by Jo Sparkes
And knowing that, it was a hard thing to regret. His reputation was a womanizer, but he truly appreciated women. He delighted in them, loved them, if you accepted that his love never promised exclusivity.
Mike’s secret was he respected women - as equals. He saw them as powerful, as sexual, as human as himself. He gave an honest choice, and his sincerity made it hard to refuse.
“Later,” she promised herself as much as him.
Nita started the music she’d snuck in earlier - an odd African chant that demanded success rather than entreated it. Soothing despite the patter.
And lastly, of course, his shirt. The pocket held the fifth crystal over his solar plexus, the one she hadn’t mentioned because she feared he’d find it silly. Between the crystals, the incense, and the music, this regression should work.
It would have little choice, she smiled to herself.
Carefully she manipulated the cloth, so the pocket lump set perfectly on the chakra. Nita avoided touching the crystal itself, for fear Mike would feel it. She’d pushed far - too far, really. Best he not know about that till afterward.
In the distance the old grandfather clock chimed the hour of seven. The sun had barely set, the stars just stretching themselves. An hour of power, came the unbidden thought.
She switched off the overhead light.
Mike lay on the table, folding his hands, closing his eyes. “I’m hungry,” he announced to the air. “Let’s get this thing over with.”
Yet seconds ticked away as she hesitated. She’d planned this for days, dreamt of her triumph in his seeing her ability. Wondered just what the regression would reveal about his past. Such an interesting past, she knew.
Don’t do this, something whispered, even as her hands slipped to his shoulders, massaging. Soothing.
Kneading away any last resistance.
“Can you picture yourself on a beach, Michael?” she murmured. She always used the green meadow image - but different words seemed to rise from her depths. “The sand at your feet, the waves lapping at the shore. You’re walking, heading to a cave.”
As her fingers detected his hesitation her eyes focused on the shirt bulge, the crystal on his chest. She instinctively willed him on, crushing any denial.
“It’s in the distance and familiar to you. A cave you well know. Treasure awaits you there, Michael. Lying behind a golden key.”
The air surrounding them crackled. Her eyes saw nothing, but she felt tiny sparks whirring, swirling. Just beyond the five senses, but not quite beyond the sixth.
“The opening looms in front of you now; your feet stop before the dark within. But you’re fearless, my warrior. Bravely you go inside.”
Clenched muscles in his shoulders melted; she saw him enter the cavern.
“Your passage slopes down, spiraling deep into the earth. There lies adventure, Michael. There lies treasure. Stride on and learn.”
In Nita’s mind she saw him striding. Fear made him cautious, as he felt something behind him. Stalking him. When he shifted his stance, she realized he’d readied a spear.
“Don’t…” her assurances of safety died - for he was not safe.
Something did stalk him. She sensed the image unraveling, the cave, the sea, even the dark. His whole world was unraveling.
Spinning away with hurricane speed.
The sheer power churned her blood to ice. Sensing such things always took will and effort, yet now she couldn’t turn it off. His dark churned with her blood, becoming something not dark.
Something darker than dark.
He sensed a tunnel.
All other ways had been demanded by him, created by him. He swelled, he pushed - and the path appeared at his command.
This one slipped into awareness. Distant, which made him wary. He never left this place - yet this tunnel promised something new, something special. A host with arms and legs, capable of doing more of what his essence screamed to do.
Gathering himself, compressing, sucking in all his fury, he knew he could do this. Gleeful with unholy joy, he leapt the gap.
Nita sped round the tiny room, kicking the floor crystals over.
“Mike, no! Retreat!”
His tensing muscles smoothed, relaxing. Breathing deeply, gratefully, Nita looked at his face.
The last thing she saw was two pinpricks…of power, not light. Burning eyes of a pale blue, watery pale. So hot they burned the skin; so cold they chilled the soul.
Then Nita saw nothing at all.
The galley clock struck eight.
Melanie heard it, locked in her cabin with her ear pressed to the door. She also heard, through the creaking of the boat and the play of waves on wood surrounding her, his footsteps. Slow, careful.
Stalking.
There was a peephole of sorts, an odd gap in a patched hole. Through it she saw the sweat glistening on his brow, damp patches on the sky blue shirt. His forearm muscles rippled, tightening. Her stomach answered, clenching enticingly.
The eyes, devoid of his usual thoughts, reflected others in their stead. When his fingers twisted the door handle, she felt it rotate against her hip.
The lock held.
He tried again. And then pounded the wood, shaking the surrounding frame. Melanie stepped back, eyes sparkling. Her tongue moistened her lips. She was afraid - and the fear was delicious.
He struck again. Timber groaned, protesting. Surely one more strike would rip it apart.
That strike never came.
Through the gap she saw him turn and lope off, like an animal on a new scent.
He’d be back, she knew.
Spying the man at a distant table, Wall made his way through the casino crowd.
Jon grinned and waved at the vacant seat beside him. Wall fished two twenties from his wallet, received a short stack of red chips. And flicked one into the tiny circle.
Crisp new cards snapped as they were dealt atop the green felt. Jon drew a seven and eight; Wall fared better with a jack and eight. The dealer’s card was a seven.
“You’re looking good.” Jon beckoned for another card.
“Looks can be deceiving.”
The six of hearts landed atop his hand - yielding a total of twenty-one. Behind them a woman in a low cut black dress paused to watch. Very low cut, Wall noticed when she leaned in further. He realized the dealer was waiting on his call, and waved the man on.
The dealer turned over his hole card - another seven. And dealt himself a five for a total of nineteen. Smiling apologetically, the man whisked Wall’s chip away.
“Oh, tough,” Jon pulled his own winnings close as Wall placed another bet. The woman in the black dress left.
Somehow the fancy casino just added to the surreal air of the day. Wall found himself rubbing his split cheek, and forced his hand back down to the green felt.
“What happened to you?”
“Shaving accident.”
Jon frowned, probably at seeing his cards. “You need to be more careful.”
Wall nodded. His razor had scored a slice in his cheek - when Melanie had bumped his arm. She’d apologized in a sweet tone that left him more suspicious than appeased.
“Melanie find the roof top dancing?” Jon grinned as the dealer dealt him two face cards.
Wall got a face card and a six. “Headache. She took something and went to bed.”
Jon collected more winnings; Wall lost another hand.
“Can’t blame her,” Jon told him, as if knowing Wall did precisely that. “That must have been scary - to surface, find no Jill. And then make herself go back down alone. It took nerve.”
“She has a lot of nerve,” he answered, and hoped those words hadn’t revealed too much. Common sense said he wait till they were home before officially ending the relationship - though his resolution had suffered with the arm bump.
Loosing again, Wall pocketed the remaining chip. It obviously wasn’t his night.
“Blackjack!” the dealer announced as an ace fell atop Jon’
s ten of spades.
Wall fingered his pocketed chip, but decided to leave it there. “Where’s Jill?”
“She’s here somewhere.” Beckoning a waitress, the small man pointed to his empty Guinness bottle. The girl swept it away with a friendly wink and vanished in the crowd. “She could be with Mike, but I doubt it. Mike likes to do a little prowling when we’re here.”
Somewhere a lounge band launched into the song ‘Bad Moon Rising.’ Raising the hair on his arm, for no reason Wall could identify. “Prowling?”
“Female tourists.” Jon split a pair of eights - and turned them into two hands of eighteen. “Or Nita - she’s becoming a real favorite. He needs some release tonight. Tomorrow’s… a little stressful.”
“So you’re going through with it?”
Jon pulled in another pile of chips. “Mike’s done this before. He may seem a little cavalier, but he knows what he’s doing.”
Cavalier. Why did Americans use that word, when ‘cowboy’ was so much more accurate?
As the singer wailed, “There’s a bad moon on the rise,” Wall scooted his stool away from the table. “I’m gonna look for Jill.”
“Try the roulette table. She usually watches for twenty minutes, to get the slant of the particular wheel, she says. And then places a single chip on red.” Jon tipped the waitress as his Guinness plunked down before him. “Tell her we sail back tonight. Everyone on board by eleven.”
Wall checked his watch: eight thirty. “I’ll tell her.”
Nita woke slowly, swimming up through a void. Something resisted her waking.
At least part of that resistance was herself. She knew she’d done something terrible.
One candle sputtered; another had gone out. Candles that should have lasted for hours. Rising to her feet, she saw the rectangle of kitchen light across the room. The hidden door now gaped open, flung wide as if something had escaped.
Something had escaped.
No protection - she marveled at her foolishness. She’d been so intent to prove her skills to Mike that she’d ignored most of them. Acting with no regard for his own needs nor his own wishes. And no thought to safety.
Something had come in.
Nita stumbled rounding the massage table, used it to steady herself. Reaching the bright light of the kitchen was a relief. For all our sophistication, she thought, we still yearn for the bonfire to chase away the terrors in the dark.
The garden door stood open. When she stepped into the night, she saw the door handle had dented the siding, such force had blown it open. She had to find him, she thought, even as her knees collapsed, even as she sank to the planks of the porch.
All this time she’d worried about giving her heart to him. Fearing his betrayal of her trust. And in the end, she had betrayed him.
Shutting her eyes, she checked in with her solar plexus, sagging with relief to feel he lived, that he would survive, that he would wake in the morning and be in his right mind again.
But that future of them married, of them dwelling together in this house, no longer existed.
It, too, had vanished in the night.
Wall threaded his way through the casino crowd, dodging excited craps players, lost patrons, and a woman in ridiculously high heels as she staggered from the bar. He saw no sign of Jill.
The body heat from the mass added to the warm night, so he climbed the two steps to the ornate French doors and slipped outside.
A stone-tiled terrace stretched beneath the stars, bathed in moonlight and offering a pleasant breeze. The Caribbean moon hung large and full over the sparkling ocean, and the exotic scent of Frangipani teased his senses. Very romantic, all in all. Only thing lacking was a lady by his side.
Moving to the balustrade, he allowed himself to play with the thought, until he realized he was imagining dark hair instead of blonde. He sighed and leaned on the rail.
Watching the waves break on the nearby beach, the whitecaps visible beneath the bright moon, he relaxed. The rhythmic swishing lulled. Concern over underwater demolition diminished, if not entirely banished. After all, he’d be on the surface for the actual bang.
And it was easy to relax under a tropical evening sky.
He had the terrace to himself, save for a couple entwined a short distance away. They were heavily occupied; he caught a glimpse of long dark hair, and a man’s face buried in the nape of her neck. Decency made him turn away.
An odd gasp made him turn back.
The woman writhed - face jerking toward the light from the casino doors, fingernails straining against the man’s shoulders.
Trying to pry herself free.
“Jill!” Wall sprinted to her, seeing her tears glistening, mascara running down her cheek. He’d never seen her wear mascara before.
At the same instant he recognized the man. “Jesus, Mike! You’re hurting her!”
He yanked on one powerful arm, to no avail. The big man didn’t seem to notice him at all.
Could he be high on something?
Mike’s head buried deeper in her flesh; Jill cried out, beating on his back ineffectually.
Something inside Wall snapped.
Grabbing a fist of hair, he yanked it painfully, peeling Mike’s face off her neck.
A wild blue pupil rolled, focused on Wall. There was no shame, no surprise, certainly no recognition. Only pure rage.
The huge man snarled, a low guttural sound that stilled the heart, froze the blood. For an instant he beheld an enraged monster.
Wall slammed his fist into the man’s exposed chin.
Mike staggered back, releasing Jill. Immediately Wall stepped between them, palms out in a placating gesture - but ready to do battle.
“Mike…”
Burke whirled, vaulted the railing. And loped off down the beach.
“Oh God.” Wall turned to see Jill wobbling on her feet. He steadied her, slipping an arm about her shoulders to guide her to a nearby bench.
“Jill - what the hell happened?”
She shook her head, staring at the patio tile. Gently he turned her toward the light, lifting her chin. And saw a dark spot on her bare shoulder, beneath her ripped dress.
“Jesus - this is blood! That bastard bit you!”
She trembled violently. Shock, he realized. He needed to get her back to the Sadicor. Or to a clinic? Ought there to be shot of penicillin or something for a human bite?
“He…he jumped over the railing. I was looking for Jon…”
“Mike jumped over the railing?”
“Why do you keep saying that?” For the first time she focused on him, withdrawing a little. “That wasn’t Mike! He spoke Spanish…had that…beard…”
Her face crumbled, fresh tears flooding her cheeks. Wall firmly tucked her head against his shoulder and let her cry.
But there had been no beard. His knuckles still felt the contact of flesh on flesh, bare skin slick with sweat. And that expression - pure animal, devoid of any humanity. Jesus, he’d literally bit her shoulder, vicious enough to leave a bloody ring.
Drug-induced, possibly.
Mike Burke for sure.
Cargo
It was dark, still hours from midnight.
Melanie rose from the bed, staring at the cabin door.
Her image in the mirror caught her attention: eyes glittering above her bare breasts. Lips curled in a weird smile - the sort a cat wears when it’s just devoured the canary. I want my ruby, she thought.
For an instant, that thought startled her. What the hell was she doing?
Her mind felt numb, trapped in a fog. It was some sort of dream, maybe over, maybe not. Trying to think, she broke eye contact with her reflection.
His fist struck the door, pounding, threatening. Demanding. The wood creaked in protest, splintered. His hand smashed through the hole and turned the lock.
Her weird smile fell back in place. Here was her gem.
Her arms reached out to welcome them both.
Wall moved down a hazy corrido
r.
He was chasing something, or someone. There was a man ahead, with big shoulders, muscles on his arm. The man had brown hair, a little long.
No - he had black hair, very long and filthy. Wall knew him well - well enough to understand he was not a man to follow.
But still he followed.
The man faded. The corridor shortened, now a tiny area with two doors. One lead to the compressor room. Cracked open as it was, Wall leaned in to watch the odd lights flickering inside, punctuated with a sort of animal grunting. He ought to continue, but his hand spread out against the door.
It slowly swung wide, to reveal a dark cavern with flickering lights dancing on the metal machine. Beyond a web of dangling air hoses he saw Melanie, bare-chested and facing him, moving rhythmically. The animal grunts came from behind her.
Mike’s fingers dug into her shoulders; the blonde lifted welcoming arms towards Wall. He pulled back in refusal.
Jon stepped out of shadow, embracing Melanie. His mouth devoured hers as she clawed the shirt from his back. Behind her a bearded man now stood in Mike’s stead. He threw his head back to howl demoniacally.
Wall turned to the curtained door, the one to the tiny bow cabin. The one that couldn’t be bolted.
Jill lay sleeping fitfully, whimpering as she tossed and turned. The sheet wound tight about her, tangling her limbs.
He meant only to help, to free her. In his mind he intended his hand pull the sheet loose; his fingers obediently grasped and tugged. Exposing a breast.
In his mind he saw his mouth brush her skin. He leaned down and tasted her, the faint trace of salt on smooth flesh instantly arousing him. Needing more, he pinned her down.
In his mind he saw his teeth bite through skin. Drawing blood and fear, declaring his power over her. Beneath him, she cried out.