Page 4 of Gemini Hunted
No matter how deeply I breathe, I can’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs. Maybe my O2 is already running low. Maybe my valve is leaking. But I can’t see the gauge (which is on the tank behind me).
Straight up, I can’t see fuck-all down here without my flashlight.
I’m a goddamn sitting duck.
This is bullshit.
I’m Zara Gemini. Royal wild child. Badass general of the witching world rebellion.
I can’t stay here forever, cowering against this rock like a clingfish. People up there are counting on me.
Plus, what if Ronin’s in trouble? What if my dive buddy needs me?
The best thing I can do right now—the only thing, TBH—is to follow the plan and head for the grotto.
Shark or no shark.
Overcome by the drive to take some action,anyaction, even if only to reorient myself and banish the bogeyman of my runaway imagination, I swing up my flashlight and switch on the light.
To my fully dilated pupils, the narrow beam is blinding.
As my pupils constrict to pinpricks, something takes shape in my little light.
A wicked wedge of head, sheathed in crimson scales and crowned with a crest of scarlet tentacles that float like Medusa snakes in the current. Two malignant golden eyes, slit by narrow vertical pupils like a goat’s, glare into mine from barely six feet away. A deadly muzzle parts to reveal a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth.
That head alone is the size of my whole self. Sensed more than seen, the vast weight of a massive body hovers in the twilight behind.
An electric jolt of recognition spikes my vitals, because this is a monster I’ve seen before.
Just never this close.
I’m staring straight into the clever eyes of a sea dragon.
The only sea dragon that exists in the whole witching world, because they’re supposed to be extinct.
Specifically, I’m floating—alone and helpless forty feet down, armed only with a knife—within killing reach of the sea dragon shifter who’s my most vicious enemy.
I’m staring at Cleo.
Here in her element, I’m pretty much at her mercy.
Chapter Two
Neo
By the time I fight my way back through these heavy seas to theQueen’s Vetoand tie up the dinghy behind my dad’s yacht, my hands are shaking with adrenaline and fatigue.
Despite how long I’ve been gone, the guys are still fighting.
Great.
Over the shrill moan of a rising wind, I can hear the clash of voices—harsh with anger—ringing all the way from the main deck.
While I’ve been away, the fight’s moved up from the bedroom to the salon, I guess.
Honestly speaking, that fight sounds like it’s getting worse.
Just like the weather.
