by Maddie James
"Now tell me. Get it out of your system and tell me. I didn't want to say anything before, but you look like hell."
Claire smiled and looked in the mirror. She poked a puffy eye with an index finger. “No sleep."
"Why?"
She sighed. “I think I'm going crazy, Vick."
One corner of Vicki's mouth drew up. “Hey. I've known that for years,” she joked. “Get on with it."
"No, I mean, really. I'm hearing voices. Uh, one voice, actually."
Vicki's face grew serious. “Since when?"
She leaned against the sink. “Since the island."
"And it just sort of happens? What does it say?"
She shook her head. “He just says all sorts of things. He talks to me. Like you and I are talking right now."
"He? And you answer?"
"Yes. Sometimes. It's incredible! Like ... silent communication. In my head. Telepathy, I guess you could call it."
Vicki stared at her. “Silent communication."
"Uh-huh."
"Telepathy."
"Yes. And you know what?” Claire dared a grin. “It's sexy as hell."
"Really?” Vicki's interest was even more piqued.
"Really."
"Who is it, do you know?"
Claire nodded, figured she might as well plunge right on in. “I know who it is."
"Well?"
"His name is Jack. We...” she was about to say ‘made love’ but thought better of it, “had sex."
Vicki stepped back and gazed at her in disbelief. “Where? I mean, while you were at the beach?"
She nodded again.
"What's his last name?"
His last name? “I—I don't know."
"You don't know?” A slow smile spread across Vicki's face. “You don't know? You slept with him and you don't even know his last name? Claire, I didn't think you had it in you. I hope you used protection."
Claire stared at her friend and stifled a momentary panic. She hadn't used protection. But why was Vicki smiling? “Well, don't get hysterical over it."
"I think it's great, but I don't understand the whole silent conversation thing."
"I don't either. All I know is that ever since that night he's been able to talk to me through my brain."
"Have you seen him since?"
Claire paused. “No. Sometimes I even wonder if I'm making it all up. That's why I was going to make an appointment today to see a psychologist. Vicki, it's like he was a ghost or something."
Vicki's eyebrows shot up. “A ghost.” It wasn't a question.
"Or something. I can't explain it, Vick."
Her friend studied her for a moment longer. “How was it?” Her lip curled up.
"What?"
"The sex. How was it?"
A slow smile spread across Claire's face. “Oh God. Like nothing I've ever experienced."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
Vicki smiled. “Even with Rick?"
"Especially with Rick."
"Hmmm."
"And it doesn't stop."
Vicki stared at her. “What? What doesn't stop? The sex?"
Claire smiled. “The orgasms,” she whispered. “I still have them sometimes. Like ... spontaneously."
"Damn.” Vicki's mouth fell open. “I didn't know that could happen."
Claire shrugged. “Me either. If it wasn't for the fact that I can't control when they happen, it wouldn't be so bad."
She grinned widely and they giggled, and Claire felt a whole lot better. Vicki was always good medicine.
After a moment, she turned serious again and blurted out, “I'm going to break it off with him."
"Jack?"
"No, Rick."
It took Vicki a minute. “Rick? Because of this one fling? Are you sure you want to do that?"
"It's not just this one thing. I've been thinking about it for a long time. It's not been good between us, Vicki. There's something wrong. With me. With Rick. With life. There's something incredibly wrong with Rick, I think. It's like he wants to control my every move; like he wants all this power over me all of a sudden. I don't know what it is. That's why I took the vacation in the first place. But now, after Jack, I just need time to myself."
"Do you think there's a chance with this man ... or ghost ... or orgasm giver?"
Claire smiled at her friend's choice of words. “That's just the thing, Vicki, I'm not sure if he's a man or a ghost or a figment of my imagination. It was all so mystical, so magical. He was like an image coming to me, and yes, he was almost ghostlike—but then again, not. And when it was all over, I wasn't even sure if it was real, or if it was a dream.” Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands.
"Until I found this on my finger."
Claire held out her left hand for Vicki to see. Her friend took the proffered hand, staring at the gold band around her third finger. She touched the ring softly, almost reverently, and then her gaze moved back to Claire.
"Holy crap! You have to go back."
Claire closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “I know."
"This is special, Claire, I can feel it. Don't miss out. You have to do this."
"Fly by the seat of my pants?"
"Ride the wave, girl. It might be the big one you've been waiting for."
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Chapter Five
Somewhere on the east coast...
Silence hung like a heavy blanket in the darkened room. Only the faint yellow glow of an oil lamp centered in the massive mahogany table lit their way. One by one, they entered. Large, tough looking men, all sporting heavy beards and 18th century clothing, surrounded the table and sat.
Periodically, one could hear the mumbled whispers as they discussed the ceremony to come. A bystander, listening very carefully, might even distinguish a lingering Elizabethan inflection in their voices, a remnant of another place, another time.
One of the men rose and turned to two younger, less hardened men and gestured.
"Place your hands on the Bible,” his voice boomed with an Other-worldly lilt.
The young men did so. The older man continued. “Under the penalty of death, do you solemnly swear that you will not reveal a solitary thing that happens between these walls this night for at least forty-five years to come?"
"I swear,” the weak voices of the younger men answered, apprehension filling their faces.
With a howl eerie enough to raise the hackles of the dead, a giant of a man entered the room. The neophytes silently stepped back, their calves bumping against their chairs, nearly falling into their seats.
He stood solidly in the center of the room; the other men shifted positions to accommodate the massive male. He was an astonishing looking fellow, with braids in his beard and a ring of smoke curling around his head. In his hands he held a shallow cup, somewhat larger than a normal mug or chalice.
He handed it to the man sitting at the head of the table, and then sat. The man holding the cup rose, thrust it high toward the ceiling, and chanted a resounding phrase: “Death to Spotswood!” Then lowering the cup to his lips, he drank deeply from it, passed it on to the next man, and sat among his comrades.
From hand to hand the cup passed. Each time the chant repeated, “Death to Spotswood! Death to Spotswood!” And each time a long draught of the scarlet liquid was swallowed from the grail and passed along to another, until at last it fell into the hands of the young initiates.
Almost reverently, the first young man took of the cup, repeated the chant, and then choked on the liquid fire. With blurred eyes and shaking hands he passed the cup to his companion.
Hungry eyes gazed at the flicker of the oil flame reflected against the silver plate of the cup. Licking his parched lips, the young man rose. As if savoring each sensation of the feel and every second of his possession of the cup in his hands, he lifted it high into the air.
"Death to Spotswood!” he chanted with a resonance unlike the others. “Death to Spotswood and
eternal life to Edward Teach! I drink of thee!"
Lowering the coveted cup to his lips, he threw back the scarlet liquid and drank heartily with an ease that startled not only his companion but the seasoned veterans as well. Then respectfully, he turned to the giant.
Their eyes met.
The monstrous man grinned.
* * * *
Rick Gentry knew from the moment he held the coveted cup made from Blackbeard's skull in his hands that he was possessed. His pulse prickled at the feel of the silver-plated skull. His chest swelled. Being here, and experiencing this rather occult bit of historical theatrics, was possibly the most uncharacteristic thing he'd ever done in his life. And he reveled in it.
He was tired.
Tired of playing to Claire's whims. Tired of waiting for her to realize her own innate powers. Tired of waiting for her to show him the way.
But somehow, just holding a piece of the rogue pirate's skull filled him with the spirit he'd long been denied. Already he felt the transformation. Already, he knew and sensed the time was coming. He could feel Blackbeard's spirit in his hands. Oh, to be like the infamous pirate. To ride the open seas, taking what he wanted, when he wanted it, raping and pillaging without a care. The freedom, the adventure.
The riches, the women. And the power.
Yes, the power.
It was meant for him. By destiny. By family. By some shear quirk of fate.
He took a drink.
Rick grinned, the taste of Blackbeard's blood stinging his lips. He ran his tongue hungrily over them. Claire would give him what he wanted soon enough.
Soon enough.
He'd waited all his life to assume the power of his fate. His mother had tried to quell it since his birth, fearful of the wanderlust herself, knowing all too well the power of the Legend. When he'd stumbled upon their family secret, and learned that Claire's family shared that secret as well, he'd known that she was his hope. He'd latched on to her when they were children.
Even then, he knew she was different, special. She just didn't know it herself. Even then, he knew he was different, too.
Now, at last, the power was within him and there was no looking back.
He stared into the liquid, said to still hold a trace of the infamous pirate's own blood, thinned over time with the blood of others so ordained, diluted with the grape of the Mother vine, and saw his own reflection. The reflection of the man he was now. Mingled with the man he used to be.
He was ... hardened, reckless, determined. He was the devil incarnate himself.
The spittin’ image.
A rogue pirate. Temporarily lost in time.
Ready and willing to do anything to find his way back.
So he drank, hungrily, and again, letting the blood of Edward Teach roll down his chin and soak into his starched white cotton shirt.
Aye. And then he was Rick Gentry no more.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Six
The room spun circles around him. As Jack lay there, staring up at the wooden rafters crisscrossing beneath the roof of his tiny cabin, he remembered the time he swore he would never drink again. That was after Hannah's death. After he'd buried her, running blindly from the grave until he'd found his horse, then riding deep into the night, refusing to let the tears fall, sobs wrenching in his gut, until the horse could go no more.
When he had at last made his way back to his empty home, he drank for days on end, hoping that the alcohol would poison his body and take him in death as well.
He felt like that now.
The rum in his cupboard had been untouched for months after that binge. Until today. Until the feelings of mourning flew back over him as he realized that he would never make it back to Hannah.
His flesh-and-blood Hannah.
Perhaps he never had. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps the months he'd lived alone had turned him addle-brained.
Perhaps...
He slept. The combination of the rum and his state of exhaustion swept over him like a warm blanket, shielding out the pain, holding in all the emotion. He slept a dreamless sleep. But the sensations that warped through his sleep insinuated that all was not quite right with his life. That there was something just out of his grasp, waiting for the picking, if he could only figure out what it was and how to get to it.
* * * *
Claire glanced at her watch. Late again. Oh, he'd have a good excuse. He always did. Lately, anyway. Six months ago he would have been here on the dot. Or fifteen minutes early.
Rick was due to arrive back in Cincinnati two hours earlier. A quick business trip had lured him out of town four days ago. Or was it three? Five? Really, she couldn't say. And she didn't care. She only wanted to the ordeal to be finished.
Done.
She'd gone over the speech in her head time and again the past few days. So much so, that she could think of little else except getting Rick out of her life and getting on with living. If that were possible. These days, it seemed she existed in some Never-Never Land or Twilight Zone. Nothing seemed to fit, to make sense. Her brain felt like it was shrink-wrapped in thick cellophane.
She glanced at the doodles she'd made on the paper in front of her and at the poem she'd just written across the page. “I don't write poetry,” she whispered. “I've never possessed a creative vein in my body."
But there it was. Staring back at her. The words had flown so freely out of her pen that she had amazed herself. As she read it over once more, she thought that it actually was pretty good—because it came from her heart and soul. And as she read it for the third time, her intentions were clarified.
I feel you.
Your silky softness laps
Against my feet and swirls
Around my toes.
I taste the sting
On my tongue, feel the grit
On my face, smell your biting salt
In the breeze.
I hear the constant roar
Of your crashing fingers
As you calm the day
And bring the night, cool
And quiet and sweet.
I close my eyes and slide
Along your satin tresses,
Buoyant and free.
I see the sun just pink
Slipping over your distant
Gray horizon, splashing
Color into the day.
I feel you,
So far away.
So close.
She knew what she had to do. Looking over the poetic lines again, she was unsure whether she'd written about the Outer Banks or Jack. At any rate, she missed them both incredibly, although it had taken her over two weeks to admit it.
The lock jimmied behind her and Claire jumped. Rick was back. After shoving the poem in a desk drawer, she rose and stepped across the room.
Keep it short and to the point. Be blunt. Get it over. Then you can decide what you're going to do with the rest of your life.
Rick burst through the door, his face animated. His long, blond hair glistened. His blue eyes sparkled. And his clothes, the faded denims, the t-shirts—never before had he dressed so casually. This was not the Rick she knew.
"Claire! You're home. We've got to talk.” Out of breath, he rushed across the room and gathered her into his arms. She tried to scavenge a small grin, and then separated herself from him.
"What is it Rick?"
He paced his short, stocky frame back and forth across the room, threading his fingers through his hair overly long hair. “It's the wildest thing. You remember Chuck DeHart? From college? You know, the Texas Troubadour?"
Claire nodded. One of Rick's fraternity brothers. She hadn't cared too much for Chuck the first time she'd met him, and didn't think she'd care much for him now. She'd despised all their fraternal pet names for each other and still hadn't figured out why Rick was called ‘The Pirate'.
"Well, he and I have been spending a lot of time together recently. In fact, he came into town the week you were g
one. We're going to meet him for dinner tonight."
Oh, yes. That's exactly how I want to spend my evening.
"He's got a business proposition for us."
Business proposition? For us? Nope. Don't think so.
Claire cleared her throat. “Rick, look. We do need to talk, but not about business propositions. Tonight's not a good night. There's something else I want to discuss with you."
He stopped pacing and glared. “He's only here until morning then he's heading off to the Caribbean. He's on a really tight schedule. Gotta be tonight. We've been working on this deal for a few weeks. In fact, we've been discussing it all week. We want to break it to you tonight. Put on something slinky and let's go. We're meeting him in forty-five minutes."
Something slinky?
"No."
Claire stood solid and pinned him with her gaze. Obviously Rick's business trip hadn't anything to do with Adams, Stone, and McCullough Accounting Services. That knowledge only clinched what she knew she had to do.
Rick glared back at her. “What?"
Claire blinked. “I'm not interested in business deals right now, Rick."
"You're not much interested in anything right now, are you Claire?” he shot back. “You don't want me to touch you. You don't want to go out."
So he had noticed.
"And you don't seem to be much interested in your business life right now, either,” she said. “What's with you? What's with the clothes and the hair and the attitude change? Are you going through a premature mid-life crisis or what? And is that my gold hoop earring in your ear?” She reached for his earlobe.
Rick jerked away. “Mid-life crisis, hell! I'm just tired of playing by the rules, Claire. I want a little adventure in my life. I want the brass ring. In fact, I want a lot more than that."
She shook her head. “You're acting really strange, Rick."
"Strange? Me strange? Ever since you got back from your vacation, you've been in a daze.” Giving pause for a second, he glared at her. “So when are you going to break it to me?"
"Break it to you?"
"Spit it out, Claire. When are you going to tell me we're finished? That's what comes next, doesn't it?"
It was now or never. “Yes. Rick, it's over."
