by Jo Sparkes
And the Spaniard fell atop her. The storm of the night screamed at the brutally, protesting against Quash’s ears. Yet louder still, he heard her screams.
And he saw, when the Captain raised his face, the red glistening on his mouth. The warrior had named them animals, and here now was proof. The Sadico had bit her.
The old man with the strawberry erupted, fighting furiously to reach her, to save her. To kill this devil. He had no chance, of course. The white man’s rope always held fast.
“A warrior does not fight because the odds favor him. A true man fights because he cannot accept what is thrust upon him. He wins because he fights for righteous cause.”
The laughing sailors yanked the line. Jerking the old man over the railing. Two men lashed him to the pole, where he would ride through the heart of the storm, till his flesh tore away and his bones slipped from the knots.
“We can’t allow this, man. We are warriors!”
“We are dead men,” Quash whispered.
Possession
Wall sat in the sailboat cockpit, a cold beer clenched in his fist.
Well, cool beer now. It had warmed somewhat. He set it aside in one of the holders Americans seemed to pride themselves on.
“What do you think happened?” he asked.
Jon made no answer. The man stood beside him, firmly clutching the wheel as if somehow that would determine the outcome. Sailing the Sadicor back to Antigua.
Jill seemed physically fine. She’d told them an odd, hysterical tale of being trapped inside the wreck searching for Melanie. The blonde had told a different story: having dutifully worked the gap as she was bid, she turned to discover Jill had vanished. She claimed to then methodically scan the area, rise to the surface, mount the platform. And upon finding no Jill above sea level, dove back down to the wreck to search some more. She’d been so worried, she said.
Jill’s story made no sense. She described seeing Melanie struggling inside the wreck, except it wasn’t Melanie. The interior had silted up - which was likely with a novice floundering around - but so much so that the brunette couldn’t tell where the opening was. Physically shaking, at times incoherent, Jon had finally coaxed her to lie down.
It made no sense at all. Yet Wall believed Jill’s version.
Perhaps it was the blonde’s calm explanation, her thorough reasoning, her flawless procedure. Too well-reasoned, too sensible for a novice. And there was genuine horror in Jill’s voice. Her obvious reluctance to enter the wreck - only something crucial would have compelled her inside.
And while Jill was shaken, verging on hysteria, Melanie had been coldly amused.
“What do you think happened?” he asked again. Wall had demanded answers earlier, and gotten nothing intelligent in reply.
“There’s a doctor on the island,” Jon gripped the wheel in a wrestler’s hold. “He’s a friend of mine. He’ll know what to do.” Wall could only hope he was right.
Wrapping his own fingers round the warm glass bottle, he raised the beer from its holder to his mouth. The flat, watery beverage did nothing for his mind or his stomach. He hated American beer, Wall grimaced, firmly setting the beverage aside.
“What do you think happened?” he asked.
Jon sailed on.
Nita saw the Sadicor slip into her berth.
Her heart gave a tiny leap, she realized ruefully. Mike was supposed to be a diversion, not an obsession. Enjoy being his girl in port, she’d decided, as long as she kept in mind the man had other ports.
Well, he was here now. Back sooner than he said.
Nita grabbed one of the new pocket shirts, a large one in a sky blue print to set off his eyes. Impulsively she snatched a crystal from the plastic bin, inserting it inside the tiny compartment as she ran.
She’d avoided her two aunts, something easily done and preferable to arguing. But her mother’s mother, a woman she’d never known in life, was not so easily fooled.
“Where do you go, Nita?” the crone demanded, appearing on the path before her. Nita stepped around her, though she could easily walk through. Well, not so easily - it felt cold to her skin and always angered the woman.
“My man docks his boat. I go to meet him.”
“The crippled warrior is not your man.” At her words a chill touched her spine. Her grandmother - but she refused to call her that - her mother’s mother always sneered at Mike. Her words held no sneer now.
“He will be, someday.”
“Do not do this thing.”
Nita hurried away, along the path between the two houses, only to be confronted again at the gate.
“Child, do not do this thing,” she said. “Go consult your aunts. Go consult your own heart.”
For an instant Nita wavered, but only for an instant. Then she raced on, through the crone and past the gate. The former could not follow outside the center.
I probably won’t even go through with it, she told herself. Her hurry now was because of the blonde.
That woman clung to the tall man in hopes of inducing marriage. Once she accepted that plan would never succeed, she’d switch to Mike. Hers was the nature to both desire and disdain the earthy types. Such women could never be happy until they dealt with that conflict.
Nita reached the wharf in less than twenty minutes, yet to her surprise, Mike stood alone on the deck. He gazed at the taxi stand - which was simply the place Ernie the driver waited whenever he caught sight of a boat coming in to dock.
The taxi wasn’t there. Either Ernie had started early at the pub, or already taken some fare to Saint John.
As she stepped close, she saw the muscles in Mike’s face: clenched jaw, eyes narrowed even though they gazed away from the sun. Her warrior was not happy, and that alone was enough to worry her.
“Michael?”
The blue eyes reluctantly shifted. When his muscles smoothed into a smile, Nita released a breath she hadn’t realized she held.
“We hadn’t expected you back so soon,” she offered. When he didn’t take the bait, she asked. “Everything all right?”
He gazed a moment longer before his lips parted. “Jill had an accident. She’s fine,” he added before her gasp died. “Jon’s taking her to the doctor. What’s that?” he indicated the cloth in her hand. Deterring further questions.
“A gift. A pocket shirt - my own design. I had twenty made.”
Nita stepped carefully to board the Sadicor - Mike forestalled her, blocking her way to take the shirt from her fingers. “That pocket’s set a little off, isn’t it?”
He held it aloft, pretending to admire it before laying it on a cockpit bench.
“The shirt pocket’s set over the heart chakra,” she explained. “You place a crystal inside, for protection or to enhance your energy, without needing to wear a pendant.”
Mike burst out laughing. Behind him, the blonde appeared.
Her silky blouse fluttered enticingly in the breeze, dancing about the two bottles of beer clutched in her hands. She cocked an eyebrow at Nita. “I didn’t know there were three of us.”
Mike turned.
“And I think we’re just out of beer,” she purred, tucking one arm around his.
To Nita’s delight, her warrior disengaged himself, knocking a bottle to the deck in his haste. It rolled to stop at the woman’s foot.
“You can drink both,” Mike told her, and hopped off the Sadicor to wrap Nita’s arm around his. “Thank you for the shirt, sweetheart,” he told her warmly. “I’ll wear it tonight.”
The blonde glowered at them both. Genuinely surprised, Nita realized. “I thought we were all going to the casino,” she pouted. And not a sexy pout; more in the tone of a disgruntled child.
“We,” Mike nodded his head to indicate Nita, “are going wherever Nita wishes to go.” And turning his back on the blonde, he escorted her away.
Nita didn’t dare glance back. Enlightened beings did not grin so triumphantly.
Melanie stared after them.
W
hen the Sadicor first docked, and Jill was bundled off to the taxi, Melanie had pretended to sleep. She pretended when Wall cracked open the door, pretended as she felt his gaze upon her body.
She’d grinned when he left.
The Brit was too tepid, and she’d come to realize she deserved more. She deserved a hot, sexy animal. She deserved Mike.
So she waited, watching through the porthole. When Wall had jumped to the wharf, she had leapt to the dresser. Chose just the right clothes, applied just the right touch of mascara and lipstick. The bed loomed behind her, brushing her thighs as she swept her blonde strands into an alluring twist.
She pictured Mike in that bed. Unruly dark hair dangling about his chiseled face, shades of tanned skin, minute shadows hollowing the cleft in his chin. And those deep sea blue eyes, the only color in his profile.
Now beneath the hot Caribbean sun, she felt chilled. He’d rejected her. She hadn’t been rejected in years. Mike should have stepped back when she appeared, he should have enjoyed two women battling for him. Or better yet, he should have shooed that black bitch away.
Instead Melanie now stood alone, like a cheap hooker who’d demanded too high a price.
The worst part had been seeing Nita suppress her triumph.
Flouncing on the bench, Melanie shoved the stupid shirt out of the way. And felt the hard lump.
Buried within the blue print, inside a tiny pocket, her fingers unearthed a glass-like cylinder. What was this?
Trying to guard the man’s heart.
Her neck prickled, feeling the familiar whirring behind her. Anger rose with the whirls - no wonder Mike rejected her. Nita cheated - using a sneaky trick to trap the man.
Melanie had no epiphany standing there. She had no real plan at all. Clutching the crystal, she climbed down the stair-ladder, flung open the cabin door, and snatched up her necklace.
The ruby dropped off easily. It wasn’t the proper ruby after all - it had fallen into her hand from the treasure chest that held no other treasure. No one knew it existed.
Racing back to the steps, she vaulted up, popping outside as the sun slipped behind a cloud. The ruby slipped into the pocket; she tossed the crystal overboard.
Melanie opened the beer still lying on the deck and toasted the air before drinking deep. The magic woman would not sleep with her man tonight after all.
Doctor Mallory’s place was a true island house. Painted a crisp white, it had more plantation shutters than simple wall, and numerous ceiling fans to stir the air.
Jon waited in the library, which, though short on shelves, had many books. Bathed in a sort of cluttered cleanliness, someone meticulously dusted the stacked piles without ever so much as straightening them.
Spotting an old tome labeled ‘Reincarnation Operating Principles,’ he plucked it up and opened to a chapter titled ‘Gatherings’ just as the doctor appeared.
Mallory’s age was somewhere north of thirty-five, his body reed thin and meticulously groomed down to his pointed goatee.
“No ill effects, my friend.”
Jon sighed.
“In a bit of shock,” Mallory continued. “But she’ll recover. Don’t push her to dive - wait until she’s ready.”
“So Jill’s perfectly fine.”
“Save for her temper,” a girl said. Jon turned to find a ten-year-old in a red dress, gazing at him over a handful of medical instruments.
Dr. Mallory shook his head at the child. “You don’t need to speak to do your work. Jon, this is Ammie.” Jon offered a swift smile; Ammie merely walked away.
Dr. Mallory noticed the book in Jon’s hand. “Still pursuing that foolish study?”
Jill emerged, face pale but less dazed.
“Regression?” she asked, noting the book in his hand, and then checked at the sight of the girl. Carefully avoiding Ammie, she frowned at both men. “I thought it was you who got Jon started with that.”
“When he sought answers, I pointed the path. Now that the barking dog is silenced, it’s best to let the sleeping ones sleep.”
Ammie snorted, and crossed the room to dump her burden in a sterilization unit.
Jon agreed with Ammie. The profound results of regression spoke for themselves - he couldn’t conceive how Mallory would ignore such success.
The brunette’s lips twisted - he well knew that look. With Jill it was all or nothing - moderation was an unknown concept. “Doctor Mallory believes delving too much in the past is more dangerous that not delving at all.”
“Doctor Mallory can speak for himself,” the man smiled. “I believe seeking the answers to a current life problem is crucial - regression goes to the heart of the trouble. But trying to learn more before these things are ready to be revealed…revives long forgotten energies. By their nature very powerful energies for the soul. Some things are best left buried to decay.”
Ammie returned with a tray of drinks. Jon watched the girl deliberately startled Jill, then wait in some amusement as she cautiously tried one.
“Lemonade,” Jill told Jon. “But regression really helped me. I think.”
“It did help you,” Jon assured her. Her personal space issue had vanished, at least as far as he could tell.
“Because a past issue had boiled over into this life. Seeing the source of it - why you felt it - enabled you to heal from a higher perspective.”
“It did! It really opened my eyes!”
The doctor smiled. “You followed the thread of your recurring reaction to the source. But some practitioners use more powerful methods, blasting the victim back without necessity nor thread to follow. The energies thus stirred can be…undesirable.”
Seeing Jill’s wide eyes, Jon shook his head. “That’s just his theory…that ignorance is indeed bliss.” He took a glass from Ammie’s tray and smiled his thanks.
Ammie ignored him. “Now?” she asked, and it took a moment to realize she was talking to Doctor Mallory.
The Doctor twitched his head, sending her away.
Jill was still disturbed. “What about the…soul pod stuff? Souls coming back together?”
“We tend to meet the same souls in each life, Jill.” Jon said it with the same conviction he used to explain scuba diving procedures. “We travel together, if you will. On this side of the veil, we’re kind of drawn to each other. Vibrate at the same frequency.”
“Vibrate?”
The doctor smiled warmly at her now. “The Bible talks of the energy when souls gather in His Name.”
Jon could see the doubt in Jill’s face. She snatched up her purse, set it down again. “What if these souls - the whole soul pod - shared a bad experience?”
“They’d just replay individual problems,” Jon told her, closing the reincarnation book.
“Unless,” Doctor Mallory said, “the vibration was both powerful and shared.”
Jon stilled. “Energy vortex,” he said.
“Karmic vortex,” Mallory corrected him. “You’re correct; souls do tend to replay old issues. The bigger the issue…the more souls present…” The doctor shook himself, as if clearing the thought. “Wars have begun that way. Old grievances igniting new conflict.”
Jill shook her head. “No. Surely nothing big carries over.”
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata suddenly disturbed the atmosphere, low and haunting, expertly played. Jon turned to see young Ammie at the piano, tiny fingers caressing keys, her face screwed up in concentration.
“Of course it does,” the doctor told her. “Of course it does! Tendencies, feelings, preferences. They all come from earlier times. Even a few memories may seep through - if we allow them.”
Jon clasped Jill’s shoulders, turning her towards the door. He felt the need to get out in the sunshine.
“Do you wish to borrow that?” Mallory asked. Looking down, Jon realized he still clutched the book. And that his finger had marked a passage.
‘Beware the gathering of men and earthbound soul. For doorways are blown open, and Hell itself unleash
ed.’
Snapping it shut, he dropped the book and left.
“Here,” Nita said, and heard the excited timber of her voice. This would never do - she needed to calm herself.
“You never told me.” Mike kissed her bare shoulder. Her fingers lifted the hidden latch and the beadboard panel creaked open, revealing the narrow doorway to the hidden room.
The ladies called it the windowless room; it lay in the heart of the home. Supposedly the old house and the new were identical, but the new building lacked this narrow space. It barely measured ten foot by eight, with some of that lost to shelving at one end. Tales claimed the plantation owners used it to hide during slave rebellions. In fact Thomas Kerby, owner of the famous Prince Klaas - the slave he accused of planning a full island rebellion - had cowered from them in this very room.
Or so they said.
“You want to do this here?” Mike broke her reverie.
“Unless you’re afraid.” She winced as her words dangled in the air. It was a blatant ploy - and Mike’s lifting eyebrow showed he knew it.
But he let her have her way.
Truth was, it startled Nita the amount of thinking she’d put into this. How desperately she needed to prove herself, to show him reincarnation existed. As the big man swung open her folding massage table, she felt a qualm. Desperate energy was the wrong vibe for this experiment.
She placed four crystals around the room, and lit the incense - a special blend she’d spent hours developing, with mugwort, celery, and jasmine. Plus that odd oil she’d discovered in town. Nita avoided the usual sage and sandalwood, both of which would have protected, kept the energy positive.
She’d feared they would reduce the power.
A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, a chain pull dropping so low Mike’s hair tangled with it. Its light was dim but badly placed. Instead she lit four candles, one in each corner.
Table legs locked, Mike turned. “I can think of other things to do here,” he murmured, tracing her jaw with his thumb. Of all the men she knew, he alone had this touch - this ability to tantalize females. He never forced, never pushed, using instead an enticing aura that drew her on. Every step was her own choice. Precisely because of this, women went much farther with him than they ever normally would. Even in the afterglow, a woman knew her choice. He was too potent a sexual male to need force. He simply offered.
