Cassie Alexander - Deadshifted

An expanded version of the Maraschino in map form covered one wall. There was a tiny red cross indicating the medical center on the bottom-most floor. I’d look there for a pregnancy test tomorrow, first thing. I’d figure out some way to ditch Asher to do it—and I’d put off worrying about anything baby-related till morning time. I deserved one night of vacation at least.

The elevator doors dinged and opened into a small landing on the ninth floor. The entrance to Le Poisson Affamé—which Asher had informed me meant “the famished fish”—was off to one side. It was a fancy restaurant where we had reservations later on in the trip—no way we could get in there, looking like this, tonight. Saloon doors on the other side led out to the deck. We walked through them, still holding hands.

The deck outside wound around smokestacks, interrupted only by herds of deck chairs and an assortment of shallow pools. There were bars at frequent intervals, with people already partying nearby, drinks in hand, as hidden speakers pumped out music with a salsa beat.

Asher and I wove through the people and walked the perimeter of the deck. Railings were reinforced with clear plastic walls to cut down on wind and potential lawsuits. The night breeze smelled like good ocean, clean and salty, not the stale scent of decay that Port Cavell had down by the docks.

Asher wound his arms around me as we looked back at the receding land. It was as if it were ebbing away from us, a reversal of the tide. And as much as I didn’t trust the ocean, it was hard not to feel safe. The Maraschino was immense, and Asher was at my back. What more could a girl need? Assuming we didn’t meet any stray icebergs between LA and Hawaii, we might actually have a fabulous time.

He squeezed me closer. “Want a drink?”

“Nah. If I do, I’ll fall asleep where I stand.” It was as good an excuse as any for not drinking and not far off from the truth. I turned around inside his arms. “You should if you want, though.” The sooner he felt like falling asleep, the sooner I could too, guilt-free.

He thought about it. “Maybe. It is our first night here, after all.” I nodded in an encouraging way, and he unlooped his arms around me, gave me a winning smile. “Wait here for me. It’s a big boat.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” I teased, and held on to the railing as he took a step back. The land had entirely disappeared, and the volume of the music turned up as if in triumph. It was as if it were just us—the four thousand or so of us on board—and no one else. No neighbors to complain, no police department to call. We were on a floating city, and out here it felt entirely possible there was no one else left in the world.

A crew member tried to get people to do a coordinated dance on a nearby deck, the Macarena, the refuge of the rhythmless and their children. Parents bobbed in time with the music as their toddlers waddled along. Maybe Claire was right—this wouldn’t be such a bad tradition to have.

Asher returned with a blended drink in hand, and I eyed its unmanly pinkness. My boyfriend usually drank Manhattans. “It’s tropical,” he informed me, offering me a sip. I snorted and demurred.

A child broke from the pack of dancers and ran toward us, followed by a tiny brunette woman.

“Thomas? Thomas!” She raced after him. Luckily, she was already wearing a pink velour jogging suit. “Thomas, get back here!”

It was the sort of thing that had always made me question having children in the past—even though I’d nursed enough kids to know they were unpredictable. But I found myself grinning at the thought of racing after one of my own. There wouldn’t be much racing, because mine would be better behaved, of course—then I realized that probably all expectant parents lied to themselves about that sort of thing.

A man followed the woman at a distance. Wind struck up, stronger now as the sun was down—but I knew I’d heard Asher’s sharp inhale of surprise at seeing the other man.

“That’s him,” he whispered, then handed me his drink before moving quickly to intercept the racing child. “Whoa! Hey there, kiddo!”

The man approaching was him, him? Evil personified?

It was hard to be scared of him when seeing Asher hold his kid made me queasy inside, in a good way.

“Hey, hey—” Asher repeated, like he was soothing a dog, as the kid fought and squirmed. The woman caught up, swooping her child up into her arms, and smiled sheepishly at us.

“Thank you so much!” she said, making a Q of the you . “He’s so fast, he gets into a lot of trouble.”

“It’s no mind,” Asher said, his accent a subtle imitation of hers that he hadn’t had a second ago. I’d seen him do it before at the clinic. I didn’t know if he did it on purpose or if the strange just came to him without thinking, but it put people’s minds at ease. Who better to be your doctor than someone from your hometown? It wasn’t even entirely a lie. He’d touched someone from nearly everywhere, and held a set of their memories inside himself. He only needed to hold up a tag like a dry cleaner’s employee and wait for the appropriate past to slide itself forward for him to wear.

The man from Asher’s past, presumably her husband, caught up as well. He was more frightening the closer he got. It wasn’t his sharp nose or his prominent widow’s peak, going gray at both temples. It was the way he took in all of us, emanating an air of disgust at the entire situation. Seeing him be cold to his own overwhelmed wife, child, and randomly helpful strangers made Asher’s story all the more believable. While the Consortium might have censured him somehow, they hadn’t taught him any lessons.

“Thank you,” he said, as if it was a complaint, and he was accent-less. Asher gave him an ignorant smile, but it was hard for me not to stare. Testing fake blood on humans—who knew how many deaths this man had caused?

“Oh, no problem. We’re trying to have one ourselves,” Asher went on, lying completely, his accent still on. Ironic, seeing as he didn’t know my period was late. “Hoping this romantic sea air will help things out, you know?” Asher overshared, as I began to want to die. “I’m Kevin—” Asher went on, leaning forward with his hand out. The woman shook it first.

“I’m Liz—and this is Nathaniel,” she said.

“Nathaniel Tannin.” Nathaniel introduced himself more formally, with no clue that Asher already knew him. I felt fractionally relieved, but not much.

As Asher took his hand, Nathaniel looked a little pained by the common touch. Like he thought someone who looked like Asher did currently, and who, farmer-like, talked about impregnation at the drop of a hat, might also have barbecue sauce or semen stains hidden on his palm.

When Asher didn’t let his hand go, Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed.

“And I’m Edie.” I introduced myself with my actual name, because I’d never manage to keep a fake one straight, and so I could stop Asher from somehow giving himself away. “What’s his name?” I asked Liz despite the fact that I’d heard her shouting it after him, even over the increasingly obnoxious music.

“Thomas. The third,” she answered, and her eyes darted to Asher-Kevin, who’d just finally let go of her husband’s hand. Nathaniel not-so-discreetly wiped his hand on his leg.

“I have an uncle named Thomas!” I said. Asher turned to blink at me.

You’re not the only one who can lie, I tried to say with a well-timed squint. “You remember him, right, Kevin?” I smiled at the woman. “He’s my favorite uncle, he’s just a lovely man. I’m sure your son will be lovely too.”

“Awww, I’m sure. Thank you. Again.” Liz hefted her son up, still squirming, and gave us another shy smile as Nathaniel took her by the elbow and guided her away.