by Cathryn Cade
Dedication
This book is dedicated to two women who shared their expertise, smarts and encouragement to help make it a great story.
My editor, Linda Ingmanson
My friend and fellow writer, Jessa Slade
Thank you, ladies. You make the journey sweeter.
Author’s Note
Nawea Bay, the Na’alele sea caves and the characters in this story are, with the exception of a few noted musicians and historical figures, my own invention and are in no way intended to resemble real people.
I have also taken the liberty of creating new legends around Pele, guardian of Hawaii’s volcanoes, and Kanaloa, guardian of Hawaiian seas.
I hope I have conveyed my affection and respect for the islands, the people and the mo’olelo—entwined history and legends, of Hawaii.
Aloha,
Cathryn
Chapter One
Wednesday, June 5th
Daniel Ho’omalu was going to die. He accepted that—but then he was going to come back and destroy the little coward who knifed him in the back, the only way the po’ino could possibly get the better of him.
Under a blue vault of sky, the Hawaiian sun sparkled on the turquoise sea. A moment ago, Daniel had been enjoying this tropical idyll. Now he was in a battle to the death. He and his opponent were evenly matched—but only because Daniel was mortally wounded. He could barely breathe past the searing ice in his gut.
Akeo Apana struggled to finish the job, bracing his legs to push Daniel over the side of his small fishing boat. The craft rocked with the force of their struggle, even as it rose and fell on the ocean swells. Apana kicked at Daniel’s legs and missed, his foot striking the motor housing with jarring force. The sharp smell of gasoline joined the scent of sweat and blood. The motor sputtered and then quit.
With a fierce growl of rage, Daniel managed to turn on his assailant, although at an agonizing cost, as the movement drove the razor-sharp fishing knife farther along his ribs.
Like him, the smaller man was Hawaiian, golden skinned and raven haired, his face contorted in a grimace as fierce as an ancient warrior’s. Neither could utter more, the battle using all their strength.
Daniel struggled to hang on to the side of the boat, but it was slippery with his blood. Crimson poured down his side, soaking his blue swim trunks and dripping down his leg to splatter in the bottom of the boat.
His powerful physique and size gave him the edge, but Apana had done a thorough job, driving the knife deep. Daniel’s strength bled out of him, every breath an agonized gasp.
The smaller man, eyes feverish with terror, grunted as he forced Daniel back. A huge wave caught the idling boat and swung the rudder. The little craft tilted.
Daniel fell backward into open air. He grasped at Apana, his bloody hands slipping. With a cry, the smaller man grabbed a cleat and held on. Daniel toppled overboard, landing with a splash in the water.
For a moment, he lay cradled in the waves, rage fueling the glare he cast up at Apana. He tried to speak, to vow his revenge, but choked on the blood filling his throat. He had one last look at Apana, who gaped down at him with a mixture of awe and triumph. Then a swell washed over Daniel, pulling him down. The world above faded into a wash of deepening turquoise, the boat a dark silhouette against the bright sky.
The salt water burned his wound like fire and filled his mouth and lungs. He choked on blood and salt, his body arching as he struggled to breathe, to live. Exhausted from the struggle, he gave in, letting the sea take him.
Akeo Apana could not believe his luck. He hung on to the side of his boat, panting in great, shuddering gasps as he stared wide-eyed at the water. Just like that, his opponent was gone.
He’d done it—saved his precious catch. Dropping on nerveless legs into the bottom of the boat, he stared at the bundle of waterproof neoprene, still attached to the neon buoy that had marked its location.
He’d set out this morning, ostensibly to fish, as he always did, supplying the local brokers with fresh ono and mahimahi for the hotels and restaurants. But today he’d had a bonus in mind—a cache of Kona kula, the wonderful, kupaianaha drugs that could bring traditional visions to all natives if he helped get them past the po’ino Coast Guard. The law was against Hawaiians who wanted to return to the old ways.
He’d been frightened when he saw a familiar brawny figure sauntering down the boat ramp at Honaunau that morning as he was readying his boat. Even more so when Daniel Ho’omalu asked if he could tag along. Couldn’t very well say no when the big bugga had helped him out just the day before, working on his boat’s motor with him for over two hours.
But no one could possibly know about his deal with the mainland strangers, and he’d done a great job of acting surprised when they found the buoy out here, as if he hadn’t been sent the coordinates hours before on his cell phone. Shaking his head over their find, he’d agreed with his passenger that the package hanging from the buoy should be turned over to the Coast Guard.
But by then, Akeo was hopohopo, nervous as hell, and craving some of what he’d picked up. And his passenger was just too big, too damned observant. Finally, Ho’omalu had turned that huge, tattooed back, and Akeo seized his chance. Grabbed his razor-sharp fish knife and stabbed the dude, right in the kidneys.
He hadn’t bargained on his victim being tough enough to turn on him. Akeo’s belly churned as he remembered how the knife had slid along between those big ribs. Auē, cut the moke’s guts to ribbons.
But Ho’omalu had kept his feet, grabbing Akeo by the throat, nearly strangling him. Still hurt to breathe. Hadn’t been for that big wave, the bugga would have succeeded.
Akeo needed some kula, bad. Just have a little bit to relax. Oh, man, he’d just killed a kanaka. And from the smell, the gas line to his boat motor was leaking again, the repairs jarred loose by their fight. He’d have to tinker with it before he started it up.
He peered around him as the boat crested another wave. Nothing but open ocean for miles, with the Big Island rising peacefully off to the northwest under a cap of misty clouds. Not a sign of life except a pod of nai’a, spinner dolphins, leaping through the waves. They’d been around all morning, following his boat into deeper water.
But nai’a told no tales. He gave a chuckle of sheer relief, then choked on it as he remembered setting out that morning—the old men sitting in the shade at Honaunau, the other fishermen readying their boats, and the haole tourists on the lava rocks, sunning themselves and readying their snorkel gear. Half the west side of the island had seen his passenger board his boat with him.
Akeo’s heart raced. He was ice-cold, shivering, even under the hot sun. What the fuck was he gonna do? Ho’omalu was too well connected—he had a big, wealthy ohana, family. They’d be after Akeo, asking questions. They’d have the Coast Guard and the island cops both down on him.
Wait—wait. It would be okay. He just had to think. Things happened all the time on the sea. He’d just say the moke had fallen overboard. He was too big; Akeo couldn’t save him.
Oh, man, that idea was worthless. Everyone knew the big moke was one of the toughest kanakas around. Practically lived in and on the sea.
And what were those fucking nai’a doing now? Instead of veering away from his boat, they were streaming around it, their gray backs flashing in the sunlight. He peered over the side as they dove into the blue depths. Oh, Pele, they were following the dead man.
He shivered in horror. Maybe they weren’t nai’a at all but the spirits of the dead man’s ancestors. Those Ho’omalus went way back to the first people on the island; everyone knew that. Akeo groaned. He was in such deep shit. He neede
d kula. Now.
Dropping to his knees in the bottom of the boat, he pulled his spare knife out and cut, as carefully as he could with his hands shaking and smeared with blood, through the rope binding the package of drugs.
Then something hit the boat with a thud. He fell sprawling, banging his head painfully on the hard fiberglass transom. Fucking nai’a! Struggling to his feet, he grabbed the wheel and looked over the port side. His eyes widened, and he gave a strangled gasp.
The nai’a were gone, nothing but gray shadows flirting in the deep.
They’d been replaced. A huge, glistening, triangular fin sliced the surface as its owner circled his boat. Manō! The biggest tiger shark he’d ever seen. The long gray body made his boat look tiny.
He gaped, riveted, unable to move or breathe, as the shark lifted its head from the water, one small flat eye looking directly at him. Auē, it was Ukanipo, the local shark god! Had to be—no other shark would behave this way. The nai’a ancestors had summoned him.
He had to get out of here. No time for a hit. With shaking hands, Akeo grasped the wheel and shoved the throttle forward as hard as he could. The old alternator sparked, a bright pop of light. Too late he remembered the leaking gas line.
Terror flooded him, turning his guts to water. Every fisherman knew that when fuel leaked in a boat, the heavy vapor gathered, caught in the bilge cavity around the engine. Since Akeo never bothered to carry a fire extinguisher, he had two choices—leap into the water with Ukanipo or burn with his boat. Dropping to his knees with a sob, he stared at the sparking line.
“Pau Pele, pau manō,” the old men said when local boys started running with the wrong crowd. “Destroyed by lava, destroyed by shark.”
With a great boom, the boat exploded in flames.
Beneath the waves, the big Hawaiian sank slowly through the deep blue water. Blood drifted from his back and side in a lacy spiral, marking his passing. His eyes were nearly closed, his powerful body slack. His thick braids, free of their tie, floated about his head like seaweed. The nai’a circled about him, calling in distress, their whistles and groans echoing through the water.
The concussion of the explosion jolted him, speeding his descent. The nai’a flinched but stayed with him. The largest female circled him once, then again, closer. This time she bumped his shoulder with her head, a solid hit that roused him from his stupor. His eyes opened a little.
Daniel Ho’omalu reached out one hand, fumbling blindly along her back. Finding her dorsal fin, he closed his fingers over it, hanging on with the last of his fading strength.
Turning, she bore him off into the deep. The other nai’a closed in around him, a graceful honor guard.
Chapter Two
Wednesday, June 12th
Daniel Ho’omalu strode impatiently into the outdoor courtyard of the Kona Airport. He’d been co-opted from his work, as only his mother, Tina Ho’omalu, could manage, to pick up his future sister-in-law’s friends.
David and Melia’s wedding was three days away, but her bridesmaids had come early to spend time with them. Melia’s family would follow the next day. Why Melia or David couldn’t come and get these guests, he didn’t know. They were always busy—apparently planning and carrying out a wedding involved a myriad of activities.
Daniel had been busy himself, searching for information that might lead him to Akeo Apana’s kula connection. He’d even resorted to surfing the Internet for information, something he did not enjoy. Computers were useful, but give him an active investigation or a fight any time. ‘Ae, yeah, he was so ready for a fight. He was still furious with himself for being stupid enough to turn his back on Apana. Should have known the promise of drugs would give the little cane rat the courage to attack even someone Daniel’s size.
“Look, brah,” David had said to him a few days later. “Apana’s knife sliced more than your hide—sliced your pride to ribbons. Get over it. Helman’s men shot the hell out of me when I was supposed to be protecting Melia too. We are guardians, not perfect.”
Daniel had shaken his head, unwilling to take comfort. This roused his normally easygoing younger brother to unusual anger. He stabbed a finger in Daniel’s face.
“You listen to me, Daniel Ho’omalu. Ever since our ancestor, Kalu, climbed Pele’s mountain to plead for the safety of his village and his bride, our ohana has fought and bled to protect these islands and the seas around them. In all that time, Pele promised to heal us of our wounds, and why? Because we are men, and can be wounded, in spite of our powers. Stop acting as if you are the first of us ever to be bested or to be taken in by treachery. That big head of yours is swollen with pride—it needed poking.”
David had glared until Daniel broke the intensity of the moment by grimacing horribly at him. David laughed, once more his good-natured self, and hugged Daniel, patting him on the back.
“Besides,” he said, “there’s not an artist in the world who tattoos better than Pele’s menehune. And you got the best ink in da islands, brah.”
Menehune, little people of the forest, indeed. No human hand inked the tattoos that marked the sites of the wounds on Pele’s ho’omalu. They simply appeared, bringing with them swift healing of wounds, no matter how horrific.
Daniel rolled his shoulders impatiently under his blue tank, emblazoned with a Kona Brew label. Having used his daylight hours on his investigation, he’d been up half the night working on a new carving.
When he finally slept, he was plagued with vague, erotic dreams of an elusive wahine who led him on a chase through the shadows along the edge of the sea, her laughter floating back to him, the warm night air perfumed with her scent, ripe and sweet. Each time he neared her, she slipped away, her footsteps splashing in the surf.
He’d awakened tangled in his linen sheets, aching with arousal. Had to get up and go out for a swim to cool off. His aching cock hadn’t subsided until he took himself in hand, that husky laughter still twining through his mind as he jerked off into the warm water of the bay. Or maybe it had been Kanaloa’s laughter he heard. The patron god of Hawaiian seas wasn’t above teasing.
In the bright afternoon, Daniel was tired and grouchy. His new tattoo still itched too. He’d smeared his skin with cooling aloe cream, but he knew from hard experience it would take days or even weeks for the prickling on his back and ribs to subside. Ah, well, better than the alternative. He snorted to himself—as if he cared. With a face like a slab of pāhoehoe lava, he wasn’t too worried about a few scars.
His mother informed him, however, that traditional tattoos were easier for a mother to look at than actual disfigurement. As David had reminded him, when a Ho’omalu was wounded in battle for his patrons, he received tattoos, badges of honor, like stars and bars on a soldier’s uniform.
Anyway, for now, he was on family time, not his own. He scanned the shady benches around the life-size bronze statues of hula dancers. In the afternoon heat, families sat surrounded by piles of luggage, waiting to be shuttled to the car rental lots. A breeze stirred the leis hanging on a kiosk, enough to waft their sweet perfume through the damp air but not enough to cool the June afternoon. A blonde, a brunette and an older redhead. Shouldn’t be too hard to pick out a trio like that in this small courtyard, even with all the other arrivals milling around.
Nearby, a group of Asian tourists clustered around their Hawaiian tour guide, a pretty girl with a plumeria in her artfully streaked hair. A pair of honeymooners with pale skin and wilted leis stood entwined. Shark bait, the natives called pale haole visitors—he’d give ’em two days to be hungover and burnt to a crisp.
Looking past them, he locked his gaze on a tall blonde with killer curves standing by a pile of luggage, arms lifted to shove her hair up into a messy updo, as if she’d just crawled out of bed. She had a mouth to match her breasts, full and lush, high Nordic cheekbones and a determined jaw. And her legs—they went on fo’ days. Ka nani, so pretty.
She turned her head as if feeling his gaze, and lowered her arms, her sea-blu
e gaze fastened on him like a homing beacon. Then she smiled. That full mouth curved up at the corners, a dimple hitching up one cheek. Her eyes warmed to the welcoming hue of a shallow bay.
Daniel hardened as if his dream wahine stood before him personified. He thanked God for his heavy khaki shorts and loose tank, not to mention the sunglasses that hid his own gaze. Eyes gave away a lot, and he couldn’t afford to let this island visitor perceive that he returned her attraction in spades.
Because his brother might be marrying a haole wahine, but David was younger, one hell of a lot more easygoing and more…domesticated.
And this blonde had to be Claire Hunter, one of Melia’s best friends. The combination of wahines was right. Grace Moran would be the oldest one, a rounded woman with flowing red hair. Her daughter, Bella, was a surprise—he’d known she was a brunette, but she looked like an island girl with her pale golden skin and long skein of glossy hair.
His gaze pulled back to the blonde as if by a magnetic force, Daniel groaned inwardly. Damn it all, why now? All he wanted to do was get through the wedding and get back to his hideaway by the sea.
He’d been expecting more haoles like Melia—attractive but essentially uninteresting to him. Not that he didn’t like his prospective sister-in-law, because he did. She was brave, pretty, and cooked like a dream. More important, she looked at his little brah like he’d hung the moon, and David was crazy in love with her.
She wasn’t Hawaiian, but hell, nobody was perfect.
But while Melia might be right for David, Daniel knew himself—he was a rough, mean warrior. And his own experience with a sexy haole tourist hadn’t worked out so well.
Now he stuck to seeing Kahni, a local tita, tough wahine, who could handle him. She didn’t make him hard as pohaku wood just at the sight of her, but he helped her out with her rent, and she helped him stay sane. Until now.
Kanaloa, help me, he prayed silently. Don’t let me mek ass, my patron.
