by Marx, J. A.
“You pushed his buttons, Chiara.”
“He pushed mine first.” She tried to scowl but realized the Asian was smiling at her differently, sincerely. Vétis’s infectious defamation must have worn off.
Akiko hugged one knee against his chest. “Give Ize another chance at friendship. He’ll change.”
Friendship. Assessing her modified philosophy on human relationships, she realized the Foursome personified pure, model friends. Not the nasty, intolerable, crass, and unforgivable mutants that humanity labeled men.
Crawling down off her throne of vindictiveness, she felt healthier than ever before. “I’ll trust you. This time.”
“It’ll pay off.” Akiko’s shoulder bumped hers. “People like you and Isaac keep the world turning, you know.”
“No wonder we’re going in circles.”
Isaac climbed the deck steps. When the other three went indoors, Chiara’s cowardly side wanted to follow.
Don’t buckle. Fingers twiddling, she waited for the alpha dog to tower over her the way Max always did. What should she expect from the impulsive safetyman? A fight? A rebuke? Griping? He would make life easier by just going to sleep, but he’d already established himself as one who never took his problems to bed.
Circling the deck, he gradually made his way to the bench. Directly in front of her. He didn’t tower. He knelt.
She gasped inside. Heart melting. Defenses evaporating. Where was that blindfold?
“Chiara?” He said her name way too kindly.
Cleansing tears made a ruckus, but she corked them. Her gaze hurdled around the deck in search of … she didn’t know what.
“Please, look at me.” His hands wrapped over hers, and the twiddling stopped.
She met his fixed stare from an angle.
Isaac Young’s inescapable attention focused solely on her. “Your wish list stoked my desire for your success. And for your survival. Mentioning death busted those desires, and I lost control of my tongue.”
He desires my success? She blinked to clear the cloudiness. “I don’t entirely understand, but I …” The thought of someone caring that much stole her voice.
His hands squeezed hers. “I’m truly sorry for ruining your perfect night.”
She said the only thing that seemed right. “I forgive you.” She’d never said those words before, never even thought them. They generated a strange happiness the second they left her lips. But she owed Isaac more. “I’m sorry for my language. I know it offended you. Even my tutors corrected my vulgarity. Thanks to Max, I’m still renovating the vocabulary department. Sorry.”
The apology winded her.
He grinned. “I forgive you.”
Phew. Drunk with exhaustion, she slipped her hand out from under Isaac’s and rearranged the sweat-dried locks of hair pasted to his temples. The mingling scent of sea and perspiration snuggled her like a blanket.
“Was I really acting like Max?”
Of all the idiot things she’d ever said. “Not even close. I was just angry.” She shook her head. “Are ridiculous arguments normal? We seem to have a lot.”
Twirling his mane, her finger snared a knot.
His nose wrinkled. “That’ll change once we’re off the Cay and spending more time together.”
She withdrew her hand. “You still want to be my friend after all I’ve done and said to you?”
His earnest expression whittled down her concern. “Believe me. I wouldn’t want it any other way. And you can pull my hair any time you want.”
Her cheeks warmed at the amusing offer. “I guess you kind of remind me of this little Cuban boy, José. His mother was one of Max’s sex goddesses. He was the only child on Omeàla.” That she knew about.
Isaac sat back and used his bent knee as an armrest. “How old?”
“Eight, this summer.” Smiling at memories, Chiara likened Isaac’s wavy mane to José’s black curls.
Sorrow burst in on her thoughts, blurring her eyes. The explosion had spared her from bondage. But what about everybody else? Her newfound peace collided with her grief over the villagers trapped on Hell Island. After she experienced the world to her satisfaction, she would then bring Lux et Potestas to justice.
Nothing she could do now.
The Lux. A sliver of warning grazed her thoughts, but Chiara dismissed it as an illusion of exhaustion.
Chapter 63
Broad shouldered and dark-skinned, Captain Carreau stood sharp aboard the Emma-O, a converted cargo vessel. While observing the crewmen returning from a retrieval mission, he discerned matters amiss in the otherworld. He hoped to delay the due punishment.
First Officer Balan reported in, his muscular frame reaching to the ceiling. Sweat coated his caramel-brown complexion. “Sir, the landing team combed the entire island. No signs of Lord Vétis or Riki Hammad.”
Acknowledging the collective disappointment, Captain Carreau dismissed a portion of the crew for the night. Most passengers aboard his vessel were associates with Lux et Potestas, like himself. The rest were human sacrifices awaiting their fate.
He hooked his yachting cap on a peg near the wheel and unfastened the top button of his khaki uniform. The whites of his eyes reflected prominently under the illumination of a clip-lamp as he studied the first officer. “There is one more island.”
“We’ve checked all islands, sir.”
Lifting a saucer of burning incense to his nose, Carreau breathed deeply. “There is another. Farther west. Near Cuba.”
“The cursed island?” Balan’s fragrance of slyness satiated the pilothouse. “Grand Master Rakshasa would never order the Emma-O into enemy waters.”
Contempt bloated Carreau’s soul. “The Prince of the Air grants our assignments. Who are you to oppose him?”
Balan, whose pseudonym meant fiend of finesse and ruses, bowed his head in honor and recognition of the prince. “And if you have misinterpreted the orders?”
Carreau, whose pseudonym meant mercilessness, paused to coax wisdom from the earthly forces. “The prince is testing us. We must prove we are worthy of Riki Hammad.”
“Are we worthy?” The officer’s eyes flickered red. A masked incantation.
Their spirits lock in a showdown. Silence worked diligently in a combat zone too deadly for the mightiest human army. The captain’s cloaked attack defeated Balan.
As the more seasoned associate, Carreau never gloried in a trivial victory. He exploited it. “Your fear betrays you. You must overcome.”
Balan’s frame slightly hunched. “I fear nothing. Except displeasing Rakshasa.”
“You shall face your fear tomorrow. Potius mori quam foedari.”
Death before dishonor: an oath every associate adhered to in order to remain with the Lux. Challenged by a superior, Balan had to comply or risk expulsion.
“Find a kindred spirit,” Carreau said. “Prepare an altar on the bridge. Make an offering. Do not sleep or eat. Groom your spirit for your task. The prince is sending you ashore to retrieve Lord Vétis and the chosen one.”
“Aye, Captain.” Donning a mask of distrust, perhaps vengeance, First Officer Balan left the pilothouse. Refusing the Prince’s directive would bring instant affliction and disgrace.
As soon as Balan retreated, Carreau knelt. “I am yours.”
At the prince’s command, the captain removed his shirt. He brutally whipped himself—punishment for his shrewd insubordination and delay tactics. Despite knowing the exact destination, Carreau had fabricated a selection of alternate islands to search. The Emma-O could have reached Fletcher’s Cay three days ago.
Incense took the edge off his pain. Pulling himself together, the captain then gave orders to raise anchor and advance toward enemy waters. Carreau prayed that lost time would bring no further adversity.
Chapter 64
Friday, June 1
Isaac stood with Sabio on the deck, going over the list of departure responsibilities.
“Protective panels?”
“Ch
eck.” Isaac had helped mount them on the windows and doors.
Sabio crossed it off. “Garbage, including perishables?”
“Cleaned out and in the bin.” Isaac kept one eye on Chiara who was perched on the railing, listening to live guitar music. She looked as scared as she did eager.
“First aid supply list?”
“On me.” Isaac patted his back pocket while his thoughts lingered on Chiara. She wouldn’t have survived the past nineteen years if God didn’t have incredible plans for her. Was he crazy for seeing her entire life as a miracle?
“Ham radio?” Sabio grimaced. “We should’ve tried harder to fix the antennae.” The scholar crossed it off, and then flashed a funny look. “Lightning took out the radio but not the bungalow’s electricity. Hmm …?”
Heaven’s intervention. Isaac added mysterious lightning to the one hundred inexplicable facts of the week.
Sabio moved into Isaac’s personal space, and whispered, “Mr. Fletcher is going to ask if we’ve kept our conduct honorable with—” His eyes rolled toward the island girl.
Honorable conduct. Isaac would settle for nothing less. From anybody. “I’m prepared to answer.”
Although he didn’t declare it, he knew Chiara was meant to be his. He’d tried all week to rid himself of the revelation, but it kept overpowering him, even impairing his functioning. Had this emotional facet of his personality materialized in front of anyone but his closest friends, he would’ve suffered major humiliation.
The thwopping sound of Mr. Fletcher’s JetRanger snapped Isaac out of vacation mode.
Chiara did a jig then held her stomach. “Are you guys in trouble because I’m here?”
Let’s hope not. Isaac waved off her concern. “Chill out.”
“You kidding? I’ve gotta pee.” She hurdled the railing and disappeared into the trees.
Jase picked up his guitar case, laughing. “She’s such a dude.”
“You guys start walking.” Isaac loaded his duffle onto Akiko’s other shoulder. “Pack the chopper while I make introductions.”
“Thanks a lot.” The Asian waddled down the deck steps with the double cargo, followed by Sabio and Jase.
As soon as Chiara reappeared, Isaac guided her down the path. “Just be yourself.”
They reached the strangler fig where Isaac’s beloved mentor met them dressed in the usual navy shorts and button-up shirt. The tree was not an ideal spot, considering the haunting vibe it carried. But Isaac did his best to not dwell on past horrors.
“Sir, this is Chiara Spencer.” His mouth went dry when Chiara’s quivering lip bordered on a suggestive pout. Her alluring attire no doubt fed the wrong impression. “I can explain why she’s here.”
Fletch’s eyes widened then returned to normal, as if he struggled to control his reaction. “Good to make your acquaintance, Miss Spencer.”
She extended a limp, shivering hand for him to shake. Her shoulder-length ebony hair tucked behind her ears exposed her rosy cheeks.
Hoping Fletch would look beyond the curves, Isaac prayed he wouldn’t ask about the strangulation mark. “She borrowed your niece’s clothing all week.”
The man cleared his throat. “Good, good. And Sabio told me about the antennae. We’ll discuss everything else in Florida. We need to get going.”
Chiara’s expression turned deadpan. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Fletch adjusted his shades.
“Disturbing noises.” She stiffened.
“It’s just your stomach.” Isaac nudged her forward, realizing she could be anxious over her first ride in a helicopter. He would spend the entire three hundred miles of air time comforting her.
“The JetRanger has a special, long-range fuel tank.” Fletch spoke as if reading her concern. “And other updates to accommodate heavier cargo.”
Isaac hadn’t thought about a five-passenger cabin fitting six people. He trusted Chiara didn’t outweigh the food they’d transported to the Cay.
Rounding the boathouse, he lurched to a stop. Fear gripped his gut. He threw an arm in front of Chiara to keep her from walking into terror.
Two tan-skinned men, both armed, had Sabio, Akiko, and Jase bowing with their noses on the ground at the side of the chopper. White headscarves covered all but the intruders’ dark eyes. One had a radio clasped to his belt.
The Cay stored no material riches, so what did pirates want with the island? A heroin drop? Other deadly possibilities bumped up Isaac’s fear.
“I’m the one you want to talk to.” Fletch stepped forward, hands raised in peace.
One pirate leveled a rifle barrel at Jase’s head. Negotiations not accepted.
The taller one aimed a pistol at Fletch. “Come here with them.” He pointed at Isaac. “You, too.”
The man’s accent was indistinct. But the gold beetle dangling at his chest drove a spike through Isaac’s heart.
Once all five Americans were on their knees, First Officer Balan slung his rifle over his shoulder and drew the .38 from its holster. He approached the chosen one whom he’d never seen except from afar. He recognized Riki Hammad by the unmistakable physique and her famed, insidious beauty.
Captured by her probing gaze, Balan welcomed her interest.
She then looked right and left, sizing up the situation. Adapting. Conquering in advance.
Our lateness displeases her.
Balan had detailed each step of this mission down to his attire. He had every element subdued under his authority. Auxiliary backup was a radio call away with the Emma-O purposely detectable in the distance, a ship that routinely circled Omeàla, docking with supplies as needed.
Where was Lord Vétis?
Keeping the pistol down, he lowered his scarf to initiate communication. Should he bow? Salute?
During an undercover operation eight years ago, the Emma-O had transported Riki across the Atlantic. Balan, though not granted communication clearance, had shadowed her scent and stolen crumbs from her conversations until her drugging presence seeded in him a ravenous passion. Since then, he’d lusted to serve as her second-in-command, a position that would put the vainglorious Captain Carreau to shame.
Eager to prove himself worthy, Balan whispered reverently, “Riki Hammad, chosen by our Prince of the Air.”
Riki’s aura pierced him strangely, putrefying the space between them. Her silence boomed with supremacy, and her unreadable expression terrified. Was she testing him?
Death before dishonor. Balan delivered a silent incantation to deflect any blame. His gut heaved and buckled. He stood fast against an impulse to flee this cursed island. “Captain Carreau delayed our arrival. Lord Vétis will bring discipline. As always.”
Her focus set him free and shifted to the captives behind him.
A ceremonial slaying would demonstrate his potential, but he needed her permission. “How do you want me to handle the Americans?”
“They don’t know who I am.” Her first words, spoken with the low-pitched richness of an enchantress.
Realizing she sought to maintain a disguise, he respected her acuity. He’d make her his hostage. He had heard that Lord Vétis designed Riki’s training using class titles that matched that of any traditional student. A convincing illusion to the outside world.
Her secrets became Balan’s secrets, and a daredevil heat surged through his groin. “Are they sacrifices?”
“Ita est.” It is so. “Take me to the Emma-O.”
Lord Vétis, wherever he was hiding, needed to board with her. “I’ll send the Americans first.”
“Leave them.”
Unthinkable! Death stalked all witnesses. Her instructions defied protocol. Yet she had the power to decide when and how one should die.
Suspicion struck. Balan wanted to confer with his partner, but he didn’t dare turn his back on Riki. He raised the .38 pistol and aimed the barrel at her chest.
Not a flinch, as if she anticipated his actions.
His finger tickled the trigger
. “Where is Lord Vétis?”
“You don’t know?” Her cutting tone condemned his ignorance. “Leave the Americans here. Take me to Carreau. Fallaces sunt rerum species.” The appearances of things are deceptive.
The invincible one had spoken.
Lifting his scarf back into place, Balan edged his way behind her, never taking his eyes off her. Never trusting Riki Hammad. Any second she could turn on him and prove her superiority.
She didn’t move.
He snaked his hand around her shoulder and locked it over her mouth. Pressing the barrel of the .38 against her neck, he felt safe. No. Just safer. Not even in control.
Balan wanted off this island. Hands occupied, he pointed toward the raft with his chin.
His partner withdrew the rifle from the blond American at the back of the inferior five. “Stay down!” He fired a warning shot.
They vacated the Cay, defying Carreau’s orders to eliminate.
Chapter 65
On his knees with his face in the sand, Isaac couldn’t stop shivering at the idea of terrorists so close to his native soil. The beetle pendants and the exchange of Latin between the men had given away their affiliation.
Welcome to my old world, Chiara had said yesterday.
Straining to hear what the taller man was saying to her, Isaac silently praised her for not buckling under his aggressiveness.
A shot cracked. He flinched.
“Stay down!” They led her away at gunpoint.
Isaac’s stomach wedged in his throat as he rose partway from behind the helicopter.
One guy loaded Chiara into their black rubber raft and restrained her. His accomplice fired up the motor.
You can’t have her back. Isaac launched forward—
A hand caught his arm. “They’ll shoot you.” Fletch didn’t release him until the raft left. “Get in the chopper. I’ll radio the Coast Guard.”
Isaac rushed to the front of the cabin and found Sabio already buckled in and positioning the headset. Climbing into the back, Isaac buckled up near the door. Every muscle strained to function against a torrent of fear.
