Box Set

by Kim Petersen

  He watched her devour the sweet in a millisecond. ‘You’re welcome. One chocolate addict to another; you would do the same.’

  Bella walked towards the door. ‘Assumptions like that can lead to misunderstandings.’ She threw him a wink before flitting through the door and leading him outside and to the house.

  ‘So, you wouldn’t share a chocolate bar with me? I had you all wrong,’ he said.

  She could hear the humour in his voice behind her.

  She paused at the doorway and faced him. ‘How could you have me in any which way, Mr Adams? You have only just met me,’ she murmured before disappearing into the back door.

  Merging through the crowd, Ace instilled himself near Warren and the group of men who had come searching for him. He peered towards the open doors of the ambulance where he noticed a body on the stretcher completely obscured with a white sheet. Poor Terry. He didn’t make it, he thought, concealing the smirk that threatened to give him away. The sound of more sirens pierced through the hustle of noise as a police vehicle pulled into the dusty lot.

  Ace watched while the police officers ventured into the crowd and began their investigation into the fatal snake attack. The hairs on his ears pricked as he honed into their conversation with Warren while he lurked behind them.

  Warren’s faded eyes crimped with worry. ‘I pulled my daughter away just in time. It could’ve been her laying in that ambulance,’ he anguished.

  The policeman paused between jotted pen marks to look at Warren. ‘Your daughter saw this snake up close?’

  Warren nodded. ‘Yeah, mate. She was under the bleachers with it; she was very lucky,’ he said.

  The policeman asked to speak with the girl. Ace casually meandered behind them as Warren and a few other men led the man to a bench along the side of the arena where his daughter sat curled in her mother’s lap. The officer crouched onto his knees and introduced himself to the girl. His voice was gentle as he attempted to coax her into telling him her story.

  She sat up in the folds of her mother’s embrace while she listened to the policeman. Red-rimmed eyes watched him with fright when she was asked to recall the snake’s description. Her long dark hair almost concealed her tiny face as she shook her head. ‘He might come back for me if I tell. He wanted to hurt me. He told me that,’ her voice trembled.

  The policeman reached for the girl’s hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. ‘He won’t hurt you, Skye. Your daddy won’t let him. Your mummy won’t let him, and I won’t let him,’ he assured her.

  ‘Skye, what do you mean, he told you?’ Warren came to sit next to his daughter.

  Her eyes filled with tears and toppled down her cheeks as she gazed around at the surrounding crowd. ‘He was mean. I offered him my last musk stick and he threw it in the dirt. He told me he was going to hurt me. He talked, daddy,’ she cried.

  ‘Skye, what did the snake look like?’ the policeman asked.

  She looked at them one by one before her gaze fell on Ace in the background of the small mob around her. She froze suddenly, and raised a quivering hand through the air to point at him.

  ‘Him,’ her small voice caught in her throat. ‘The snake looked like him, daddy.’

  All heads turned to peer at Ace.

  A grin irked across his face. ‘Hello! Hi there,’ he waved.

  Warren leaned over to plant a kiss on his daughter’s forehead and whispered in his wife’s ear. He looked at the officer still on bent knees before them. ‘She’s in shock; can we finish this tomorrow?’ he said.

  The policeman rose to his feet. ‘Sure,’ he said, then ambled back to his partner who was raising his own questions among the onlookers.

  With the crowd dispersing, Warren approached Ace. ‘I’m sorry about that, she’s only five years old,’ he said glumly.

  Ace forced a smile. ‘It’s okay. I’m used to it, everyone says that,’ he joked.

  Warren extended a palm and introduced himself with a heavy sigh. ‘I haven’t seen you around here, passing by?’

  ‘Just biding time, picking up work here and there,’ he shrugged.

  When he realised Ace was working at a nearby farm, Warren invited him to his own farm for dinner the following evening to discuss upcoming harvesting and machinery work he needed help with. ‘It’s the least I can do after my daughter’s wild accusations,’ he muttered.

  Ace accepted the invitation without hesitation, his interest spiked with the pointed finger of Warren’s daughter. How could she know?

  ‘Say, are you and the fellas going to hunt that snake down?’ he said as Warren turned to leave for his family.

  The wiry wisps of his goatee bounced on his chin as he nodded. ‘Sure am. You interested in gaming, son?’

  His eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, there is nothing I love more than a good hunt,’ he said with relish.

  Warren nodded with a grunt before heading to collect his wife and daughter to take them home.

  Ace watched the thin man walk away. He was looking forward to this little episode mingling with the enemies that sought to kill him. It was all he could do to keep from chortling out loud.

  ‘I knew it was you, snake-man.’

  A voice from behind shattered the merriment that coursed through his bones. He turned to find the silhouette of the wild-haired witch he had met earlier.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you following me, witch?’

  She stepped closer. Pudgy ringed fingers dug into her cleavage as she fished out the stone emblem she sought. She held it up for him to see under the tarnished light of the night. He gazed at it with disinterest until he recognised the carved figure coiled within the green stone.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  Skin white as new fallen snow creased into a wide grin. ‘I told you, I’m Madison,’ she said, cocking her to the side as she let the emblem fall between her breasts. ‘We are the same – you and me. I am a snake-queen, and you were sent here for me. Why don’t you start by telling me your name?’

  He glared at her, then trailed his eyes to the carved stone that dangled over her flannelette shirt. ‘Where did you get that?’ he scowled.

  ‘From Apepsis. He is my serpent god. Yours too, no?’ she said, her charcoal lined eyes curved into a slither with her smile.

  Ace shrugged and watched her cautiously. ‘My name is Ace,’ he said.

  She threw her frizzy head back and laughed. ‘Of course it is! Ace – master of games – perfect. You are just perfect,’ She studied him appreciatively. ‘Come on, I have lots to show and tell, and I have food and wine. You must be ravenous after the taste of blood on your fangs.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ace admitted.

  ‘Follow me, Ace of games,’ she teased, reaching for his hand to pull him into the dreary shadows of the bush.

  Her fingers felt like the icy shards of a glacier and he briskly snatched his hand from hers. He continued to follow her deeper into the overgrowth. He was unsure if she could be trusted, but as he fell into step behind her, the hissing whispers of the black serpent beckoned him on. He had no choice but to follow her – his master called.

  July 24, 1998

  Dear Journal,

  How quickly things manifest when we totally surrender ourselves to the assumption of our desires. I am fast learning that action is far better taken after I have allowed my consciousness to expand enough to identify with my aspirations. For example, since I was a girl I imagined a life of a successful artist – one that could generate enough income from her art alone. One that would be celebrated over the world for her creations. When I finally let go and yielded to my dream by identifying and resonating with it, I was able to believe my desire would find expression through me. That belief, that faith, is everything and all that we need to create our dreams.

  Sounds simple, huh? If it’s that easy, then why are the vast of us miserable in the lives we live? I cannot answer that; however, I suspect that it may have something to do with the limitations we impose upon ourselves. It seems that we
have forgotten our divine roots, and our lives become determined by what we observe rather than resonating with our true essence.

  But what if we are not sure what we want? What if we deny ourselves the very thing we want? What if we are torn between the past and the present and both are happening simultaneously?

  It’s funny how some memories are as clear as a static photograph in your mind … so what is time anyhow but an earthly-bound concoction.

  Some days I’m down by the willow tree enfolded in the arms of love. Most days this subject becomes harder and I am torn between the past and the now. Then what I really want becomes so jumbled it eludes me.

  Millie xo

  Millie watched the American journalist jot down notes in the notepad she balanced on her lap. They were midway through the interview for New World Art magazine. Slicked back mousy hair did not budge an inch with the fall of her head as the journalist peered intently into her papers. Nor did the locks shift when she lifted her head to gaze back at Millie.

  A smile briefly appeared on thin lips. ‘Are you aware two of your pieces were recently purchased for President Bill Clinton and American diplomat Richard Holbrooke?’ she said.

  Millie’s eyes widened as she glanced towards Damon sitting beside her. ‘Uh, no. I was not aware … are you certain?’ she gasped.

  Damon shrugged as a wide grin spread across his face. ‘Miss Grey, how did you come to hear this information? We know nothing of this.’

  Millie recognised the excitement in the pitch of his voice.

  ‘To answer both of your questions, I have reliable sources in Washington DC, and even more reliable sources throughout the American art world. I am quite certain of this new development,’ she said.

  A smile began to float over Millie’s lips as the information absorbed into her consciousness. She recalled the words of Samantha when she explained her gift to charge each of her paintings with divine energy. ‘It is your destiny to help shift the collective consciousness of the world,’ she had explained at the time. Now, she is beginning to see how the universe is conspiring to spread her divine-infused creations to people within power.

  ‘Wow,’ she whispered.

  The journalist glared at her through horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Can you elaborate, please?’ she enunciated, as if speaking to a young child. ‘I mean, that is quite impressive for a relatively unknown Australian artist, wouldn’t you say?’

  Millie laughed. ‘Yes, I would say, indeed. I am delighted,’ she said, grinning at Damon. ‘Of course, this is the result of the relentless efforts of my marketing team.’

  ‘I see,’ Miss Grey murmured before wildly scribbling in her notepad.

  She pursued more questions about Damon’s involvement and their relationship, and Millie’s aspirations for the future. After more furious writing, she paused to study Millie.

  ‘I took the liberty of researching your background, Millie. I discovered your family’s involvement in an attempted murder incident back in December, last year,’ she said, studying Millie for her reaction.

  Millie felt the colour drain from her face and thought her heart might stop in her chest. She squirmed a little in her chair and shot Damon a nervous glance. This wasn’t supposed to be part of the interview, surely?

  Damon protectively clasped his hand over hers.

  ‘Miss Grey, we are here to talk about Millie’s paintings, not her private life,’ he said sternly.

  The journalist glared at Damon. ‘Mr Richards, the people that buy and read our magazine are just as interested in their favourite artists’ lives as they are in their art work. Quite frankly, a controversial background such as Millie’s can only enhance her attraction to her buyers, trust me,’ she said.

  With perfectly etched brows almost meeting her hairline, she turned her attention back to Millie. ‘I made a few calls – one to The Rosebud Retreat where they said incident took place,’ she said, glancing down at the notes in her lap. ‘Although no arrests or charges were made, some people believe your brother, Ace, was responsible for the attack on your mother …’ her voice trailed.

  Millie cleared her throat and looked at Damon. An image of shock froze across his features – he knew nothing of that incident back in December the year before. Her eyes flashed when she turned back to the journalist. ‘Miss Grey, you are very thorough, no doubt about that. However sometimes, being thorough does not equate to being correct. Like you said, no charges were made and my brother had absolutely nothing to do with the attack on my mother. In fact, nobody knows who assaulted her that night – not even my mother,’ she asserted.

  The journalist slowly nodded her head before returning to her notes.

  ‘So how is your mother doing now?’ she asked, without looking up from her papers.

  ‘My mother is doing great now.’

  The pen in her hand paused as she glanced at Millie. ‘And your brother?’ she said.

  Millie could barely conceal the scowl in her voice. ‘My brother is great too.’ She glanced towards the clock on the wall behind the woman. ‘Are we done here? I’ve someplace else to be.’

  A smile caught the edge of the journalist’s lips. ‘Yes, we are done. Thank you so much for your time, Millie. Would you mind if I took a look at your paintings on display?’ she said, gesturing around the gallery.

  Millie rose to her feet. ‘Be my guest. Mrs Bartlett will show you out when you are done,’ She took the hand Miss Grey offered and shook it briefly.

  Millie picked up her coat and made for the back door of the gallery. The door slammed closed behind her, causing her to jump at the sudden noise. She leaned against the cold brick wall between the gallery and her studio, filling her lungs with the crisp winter air. She had been caught off guard. She had not expected the journalist to bring up the day her brother had murdered their mother.

  ‘Shit!’ she cursed out loud. ‘Shit, shit shit!’

  ‘Shit, alright.’ The door swung on its hinges to reveal Damon. ‘Millie, what on earth was that all about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

  Damon’s face screwed up. ‘Nothing? That is your explanation?’ he said.

  She turned her back to him and walked down the narrow alley towards her studio. She reached for the door handle and pulled the door ajar, only to find Damon’s towering figure behind her wedging the door shut again.

  Her eyes blazed at him. ‘Damon! Move out of the way,’ she demanded.

  ‘Nope,’ he said.

  She pulled on the handle with all her strength. When she realised the door would not budge an inch with even her strongest effort, she stamped her feet like a little child and grumbled beneath her breath.

  Damon chuckled at her outburst. ‘Millie, why won’t you talk to me?’ he said softly.

  The furrow in her brows deepened. ‘Open the door, Damon.’

  He moved aside and allowed her to open the door. He followed her inside the studio, closing the door behind him. When he spun around to face her, she noticed the intensity of his expression.

  ‘You don’t need to know everything, Damon,’ she said, leaning against a bench that ran the length of the studio.

  ‘Not everything. Just everything about you,’ he said.

  ‘Not everything about me is your business,’ she snapped.

  ‘If I’m going to market and promote your work, I need to be prepared for journalists bringing up pivotal snippets of your past. I felt clueless back there!’ he said, flinging his arms up in front of him.

  He paused and regarded her. ‘You know what? Forget that, Millie. I’m tired of you treating me like some acquaintance you hardly know. For the last six months, you’ve managed to keep me at arm’s length – a business partner. Look around you, Millie, I’m still here! Me. Me. Remember me? Because I sure as hell remember you. I’m not going anywhere, and I have a feeling you don’t want me to go anywhere. So, I’m asking you, how do you really want me in your life?’ The last of his words brushed across her ears in a heated whisper.

/>   When she looked up, she felt all the barriers she had erected since his arrival back into her life strip away like a plaster tearing from a wound. She became aware of her heart thumping wildly as butterflies awakened and churned among the feelings she had fought hard to repress for six long months. Her breath quickened as they began to take hold and flourish through her without permission.

  ‘Damon … I just don’t know how to pick up the pieces, the past …’ She lowered her eyes, searching the paint-splattered floor for answers. ‘So many nights I closed my eyes and spoke to you in a thousand different ways. My soul, my heart bared all until there was no more to reveal. I had to move on, for Arella, for me …’

  He moved closer still. ‘The past has no place in the present, Millie. You of all people know this,’ he murmured and cupped his hand beneath her chin, bringing his lips to mesh against hers.

  For one a sweet moment, she was back under the willow tree. Instinctively, her lips parted and released the passion that lay dormant beneath the surface for so long. They had only made love that one day years ago, but her body had not forgotten an inch of his. She responded with a yearning that took her by surprise as she kissed him back with the full force of her desire.

  Hands fumbled to touch and feel the warmth of skin. Tongues once reacquainted, were unable to part, pushed and probed together in a delicious reunion of lust. So engrossed and captivated were they in the moment, they failed to hear the swing of the door as it opened.

  Craig stood tall in the doorway to the studio. His lanky figure was transfixed and rooted to the floor while his mouth gaped at the scene before him. He cleared his throat with a loud rumble.

  Millie caught his image in the corner of her eye. She jerked away from Damon abruptly, wiping at her moist lips before clutching a handful of dark hair.

  ‘Craig. I’m sorry … I didn’t mean for that to happen,’ she said. Fingers began to twirl furiously.

  Eyes flooded with agony peered at her in silence.

  Damon spun around and leaned against the bench next to her. A look of triumph crossed his face when he noticed Craig’s expression.