by Jade Hart
“You saved my life. I have no idea how you did it, but I am forever in your debt.” Clark brushed away strands that fell from my plait. “Stay here. I'll fetch you something to eat, you've lost a lot of weight.”
Don't leave! I tried to grab his wrist. What if there were more of Bazeer's men in the house? It wasn't safe.
I must've passed out, as it seemed only a moment later, Clark sat beside me. The gravel bit into my butt and thighs. He handed me a tall glass of water and three delicious honey-glazed rolls.
I moaned at the sight and guzzled the water. The rolls were next. My mouth wasn't big enough to stuff them in. Food. Heavenly, exquisite food.
Clark munched his own. “You have a lot of secrets.”
I gave him a sideways glance.
He continued, “How did you get back here?” He motioned to his chest. “How did you fix me? I can still feel the bullet as it entered me. I know I was dead.”
Shaking my head, I swallowed my mouthful. “You weren't dead. You had a pulse.”
“Pulse or no, I was dead. No one should’ve been able to save me.” He looked deep into my eyes, his skin shiny with sweat. “My life is yours. You brought me back from the brink of nonexistence. I’ll never be able to repay you, but I want to come with you—help you with whatever you do.”
My eyes shot wide. “You owe me nothing, Clark. It’s I who owe you a million rand, for helping me rescue the girls.”
His jaw clenched. “I was weak and a coward. If I was more of a man I would never have taken you to Bazeer. I’ll forever regret my actions.”
“Don't you have family you need to return to?” I finished my rolls; already, my cells hummed with energy. I wanted to leave this hell-hole.
“I have no family. My parents were killed and Bazeer sold my little sister to a sheik in Saudi Arabia. He took me as his slave when I was fourteen-years-old.”
That changed things. “Do you know if your sister is still alive?” I wanted to promise I’d save her, bring her back to him—but it was a promise I wouldn't be able to keep. So many years passed. I doubted she still lived.
“No.” He dropped his chin. “But the sheik is the same man the twin blonde girls were sold to today.”
My heart wrenched from my chest. “Bazeer sold them?”
He nodded sadly. “Yes. They drove off four hours ago to meet the sheik’s assistant. Then Bazeer shot me and Fadima.” His eyes dropped to the gap-toothed pretty cook.
I couldn't look. She reminded me too much of my failings. “Why did he shoot you both? Why now?”
Clark took a deep breath. “He blamed me for the missing girls, and he tortured Fadima. He raped her, demanding to know how she infiltrated you into his operation. He was deluded—thinking you two knew each other. There was video footage of you talking in the dining room.”
My heart was sluggish with anguish and guilt. Her death was my fault and I’d never be able to apologize.
Tears built with a heavy pressure. If I sat here imagining what Fadima suffered, I’d go insane. Enough talk. I stood. “If you want to help me, I’ll try to find your sister in return. But we need to leave now. I need to find those twins before it's too late.”
Clark nodded, scrambling to his feet. His skin glowed with vibrant health. How was that possible? His guts were showing only moments before. Did I really cure him?
“Do you want me to bring a car around? There are plenty in the garage.”
I smiled. “My way of transportation is much faster. I hope you don't have an aversion to living in England.” I held out my hand.
He watched me warily before placing his dark one in mine. “Hold tight,” I whispered.
Calling my power was easy; it was wound tight, ready to catapult us from hell. The migraine detonated and Bazeer's mansion was sucked up in a whirlwind of driveway dust and speed.
We arrived in the lounge, directly in front of an unreadable Maurice browsing the newspaper in his wingback.
His eyes narrowed. The look he gave me sent warning tremors dancing down my neck.
No smile.No hug. Nothing.
“Who is this, Ocean?” Maurice nodded at Clark. His voice was level, chilly. Why was he so rude? He was never rude—even to the Jehovah witnesses who harassed him on a regular basis.
“This is—” I looked at Clark. “What's your real name?”
Clark blinked. “My real name?” He coughed. “I haven't been called it since I was fourteen.”
“Do you wish to remain Clark?” I rose an eyebrow. It might be his identity now.
“Mamello.”
“That's your birth name?” Maurice asked coolly.
I shot a look at him. He was still as a statue. Face shuttered from emotion. Dammit what was his problem?
“Yes. I was christened Mamello. It means patience. I think I would like to be named it again.”
Maurice stood, throwing the newspaper onto his old sheep dog. She didn't budge. Was she even still alive? “Well, Mamello, it’s nice to meet you.” He pointed at Clark's—I meant, Mamello's—gruesome shirt. “I see you've been in the wars. How about you head upstairs and take a shower? Use any of the clothes in the top of the laundry cupboard. I’d like to speak to Ocean alone.”
I couldn't remember the last time Maurice was this angry. Even when we had our fight about my marks and I left.
Mamello nodded. “Yes, sir.” His eyes fell on mine. “Thank you, Ocean. I don't know how we came here, but I’m past questioning your secrets. You are the owner of my life after all.” He bowed, kissed my hand, and disappeared up the stairs.
The minute he was gone, I turned on Maurice. “Care to tell me what crawled up your ass?” My outburst scared me. I never spoke that way to Maurice. Maybe I was crude to hide my fear? I wouldn't be able to stand it if Maurice finally had enough of me. Tears buckled me at the thought. “Maurice?”
“Sit.” He pointed at the wingback opposite him.
I did as instructed. “What did I do?” My voice was mouse-quiet. Terror made me vulnerable to every nuance of his body language. My emotions were all over the place. I couldn't read him. “If you're mad at me for not coming home after saving those girls in the game reserve, I'm sorry. I was safe.” I didn't want to mention I had illicit, wonderful sex with a cop.
“That's not what I'm angry about.”
Ah, so he was worked up. I racked my brains. Think. What could be bugging him?
He foraged by his feet for his ancient laptop. He didn't say a word as we waited an age in awkward silence for it to whir and cough to life.
Turfing the thing in my lap, Maurice clipped, “Open my email. I'm all fingers. I hate those things.”
I did as he asked. Maurice sometimes got enquiries this way. Did a client make an outrageous request? Enough to make Maurice annoyed? Then again, most requests were rather outrageous. One guy wanted a bag full of pyramid rock ported to his wife on their anniversary—romantic, but hardly practical.
Another wanted me to deliver a live pygmy pig to his lover in Afghanistan.
I mean, please! I should charge obscene amounts of cash to stop such time-wasting demands.
His email account finally popped open. Officer Bliss's name was listed three times in Maurice's inbox. In the space of how many hours? Twelve? Fourteen? My stomach froze solid. My heart slammed erratically.
I arched an eyebrow at Maurice. “So he's been emailing you. I'll tell him to stop.”
“Open them. Read them, Ocean.” His tone was furious, eyes shooting hazel sparks. Crap, what did Callan say?
The first one was fairly innocent:
From:[email protected]
Date: 19 July 2012
Subject: Where is Ocean?
Dear Maurice,
It was lovely to meet you, however briefly it was. I think you have a wonderful house and I was sorry to leave so quickly. The reason for my correspondence is I cannot get hold of Ocean. Can you please email me her mobile number? I can't find one listed. I must talk to her urgently.
Callan Bliss
My lungs stuck together; emotion ran rampant in my blood. I looked up. “Did you respond?”
Maurice nodded. “I replied saying you can't carry a cellphone when you port. That the only way to get in touch was by email.”
That was true. For some reason a cellphone scrambled whenever I ported. Something unraveled the communication technology.
Nodding warily, I opened the next one.
From:[email protected]
Date: 19 July 2012
Subject: Delicate
Dear Maurice,
It has been over eight hours since I last saw Ocean. I think it's only fair to tell you she was here. With me. She teleported at a delicate—I snorted, unable to help myself—moment and I'm very worried. Did she return home to you?
Please let me know immediately.
Callan Bliss
“And your reply?” I eyed Maurice. His cheeks tinged with pink. Please tell me the next email wasn't embarrassing, but from the way Maurice avoided my eyes, I had a feeling it was.
“I told him you weren't here. That I had no idea where you were.”
Swallowing, I clicked open the last email.
Fuck. He didn't.
From: [email protected]
Date: 19 July 2012
Subject: GPS recommendation
Dear Maurice,
I suggest you find Ocean immediately. She was very much naked when she left me. And I doubt she could manifest clothing wherever she landed. So you can imagine my concern imagining her naked, alone, and vulnerable—Vulnerable? I was never vulnerable. He was still trying to fix and protect me. Even now.
I suggest putting a GPS tracker on her at the soonest possibility.
Callan Bliss.
I couldn't speak. My heart roared in my ears in a mixture of disbelief and fury. How dare he email Maurice. How dare he tell him my state of undress. How dare he suggest tracking me like some pet. Oh, the nerve!
Maurice spoke: “I don't care who you date, Ocean. In fact, it's nice to think you're on the road to unfreezing yourself from your robotic drive, and indulging in human touch and emotion. But I don't think it's fair for you to leave the poor bloke hanging at,” he coughed, “a delicate time, and then not call or let him know you were alright.”
Maurice was mad at me for the way I treated Callan? He was supposed to be on my side. I went to interrupt, but Maurice held up his hand. “And I highly disapprove of the danger you put yourself in. Where did you port to, girl? Why didn't you come here?”
Maurice's embarrassment faded, and I saw what was really beneath his anger. He was hurt I hadn't come to him. Hurt I'd gone somewhere else while naked and vulnerable.
I sighed, holding my face in my hands. If I lied and told him I didn't want to come here, it would hurt him even more. If I told the truth. . .
Sucking up courage, I whispered, “I couldn't control it. I ended up at Breeze Farm.” I refused to meet his eyes. I couldn't. I just admitted my worst nightmare. My body took me from pleasure with Callan to nightmare in a split second, with no approval from me. It terrified me.
“Oh, Ocean. I'm sorry. I know how hard that must’ve been for you.” His English accent thickened with sorrow. “You did right burning it, child. It helped you move on.”
No, it didn't. I didn't move on. I would never move on. But it had been a purging—a new beginning. The phoenix rising from the ashes, in literal form. At the thought of a phoenix, my fingertips grazed my pendant. The charm was warm against my throat.
“You were obviously safe enough, and you managed to find your way home.” Maurice patted my leg. “But what are you going to do about that cop who is determined to have you?”
My gasp of a laugh couldn't be contained. “Maurice. You're as meddling as an old, nosy woman.”
He chuckled. “Here. Take the laptop upstairs. See if you can get in touch with him.”
I shook my head. “No. I'm not going to see him again.” My tone was sharp, causing Maurice to quirk an eyebrow. “He wants to fix me, Maurice. He wants to protect me. He doesn't see who I am—he sees the girl I was. I can't be with someone like that.” What I really meant was I couldn't let my frost thaw.
Maurice leaned back, the wingback leather creaking with his weight. “For a talented and gifted woman, you're blind when it comes to people wanting to be close to you.”
“People? As in plural?” I laughed. “Only one. You. You put up with me spitting and hissing. You’re my rock.” I shot him a shy smile. It wasn't often I admitted how much I loved him.
Maurice gave me a soft grin. “I repeat. You're stupid. So many people want to be close to you. Just look at the way that Mamello fellow looked at you.”
A laugh burst from me. “Mamello is gay, Maurice.” At least, I thought he was. When I tried to bribe him, he said he didn’t like women. “Plus, he’s forty-odd.”
I didn’t say it out loud, but if there was any affection in Mamello toward me, it was because I saved his life. There would always be a connection there now. It was still a mystery how I did that, and I wasn't about to interrupt Maurice and ask. He was on a roll.
“That’s beside the point. The amount of people who you've helped in my ledger all ask if you’re free and unattached. The propositions I get to introduce you to sons is unrelenting.”
Shock exploded on my face. “Who?”
Maurice chuckled. “Callan Bliss does see the broken girl. He's a cop who's drawn to helping the weaker. But he also sees the feisty fighter who has such spirit. Don't let the fact that he wants to look after you. . . to love you. . . chase you into a hole darker than the one you crawled out of. You can be strong and be cared for.”
I was frozen. Love? Care? This was all too heavy. Too much for someone like me.
Leaning forward, I said, “I know you don't understand, but I can't let anyone else into my life. You're the only man for me, Maurice.”
He sighed heavily, knowing when to give up. “Fine. But you will contact him, young lady. You will apologize for scaring him and put him in his place. You can't leave him in a panic.”
This was a complicated mess. I didn't want to do any of that. It would be too easy to break down and say ‘Yes, take care of me. Help me keep my shadows at bay’. No, I was stronger than that. I’d be nice and tell Callan to forget about me. I was a loner and always would be.
I shot Maurice a smirk. “Fine. You win.” I stood, taking the laptop with me. “I'll go and dump the guy. You deal with the new house guest.”
Chapter Twenty-five: Callan
Fragments of my brief time with Ocean hammered at my concentration.
Her fight.
Her smell.
Her wounded, blemished back.
At the thought of her beautiful skin marred by that Bazeer scum, my hands curled, causing me to hiss at the ache from my shark bite. I managed to last the entire night—to pop a sleeping tablet and catch some shut-eye before my patience deserted me. I lasted as long as could, but it wasn’t long enough. I needed to know if she was okay. I was fuming that she hadn’t been in touch.
My first email was full of concern, tenderness.
The second, an hour later, was harsher. Angry. Demanding she call me.
The third was full of threats. Telling her how unfair it was to leave me hanging. Was she dead? She could very well be, for all I knew.
By the time lunch came and went, my stomach churned with nerves. My thoughts were completely inundated with Ocean. Ocean. Ocean. Even my throbbing shark bite couldn’t stop me from going insane. I’d assessed the situation when I awoke. The wound was gnarly, but I didn’t need stitches. I was lucky.
The fourth email was to Maurice. Short, professional. Requesting her phone number.
The fifth was back to Ocean. Each letter I typed raged with two emotions: one was hot and wild—wanting to tell her I missed her, cared for her. . . wanted her. The other was cold and emotionless; trying to protect myself from a woman who couldn't even bother to let
me know she was alive.
And after all of that, no response. So I gave up. I forced all thoughts of the bloody annoying woman away and sulked in my apartment. I was a spare part compared to the amazing capabilities of the KCIA network. It whirred away, working on the missing girls from Aussie, occasionally pinging for confirmation on a thread of code, or to throw some scenario in my face—it barely needed me. It was smarter than I was, and I had a love-hate relationship with it already.
My blood pressure revved as afternoon turned to evening.
By then, I was immersed in finding Bazeer, drowning in smut and horror with every click of my mouse. With every key press, I was drawn deeper into disgusting circles. It sickened me to the depths of my soul.
The amazing technology available to my fingertips gave me access to any mainframe, the ability to delve into any personal detail or private nook. I was privy to bank statements, unauthorized emails, and phone conversations.
My jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as I listened to scumbags discuss women as belongings. The thick Afrikaans accent of Bazeer was as irritating to my ears as a baby screaming. One conversation I eavesdropped on was between Bazeer and another man with an Arab accent.
I replayed the phone audio. Fierce excitement chased away the foul taste in my mouth. After hours of research, I had him. Finally.
Atsu Bazeer: Our collection point has been compromised. What is your customer number?
Unknown: DIU990. My boss purchased filly number’s 2324, and 2325. I want to arrange time to receive package.
Atsu Bazeer: Fine. Do you wish to collect or have it delivered?
Unknown: I'll collect. What's the address?
Atsu Bazeer: Go to the corner of Mahatma Gandhi, and West road, Durham. Someone will collect you. Have your customer reference ready. No one must follow you. No communication devices or weapons, you understand?
Unknown: How will I transport cargo if I don't know where you are taking me to collect?
