He took a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped it over her mouth before pressing it into her hand.
“He won’t bother you again, but you better go home.”
She only nodded. He was much taller than her, so that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. He shifted and then his face was obscured by the shadows with the sun at his back, blinding her. She remembered wondering if he had forgotten about Thiphaine, who still stood to one side, silently observing, her, eyes wide. Clelia looked from Thiphaine to Josselin. When life finally returned to her legs and she started to hurry down the path, he said, “What’s your name, girl?”
She stopped. “Cle ... Cle...” Her teeth chattered.
He frowned. “Take a deep breath. You’re in shock.”
She did as he instructed, and found her jaw relax slightly.
“That’s better. Now, tell me again.”
“Clelia.”
His lips twitched. “The witch?”
She flinched. That was what her classmates called her.
He didn’t show any kind of emotion. Only his smile became a little bit more pronounced. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” she said through parched lips.
“You’re too young to wander alone in the woods.”
When he said that, his voice became soft and dark again, like when he had spoken to Iwig, and without sparing either of the lovers another glance, Clelia sprinted home and curled into a ball on her bed with his bloody handkerchief in her hand.
Josselin left the village that same year in August, the summer he finished school, just after the fateful incident in his life. They never spoke another word. He had never acknowledged her after that day. Not a hint or a sign that they had shared the episode with Iwig.
For nine years, she slept with his handkerchief under her pillow. Besides having heard via the grapevine that he had gone to New York, she hadn’t had news since he had left and she refused to look at the house in which he had grown up. Being reminded of him was too painful. Now, she stood facing it, taking it all in with a mixture of mounting fear and premonition. It was the biggest house–three stories high with two turrets framing the pointed roof–for miles around. The once pretty garden was nothing more than weeds strangling rose bushes and climbing the fence, obscuring the ground level view. Nine years ago, there was a swing bench on the porch that overlooked the grassland that flattened out to the sea. The white shutters had stood out against the gray of the stonewalls and the silver slate of the roof, but now they were the color of ash, the wood cracked and splintered in places, hanging askew in front of the narrow turret windows.
His bedroom was on the top floor in the west tower. She knew because he sometimes smoked a cigarette on the balcony, his gaze trained on the ocean, or maybe on what lay beyond, what the eye couldn’t see. It was the room in which the light burned the latest. Often, when Erwan was out fishing at night, depending on how the tides turned, she had snuck out here on her bike and stood in the road to see his light finally go out.
After that night, the house was barred and sealed. It belonged to Josselin now. People were wondering if he was ever going to sell, although it would have to be to foreigners, they said, from Paris, England, or Europe, because no one in their right mind, no one from Larmor-Baden or the islands, would ever want to live there.
Clelia felt a trickle of perspiration running down her spine. It was an exceptionally warm summer. The July sun was already high. She pulled off her denim jacket and checked the time on her mobile phone. She had to hurry, or she’d miss the bus.
She arrived at Tristan’s stables on the outskirts of Carnac just before eight. By nine, busses full of tourists wanting to visit the three thousand mysterious prehistoric standing stones would arrive. A small number of them would rent horses and a guide from Tristan to explore the oldest part, which ran from the border of the stables over four miles toward the sea, and dated back to 4500 BC.
When she pushed the door of the office open, Tristan, almost the age of Erwan, lifted his head and grimaced.
“Every morning I pray you won’t show up, but here you are again,” he said.
“And where else should I go?” Clelia dropped her backpack by the desk and opened the book in which they noted the tour reservations.
“To Paris. To university. Anywhere but here.”
“This is my home, Tristan.”
He flicked through some papers on the desk that stood opposite the one she occupied. “You’re wasting away, throwing your talents to the wind here in this dump,” he said grumpily, fishing around the desk, lifting and slamming books and telephone directories down.
“And who will take care of Erwan, and my animals?”
Tristan looked up. She smiled.
“If it wasn’t for that old man, you wouldn’t be here.”
“He’s all I’ve got,” she said gently.
“No.” He waved a finger at her. “You’re all he’s got.” His expression softened. “Kompren a ran,” he said with a resigned air. I understand.
He plucked open a drawer, rummaged through it, and banged it closed again.
“What are you looking for, Tristan?”
“The damn receipt book. It was here,” he pushed his finger on the desk, “just yesterday.”
She walked to the stack of plastic trays they used for organizing their filing and lifted a blue book from the top.
“Here it is. You left it here last night.”
He rolled his eyes and grabbed it from her. “What would I ever do without you?”
“And you really want me to leave?” she said as she took her seat behind the desk.
“You know I have to say things that are in your best interest. I never really mean it.”
She smiled affectionately. “I know.”
Nobody from here truly wanted anyone to get away. It would be proof that there existed a world beyond theirs. As long as they remained here, with the people they grew up with, they felt secure. Somehow, Clelia knew that Josselin’s return had turned her safe world upside down, and that Larmor-Baden was suddenly the least safe place for her to be.
Calypso’s Secret
Isabelle Kane
Chapter One
Skylar Connelly juggled a bottle of Diet Coke, her keys, her purse, a bag of chips, and a sack of grape Big League Chew Bubble gum. Why hadn’t she taken the bag the cashier in the run-down, overstocked, little gas station had offered her?
Trapping her purchases up against the car door, she freed her hand and managed to fit the key into the lock and turn it. In doing so, she dropped the Diet Coke bottle, and it hit the ground and rolled about.
“Great.”
She set her purse and merchandise on the hood of her ancient, navy blue Golf, and picked up her soda. As she straightened, her gaze caught on the photo of the smiling blond girl, which stood propped up by the gear stick.
Determinedly she swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to keep it together, for Maia’s sake.
It was definitely turning out to be one of those days. She shoved some sweaty, damp tendrils back from her face and jerked the car door open. As she sat down on the hot vinyl car seat, she heard a car pull up behind her, but ignored it and picked up the picture. It had been taken last summer, here, in the Florida Keys. Maia looked so carefree, freckled, and happy smiling at her from the deck of some yacht.
Skylar couldn’t ignore the revving of a powerful engine behind her. The person back there could just wait a minute. She needed a few seconds to pull herself together.
Her gaze was irresistibly drawn back to the shot of her sister. Maia was wearing a halter-top and shorts, and sitting next to a very solemn boy of about ten. He wasn’t smiling for the camera. He held up his hand as if to fend the sun away, while Maia squinted her green eyes right at the camera. Nothing had ever fazed her, not even the heat and sunshine of a tropical summer.
The car behind her honked its horn. Skylar glanced in her rear-view mirror. A gaudy, bright yellow Jeep wit
h heavily tinted windows was right behind her. She guessed a tint that dark was illegal—she couldn’t see the driver at all.
The car door opened. A tall, blond man with a broad-shouldered, linebacker’s build was unfolding himself from the driver’s side.
As he walked toward her door, he looked disgustingly cool, comfortable, and in his element in his khaki slacks and white dress shirt.
“Damn.” She reached for the key and shoved it into the ignition. She had no desire to be the victim of a road rage incident.
“Come on, Bessy.” She turned the key. The engine cranked and caught, spewing diesel exhaust out, and into the face of the man who was now just behind her car. Popping the Golf into gear, she puttered away. Bessy backfired just as the old car turned back onto the main road.
Glancing in the mirror, she saw the man had removed his sunglasses and was wiping at his face.
Skylar felt a moment’s regret there was nothing worse than getting a mouth full of diesel exhaust. “Probably a jerk,” she muttered to herself as she pulled back onto US1.
Needing to get her mind off Maia, she turned the radio on. Flipping through the stations, she found she couldn’t find a song she liked. She needed a real pick me up. She needed...Elvis!
It was an inspired choice. Rifling through her cassette carrier and glancing between it and the road, she eventually located the tape she wanted and shoved it into the cassette player.
Soon, she was rocking along with Elvis. She kept the rhythm by tapping on the steering wheel, trying to block out the fact the air blowing on her face was hot and humid.
She peered out through the bug guts, already beginning to adorn the windshield she’d just squeegeed off at the gas station. There it was, the famous Seven Mile Bridge. It, and its predecessor, arched over the aqua-green water like white rainbows. As Skylar bopped along, she glimpsed fisherman scattered here and there along the old bridge. Both bridges were really impressive engineering feats, and they meant she was moving in on her destination, Coral Key.
Elvis was now crooning about fools rushing in, and she wasn’t even half of a mile up on the bridge when she happened to glance in her rearview mirror. A familiar yellow Jeep was rapidly bearing down on her.
“Shoot.”
In very short order, the Jeep was crowding her bumper.
“Are you insane?” She watched the other car in her rearview mirror, feeling decidedly anxious with the Jeep right up behind her on the bridge. She gestured with her arm for the driver to pass.
The Jeep accelerated smoothly into the other lane. When the two cars were parallel, the driver lowered his passenger side window, so he could look right at her. He tilted his sunglasses down and waved as he slid on by. Once he was clear of Bessy, he cut in front of her. His vanity license plate read: “CPT STUD.”
Captain Stud honked and sped away.
“Neanderthal.”
The guy had definitely ruined the view from the Seven Mile Bridge for her.
To her dismay, crossing the bridge didn’t indicate she was close to her destination. An hour passed as she drove from island to island, past the Key’s bizarre mixture of huge mansions, rinky-dink motels, and surf shops. The islands were tropically exquisite, but with something of the touristy feel of the Jersey shore.
The heat seemed to be increasing with each passing moment. Skylar cursed her own stupidity in not dressing more appropriately for the weather. She should have worn shorts, but she had opted to look professional and sophisticated. Now, she guessed she just looked rumpled, flushed, and worn out. She was debating pulling over and calling to verify her route when she saw the sign, Welcome to Coral Key.
On this island, the honky-tonk abruptly ceased. On both sides of the road, she saw only lush greenery and attractive fences that blended well with the surroundings. She glimpsed jewel–like blue beyond the roofline of one magnificent mansion. Clearly, this was a high-rent district.
“Okay, 330 Pelican Cove Drive...here it is.” She took a sharp right, and proceeded along a massive stucco wall running parallel with the road. Another right had her facing an immense wrought iron gate. The number 330 was worked into the curlicues of iron.
“This is it, Bessy.” She patted her steering wheel and peered through the gate. Her heart was beginning to pound anxiously. “What now?”
“Please advance your vehicle to the white line and state your business.” A disembodied voice rang out.
“Wha-What? Hello? Where are you?”
“Please speak into the intercom.”
“Where is it?”
“Advance to the white line. The intercom will be to your immediate left.”
“Um...Oh, I see it now.”
“What is your name?”
“Skylar Connelly...I’m expected. I’m the new swimming instructor for Mr. Escalle’s nephew.”
“Your name is on the list. Proceed into the parking lot at the rear of the house. Park your vehicle in one of the staff carports. Have a good day.”
The wrought iron gates slowly and majestically began to open in. Once they were wide, she followed the driveway. A magnificent Spanish-style stucco mansion with red roof tiles and shutters and creamy white walls came into view.
Skylar paused, taking it all in. The wrought iron of the gate was incorporated into the house design on the various balconies and in fanciful detail work. The house was recessed back into a sheltering cove of pine, palm, and Poinciana trees. The landscaping had a romantic, lush feel to it, and revealed the hand of a master gardener in the layout of the flowerbeds, ornamental shrubs and trees, and energetically climbing vines.
There was a lower wall of the same style as the exterior wall that enclosed a courtyard at the front of the house. Through the twin arches, she could make out red paving, an abundance of terra cotta potted plants, and an elaborate water fountain.
Abruptly, she realized she was gawking. She took her foot off Bessy’s brake, and eased around the side of the mansion. She came upon a blacktopped parking lot that was shadowed and just dappled with the light that penetrated through the overhanging canopy of trees. There were several open parking slots.
The driveway continued out toward the water where an impressive yacht glistened whitely in the Florida sunshine. She glimpsed three men moving about at work on board the vessel.
To her immense dismay, an outrageously bright yellow jeep was backed up to the dock. It couldn’t be.
That would be just her kind of luck. After all, what were the odds?
There was no point in worrying about it. She drove headfirst into one of the parking slots, and tucked Maia’s picture under the passenger side seat. It would be too dangerous to bring it in with her. She climbed out, and had just popped the trunk on Bessy, when she caught sight of a disturbingly familiar tall blond man, now wearing flip flops, cut off jeans, and a salmon pink T-shirt, headed her way.
The T-shirt advertised “Mr. Zogs Sex Wax,” and bore the legend “the best for your stick.”
Scapulimancist (Seven Forbidden Arts Book 7) Page 31
