by a semi-naked figure in the surf. Officer Bliss had lived in Bali. Surfing, relaxing. Lucky freakin' cop. Bali was one of my favorite places. The vibe was so chilllax—something I needed. I didn't know how to unwind. A constant drive urged me forward. If I didn't keep hunting, keep purging, then guilt was an intolerable affliction stealing my soul bit by bit. I could never stop.

But right now, I had business to complete. I needed cash. With the ability to port, there were countless untapped avenues of money. Robbing banks, for one. But I refused to be a thief. I may be a killer, but I had morals to uphold.

Taking note of which grey street I stood on, I sucked in a breath, and straightened my shoulders. My breasts teetered on the cusp of popping from my silver boob-tube, and my exposed midriff looked hoochy. Definitely not acceptable attire for wandering English streets at lunchtime, but I didn’t need to go far—Maurice lived on this block.

The imposing black and white Tudor home beckoned me with old world charm and ghostly wonkiness. The facade was well cared for—a much-loved home, but the stories were melting. Instead of the crisp lines of modern architecture, the building slowly sagged. Gravity extracting its toll as the centuries lashed at the structure.

It was the one and only place I was safe, and I'd avoided coming here for six very long months. Stupid. So stupid.

My pride. . . my fear kept me from the one person I loved. I could blame the last hunt. Blame my responsibilities. But it would be a lie. How I lasted six months away from Maurice, I couldn’t contemplate. I needed him as much as I needed food to port. 

Smoothing my chocolate fire hair—courtesy of Garnier hair color—I gulped some courage and knocked on the twisted Tudor door. Eyeing the prehistoric plaque stating how historical the dwelling was—1597 to be exact—I thought, not for the first time, how cool it would be to port to the past, to see how people lived without electricity or indoor plumbing.

“Ocean.” The door remained closed.