by L. L. Muir
Maybe she is just between acts.
A darkly handsome Somerled stepped from behind the woman and whispered something in her ear while she looked Skye over. She nodded, straightened, and shooed him away. He took a few steps back and folded his arms, like he was bored.
“Hello, Skye.” The woman’s voice was breathy.
“Hello,” Skye said, though she hadn’t planned to. It was like someone was suggesting things in her head again—the same that had suggested she not take the freeway entrance—now suggesting she be polite whether she wanted to or not. Since there was no suggestion to keep quiet, she pushed forward with what she wanted to say. “Where is that Jamison kid?”
The woman smiled one of those sly, Angelina Jolie smiles that were the trademark of all her movies. “You’re right, of course. No need to pretend, is there? No need for pleasantries with so much…unpleasantness to deal with. Your Jamison is about five stories down…from here.” She pointed at her peacock blue-sequined shoes. “Locked up, of course. In the catacombs. No harm done.” She turned and strode to the wood chair and gracefully lowered herself onto it. “Yet.”
The woman didn’t scare her. You couldn’t wait tables for long without developing a tough hide of sorts that helped you deal with unpleasant people. The trick was to keep on smiling until they were gone from your tables and back out of your life. Skye’s knee jerk reaction was to think of this woman in those terms.
So she smiled.
“He’s not my Jamison,” she said, thinking it would be better if they didn’t imagine some bond between her and the stranger. “I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t—” She was going to say suffering, but that would make her sound too soft-hearted, and she needed them to take her seriously. “…make sure he wasn’t in trouble for trying to help a stranger.”
The woman shrugged, still smiling. “He wasn’t.”
“So you would have kidnapped him anyway?”
“Exactly.”
That surprised her. “Then you weren’t after me instead?”
The woman shook her head innocently. “No.”
Skye narrowed her eyes. “Then how come everyone knows my name?”
The Nose laughed, but stopped short when the woman’s attention turned to him. Then she sighed and toyed with the arm of her chair. “Maybe someone read it on your name tag.”
Skye put her hands on her hips. “Try again.”
The woman exchanged a smile with the dark, handsome guy who was slightly less bored. “Does she remind you of someone?”
He nodded, looking Skye over. “She does.”
Skye was done playing patty cake. “Look. I don’t want to play games. Are you going to let the guy go, or what?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not going to do anything, my darling Skye. The question is…what will you do to Jamison Shaw, once you know what he’s already done to you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Skye’s head throbbed.
They’d “retired” through the hole in the wall to a “more comfortable place to chat.” It was a cross between a fancy office and a living room. Tea was served on the coffee table. She wasn’t a fan of the stuff but she accepted a cup just to take away the chill of all that polished rock. The desk, the tables, and two polished stone walls reflected light, but no heat.
While the woman talked, the warmth of the tea moved out of the cup and into Skye’s fingers. She only wished the complicated story the woman told could have been absorbed into her brain that easily. She set the cooled cup aside and a minute later, Pilot, the handsome guy, brought her and her hostess shrimp cocktails. She was too tired to refuse it, too hungry to dismiss it, and too distracted to be paranoid. If they drugged her, at least she might get a break from the barrage of history this woman expected her to believe.
It was less like a history lecture, however, and more like a Sunday school lesson from the most whacked-out church she’d ever heard of.
War in Heaven. Got it.
Satan and demons. Check.
Opposing factions of angels? Maybe.
But this Final Host stuff? Angels under all those white robes? She wasn’t buying it, especially considering the two who’d driven her there. She’d also grown up with Somerleds in her schools. There didn’t seem to be as many in Henderson as in other places, but she wasn’t about to believe they’d all been angels. She believed in God. She definitely believed there was evil. But the God she believed in could handle his own miracles.
Pilot circled the room and came around behind the love seat where Skye was perched, then leaned close to her ear. “I assure you, it’s true.”
She laughed to cover the shiver that ran up her spine. It must have been obvious what she was thinking, that there was no way this pajama-clad guy serving up shrimp was some angel of God. Surely God wouldn’t condone Jamison Shaw being kidnapped for whatever reason Pilot had up his wide, white sleeve.
Jamison Shaw. If Jamison was his first name, maybe he wasn’t related to her old Scottish Ghost after all.
She looked at the woman. “Sorry, Ms… Sorry, I forgot your name.”
The woman smiled and inclined her head like she thought she was the queen of something. “Gabriella. Gabriella Somerled.”
Skye tried not to roll her eyes. The woman thought she was an angel too? Ridiculous. “Right,” she said, then pointed to the chick’s shoes and jeans. “I thought Somerleds only wear white.”
The woman looked her straight in the eye. “They all start out that way. Just as you and I did.”
Skye Somerled? She laughed, but then sobered quickly when she remembered that someone had already called her that. Was it a day ago? Or that morning?
She gave the pair an exaggerated shrug and widened her eyes playfully. “Nope. My name is Geddes. Skye Geddes. I remember my parents just fine. And I know I’m a Geddes.”
That sly smile was back again. “Perhaps in this life…”
Skye shook her head. “So you’re saying I was a Somerled in a past life? And was I one of these Final Host angels too?”
Gabriella set her cup down and smiled at Pilot. “That was easier than I expected.”
“She needs some convincing, of course.” Pilot gave her a creepy smile and headed for the door. “I’ll just leave you two alone, shall I?”
Gabriella leaned forward. “I only ask that you keep an open mind, my dear.”
Skye saw an opening and took it. “Sure. I’ll keep an open mind. If you let me have a private conversation with Jamison Shaw.”
The woman nodded. “As soon as you hear me out, we’ll have him brought up.”
Up.
That little word was just the splash of cold water to the face she needed, to remind her that someone was suffering while she sat around drinking tea, munching shrimp, and listening to fairy tales.
“No. I want to see him now. I want to know that he’s not bleeding to death while we sit and play tea party.”
Finally, the pleasant smile dropped away but only for a second or two. It was enough, though, to show that the woman believed Skye’s opinion, or approval, was important for some reason. And that “long lost someone” scenario was back in her head. They really did have the wrong chick. But the woman seemed pretty unstable. Telling her she was mistaken—about anything—wasn’t a smart move.
Gabriella picked up the little bell off the tea tray and rang it. They stared at each other for about ten seconds before a young woman in clean, white robes came into the room and offered her hostess a little bow. Her gaze darted to Skye only for a split second. Her cherub face remained expressionless.
“Ruth, I need you to find Pilot. Tell him I’d like the Shaw boy gagged and brought to us here. Right away.”
~ ~ ~
Jamison was returned to his cell and shoved inside. The gurney was gone along with Dumb and Dumber, but there was still a trace of chloroform in the air. A pale blue blanket was placed on a cot that had been folded down out of the wall like a murphy bed. There were five other
indentations that said the room could house six prisoners if necessary, but a shiny, silver toilet in the corner made him think the place rarely got used.
Jamison forced himself to sit on the cot. He was still coming down from his adrenaline high, trying to convince himself there was no reason to assume his mother wasn’t safe. He was locked in with no possible escape until someone opened that door again. If he could just settle down and sleep, he’d be in better shape to fight the next time he got a chance.
Even an hour’s sleep would be great, but it didn’t look like he was going to get even that.
Pilot’s face filled the small rectangular window in the door, and then it was gone. The door opened and the Somerled man stepped inside. Two others stood to each side of the door, watching.
“Stand up and turn around. We’re going to bind your hands, but I’m fairly certain you’ll come along without any trouble.”
“Oh?”
The guy could read minds and had probably been standing by the door listening in before he showed his face. He had to know that Jamison was going to escape the first chance he got.
“Yes. You see, Skye has demanded to see you.”
Skye? Here? Nooo!
Jamison’s knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. He hardly noticed when the two guards pulled his hands behind his back, or when they lifted him to his feet. He was too busy trying to keep his mind clear.
Cot. Floor. Toilet. Cot, floor, toilet.
It was the only defense he had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Skye tried to stay cool when the door opened. She and Gabriella had been sitting in silence for at least twenty minutes. It was hard to keep from asking questions while they waited, but she had to hold tough. They'd been her stipulations—she wouldn't listen to anything else until she knew Jamison was all right—so she had to stick to her guns in spite of her curiosity.
Pilot steered the young man into the room with a hand on one shoulder. A white rag filled the guy's mouth and hung out between his teeth, and his hands were tied behind him. Standing in the lobby beyond, Ruth pulled the door closed.
Skye looked at Gabriella. “May I look him over?”
A long nod. “Please do.”
Skye stood and tried to ignore the looks that passed between the woman and her dark-haired henchman. Her own breathing was erratic—she was happy to be close to Jamison again, but she wanted to play it cool.
He didn’t look too happy to see her there, so she hoped he never found out she’d come along willingly. Maybe he believed that if she hadn't run from him and had let him talk, neither one of them would be standing there, hundreds of feet underground, at the whim of some costumed lunatics.
He stood stiffly beneath the other man's grip and she wondered if it hurt. But she couldn't let these two see how much she worried about him. If they believed there was a relationship there, between her and Jamison, they'd use him against her, she was sure. Or they'd use her against him. Even worse.
Pilot smirked, gave Jamison's shoulder one last squeeze before he released him, then walked around to stand behind Gabriella’s couch. Jamison gave his shoulder a slight roll, stretched his neck, then stilled. His eyes never left Skye except for a brief glance now and then at their hosts. At least he’d stopped frowning.
She hated to ask her question because as soon as she did, they would probably take him away. She wanted to keep him out of the catacombs, or wherever, as long as possible. But there was not a lot she could say in a one-way conversation with a stranger.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded twice.
“Good. I...” She looked at the other two, but their heads were together. They weren't paying strict attention. “I wanted to thank you…for trying to help me. And I'm sorry... Well, I'm just sorry. That's all.”
The guy was trying to talk with his eyes, but she didn't understand what he was trying to say by wiggling his eyebrows and rolling his eyes back and forth.
She lifted her shoulders and shook her head. “Sorry, dude. I have no idea...”
He raised a single eyebrow, then, as if to say he didn't believe her, and she was hit by the strongest wave of déjà vu. And in her world, déjà vu was a daily occurrence, so that was saying something.
“Did I wait on your table or something? I'm sorry, I just don't remember you, but...”
His eyes widened for only a heartbeat, but she knew he was trying to tell her she was on to something.
She stepped close so she could have a good look at his face.
There was something more than just an eyebrow that was familiar to her now. And she wondered how she'd ever thought to run from him. But even more disturbing—how could she have forgotten him? Was her memory really damaged?
“I'm sorry I ran.” She gave his arm a squeeze. There was nothing else she could do to comfort him, at least physically.
He gave her a wink.
“I’ll see what I can do to get you out of here,” she whispered.
He shook his head frantically.
She checked their hosts again. They were whispering fiercely, probably just as determined not to be overheard.
“I don't understand,” she whispered. “What are you trying to tell me?” She would remove his gag, but she couldn’t be sure how the pair would react.
He nudged his chin up. She stepped back. He looked at her hip and narrowed his eyes.
She dropped her hand to where he was looking. “My pocket?” She barely mouthed the words.
He nodded the tiniest bit.
“What about my pocket?”
He rolled his eyes down, then pointed his chin at his own hip.
“Your pocket? You have something in your pocket?”
He relaxed and nodded again. Together, they rotated slightly, blocking the view of the pocket in question with Skye's body.
“I can't believe I'm doing this,” she whispered and stuck a couple of fingers in the guy's jeans and immediately felt a small, folded piece of paper.
She pulled her hand back and stuck the paper in her own pocket. “I'm sorry, dude. You're hot and all, but I got nothing.” She gave him a wink and stepped back.
Pilot straightened away from Gabriella and returned to lead Jamison out. The blond struggled then, trying to say something to her around the cloth in his mouth, but she couldn't understand him. Maybe he said, “Go without me.”
Still sitting, Gabriella watched Jamison struggle as Pilot forced him out the door and she sighed. “You may not remember him, my dear. But he certainly remembers you.”
Skye strained to catch another look at him. Jamison turned just then and their eyes caught just before the door closed.
More determined than ever to have a chance to really talk to him—hopefully far away from Gabriella's underground kingdom—she returned to her purse and her chair and sat.
“Okay. Let's have it. Tell me what it is you have to tell me, and then I'm taking that boy and leaving. One way or another.”
Gabriella laughed without parting her lips. “Absolutely. If that's what you want. I promise to allow you both to leave, free and clear, the fastest way possible. And if you want something different, you can have that too...”
She uncrossed her legs and leaned close to pull one of Skye's hands into both of hers. Her nails were long and sharp and painted like little peacock feathers. They matched her blouse, her eye shadow, those shoes. And Skye suspected the only reason the woman deigned to wear jeans was so Skye might be more comfortable around her.
It wasn't working.
“You, my dear, may have anything you want,” she told Skye. “This entire place was created with you in mind.”
Skye couldn’t pretend to buy all this “special treatment” crap. Even if Gabriella had the right person, which she didn’t, no one else could be expected to buy into it either.
“That's ridiculous,” she said. “Who am I to you?”
That sly smile slid away and tears gather
ed in the woman's eyes.
“You're a younger version of me, actually. What has happened to you once happened to me a very long time ago. Only I was denied the chance for revenge. You are not. And if revenge is what you want, after you learn the truth, then I’m going to see that you get it.”
Skye jumped out of her seat, scooped up her purse, and backed away. On the trip from the McDonald’s in Henderson to the Looney Tunes Farm, she'd imagined all kinds of possibilities, including altars and blood sacrifices. But Gabriella Somerled, or whoever the woman might be in real life, was even crazier than that if she thought Skye was going to have a hand in hurting anybody.
Gabriella laughed. “You should see your face. You’d think I suggested you kill someone.” She shook her head. “I suppose I should have phrased that differently.”
Skye's eyebrows couldn't go any higher, she was sure of it.
“Allow me to start again. The reason why you are here, Skye, is that in our past lives, as Somerleds, we had similar tragedies. We were both in love. We were both betrayed. And when I heard about you, I felt it was my duty to help you, to make sure your wounded soul would be able to heal where mine never will. We are kindred spirits, literally. That's all.”
“Past lives. You really believe this.” Skye backed up against the desk and sat on the edge, not willing to take her seat again.
Gabriella stood, gracefully unfolding herself. “I can see you need some time to absorb what I've told you before I dare tell you the rest of it.”
“No.” Skye pushed away from the desk. “Tell me now, so I can take the Jamison kid and go. There really is no reason to drag this out.”
The woman looked hurt. Her full lips puckered and the bottom one quivered. Fussica Garza was a fine actress and had even suckered Skye in a few times in the beginning, but she’d learned the signs quickly. If this woman was acting, Skye couldn't tell.
“I'm sorry. We've gone to a lot of trouble to welcome you here.” The woman’s voice was small. She sounded honestly disappointed. “It's not Shangri La, but you should find it amusing. And after a while, after we've shown you all we have to offer, then I'll let you make your decision.” She raised a hand to cut off Skye's protest. “And as for Mr. Shaw, I promise he's been given comfortable accommodations. He's in a private room with a soft bed. He'll be fed well and he's been given a chance to socialize a bit. He's not chained to a wall or being stretched on a rack. All right?”
