“I would, yes.”

  “And to Atlantis.”

  “Okay, wow,” I say. “We seriously need to chat over drinks and not when we’re looking for a missing person.”

  “Would be fun,” she says. “But yeah, do you think this creature somehow bends time and space and even dimensions?”

  “Dimensions?” I frown. “Like maybe it’s going not only back in time, but sideways across worlds?”

  “I see you’ve been to such worlds, too, Sam. Along with going backward in time... whoa. You met Hitler? Really?”

  “Another story for our drink date,” I say, grinning. Not sure why I added the word ‘date.’ Her charm is real, that’s for sure.

  “Yes, definitely. And is it so hard to imagine a creature might slip unconsciously through time? Not even realizing the incredible significance of its achievement?”

  “Or between dimensions and forward and backward through time,” I add. “Might not even know it’s doing it.”

  “Maybe that’s how it escaped extinction.”

  “Or other predators, including mankind,” I say. “If people knew that thing was out there hunting people, they would never go back into the water again.”

  Alexis snaps her fingers. “Hunting. Yes, that’s probably why it travels through time. Something that big isn’t especially fast. Think about how slow blue whales are. That thing is easily as big or bigger. By appearing suddenly, a potential prey has less chance of escaping.”

  “How would it know when to appear or not, or if there is prey at a certain timeline?”

  Alexis shrugs. “You would have to ask it. Perhaps it can scan the timelines and appear when prey is spotted. It grabs a snack and is gone again, perhaps even in a blink of an eye.”

  “My head hurts,” I say.

  “Says the only person I personally know who, in fact, has traveled back in time.”

  “Doesn’t mean I understand how any of this stuff works.” I rub my face. “If this is true, how in God’s name do we find him again? The creature could be anywhere, at any point in time.”

  “Or it’s still around, and I’m just the mermaid to find it,” says Alexis, winking. “Tell you what, I’ll search for the creature and you gather together the gals.”

  “The gals?”

  “The psychic sister who senses him, the witchy friend who can remotely view him, and, of course, the time-traveling vampire who could teleport to him. Perhaps the four of us can come up with a plan.”

  I sit back and smirk at her. “I think I like you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Roxy

  My name’s Roxanne Aberdeen, but you can call me Roxy.

  Truth be known, I love my name. Always have, even if the Sting song with the same name is about a prostitute. Don’t care. Love the song, love hearing my name in Sting’s mouth. He says/sings it so beautifully.

  The topic hasn’t come up yet with Samantha Moon, but I am a true-crime writer. Yes, my brother and I are both writers. Our mother was a reporter for our local Newport Beach newspaper back in the day. She always had ambitions to work for a bigger newspaper (and to even write novels), but having ambitions and actually being ambitious are two different things. In her case, I think she chose wisely. Immersing herself in the community suited her, and she even won a few Beachie awards. Yes, that’s a thing.

  Maybe it’s a surprise both of us got into writing nonfiction. Roy and his books on swimming (one of which hit the L.A. Times bestseller’s list a few years ago) and me with my true-crime books. No national bestseller’s lists for me, though I typically hit high on Amazon’s many top-100 true-crime lists. I’ve written nine books, and each has done better than the last. I do this full time, which is more than a lot of writers can say. So, I’m grateful. Perhaps not so weirdly, I’ve helped solve four of the cases I’ve been researching. Maybe that’s why I’m getting more and more popular. My books offer some closure and real-time investigations.

  At present, I’m walking along the Newport Beach boardwalk. In fact, I’m following Roy’s swim route. I started near the pier and I’m walking to the buoy he uses as his turning point. In fact, I can see it now, bobbing off the shore about fifty yards out.

  Seeing it there in the cold ocean gives me pause, and I stop, wiping my eyes. Where are you, Roy? Why can’t I see you? Yes, I can feel him, and I still sense motion, but that’s not enough to find him, dammit.

  I shove my hands back in my hoodie sweater, my hair whipping up in a frenzy. The beach is always so windy, which is why I don’t live here. I live a few miles inland in Costa Mesa. The wind messes with my gifts. Can’t quite explain why. Maybe it’s the howling in my ears, the movement of my hair and clothing. I just don’t quite feel as sensitive anymore. Then again, the majority of my abilities come from psychic hits. Snapshots of images. Such hits are undeniable, and the most obvious manifestations of my gifts. Less so are the feelings I get, the sense of knowing, even the voices I might hear. All of which the wind plays havoc with.

  But, I love visiting my brother at the beach. We are still close, even into adulthood. He is my best friend and closest relative. Kinda my only relative. Our parents are dead and we have no other siblings, though we have an uncle who occasionally visits from the heartland.

  I haven’t written a lick since Roy’s disappearance. No surprise there.

  Ugh, where are you, Roy?

  As I stand here, with my hoodie on and hands in my pockets, and the tears coming again, something else happens. I see hands holding a flipper. A woman’s pale hands, no paint on the nails. She’s sitting upright in an older car, no, a minivan...

  It’s Samantha Moon, I’m sure of it... and it’s happening right now. In fact, I can see a glimpse of the ocean beyond her windshield.

  She’s not far.

  Sam’s hands are clenching the flipper in much the same way she had clenched Roy’s journal: curled around the edge, perhaps even shaking ever so slightly. The shaking part is just a guess.

  What I do know is... she’s having a vision.

  What did she call it? A psychometric hit.

  And it’s happening right now.

  No surprise there. That is Roy’s flipper, after all. Someone must have found it on the beach. I’m not loving seeing a chunk missing from it, but I know Roy’s alive. He has to be. This isn’t wishful thinking. I feel him.

  The snapshot of Sam holding the flipper comes and goes, but the image of it is seared into my memory.

  Wow, okay. That just happened. How did she know about the flipper? Did she find it? I shake my head at that. No, it was turned into the Coast Guard. They called her. Would have been nice if they’d called me. Then again, I hired Sam Moon for her help. In essence, she’s an agent of mine. Makes sense that they called her about it first. Likely, I’ll get a call from Captain Chuck soon enough.

  As I ponder the damaged flipper, I wonder what vision Sam is having. That she is a vampire is something I may never wrap my head around. At least, not until we find Roy...

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Alexis

  My name is Alexis Silver, and I’m a mermaid.

  Not a naturally born mermaid, mind you, of which there are plenty in the deepest of oceans. Like Samantha and Kingsley, I was once human. I, too, have a dark master, though Licinia is more of a grandmother figure now—a great-grandmother many times over, being that she’s over two thousand years old. She’s my confidant, my friend, my moral compass, my subconscious, and the greatest gift I have ever been given.

  I cannot imagine the torture of being at war with one’s dark master. Poor Sam. Luckily, her parasitic hitchhiker had long since booted. I’d gotten glimpses of the personal hell Sam had been through—and even glimpses of their bloody final battle. Wow. I guess I can’t complain, nor would I ever. Licinia and I are friends, perhaps the closest of friends, maybe ever.

  With my clothing hidden behind one of the pier pylons, I now swim at a fairly high speed out into the open ocean. When I hit such speed, it is best to be unencumbered by clothing or even my aerodynamic backpack. Heck, even a tight workout bra would get stripped free and clear, so, yeah, I left it all behind under the pier. Here’s hoping no one rifles through my stuff.

  Like a true shifter, my legs morph immediately into a pliable fish tail, one that is exceptionally beautiful, if I do say so myself. Compared to the relatively plain tails of the natural mers, those like me—that is, those who were once humans—have been gifted with a shimmery, multi-colored, iridescent tail of wild beauty.

  Why the difference? I don’t know. Perhaps to separate the two species of merfolk. No one could ever mistake me for a natural mer, and vice versa.

  This tail isn’t just for looks. I can hit extreme speeds. Not sure if the natural mers are as fast, as I’ve never raced one, but I would be surprised if anything underwater, quite frankly, could keep up with me. Plus, supernatural endurance. Like Captain America himself says... “I can do this all day.”

  And I do so now—hitting the jets, so to speak. My majestic tail whips behind me in a blur, water and sea life flash past me, again in a blur. There is, after all, a man missing and the culprit just might be something even my own kind is unaware of. Trust me, in the one hundred-plus years I’ve been alive, I have seen my fair share of mysteries. But it’s not every day that I find a true monster lurking in the depths.

  That’s what I’m looking for now. Something likely bigger than anything I’ve ever seen before.

  And that’s saying something.

  What this thing is, I’m not sure. Likely a remnant from some prehistoric era, or maybe it really is a creature from out of time. Hard to know. I’ve seen a rare breed of whale bigger than a blue whale, which would shock a lot of scientists. It lives at great depths and is a master of camouflage. Even more curiously, I’m told by others of my kind that it absorbs sonar. Nearly undetectable unless you physically run into it, which is how I came across the big fella. And when I say big, I’m talking five times the length of a blue whale, give or take a few hundred feet.

  No, there aren’t many of them. Maybe a couple of hundred at most. I doubt humankind will ever find them, but we’ll see.

  (Oh, and they breathe through giant gills and feast on plankton. They never need to surface, which should help keep them hidden for the foreseeable future. Staying hidden from mortals is never, ever a bad idea.)

  Anyway, the thing in Samantha’s memory is straight out of Jurassic Park. Triangular head, wildly long neck, and flippers for appendages. All on a massive scale. Far, far bigger than anything people claim roams under Loch Ness.

  And yeah, I have it on good word that the plesiosaurs in Loch Ness are real. Heck, I just saw something similar in Sam’s own memory. Apparently, thinking about this creature brought up an incident in her recent past. Samantha Moon really gets around. From what I have seen and know, she’s apparently up to investigate any mystery at any time. And trouble has a way of finding her.

  I know the feeling.

  At present, I find myself about 2,500 feet down, or 416-ish fathoms, swimming now in a wide circle somewhere between the mainland and Catalina Island. I seriously doubt I’m going to find anything to help this case. Underwater creatures come and go, and rarely leave behind visual evidence.

  Beyond the island, the depth drops to about 5,000 feet. Anything, but anything can be out in the open ocean. Even creatures like me. On the off chance that the beast is still around, the area between Catalina Island and the coast is rich in sea life. The space between the mainland and the island offers convenient search parameters and shouldn’t take me terribly long to cover, especially swimming as fast as I am.

  Anything massive wouldn’t be swimming near the surface. If so, surely it would have been spotted by now. No, this sucker is swimming as deeply as possible. If it’s still out here and roaming the shores of Southern California, I will find it. What I’ll do with it is another question.

  At present, I’m below the sunlight zone, as scientists like to call it. Though not in complete darkness, I would likely be blind if not for my enhanced vision. Luckily, the scene before me is alive with light and color, more so than I would have ever believed. No matter how deep I dive, the stream of light particles lights the way—even through cave walls, sunken ships, or the buildings of Atlantis.

  I don’t take the beauty for granted. Sure, when someone goes missing, time is of the essence, but we are talking seven days here. The chances for the missing—Roy is his name, I believe—of being somehow alive in any natural capacity, is very low.

  Supernatural is something else, of course.

  I keep my pace high, even as I enjoy the scenery around me. Tail swishing crazily behind me, I spot a rare sea turtle at this depth. Generally, they are a thousand feet above me, but this was the rarer leatherback, which could actually swim to even greater depths. This beauty is bigger than me. I flash past him, running my hand along its shell. I startle it, but not too much. It jerks a bit, pausing, perhaps wondering what the hell had just flashed past it, then resumes flapping its barnacle-encrusted flippers, with seemingly not a care in the world. Want to know peace? Try swimming in the deep ocean, alone and in silence. Of course, to do so means you would probably need to be something like me. Scuba only goes so far and for so long. Though it is the next best thing.

  Within seconds, the sea turtle is in my distant rearview mirror, so to speak. I keep my eyes peeled for anything and everything—not just a prehistoric monster. Bits of clothing, or human remains.

  I pass through a school of mackerel that open up automatically to let me pass. I consider stopping for a snack. Mackerel are delicious. My favorite, actually. Nope, complete the mission first, snack later.

  I swim in an ever-widening gyre, further and further out, until I come to the rising slopes of Catalina Island. I pass over shipwrecks and plane wrecks. I even pass over something circular and foreign. Hmm. I wonder if the good folk out here know that a UFO crashed a dozen miles off Catalina. Well, it’s there, awaiting discovery.

  And no, it’s not my first UFO wreck.

  Moving on. I pass a great white shark who eyes me nervously. No, I don’t eat such creatures. It’s just that great whites are far more nervous than people realize. Wait, hold up. The big fella has not just one, but two massive hooks dangling from its lower jaw. Rusted suckers, too, with thick fishing lines trailing underneath them. Ugh, how uncomfortable.

  I hit the brakes and send out a mental signal for the shark to remain calm. He slows his flashing tail. Not able to stop completely (lest he drown), he now moves languidly just over the ocean floor, his mouth frozen in a semblance of a grin. Ah, there’s no grinning for him. Surely he’s in a deep level of discomfort. Well, not for long.

  I swim up alongside the shark, running my hand over the sleek hide, up and over the dorsal fin, then down along the neck and head, slowing myself to keep pace with him. Now, his eyes watch me docilely, almost curiously. Anyone who has ever looked deep into a shark’s eyes knows they are not as murderous as the world thinks they are.

  It takes me a little bit of effort and a bit longer than I expected, but eventually, I’m able to work the two hooks free. I clear the fishing line from his gills (and even from around his left fin, where it had cut him deeply). I pat him on the cheek, then release him from my enchantment. He literally blinks, looks at me—undoubtedly startled by my proximity—and thrusts his tail with a startling amount of force... and he’s outta here. Did you know that great whites can keep pace with even the fastest of boats, if motivated? Before I blink, he’s just a gray spot in the distant sea.

  I look down at my hands. Both hooks rest in my palm. I’ve circled the fishing line around my wrists. I’ll deposit everything topside. Not down here. No need for any other critter to get caught in the fishing line or get mixed up with the hooks. Some shrimps and most lobsters are absolute morons.

  So I turn and point myself toward the pier in Newport Beach, heading back to my clothes to meet up with Sam and the gang.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Roy

  I study my watch for a few minutes.

  We’re now going forward in time again, albeit a bit slower. Month after month ticks by. Wait, now backward in time. Crazy as it sounds, I’m traveling both forward and through the decades?

  My watch has to be broken. No other explanation. Well, there is another explanation, just not sure I can believe it.

  There’s no way of verifying anything, of course. Even if I could see through some belly button porthole, there would be no way of distinguishing one timeline from another. The 2000 BC ocean would look like the AD 2000 ocean... unless I happened across a vessel of some sort on the surface. This thing, I’m certain, is swimming many thousands of feet below the surface. I’d felt it dive, and it hasn’t ascended yet.

  The watch. It’s top-of-the-line. Never given me any trouble before. Indeed, it’s rated the best. It’s so nice that I have the same watch in a different color (black) that I wear on special occasions. I hadn’t hit the watch on, say, a tooth on the way to being swallowed. I certainly hadn’t banged it very hard on anything during my tumble down the gullet.

  So, why is the date moving forward and backward through time? Sure, it’s likely broken, but what if it wasn’t? What if I really was going through time somehow?

  Not sure what it means or how it helps me. The stomach acid gurgling beneath my meat raft doesn’t care about time. It only cares about breaking down said meat raft, then me next. Forward and backward through time, in the ocean, or flying through space, it didn’t matter. I would be dead soon enough if the bile had its way.

  I shake my head, watching the months flip forward, some quicker than others. At times, the movement pauses and seems to stop altogether, then it starts ticking backward, then racing forward again. Lord, was I really moving through time? Or did the makers of this watch finally meet their match: the belly of a previously unknown predator?