Page 3 of Gemini Hunted
I sneak a peek at the illuminated dial of my dive watch. Check out the compass and depth gauge on the dial to orient myself and steady my jittery vitals. Already forty feet down, so swimming for the surface would put the shark under me, which any kindaJawsfan could tell you is a bad idea. Besides, what the hell would I do up there on the surface? By now, Neo and theFilibusterare long gone.
Steady there, showgirl, I tell myself (and my fretful dragon).We got a job to finish down here. Then we can vamoose.
Grimly I swing my flashlight east toward shore. That’s where I’ll find the Emerald Grotto. That’s where I need to go.
Plus, the entrance to that undersea cave is too snug to accommodate Malky’s big ass shark.
My searching beam sweeps across a thick stub of stalagmite—one of the frequent rocky pinnacles that litter this coast and make it so treacherous. (That’s why the yacht’s moored so far out.) I put my fins to use and swim for cover, working crosswise to the current’s strong pull.
When I reach the rocky crag, crusted with coral and thick with fronds of seaweed that sway hypnotically with the tide, I tuck in against the thing, putting its reassuringly solid bulwark squarely at my back. I need to be careful not to get tangled up in the foliage.
But if I do, that’s why I have the knife.
Besides, I really wanna lose that shark before I cross the open stretch of cove to the grotto.
Floating in a kelp forest with my O2 tank scraping the rock behind me, I clutch my knife and flashlight and wage a brief inner battle. Chilled to the bone by the unforgiving knowledge of the next thing I need to do.
Then I suck in a breath, pull up my big girl panties, and switch off my light.
This far down, impenetrable darkness descends like a blanket. The harsh mechanical rasp of my breath fills my ears. I work on slowing my respiration, so my frantic heartbeat isn’t ringing the dinner bell for every shark in the neighborhood. (Not that the possibility of multiple sharks in my immediate neighborhood is a thought I wanna dwell on).
Shit.
I can’t feel Ronin in our bond, like, anyfuckingwhere.
Neo, who’s my fated mate and thus also linked to me, is way outta range.
With any luck, Neo’s back at the yacht with the rest of my unhappy harem, talking down Zephyr (a non-diver) from his testosterone-fueled threat to hightail it after me. All of them weathering these worsening seas till we rendezvous at the extraction point—with the artifact.
With any luck, Ronin’s at the grotto already.
With any luck, Ronin’s got the Horn of Ceres snatched and securely squirreled away in his game bag right now.
Fuck. We’re never that lucky.
Or maybe Ronin’s much closer. Searching for me. And I just can’t feel him because there’s a nullifying object in play. Possible, because the bad guys at House Tiberius have one of those. Yeah, like a magical artifact that blocks the telepathic bonds between me and my warlocks.
This alarming mental calculus, which I’m doing to stay sane and not piss myself in a shark-fueled panic, ticks along to the inevitable outcome.
If Malcolm Uranus is in the waterandthere’s a nullifying object in play, that must meanshe’sclose.
My ex-bestie, ex-partner-in-crime, ex-lover. Ex-everything. My vicious rival for the witching world crown.
The mortal world knows her as celebrity supermodel Cleo Ferrari. To the witching world, she’s the current queen’s chosen heir.
Cleopatra Aquarius.
To me, she’s always just been Cleo.
My entire body prickles with a thrill of alertness, like a smack of jellyfish stinging my skin in the dark. My survival sense is already going haywire (because shark). But the cold finger of nerves sliding down my spine magnifies that creepy sense of watching eyes tenfold.
I literally can’t stand it.
Just waiting in the dark for the steel vise of carnassial jaws to close around my torso—from above or below—and bite me in two.
I’m breathing too hard, sucking down precious oxygen. Close to hyperventilating, judging by the swirly sense of vertigo that’s overtaking me. If not for the solid presence of the big rock at my back, I’d be totally disoriented in this floaty darkness.
That sense of being watched by hostile eyes deepens. The floating tendrils of my ponytail tickle my face like ghostly fingers. Ropes of slimy seaweed slither against my limbs like snakes. Cold seeps through my shortie, my naked legs are icy, and my chest is tight.
