Each Step Like Knives Read online

  Helena had never given mouth-to-mouth before, or CPR, but she bent over the man anyway. His lips were cold on hers as she pressed down. She blew into them, uncertain of how hard to blow and afraid of hurting him. Was it possible to blow up another person's lungs? She blew again. The air hissed out of his nose, along with a dribble of water. She tried again. Her hand lay flat on his bare chest, and she felt no beating heart beneath her fingers. Was he...dead?

  His mouth parted beneath hers. His hand came up to clasp the back of her head. She breathed out, and he breathed in. In the next moment, his tongue met hers. He was kissing her.

  She backed off so quickly she fell back into the sand. "You're not dead!"

  He sat up. His now-open eyes were dark. Fully dark, with hints of blue and green and purple and even red in the depths. Helena blinked...sure she must be imagining things. She looked again. Yes, there was a hint of white around his irises, something to prove him human, anyway, but the color was still the oddest she'd ever seen.

  She got to her feet. "That was some trick."

  He tilted his head and only stared at her. She waved her hands. "Pretending to be dead so I had to give you mouth to mouth. Nice one, Romeo. But next time--" She glanced down at his nude body. "--keep your bathing suit on."

  She turned to go and his hand caught at the hem of her pants.

  "Hey! Let go!"

  He sat up, then stood unsteadily. She caught him before he could fall. His face had now paled remarkably beneath its bluish cast. His full lips thinned and he gasped, as though in pain. His fingers bit into her shoulders and his weight nearly took her down again.

  Helena straightened her back and somehow kept them both upright. "Where are you hurt?"

  He didn't answer her. He gave a low, tortured groan as his feet moved. He went to his knees.

  "Hey," Helena said, more gently this time. "You'll be all right. Let me get you inside, and I'll call a doctor."

  Somehow she made it with him to the living room of her ramshackle house. She sat him on the threadbare couch, wrapped him in an afghan her grandmother had crocheted, and went to the kitchen to make some hot tea. Grateful for the gas stove that worked even during a power outage, Helena lifted the phone from its receiver without much hope. The wind still blew hard enough to shake the windows and the rain still slashed the earth to mud. The phone was out, as she'd expected.

  She dunked two tea bags into two oversize mugs, then added liberal amounts of cream and sugar, added a few cookies from a tin and put it all on a tray. Cookies could fix a lot of problems, her grandmother had been fond of saying, and even if they couldn't heal a man who'd nearly drowned, they'd sure make him feel better. She added a flashlight and returned to the living room.

  She paused after setting down the tray. The man from the sea had fallen asleep. His head lolled back, mouth slightly parted, eyelashes casting shadows on his pale, still bluish cheeks. His chest peeked through the holes in the afghan, and she could see he was still breathing, at least.

  An inclination she couldn't understand made Helena reach out and smooth his drying hair away from his forehead, then let her fingers trail down his cheek. She withdrew before he could wake. Then she tucked the blanket more firmly around him, pushed his head softly onto a pillow and sat down with her tea in the overstuffed chair across from him.

  There was something definitely odd about him, and more than the way he'd entered her life. He looked...exotic. Foreign. Had he fallen off a cruise ship? Was he a merchant sailor from some far off land?

  Her tea spilled onto her lap before she realized she was also falling asleep. Helena winced at the stickiness left behind by the salt water. A shower, then bed, if her mystery guest hadn't woken by then. She checked him again, but his breathing was smooth, his pulse seemed normal enough, and his color was good. She checked the phone again, but it was still out, and likely would be until morning.

  After a rinse in the cold shower, her body didn't seem so interested in sleep any longer. She checked on her visitor, but he still slept. Helena wondered if she ought to wake him up...weren't people with head injuries not supposed to sleep? Uneasiness sent a chill down her spine. What if he died in the night?

  She put another couple of blankets over him, fully aware he was still completely nude under them. In the flashlight's dim light, his face looked impossibly serene. She bent low over him, uncertain why, and brushed her lips along his forehead. Then she stepped back, stunned by her own actions.

  She fled to the safety of her bedroom and the covers under which she could hide from the night and the storm outside.

  What is this darkness to which I have succumbed?

  Beneath the waves, the Carrageenai took rest, but were never overcome by this darkness filled with thoughts and visions he knew were not real, but seemed so vivid he thought he could reach out and touch them. One of the visions was of the woman bending to press her mouth to his skin. A kiss. She kissed him, and as Jeenai heard the soft pad of her feet as she left him, his eyes opened to more darkness. This time, to the darkness of the night, and not of dreams.

  Strong hands caressed her and she writhed wantonly beneath them. It had been so long since a man had touched her that way. Helena let her legs fall open to his urging. His fingers traced tickling patterns on her belly, over the springy curls, down to her thighs.

  She sighed and lifted her hips to the touch. It felt so good. This was the best sort of dream. She gave herself up to it. The hands of her dream lover caressed her thighs, then drifted upward to tangle briefly in her curls again before slipping a finger delicately along her slick folds. She sighed and parted her legs. The finger stroked her, dipped inside, then slid upward to press gently on her clitoris.

  Her body jerked at the sudden, delightful pressure. She heard herself moan. Was that out loud? Helena discovered she didn't really care.

  She slid her palms over her erect nipples and tweaked them in time to the gentle press and release from below. Ah, she was going to come. The entire focus of her body became centered between her legs. Her breathing quickened. Slickness coated her thighs as she shifted them to urge her dream lover to give her more of what she craved.

  He did. Another low cry burst from her throat when his tongue swiped along her flesh. His finger slipped deep inside her now, fucking her in rhythm to the stroking of his tongue on her clit. Helena lifted her hips. This was perfect. A lover who knew exactly how to touch her, where to touch her. A faceless, silent lover who pleasured her without demanding anything in return.

  As though from a far off place, she thought she heard the crashing of the ocean. Her body responded. Cresting and falling like waves on the sea, her climax built. It centered between her legs, on her clit and inside her cunt, but the pleasure radiated throughout her entire body. Her nipples tingled. The first shudders of orgasm swept over her, and she felt her flesh begin to pound and spasm.

  She came hard, then rose and came again. The second climax was milder, but lasted longer. For what felt like an hour she surfed the contractions rippling through her.

  She caught the scent of the ocean now, not just the sound. Salt and water, the tang of seaweed, a hint of fish that might have been unpleasant if it did not so totally blend with the other scents. The smell was familiar. More than just a beach smell. Still coasting on the aftermath of her orgasm, Helena let herself sink lower into her soft bed. The dream was fading. Her dream lover...

  Her eyes opened, startled, and she sat up in bed with a scream that shook the room. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  The man she'd rescued last night knelt between her legs. The daylight streaming through the window highlighted hints of blue and green in his black hair. His eyes met hers without blinking, and she saw the same colors echoed there.

  Helena pulled her oversized T-shirt down over her thighs and sat up against the headboard. "What..."

  She couldn't find any more words for a moment. With her body still languorous and sated from its recent climax, she was having a
bit of trouble focusing. She bit on her tongue, hard, then shouted, "Get out of here!"

  He cocked his head and studied her. Then he lifted his hands and made a fluttering motion with the fingers, moved one hand in a semicircle that ended with the palm facing up and made a low squeak in his throat.

  Fear stabbed her. "You freak! Get out!"

  He looked alarmed and shook his head. Then he reached for her. Instinct took over, and Helena pistoned her foot out. It caught him directly in the chest and flung him back and off the bed. He hit the wood floor with a thump that shook the room.

  Helena leaped to her feet and put up her hands, ready to defend herself if she needed to. She waited for her attacker to stand up, but her resolve faltered when he did. His eyes were bright with longing, and they somehow pierced her to the soul.

  He stood, his mouth thinned into a grim line, as though he were in terrible pain.

  No wonder, she thought. She’d just kicked him in the chest.

  He put a hand to his heart then moved it outward, palm up, and curled the fingers closed. He made a gesture as though tossing the invisible something in his hand toward her, then put both hands, fingertips together, to his lips. He repeated it twice.

  Sign language. "Are you deaf?"

  He shook his head and cupped one hand around his ear.

  "You can hear, but you can't talk?"

  Again, a head shake. Helena realized suddenly the man was still naked. His body was pale and finely formed, with sleek lines and defined but not overlarge muscles. His skin still had a faint bluish cast. His penis curled between muscular thighs, but no hair surrounded it.

  Helena pulled her embarrassed gaze away from his crotch. No hair on his chest, either, or under his arms. No hair anywhere that she could see, but for the thick dark layers on his head.

  He repeated his earlier gesture two more times, his gaze sincere. He wisely kept his distance.

  "You're sorry?" She didn't know how she knew that's what he meant, but her guess had been correct.

  Relief curved his lips into a smile. He nodded. He looked pointedly at the bed, then down to his penis, which twitched and made as though to rise. He pointed to her and passed his hands flat down in front of him as though he were stroking her from throat to hips.

  Her nipples poked at the front of the soft T-shirt when he did that, and Helena crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't know where you come from, buddy, but you just don't crawl into a woman's bed and..." And what? Lick her to one of the best orgasms she'd ever had? "Well, you just can't do that. Not without my permission! That's rape!"

  The problem was, now that the initial surprise had faded, she didn't feel raped. She didn't feel violated. Quite the opposite, Helena mused, as the man's cock thickened a bit more in front of her fascinated gaze. She felt quite horny.

  "You just can't do it," she finished lamely. "I don't know who you are, or where you came from, or anything about you!"

  He pointed out the window, where a glimpse of now blue ocean peeked in at them. He put one finger in the air and mimicked the water funnel's motion, then threw out both his hands toward her.

  "Yes, I know you came from that freaky funnel thing. But how did you get there? Who are you?"

  It seemed he couldn't reply. He put a hand to his throat and shook his head sadly. Then he shrugged.

  For a long moment, they stared at each other from across the room. Finally, Helena sighed. "Are you hungry? C'mon. I'll make us something to eat. Then we can figure out what to do with you."

  She provided him with an article of clothing he recognized but had to struggle to get into. The two tubes of material were meant to cover his new legs. Jeenai had no trouble seeing that. But how did these split-tails...humans, he reminded himself. How do they manage to get them on?

  He lifted one foot, which made the other scream in agony at the extra pressure. He was able to stick his leg down in and repeat the process, then pull the stretchy circular opening up to his hips. The fit wasn't perfect. A good two hand's-breadth of ankle stuck out below the bottom edge. He was covered, though, which Jeenai knew to be important to the humans, and he felt better with his equipment tucked away beneath something protective. He might get used to feet and legs, but he'd never get used to having his penis and testicles exposed for all the world to see.

  "They look good on you," the woman told him when he entered the room where she was fixing the food. "Sit down. I'm making eggs."

  Jeenai had seen many humans using what they called beach chairs, but though this looked similar, the back was higher and the legs longer. He sat gingerly, unused to bending his body in such a fashion. He was surprised to feel how comfortable it was to rest his weight entirely on his posterior, especially since it meant the pressure released a bit on his feet.

  The woman put a platter of what looked like sponges in front of him. The Carrageenai did not eat sea sponges, but he lifted some on his fingers and tasted it warily. Not sponges at all! Something better, something delicious. His stomach rumbled and came awake. He was fiercely hungry. Jeenai gobbled the rest of the platter as the woman watched. He looked up to see her expression--one he recognized. She was bemused.

  "You were hungry."

  He nodded, familiar with her terminology. He patted his stomach, then gestured a thank you.

  "You're welcome."

  She understood him. The sea hag had been wrong. He could not speak as the humans did, that was true enough. But he could communicate.

  She was not eating. She sipped from a cup of some brown liquid. He asked her if she was not also hungry.

  She furrowed her brow at him. He tried again with the crude gestures used to communicate with Carrageenai infants. Her face lit with understanding.

  "No, I don't want any, thanks. Coffee is enough for me." She showed him the cup. "Want some?"

  He had never consumed a liquid as part of nourishment before. The seawater he regularly took into his mouth, nose and gill slits never reached his stomach. He accepted the cup she handed him, sniffed the dark liquid, then touched his tongue to it. It was as hot as a thermal spring, and he gave it back to her with a shake of his head.

  "No?" She laughed. "It's a bad habit of mine. I'm a monster without my coffee in the morning."

  He didn't understand what she meant, exactly, but her laughter prompted his own. His mouth stretched into a grin, and he saw her face go from amused to shocked.

  "Your teeth!" She set down her cup so hard her coffee spilled. "They're so sharp!"

  He clamped his lips closed. He had forgotten for a moment that human mouths were filled with dull, useless teeth. That was why they needed to use tools to cut their food for them. Apparently, though, the sight of his teeth had startled her. Worse, disgusted her.

  Jeenai looked at the woman for whom he'd risked so much. If she could not love him, he would turn into sea foam. He would cease to exist.

  He told her he was sorry, which she recognized. She stared at his hands as he spoke, and he realized she was looking at the soft, flexible webbing between his fingers.

  The woman's face was solemn. "You're not human, are you?"

  He shook his head.

  "You came from the sea." Recognition made her gasp. "It was you the other night! You saved me when I went under!"

  He nodded. The woman sat back in her chair. She covered her eyes briefly with her hands, then peeked at him through her fingers.

  "What are you?"

  "Carrageenai," he said, but the sound came out mangled and indecipherable.

  She shook her head. "I don't understand."

  He stood and put his hands on his thighs. "These are not my legs. I usually have a tail."