Love, Lattes and Angel (Mutants)

by Sandra Cox

  “I know this is tearing you up, Piper, but he’s going to be okay. He’s the toughest man I know.”

  “Yeah, if only his heart can keep up. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.” Just the thought makes my belly ache.

  He squeezes my hand. “You aren’t going to lose him anytime soon.”

  “I wish I could be as sure. I appreciate your support, Joel.”

  He gives me a long burning look and turns away. It’s not that I don’t appreciate him not putting the moves on me, of course I do. Okay, maybe it’s just a little bit annoying, and I’m not sure if that’s my ego or my heart talking. Ever since Tyler went to bat to get Angel, Joel has backed way off. So I guess I understand after all. Joel has honor, honor that won’t allow him to hold me and kiss me—which would be a huge comfort right now—when my boyfriend saved his daughter. I sigh. Life can be such a bitch. Of course, he’s doing the right thing. Of course he is.

  Chapter 4

  Joel

  Our second day out is almost over. The sun is near the water, lighting the sky in brilliant shades of crimson, throwing sparkles on the waves as it drops. Piper is chatting with Tyler. I grimace as she says I love you before she hangs up.

  “Everything’s okay, right?”

  “Yeah, but they still can’t leave port. Even though they let Gramps out yesterday after questioning, they haven’t given him permission to depart. If anything looks suspicious, they’ll sneak out regardless, but at this point they think it will draw more attention if they take off. It’s a quandary. What if Stranger or Craven is still lurking around?”

  Angel pats her cheek. Piper kisses her tiny fingers.

  “Tyler can handle himself. And if the authorities are looking on, hopefully Stranger and Craven will make themselves scarce. They don’t want to be brought up on murder charges.” I think Craven and Stranger will wait until Mr. Dunn is free to go, then follow him. But there’s no point in voicing that, so I keep my paranoia to myself and concentrate on the sea that has gone from smooth and peaceful to sullen and choppy in a matter of moments.

  Static is in the air. The sky turns gray and the sun is gone. Pressure builds inside my head and little jolts of electricity prick my skin. What the hell is going on? The boat begins to buck the waves. There’s a low rumble like thunder, but like no thunder I’ve ever heard. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, fighting for control. The compass on the dash spins in a crazy circle and the deck rolls.

  Her arms around Angel, her gaze glued on the spinning compass, Piper makes her way to my side. “Joel.”

  Something in her voice has the hair on the back of my neck rising.

  “Yes?” I don’t dare take my gaze off the ocean or my hand off the wheel that strains against my palm. I try to leverage the wheel with my other forearm.

  “We’re in the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Holy shit.” As if in response, the wind keens. “Oh my God, you’re right. Get below.”

  Before Piper can move, my daughter laughs and throws her arms wide, embracing the storm. The electric current thickens, becomes more charged. The sparking flashes are striking in twos and threes all around us. One streaky fork comes directly over Angel and hovers. My daughter’s hair stands on end. Even the hairs on her arms stand up. Lightning halos her like a religious painting. My body goes numb and my legs tingle. I’m scared spitless. What the hell is going on with our child? “Angel, are you all right?” I force the words past my stiff throat.

  “I’m fine, Daddy.”

  The tingling in my legs escalates to painful jabs. She said three words in a row, not the usual one word response, and she’s literally glowing, one with nature in its savage magnificence.

  “Get her below, now!”

  “What about you?” At least that’s what I think Piper says. Her words are lost in the howl of the winds. I motion with my head. I don’t dare let go of the wheel. One hand behind Angel’s head, the other wrapped around her bottom, Piper fights her way to the cabin.

  The waves churn in a circular motion with our craft in the center. The warm air turns cold as it hits the surface and explodes into a monster squall. The water froths in an agitated spume, while cannonballs of thunder echo through my ears.

  “Holy crap.” We’re in the center of a tropical cyclone.

  Lightning continues to hurl spears of electric light into the dark. The heat of it grazes my skin and tingles up my bad arm like an electric charge. The waves drench me as they rise above the boat.

  A shark caught in one of the breakers lands with a thump on the boat. Like Pavlov’s dog, I pull my gimpy wrist up against my body in response. Another wave hits, tilting the boat at a crazy angle. Muscles taut, I clench my good hand on the wheel and try to avoid the shark as it goes sliding out of the boat and back into the sea.

  Everything is pitch-black. The only things illuminating the dark are the continuous rods of lightning. The boat careens violently as we whirl nearer and nearer the center of the wild, wet vortex. The wheel spins crazily in my hand, taking the skin from my palm with it. There’s nothing more I can do. On my hands and knees, the wind pummeling me from all directions, I make my way below. I push against the door, but the force of the winds keeps it closed. Moments later, the airstream shifts and I tumble inside.

  Piper didn’t make it to the cabin but sits on the floor in the corner of the galley, Angel clutched in her arms. As the boat rocks and heaves, I make my way toward them then slide down the wall and circle them with my good arm. Pots and pans bang and the cabinet door flies open. Thunder drums outside.

  “Let’s try to get to one of the bedrooms before someone gets clubbed with a pot,” I shout next to Piper’s ear.

  She nods. We crawl into the nearest. Again, we sit on the floor in a corner.

  The waves build and change direction. The boat groans in protest. One moment it’s rocking from side to side, the next spinning in an ever-growing spiral. If the boat doesn’t splinter it will be a miracle.

  My stomach moves up to my throat. Lightning flashes through the portal illuminating Piper’s green face. The baby is the only one who’s unafraid. She’s at ease in her mother’s arms, relaxed as the storm rages.

  The boat creaks and I know it has withstood all the pressure it can. “If the boat goes down, we’ll have to swim for it,” I shout over the storm.

  Piper nods. I sense it more than see it, just as I sense Angel’s beatific smile and her total lack of concern for the uninhibited, wild elements.

  We continue to swirl, faster, faster, faster. I have no sense of time. Like the compass, my internal clock is whirling endlessly round and round and round, my internal organs stirred like a cake mix, the compression mind numbing in its intensity. Then, suddenly—when I’m sure neither the boat nor its passengers can take anymore—the pressure field that’s built in my body lets go.

  “The storm is letting up.” Instead of the normal siren’s call, Piper’s voice comes out in a rusty squeak.

  The boat stops rocking. The rain is still coming down, but the lightning and wind are gone. We look at each other and laugh with relief. I jump up, nearly fall, right myself, and give them a one-armed hug, my other still tingling with electricity.

  “We survived an extremely strange occurrence in the Devil’s Triangle.” I pull Piper to her feet and we dance around the cabin in a crazy circle as adrenaline kicks through my system.

  “How long was it? Hours?” she asks breathlessly, while Angel giggles in delight.

  “I have no idea. Only that we survived.” I squeeze them both and plant a smacking kiss on first Angel’s cheek and then Piper’s. “I’m starved. Is anyone else hungry?”

  “Yes,” my girls say in unison, then giggle like mad things.

  We dash into the kitchen. Piper and I devour bologna sandwiches and chips, while Angel takes her bottle. As suddenly as the adrenaline rush hit, it crashes, leaving me so exhausted I’m not sure I can make it to bed. By unspoken consen
t, we head for the master bedroom and fall across the bed fully clothed, Angel in the middle.

  The drumming of the rain on top of the cabin and the slap of the waves against the boat is the last sound I hear before I tumble fathoms deep into sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Piper

  “Mommy.”

  My eyelids refuse to open, my body heavy with sleep. I’m stiff, sore, and exhausted from being tossed around in the boat. The experience in the Triangle eclipsed anything I’ve ever been through, including the lab.

  “Yes, baby.” I snuggle in and reach out to draw her close. My arm touches a little, warm shoulder. I worm my fingers under her and go to scoop her toward me.

  Something’s not right. The body under my fingers is not that of an eight-week-old baby. “Angel?” I whisper.

  “It’s okay, Mommy.”

  What’s okay? My daughter shouldn’t be comforting me. That’s my job. Before I can force my sleep-matted eyes open, Joel exclaims, “Good grief, Angel, what happened?”

  “I think it was the Triangle, Daddy.”

  She’s talking in complete sentences. The mattress shifts as Joel sits up. I pry my eyes open and gulp back a gasp. A little girl with Angel’s features is leaning over me, an anxious look on her face. I wonder if I’m hallucinating, because she truly looks like an angel with those turquoise eyes and a cloud of curly blond hair that reaches to her shoulders and surrounds a beautiful little face. I reach up and touch it with wonder.

  Her eyes fill. I draw her to me. “It’s okay, my beautiful little Angel. It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not. I just didn’t know how you’d react.”

  “You know I love you whether you are eight weeks or eighty.” I kiss her warm, sweet cheek. “We are going to have so much fun, running and playing and…” She’s naked as a jay bird. I giggle. “Shopping.”

  Relief flashes across her features and she nods, a smile on her face.

  “Let me just find one of my T-shirts for you to wear.” As I get out of bed, Joel hugs her. I stop in midstride. For a moment, I’m speechless. Then I blurt out, “Joel, you’re using both hands.”

  His eyes widen, and he glances down then throws back his head and whoops. Angel joins in. “It had to be all that electricity that was spearing around last night. We’re going to have to rename that triangle, Angel’s Triangle,” he teases, giving her a big hug.

  “How do you like your body catching up with your IQ? Or coming closer,” he amends.

  She gives him that heartwarming smile that is uniquely her own. “I’m going to like it just fine. No more diapers or burping.” She makes a face.

  We laugh. Over her head, his expression sobers. A frown corrugates his forehead. I can read his thoughts as if they were my own. What does this mean in terms of life years for Angel? Has is shortened it, quickened her end?

  He mouths. “We’ll take care of her.” Which translates for me to, We’ll do whatever we need to do keep her safe and alive.

  I nod.

  “Please don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”

  Crap. I forgot about the mindreading thing. “Of course, you are, baby.”

  I grab a tee from a dresser drawer and bundle her into it. She looks like a waif but at least she’s clothed. Joel gets out of bed and stretches. He’s slender but well-muscled. When he looks in my direction, I avert my eyes, not wanting him to see me staring. He twists his wrist and rubs his arm before his head comes up and he frowns. “We’re not moving.”

  We look at each other and race up the steps. Joel brakes to a stop. I put my palm on his back to stop myself from squashing our daughter between us.

  I step to the side and Angel slips her hand in mine. “Oh my gosh,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

  We are beached on white sand. Blue water surrounds us, and in the distance are pink, blue, and yellow homes, a riot of lush, multi-colored flowers, and white picket fences.

  “What pretty houses. What materials do you think they’re made from?”

  I glance over Angel’s head at Joel and raise my eyebrows, trying not to think this is coming from a child who looks like a six-year-old.

  “I think my IQ is higher than a six year old’s,” she responds calmly.

  “Good to know,” I say in a faint voice.

  Her father responds to her question. “I wish I had your Aunt Amy’s eyes, but since I don’t, I’m assuming they’re probably made of timber and blocks of stone. We’ll research that, Ms. I-think-my-I.Q.-is-higher-than-a-six-year-old’s.”

  She giggles.

  “Where do you think we are?” I’m so twisted around from the storm I have no idea where I am.

  “Let’s see if the GPS is working.” Joel fiddles with the monitors on the dash. “Well, we’re not in Jamaica that’s for sure. Looks like we’re on the edge of the Turks and Caicos Islands.”

  “I like it here.” Angel leans against the rail and sniffs the air. The soft blowing breeze ruffles her curls.

  I push them out of her face. “Me too, baby.”

  My daughter’s attention focuses elsewhere, and she comes to attention like a pointer. I follow the direction of her gaze and give a mild start. Coming toward us is one of the most beautiful young women I have ever seen. Long, dark hair with copper highlights and warm, golden brown skin. Where did she come from? It’s like she just appeared.

  “She’s wondering about us too,” Angel says.

  “What are you two talking about?” Joel straightens. “Where did she come from?”

  “She came from over there.” Angel points toward the trees surrounded with thick foliage.

  We clamber off the boat to meet her as she approaches.

  “Hi there. I’m Joel. This is Piper. And this is Angel.” He rustles Angel’s hair and smiles with pride then holds his hand out to the exotic-looking female.

  She ignores his hand. “What are you doing here?” There is regality bordering on arrogance in her manner. My back stiffens. Joel’s hand drops to his side.

  “It’s alright, Mommy, she’s a high priestess, a mambo asogwe.”

  Joel’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline and my pulse picks up. We’re going to have to have a little chat with Angel about spewing out everyone else’s thoughts. And what in the heck is a mambo asogwe? High priestess of what?

  “I’m sorry,” Angel says, crestfallen.

  I hug her. “It’s okay.” I love her too much to be upset about her being who she is.

  She gives me a sunny, grateful smile before she adds, “She’s a high priestess of vodou.”

  Well, crap. I turn toward the young woman and find her eyebrows have risen even higher than Joel’s, only now they come crashing down to meet in the middle of her forehead in a perfectly executed V.

  “Who are you and where do you come from?”

  “We came from the Bahamas and got caught in one of those scary squalls you hear about in the Bermuda Triangle last night.”

  Her breath sucked in, her eyes widen till they’re mostly white. “You got caught in a storm in the Bermuda Triangle?”

  “We were very lucky.”

  She holds out her hand. I take it, cautiously. I force myself not to give a start as a current from her touch passes through my palm. Not electricity, but power. It’s as if she’s searching for answers in my touch. “I am Molita.”

  “I’ve never heard of voodoo being practiced in this region.” I drop her hand.

  “It’s vodou, Mommy,” Angel corrects me.

  “My family migrated from Haiti.” Her attention is fixed on my daughter. “You are very learned, little one.”

  “Thank you. Are all priestesses as pretty as you?” Angel inquires.

  The veneer of arrogance melts, replaced by a breathtaking smile. Up close, she looks young. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say not much over seventeen.

  “No one sent us to do you harm,” Angel says.

  �
�How long have I been the high priestess?” she asks.

  “You’re testing me,” Angel says.

  “Maybe.”

  “Six months. You became the high priestess when your momma died. She was the priestess before you, Priestess Bronte. You’re still very sad. All the local boys want you, but none of them appeal to you. Before your momma died, she had a vision that a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man would claim your heart, but she could not see whether he would love you too. You thought at first it might be my daddy, but his eyes are turquoise.” Angel turns to me. “Do you think she might be talking about Uncle Tyler?”

  Joel starts to choke and coughs into his hand instead before he murmurs under his breath, “If only the fates were so kind.” He throws me a crooked smile.

  I’m so rattled by everything I can’t think of anything to say, my brain mush.

  Molita startles us by throwing her arms around Angel and crying over and over, “Manman, my Manman, you’ve come home.”

  Chapter 6

  Joel

  Okay, this is getting way too weird. Piper looks like she’s swallowed her tongue and Angel, well I can’t even see her face because it’s buried in Molita’s shoulder and she’s weeping all over her.

  “Miss…” I don’t know her last name. “Molita, our daughter is…” I’m stumped about what to say. Even though my gut tells me this young woman is not a danger to us, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  Molita straightens. Tears are still wet on her cheeks but her face is filled with joy. “She is mambo sur pwen Bronte. I’m sorry, Manman, but with your death I became mambo asogwe, the high priestess. You will be a junior priestess, unless you want me to renounce.”

  Piper steps forward and gently removes Angel. “Molita, this is our daughter Angel. She is not your reincarnated mother.”