Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4)

by Tayte, Megan

  Breakfast was a warm, sweet affair: two croissants smothered with apricot jam, alongside a cup of hot chocolate to take the chill off the spring morning. I ought, I suppose, to have opted for healthy, rabbit-food cereal, but after four months stuck on an island without so much as a sniff of sugar, I was making up for lost time. Plus, today I needed the energy from a big breakfast.

  Not that I had much planned for the day itself. I never did. Daytimes were quiet. I pottered about the cottage, scouted out treasures online for Luke’s Project, emailed my mum. Walked Chester on the quiet cliff path and surfed deserted waves beneath the noonday sun. Navigated the twisting lanes of the South Hams in my Mini, stopping to explore a footpath or take in a sea view. And sometimes, I took a trip into the sleepy village of Twycombe, to pick up some groceries or lay flowers on graves at St Mary’s church.

  They were calm days, days of freedom I treasured after months of captivity. But there was an aching emptiness in them. I lived for the moment that five sonorous peals rang out from the clock tower, signalling the opening of that window of time when I could be with others.

  Then, Cara and I would rummage through her latest vintage clothes delivery and play dress-up, giggling like toddlers in rhinestone tiaras and too-big heels. Then, I would sit in Si’s back garden and drink soda and eat pizza and listen to surfers bantering over the steady pulse of the stereo’s base. Then, I would be with Luke – walking on the beach hands entwined, devouring his latest creation in the kitchen, sitting on his roof terrace to watch the sunset, curled up beside him in his bed, lost in him. In those golden hours before darkness set in and Luke’s lips were brushing mine and whispering ‘Good night’, all was right with the world.

  But there was something missing from the safe daily routine I had fallen into. I was a Cerulean. And though I wouldn’t stand with my fellow Ceruleans – neither those on Cerulea nor those who were Outcast – still being Cerulean meant something to me. I had a gift. I meant to use it. And tonight, all going well, I would work out how.

  My eyes were straying to the croissant packet – perhaps just one more, to fuel me up for the day’s preparations? – when I felt the tugging sensation I’d come to associate with the presence of a person, a human, nearby. I didn’t mind the interruption. The small pleasure of a croissant paled in comparison with what I knew awaited me on the doorstep.

  ‘Morn–’ was all Luke managed to get out before I smothered his greeting in a kiss, and by the time I released my grip on the dark curls on the back of his head and we broke apart, he was reduced to a simple, ‘Mmmm…’

  We looked at each other intensely for a heartbeat, two, and then Luke gave himself a little shake and said, ‘Right, I’ll release the beast.’

  He turned and strode across the drive to his van, which was rocking on its wheels thanks to the energetic jumping of the deranged old English sheepdog within. I leaned against the doorframe and watched Luke’s every move, admiring his tall, broad physique, visible through a paint-splashed t-shirt and ripped jeans. I was picturing removing said t-shirt later that evening when the back door of the van was flung open and eighty pounds of fur and frenzy pounded across the drive and leapt into my arms – which weren’t remotely strong enough to take the weight, so I promptly dumped the wriggling, writhing dog at my feet.

  ‘Chester, sit,’ I told him sternly.

  He gave an elated ‘woof’ in reply and then took off into the house at lightning speed, sending the hat stand by the front door crashing to the floor in his wake.

  ‘Well, that Dog Training For Dummies book was money well spent,’ I said.

  ‘Stick to bribery with chocolate drops,’ called Luke.

  He’d closed the back door of the van and was standing at the driver’s door, ready to get in. As always when he dropped Chester off – which he did most mornings on his way to work – he hesitated before driving away. It felt so fleeting, this morning liaison. But then that was the idea: many human-free hours a day for me, so that we could be together properly later.

  ‘What’s the plan today?’ I asked.

  ‘Knocking down walls,’ he returned cheerily. Even from here I could see the sparkle in his eyes at the thought of wielding a massive hammer at old plasterboard.

  ‘Have fun!’ I told him.

  ‘You too. See you later.’ He climbed up into the driver’s seat, but paused before closing the door and called, ‘You sure you don’t want me to bring anything later? Or come early and help you… set up?’

  ‘Nope. I have it all in hand.’

  He did an impeccable job of keeping the doubt from his eyes; just smiled, shut the door and blew me one last kiss before starting the engine. The van roared off down the lane and turned the bend and slipped out of sight. I waited until I could hear nothing but rustling grasses and birdsong and the distant call of the sea, and then I made myself turn away.

  3: CHASM

  Inside the cottage, I tracked down Chester. He was in the kitchen, gnawing a squeaky bone with relish. His big, innocent eyes said, ‘Love me.’ The croissant crumbs all over his furry face said, ‘Scold me.’

  ‘Chester,’ I told him, ‘you are a bad, bad, bad… lovely dog.’

  He opened his jaws in a slobbery grin.

  ‘Now stay,’ I commanded, ‘while I get your lead on.’

  Fifteen minutes and a smashed vase later, I had Chester on the lead and was walking him along the winding coastal path to the west. I’d planned an hour’s walk, a break in a field for me to rest and Chester to hurtle about off his lead, then an about-turn and an hour’s walk back: a peaceful excursion for me (few hikers followed this trail) but, more importantly, an energy-sapping activity for Chester.

  It worked: back at the cottage an unusually docile Chester chomped his way through a bowl of dry dog food and then promptly fell asleep sprawled belly-up in the middle of the living room floor, leaving me free to get on with the many jobs I had to do.

  Only in between sweeping and mopping and scrubbing and dusting and shifting furniture and hunting out a tablecloth and folding napkins and attempting to fashion an artistic table centrepiece out of flowers from the garden and ribbons from my grandmother’s sewing box, I kept getting interrupted.

  First Cara, via text:

  Cara: Hey, hon. What’s the dress code for tonight?

  Me: There isn’t one. Wear whatever you like.

  Cara: Way too many options then! Can it be a swinging sixties night?

  Me: Nope.

  Cara: Why not? My legs look GREAT in a miniskirt.

  Me: So wear one then. But I’m not telling the others they have to dress up.

  Cara: Who doesn’t love fancy dress?

  Me: The boys.

  Cara: Si does!

  Me: Then he can dress up. But I had enough trouble convincing the others to come without telling them they have to wear some Austin Powers-style getup.

  Cara: OK. Later.

  Next my mother, on the phone:

  Mum: Scarlett! How’s it going?

  Me: Fine, Mum. Just looking for a gravy boat – do we have a gravy boat?

  Mum: We must have. Your grandfather loved gravy. Ate bowlfuls as soup! Did you check the sideboard in the living room?

  Me: Hang on… Yep, got it. Thanks, Mum.

  Mum: You’re welcome. Did the delivery man come yet?

  Me: No.

  Mum: Well, I bunged him an extra twenty, so he’d better make it in time.

  Me: It’ll be fine.

  Mum: ’Course it will. I’m so excited for you!

  Me: Mum, it’s just dinner.

  Mum: I know, I know. I’ll rephrase: I’m just so glad you’re back from your travels, and you and Luke have got over whatever little hiccup made you split up, and –

  Me: Me too, Mum. See you on the fifteenth?

  Mum: Yes, absolutely!

  Next a bloke in a UPS uniform at the door:

  Delivery bloke: Scarlett Blake?

  Me: Yep.

  Delivery bloke: Sign here,
please.

  Then Jude via text:

  Jude: You sure about tonight?

  Me: Yes. It’s time to clear the air.

  Jude: Okay. Just keep Luke away from the salsa.

  Me: It’s cool, Jude. It’ll be fine.

  And finally, Luke via text:

  Luke: You sure about tonight?

  Me: Yes. It’s time to clear the air.

  Luke: Okay. Just keep Jude away from the guacamole.

  Me: It’s cool, Luke. It’ll be fine.

  Would it be fine, though? Come early evening, with just minutes to go until my first guest was due, I was slumped on the back doorstep in a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

  The dinner party had seemed a good idea a week ago when I’d come up with it, while watching an episode of Come Dine with Me with Luke. A neutral environment, delicious food, free-flowing drinks and a friendly atmosphere – surely these were the ingredients for breaking down barriers and forming new alliances? Cara and Si certainly thought so, when I explained my plan. But Luke and Jude took a lot of persuading.

  ‘I still don’t like that guy,’ was Luke’s complaint.

  ‘He still doesn’t like me,’ was Jude’s.

  I could have just left it at that. Since they’d known each other, Luke and Jude hadn’t seen eye to eye. Last time they’d seen each other, a simple conversation had descended into a heated dip-throwing incident. There wasn’t much animosity on Jude’s side, as far as I could tell. But Luke had a long history of mistrusting Jude, and since I’d got back and told the tale of my time away, he’d been deeply conflicted. Jude had taken me from him, withheld the truth, kept me on that island for months and very nearly faux-married me. But he’d also saved my life, healed Cara’s legs and given me my freedom so that I could come home.

  It was all such a tumultuous, emotional mess – not something a typical guy would feel inclined to sort out. Better to keep a distance, they’d both told me. Better to leave well alone.

  Better for Luke, perhaps, but not for Jude and me! Four months I’d spent alone with Jude; for four months he’d been everything to me – friend, protector, partner in crime. I couldn’t just scrub all that away now that I was home. I wouldn’t. Plus, Jude was going through a bad time, I knew, having lost the girl he loved and the trust of the leader he respected. I owed him my loyalty and support now.

  But it was more than that – more than some selfless desire to be there for Jude. I needed him. He was a Cerulean, and my guide to what I had become. I could no longer stand to be entirely cut off from that world and attempt to live the life of a simple human when I so clearly wasn’t.

  So tonight, I’d promised myself, the vast chasm between Luke and Jude, Twycombe and Cerulea, human and Cerulean would narrow. It was a Herculean task I’d set myself. Could I pull it off?

  In a corner of the garden a plum tree blurred out of focus. Frowning, I squinted at the disturbance in the air. Then I stood up, smiling broadly.

  Of course the dinner party would be a success. Because I had a secret weapon. And he had just materialised in my garden.

  ‘Michael!’ I called warmly as my Cerulean friend walked across the lawn towards me.

  ‘Hello, Scarlett,’ he said.

  He stopped in front of me and for a second we stood hesitantly. My instinct was to stretch up and give him a hug, but he was holding a large leather portfolio in front of him like a shield, so I settled for a smile.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked him. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘I’m well. It’s been five weeks, actually. We last saw each other at Si’s house, when I came to tell you about Evangeline’s reaction to your departure and to let you know where you might find the Fallen.’

  ‘Right,’ I said brightly.

  As if I’d forgotten our last meeting, which had led to finding my long-lost sister and discovering that she was a fully paid-up member of the Fallen. But what I had forgotten, I realised now, was how awkward Michael could be. Having been brought up the lone human in Cerulea and kept separate until his Becoming, Michael had spent far too much of his life alone. The result was a sober and pensive guy with a lack of social finesse.

  Still, beyond the slight oddness, there was something about Michael that made me like him. His honesty with me, perhaps, and his willingness to help me when others didn’t. Or was it simply that with his hunched shoulders and darting eyes he reminded me of a frightened, untamed animal, and a primal instinct drove me to befriend him?

  Speaking of untamed animals...

  ‘Chester!’ I yelled at the miscreant mutt, who had appeared out of nowhere and was intent on burying his nose in my guest’s crotch. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said to a rigid Michael as I grabbed Chester’s collar and hauled him off. ‘He’s only being friendly.’

  Michael said nothing, but he was eying the dog warily so I suggested, ‘Shall we go inside? Chester can stay in the garden.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  In the kitchen – door firmly closed – Michael said, ‘I brought you something,’ and he held out a large brown-paper-wrapped rectangle that he’d been concealing with the portfolio.

  The shape gave away the contents. Michael was an amazing artist; I’d seen his works at Kikorangi, the Cerulean school at which he lived and worked. This was surely a canvas.

  I said at once, ‘Wow, thank you!’

  He nodded. ‘I hope you like it. It’s one of my paintings.’

  I knew what he meant. In his studio at Kikorangi, two very different styles had been evident in the paintings displayed on the walls – a restrained, careful, true-to-life rendering of pretty landscapes and seascapes and vases of flowers, and an altogether bolder, more passionate, more liberated abstract style. The former was an appeasement of Evangeline’s expectations for art; the latter was Michael’s true style.

  ‘I’ll open it later,’ I promised. ‘When I have time to properly take it in.’

  I sat him at the table and fetched him a glass of juice – he refused a beer – and then slipped out to the living room to place the canvas and Michael’s portfolio safely on the desk. Back in the kitchen, I opened the oven to check on its contents.

  ‘Something smells good,’ commented Michael.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ I said, turning and beaming at him.

  Michael looked confused, and I realised I’d perhaps sounded a little too surprised by the results of my own cooking. The clock caught my eye. The other guests would be arriving soon. I’d better make the best of these last minutes alone with Michael.

  ‘So,’ I said casually, coming to sit opposite him at the table and sipping my own juice, ‘how’s everything at Kikorangi, and on Cerulea?’

  ‘Same old,’ replied Michael. ‘Disturbingly so –’

  A mournful howl at the back door cut him off.

  ‘CHESTER, NO!’ I yelled. ‘Carry on,’ I told Michael.

  ‘Er, well, there’s nothing to tell, actually. Everything’s as it’s ever been. Business as usual. No one mentions you, or your sister, or Jude’s AWOL week openly. It’s like the past few months never happened.’

  ‘I guess wiping a rebellion out of Cerulean history is easier than dealing with it,’ I said carefully. It was a test – to date, Michael had gone further than any Cerulean I knew in criticising their society. Had I guessed correctly that he was something of a dissenter in their midst? Or was he here tonight as a spy, on Evangeline’s orders?

  His answer said it all: ‘Just because no one mentions it openly, doesn’t mean it’s forgotten. And certainly not by me.’

  I nodded. I understood what he was saying: I could trust him.

  ‘Before the others come,’ I said, ‘I wanted to ask, because it’s been bothering me so much... When I found Sienna, she told me that there’s a family connection. That Evangeline is my great-grandmother, and that my grandfather, Peter, was her son – and a Cerulean. Is that true, Michael? I know you’ve looked through Evangeline’s papers before. Have you come across anything that confirms
this?’

  He stared at me. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, were a funny shade of brown, I noticed. Eventually, he said, ‘No, I didn’t know that. But I can try to find out about it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I really –’

  A loud Tarzan call interrupted me.

  ‘Message,’ Michael announced, and he dug his mobile out of his back pocket and scanned the screen.

  I was just trying to amalgamate sombre bloke with jolly jungle ringtone when my own phone began chirping. I took it out of the wide pocket in my apron (yes, apron – I was going the whole hog tonight) and read it:

  Scarlett, sorry. Can’t make it. Something’s come up. Sorry! J x

  When I looked up Michael was watching me. ‘Jude?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘Me too.’ He sighed. ‘Oh well, can’t be helped.’

  I searched for something to say that didn’t begin ‘Bloody coward’. I was hopping mad. After all it had taken me to set this meal up, one half of the dip-hurling duo had casually backed out at the eleventh hour, leaving any chance of a truce well and truly scuppered. There was no excuse for it. Next time I saw Jude I’d…

  ‘People,’ said Michael. ‘Getting closer. Can you feel it?’

  I could. That tiny tug that said someone was close. No, not someone, someones. A second later the roar of an engine was audible, quickly drowned out by Chester’s delighted barking.

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’ asked Michael.

  ‘No! Of course not!’ I said. ‘I’m happy to have you here, Michael. And I know the others will like getting to know you. And then there’s Luke’s thing…’

  ‘Okay. Thank you,’ he said quietly.

  Another wave of rage swept over me. Jude wasn’t just letting me down; he was letting Michael down too. One of the reasons I’d invited Michael here today was for Jude’s sake, so he’d have a friend here and feel less singled out. But now he’d abandoned Michael with us, knowing full well how difficult the introverted lad would find this evening alone.