by Deena Remiel
“I, um, meant you should try the cookie.” Breathless, she tried to regain some of her composure.
“I did. And it was really good.” He licked his lips. He had the most charming and disarming voice she’d ever heard. Liquid gold. That’s what it felt like, liquid gold. “So good, I’m thinking of eating dessert first from now on.” He winked and his eyes glinted in the rays of sunlight streaming through the window.
Oh, sweet Jesus. A bullet of heat went straight to her belly and points due south. Do something, say anything! Distract him for goodness sakes!
“Well, you know what they say about too much of a good thing.” Serena gave a little cough and took a sip of her soda. “You were saying something before, when you were, uh, trying the cookie, but I couldn’t understand you. It almost sounded like another language,” she remarked, getting a tenuous hold of her emotions.
“I spoke Gaelic. You should know it.” He breathed heavily and leaned back himself.
“What do you mean, I should know?” She reached for her forgotten sandwich, needing something for her idle hands to hold. They were too ready to rake through Raphael’s luscious, long black hair.
“I’ll admit I don’t really know much about you yet.” He reached for his own half of the sandwich. “But I figured you knew Gaelic since you spoke volumes of it during the night in your sleep.”
“What are you talking about?” She laughed. “I don’t talk in my sleep. And I certainly don’t know Gaelic. Isn’t that an old Irish language?”
“Yes, it’s actually ancient Celtic in origin. I happen to know the language quite well, and you, my dear, spoke Gaelic with the aplomb of someone who’s spoken it all her life.”
“I did? That’s pretty wild. I certainly don’t remember doing that, though. And why are you looking at me all funny?” The look in his eyes was so serious, she had to glance away. “You’re starting to freak me out here.”
“At one point you said you were immortal. You couldn’t die.”
He seemed frustrated at this point, but Serena didn’t know why. What does he expect me to say?
“Well, that’s stretching it a bit, isn’t it? I mean, okay. I almost died twice, and I’m still here. But I certainly wouldn’t call myself immortal.” With a sharp sarcastic tone she continued, “Cats have nine lives, right? Maybe I’m a cat reincarnated. An ancient cat that spoke Gaelic.”
Raphael didn’t smile. What is up with him?
“We’re going to be holed up here for a bit. If you’d like to explore this further, we can do that.”
“That might be a fun distraction from the more troubling realities of the day.” She paused, a plan percolating in her head. “I’d like to call my spiritual healer, Monica Rainchild. She’s been a savior to me over the past couple of years, like you are now. She’s also into helping people with past life regressions. Huh, imagine that. All sarcasm aside, I may have lived a past life. How cool would that be? If I did, I wonder who I might have been. Hmm….”
She settled into her sandwich full throttle now. Crinkling her brow, she began to ponder who she might have been in a past life. Raphael went to the kitchen, needing to refill his glass that he’d strangely drained in one gulp as she spoke.
“Hey, Raphael!” she yelled. “Since I spoke Gaelic, maybe I was some Irish lass or Celtic goddess, like that goddess Sirona statue Jared gave me.”
She heard a crash and some very colorful language come from the kitchen.
Chapter Eight
Outskirts of Tortilla Flat, Arizona
Dr. Brody Chappo did not wait for anything. Not for his supper, not for the phone to ring, and certainly not for his goons to come with his most prized possession. He’d spent the better part of two months digging in Germany, looking for the ancient Goddess Sirona, and he’d found her, only to have her stolen from his grasp by a no-good sleazeball of a lout. Jared Sikes was his name until he disappeared with her about a year and a half ago. Now, his name was mud.
The trail had run cold for a while until his search came up with another name—Serena Sikes, Jared’s sister. Luckily for him, she owned a Jeep tour business and had a website for it, giving him full access to phone numbers and addresses. She couldn’t have made it easier if she’d tried. But then he hit another brick wall when he found out she had taken some kind of leave from the business.
It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that one of his goons saw her in town again. Dr. Chappo had immediately written a letter to one Serena Sikes, telling her of her brother’s misdeeds and how she could make amends. Simply give up Jared or give up the statue of Sirona. All had gone well, he thought as he smiled into his glass of brandy. The boys had retrieved the statue. But they also came back with a juicy tidbit as well.
This Serena Sikes looked remarkably like Sirona. That couldn’t have been mere coincidence. He didn’t believe in those. It’s a sign. The statue will do. But the real thing, now she’s a supreme find. Once I have her, I can rid myself of this fatal disease. I’m sure of it. He’d already begun to ready his lab for what would surely go down in the science journals as a work of genius.
Chappo’d been diagnosed five years ago with FOP, Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, a disease that continued to turn his precious muscles, tendons, and ligaments to bone. What a cruel twist of fate indeed, being an archeologist at the ripe age of thirty-two, digging up ancient fossilized bones, only to become a living one himself. Western medicine had nothing to offer. Knowing he lived on borrowed time, he sought out all kinds of alternative treatments while practicing a calm, trauma-free lifestyle. But none could stop the cruel encroachment of the disease. The stress from the theft of his found relic had triggered a resurgence of activity. Even now, he could feel new bones growing, fusing his joints together. His days were numbered.
Sirona is my only hope.
Butterflies flitted in his stomach as his anticipation grew exponentially. He had seen to the preparations himself, making sure her quarters were outfitted with every lavish extravagance a goddess required. Oh, she would be angry at first, but he was confident when he told her of his pain and suffering, her anger would give way to caring. And then she’d do it—she’d do what all the information he’d gathered suggested. She would give him her gift of rejuvenation. And he’d be free from the stranglehold of FOP.
He would live forever, disease free!
The doorbell rang, rousing him from his musings. His motorized wheelchair navigated the hallways with ease in his state-of-the-art home. He touched a button and an image appeared on his small LCD screen he’d installed a while back. He could now see who waited at the front door. At any time, with the touch of a button, he could see strategic points in and around the hacienda, as he liked to call it. It was integral to his safety and the safety of his cache of priceless artifacts.
His men were at the door. They look nervous. That can’t be good. Damn it! If they’ve done anything to jeopardize my plans, I’ll kill ‘em. He pushed the button that disengaged the door lock and called out for them to come in. Steve entered first, with Wheezer not far behind.
“Good day, gentlemen, and I use that term loosely. You seem to be short a man. Where’s Bull?”
“Well, you see, sir, we’re…uh…not quite sure,” Steve stammered.
“What do you mean, not sure? And where is Sirona?”
“Well, I guess you could say the two go hand in hand, sir.”
“All right, before I go completely insane and kill you both where you stand, you better come up with an explanation for their absence. Make sure it’s a great one.” Dr. Chappo moved his wheelchair into the living area off the foyer while the other two followed like lemmings. They crossed to sit on the couch.
“I don’t recall telling you to sit. You will stand and report, and so that there is no misunderstanding. Don’t think because I’m in this chair I can’t kill you, should I choose to do so. You can’t imagine the gadgets I’ve got attached to this baby. Now, for the last time, where are Bull and Sirona?”
>
“You see, it’s like this,” Steve began. “We were roughing her up a bit and taking pictures to send to Jared, thinking it would smoke him out of hiding. We figured we could get the rest of the stolen goods back. Bull went berserk on her when she head-butted him. We had to pull him off her and, well, we thought he killed her, sir.”
Dr. Chappo’s hands shook with fury, but his voice chilled like cold steel. “She’s dead, you say? My last chance to live is dead.”
“Well, we thought she was,” Wheezer jumped in nervously, “and kinda left her out in the desert. But the good news is, she isn’t dead, Doc. Some buddies of mine told me about this chick that got picked up in the desert and brought to the hospital. The local newspaper up there in Sedona had the story. I’m sure it’s her. We could go up there and bring her back to you, sir. Say the word, and we’ll do it. As for Bull, he went crazy. We haven’t been able to find him anywhere. We don’t need him, anyway. The bastard’s always been trouble.”
“Oh, you’ll bring her back to me all right. Nobody threatens my very life’s blood and gets away with it. When you find Bull, kill him. Understood?”
“Yes, Dr. Chappo. Thanks for giving us another chance to make it right. My family appreciates your generosity,” said Wheezer.
“Hmm. I’m sure. Now, before you leave, bring me the statue.” Dr. Chappo pointed to the étagère across the room. Wheezer walked over to the shelf and gingerly picked up the relic. “Put it in my hands and go, the both of you. Go and get my Sirona. I don’t care what it takes.” Chappo put the statue on his lap, pushed a button that opened the front door, and wheeled himself out of the room. “Close the door behind you,” he yelled back at the men.
***
That’ll teach her. That’ll teach her what happens to a woman who doesn’t show some appreciation for a man’s great strength and prowess. Goddess or not, the bitch certainly had it coming. No woman is ever gonna reject The Bull and get away with it. Now she’s dead, with a noose wrapped around her slender neck.
Good riddance. And fuck Dr. Chappo and his damned disease, too. Let the man rot or turn to stone, or die.
Bull had enough of him, and other prospects in mind. He was going rogue. He’d learned enough from his previous bosses to make a go of it as a contract killer in the organized crime world. The past few years had shown him that he could have a great career in the contract hit business.
Murdering people eased the ever-present tension and anger that always simmered in his mind. He wasn’t about to cry over an abusive childhood. Hell, it’s made me the bastard I am today. Thanks, Pops. And his opinion on women, well, dear old Mommy taught him a valuable lesson about how to get the most from them. You had to use terror. Pure, unadulterated terror to keep them in line. If that didn’t work, kill ‘em. Rest in peace, Mother dear.
Bull pulled up to a rundown motel off of I-17, somewhere near Cave Creek. He paid to stay for two hours, long enough to relax for bit and make plans. He clicked on the TV and found porn and a couple of local stations. One of them had the news, so he cranked up the volume.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” he shouted aloud. The anchor was talking about an attack on a woman in a Verde Valley hospital.
“The woman is alive and police are looking for the assailant. Here is a sketch of his face….”
“Holy fucking shit,” he hissed.
He grabbed his backpack and ran out of the room to his truck. APB or no, I gotta finish this bitch off once and for all. She’s like a cat with nine fucking lives! She’s dead.
“Dead, dead, dead,” he roared while he slammed his fists into the steering wheel, heading back north. “Gonna kill her good and dead.”
Chapter Nine
Serena looked like her name implied, calm and serene. By the time Raphael had cleaned up his shattered mess in the kitchen and returned to the living room, she’d dozed off. He sat in the winged chair opposite the couch and watched her as he would a sunset, with awe and wonder. How could one appear so fragile and yet possess such fortitude? She’s a mystery, a puzzle begging to be solved. But should I be the one to attempt it?
There were no easy answers, except to take each day one at a time. He would first let her heal and get to know her. Serena, that is. After all, he didn’t have a clue into her life. What he did understand, he was drawn to her like no other. He suspected a part of that had to do with how closely she resembled Sirona. But Serena didn’t know it, and everything she said, every move she made, he supposed, was uniquely hers, uniquely Serena. Or was it? Maybe her very essence was inexorably tied to Sirona’s soul, so that the two coexisted without knowing one from the other. The contemplations were enough to drive him insane!
He decided to move Serena to her bedroom, if only to have a chance to hold her again. Oh, he could justify anything if he tried hard enough. She felt light as a feather while he whisked her away, and she remained asleep the entire time. Once he laid her on the bed, he took off her shoes and socks, taking a moment to cherish the dainty feet with the ruby red polished nails. He massaged them lightly before putting a light blanket over her. A stray curl had found its way to her mouth, and he brushed it aside only to be taken in by its lushness. God, she is so irresistibly kissable! Against his better judgment, against his conscience screaming in his head to leave her room immediately, he bent over and put the whisper of a kiss upon her lips.
Just one. To ease the ache.
As he retreated, he heard her rustle and sigh his name. But it did nothing to soothe him, for he couldn’t be sure; was it Serena who yearned for him, or Sirona? And who did he really yearn for?
He had to get out of there and get his head on straight. Raphael decided there would be no more overt or secret romantic encounters between them. Granted, it was all up to him. She certainly hadn’t thrown herself at him. He’d been the aggressor, and that had to stop, now. Lord knew he’d made a psychological mess of himself. With a new sense of direction, he went to the study and threw himself into his work.
He called Kemuel first for an update on Serena’s attacker. They hadn’t found him yet, and through gnashed teeth, he spewed and sputtered a few well-chosen curses to release his frustration. He talked to Gabriel next and gave him all the information he needed to research this Dr. Chappo Jared had supposedly worked for. He sent a text message to Emma asking her to come out the next day for a healing session on Serena. Her ribs were still giving her pain. He could tell even though she tried to hide it well. Every time she breathed in a little too deeply, he saw her wincing. And because he was a Savior, his healing abilities afforded him insight others didn’t have. He could see her internal organs were still feeling the effects of having been battered. Serena didn’t seem to be the type to sit around for very long, so a healing session would give her the opportunity to be mobile again. Finally, he looked up the number for Monica Rainchild.
If she is as good as Serena says, she’ll be able to settle this craziness once and for all. She’ll find the connection between Serena and my dead wife.
***
Afternoon faded into early evening as Serena rested, giving her body a chance to heal. Raphael had begun to prepare their dinner when he heard her. She wasn’t screaming, or even crying. Instead, she sang a song he remembered well, and a sob caught in his throat. Sirona had written that song and sang it to him as part of their wedding ceremony.
How much more if this would he have to endure? First, holding Serena over the threshold of the ranch elicited memories of walking into his and Sirona’s new home and making love right there in the foyer. Now Serena sang their song in her sleep. It was like a lead weight on his heart.
He thrust the ladle into the pot of bubbling chili and stormed out of the house with hot tears streaming down his face. He headed to the meditation pond to try to find a small piece of solace. The soothing water trickling over the river rocks irritated him. The sand offered only jagged, angry designs. Nothing here helped release the torment and suffering churning in his chest. The memories of losing
his wife so long ago were fresh and crushing his heart into mangled pieces.
He had escaped the grief and despair purposefully after she’d been murdered. Some might say he took the coward’s way out, and they would be right. He’d been a coward. But there was no turning away from the abject misery now. It taunted him night and day. Every time he looked at Serena, listened to her as she talked in her sleep, he knew Sirona to be right there haunting him. Begging him to succumb to the notion that she really did exist once more.
***
What’s gotten hold of Raphael? Serena wondered. It couldn’t be good and seemed to be ripping him apart. She had awakened to find twilight upon them and tested her walking abilities by taking a couple of steps to the window seat of her bedroom. That’s when she noticed Raphael beating upon the carcass of a massive, fallen saguaro cactus with a branch. Through the window, she heard him carrying on, but only made out bits and pieces of his rant. She heard her name in the mix and wondered.
Why is he so angry with me? Well, she had, after all, completely taken over his life, a total stranger. With the aggressive display of his romantic attentions earlier and her subsequent stalling of any more, maybe he had second thoughts about becoming entangled with her altogether. Maybe he’s not used to rejection and was pissed off. Whatever the cause, he’d shown her a troubling side to him, a complication she didn’t need right now.
While Raphael made pulp out of the cactus, Serena made the slow, long trek to the front door. She walked out, sat on the rocking chair, and called Callie on her cell phone.
