Rebel Heart

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Rebel Heart Page 11

by Tee Ayer


  There was that arrogance she'd been expecting. Stardom gone to his head just like Hercules. "The Nike Agency is very diligent in vetting their therapists—”

  Breslin lifted a hand into the air, mimicking his wife's earlier movement. "Who have you worked with?" At Allegra's puzzled look, he sighed and spoke very slowly. "Anyone . . . that I may know . . . that I can ring up and confirm with?"

  Allegra swallowed the profanity that threatened to spill from her lips, prayed for the strength of a Minotaur, and said, "Of course. There's Ronnie DeLuca, the—”

  "The baseball player? The one who coaches the Nova Roma Tigers?”

  Allegra nodded.

  Allegra’s clientele was mostly the rich and the elite. An unusual achievement for someone so young.

  Fortunately, her very first client, after she’d completed her training, had been Olympic sprinter Adnan Suleiman, son of a friend of her late father’s. Suleiman had taken gold in the five-hundred-meters at the Olympics that year and his win had launched Allegra’s career.

  Demand for her services had skyrocketed, with the who’s-who in the sports and movie industries asking specifically for her.

  Ronnie DeLuca had been one of them.

  Allegra disliked name-dropping but she had to get this job done and get out of here.

  Who knew what else these people were into.

  Breslin seemed satisfied, his eyes grazing over her chest and hips in appreciation, despite his wife's proximity. "You may begin."

  Squelching a sigh of relief, Allegra said, "Where would be the best place to perform the therapy?" She glanced around the courtyard looking for somewhere in the shade. "We should be out of the sun. I don't want you to get dehydrated."

  "He's been drinking water." Portia commented coldly. "And you will start when we've verified with Ronnie."

  "Portia."

  All he uttered was that one word and Portia turned on her heel and hurried off. Seconds later, four attendants – pretend-slaves - entered the courtyard holding the four poles of a makeshift tent, shade offered by an elaborate handwoven tapestry carpet.

  Was this a thing? Or was Portia smarter than she looked?

  The four slaves, two men and two women, all wearing nothing more than a pleated silk skirt which hung low on their hips, secured the tent. Then the men left while the two women took up positions at each side of the cot, awaiting their master’s needs.

  Allegra avoided looking at the two topless women and said, “Citizen Breslin, I'm going to need you to lie on your back."

  As he resettled himself, Allegra dropped her purse beside the cot and turned to her case to snap open the lid. She withdrew a bottle from the rows of herbal rubs; cold-pressed olive oil infused with cloves. She didn't think his sun-baked skin would handle anything stronger.

  "First, I'll manipulate the muscle a little, to gauge the tension and inflammation. It shouldn't hurt, but let me know if it does."

  With the cot so low, Allegra was forced to kneel, placing herself gingerly on the roughly-hewn terra-cotta tiles.

  Movement at her side confirmed the return of the jealous wife, and the woman’s cold silence confirmed she’d made her telephone calls. If she only knew that her precious husband did nothing for Allegra's libido.

  As the wife and slaves watched, Allegra reached out to place her hands onto Breslin's shoulder joint, studying the swollen muscle and reddened skin.

  The agency had advised his condition when she’d received the job; a partial tear. Rehab should get him back to normal as long as he behaved sensibly, and followed his doctor’s instructions to the letter.

  Based on the available evidence, Allegra expected nothing of the sort.

  She placed her hands on his shoulder, palpating the muscle and concentrating on the feel of tissue beneath his skin.

  She'd planned on running him through a series of low-key exercises to ease him slowly into the rehabilitation process.

  But the moment she touched Breslin, her vision shifted. The light changed, searing sunlight replaced by a dull moon shaded by inky clouds. The pool sat half-filled and was covered in green slime, and the courtyard lay deathly still.

  Before her lay Breslin, but this time there was no cot. His lips were parched and bruised, blood caking small cuts where he'd broken the fragile skin.

  “Citizen Breslin?" she gasped, unsure of what had just happened. "What's wrong? Are you ok?"

  A voice echoed in her ear, like something from a dream. "What's the matter with you?"

  The voice was indignant and irritated, but in her vision, Breslin had barely opened his mouth. She drew closer. "How can I help you?" she asked again, but he didn't seem to hear her.

  And yet he answered. "Water."

  The word crackled from his throat, the sound hoarse and pained. His skin was flushed, droplets of perspiration covering his forehead and bare chest.

  She frowned. “You have a fever. What happened?"

  "Help," he called again, but even Allegra could hear his energy fading, his resolve dissipating.

  He turned his head to look at her, his eyes glazing over slowly until she knew he was dead. And he'd died staring at something beyond her shoulder. Allegra shifted around and let out a cry of horror.

  Someone tugged her shoulder, hard enough that the vision disappeared and the sun shone in her eyes.

  She was lying on the ground, both the Breslins glaring at her in annoyance, the two slaves curious enough to break the rules by openly gaping and tittering.

  Allegra pushed herself into a sitting position and put a hand to the back of her head. "What happened?"

  "You hit your head on the stone," said Portia unsympathetically.

  "When you had your vision." Breslin.

  "It was more like a fit."

  Breslin glared at his wife and she closed her mouth.

  Allegra stared up at Breslin who looked so different from the dying man she'd seen mere moments ago.

  "What happened? What did you see?" He seemed to be the only one interested. Of course, Allegra had mentioned his name during the vision.

  She blinked, still disoriented, then looked at the spot on the floor where he'd lain dying.

  "You were sick. Dying." She hesitated before saying the last word in a whisper. "Died."

  "What?"

  "You . . . you were feverish . . . dying of thirst. You kept calling for help, but there was nobody to help you."

  "What is this crap, Darius? Tell her to leave." His wife’s cold expression indicated she'd had enough.

  "Let her speak, Portia."

  Again the mention of her name shut her up.

  Allegra looked at Darius, shaking her head as he said, "Did you see the future?"

  Excitement edged his voice. Like most people, seers fascinated him with the possibility of knowing his future. But Allegra didn't think he'd want to know this particular fate.

  "It wasn't really the future. I don't know what it was. You didn't look any different. Like it could be today or tomorrow, or in the next few months."

  "And what did you see?" he asked again, as if the second time around he'd get a different answer.

  "You died here. Alone."

  Breslin paled and the courtyard fell into a cold silence despite the heat of the sun.

  Portia scoffed, folding her arms and giving Allegra a sneering smile. "Is this some sort of prank? You a SeerGram or something?"

  Allegra looked at Portia but she didn't have the heart to reveal what else she'd seen.

  "I'm sorry. I don't feel well." Allegra got to her feet, grabbed her bags and straightened, staring at the couple stiffly. "I have to go."

  She fled the house without a backward glance.

  For some unearthly reason, her car started on the first turn and she drove off, terrified of what she'd seen, terrified in case Breslin gave chase for more information.

  The sentry at the entrance opened the front gate for her, oblivious to the drama that was probably playing out inside the mansion right this mi
nute.

  As Allegra turned onto the main road, she gave the house one last glance. She'd made it out in time. If she'd been there any longer, Portia's bitchiness would have pushed Allegra to tell the vicious woman the truth.

  That Allegra had seen her death, too.

  When she'd turned to look at what Breslin had been staring at the moment he’d died, Allegra had let out a horrified cry. Portia must have sat down on the stone bench at some point. She'd been lying on her back, hands hanging to the ground on either side of the narrow seat.

  With two black crows sitting on her chest, pecking out her eyeballs.

  ~ Continue Allegra’s adventure in Dark Sight ~

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  About the Author

  Tee's passion for strong females and ability to spin a fairly decent sentence, has resulted in over 55 published titles spanning 3 pen names and over 5 genres.

  Tee's alter ego, Toni Vallan, writes Psychological Horror and Suspense.

  Writing since 2010, Tee currently lives in Middle Earth. She is a proudly #AfricanAuthor, and in South Africa will her roots remain. Her heart still longs for the endless beaches and the smell of moist soil after a summer downpour.

  She loves the beach, and her readers, is an artist, a nerd, and a geek, hates crowds, and sings like Adele (only in her head). If she could grow up to be Wonder Woman she'd die happy.

  Most days, Tee can be found typing away at her laptop, creating more words.

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  REBEL HEART

  A DARKWORLD: SKINWALKER NOVEL BOOK 0.5

  DARKWORLD: ORIGINS

  Copyright © 2020 by Tee Ayer

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art © Tee Ayer. All rights reserved.

  eBook Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

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