Ocean Kills:Book One of Ocean Breeze(8)

By: Jade Hart


“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




The 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.”

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