Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles)

by Shaw, Syndra K.

  Silvestro had cried.

  Caugina, standing next to him, had patted his arm, not sure what to do.

  The priest, having arrived, did what he could to comfort who he could before being shown his room for the night.

  After a moment, I had followed my poor Mikalo, finding him sitting on the floor leaning against the bed.

  I had straddled him, gathered his head in my arms and held him to my breasts, my face buried in his hair as he had cried, my kisses doing nothing to quiet his grief.

  And that's where we had sat for hours, the light outside growing dim as darkness came, his sobs becoming sniffles and then sighs.

  I allowed him his silence, holding him and loving him, my own disappointment pushed aside for what was now more important.

  Finally, I spoke, my voice sounding strange in the darkness of the room after so many hours of quiet.

  "You have to eat," I said.

  He shook his head.

  "Mikalo, she'd want you to eat."

  I felt him smile.

  "But there is no appetite, my Grace," he said, his voice sounding strange. Raw and deep, still holding the memory of his shock, his sadness, his sobs.

  "Let me go downstairs and get you a sandwich or something, okay?"

  Another shake of his head.

  Mikalo, being as stubborn as ever.

  "Stay with me," he suddenly said.

  "Of course."

  My lips met the top of his head again, my nose buried in the scent of him.

  His hands ran up my back to grip my shoulders, his fingers finding my neck as he took his face from my breasts, his lips searching for mine.

  We kissed.

  I felt his body relax as he lost himself in my mouth, my tongue on his, my hips grinding into him.

  I knew what he needed. And it wasn't sex. Or the thrill of releasing himself deep within me.

  No, it was comfort. Something familiar and safe. Something that would take him away from his grief.

  This kiss, his fingers on the back of my neck pressing my face into his, his hardness now pressing against my growing heat, his breath growing rapid as my hands snaked around and lost themselves in his hair, my fingers gripping his locks in great fistfuls, this was driven not by desire, but by need.

  A need to escape his loss.

  I moved from him, standing up.

  He watched me, the familiar look of lust in his eyes.

  Turning, I walked to the door and, with a click, locked it.

  I then turned back, pulling my shirt over my head, my bra quickly joining the thin cotton on the floor beneath my feet.

  A moment later, I was naked, my skirt slipped down past my thighs, my bare feet stepping free from the sudden pile of clothes on the floor.

  A moment after that, I was again in front of him.

  I slowly sat in his lap, his legs still spread on the floor, his back still against the edge of the bed.

  His lips met my stomach, his tongue tasting my skin, his mouth quickly around my breasts, suckling, lightly biting, his hands reaching around to pull me close, his fingers stealing low to reach in and find my wetness.

  I gasped, feeling first one and then two fingers enter me.

  He groaned, low and deep.

  My mouth was on him, my lips finding his forehead, his temples, lightly kissing his eyes before stealing to his ears, my teeth grazing the flesh, drawing a gasp from my Mikalo.

  He lifted me with one hand and placed me on my back on the floor, his other hand tugging his shirt over his head, his naked flesh quickly on mine, the weight of him stealing my breath for a moment.

  I could feel his hardness aching against the heavy cotton of his ubiquitous shorts, pressing into me, hungry for me. Reaching low, I snapped them open, my fingers easily finding the zipper, his hot, hard, throbbing flesh soon in my fist.

  His tongue was again in my mouth, his low moan losing itself in my throat as my tongue met his, my hips rising, grinding into him, my wetness demanding him.

  And then he was inside me, quickly, in one deep thrust.

  I gasped, clutching his hair in my hands.

  He sighed, his face pressed into my neck, inhaling the scent of me.

  And then it began.

  Somewhere in this house, others wept, their grief obsessing them.

  Somewhere in this house, Silvestro and Caugina sat silent and awkward, he alone in his grief, she unaware of his pain, not caring, her greed distracting her.

  And somewhere in the Aegean Sea on a boat with a kind doctor and an officious coroner, Nona traveled the white capped waves further and further away from the home she had called hers for too many decades to count.

  But here in this room, behind this locked door, on this floor in the light of a rising moon, my body met Mikalo's in a perfect expression of love, both of us escaping our grief.

  He, the loss of his beloved Nona.

  Me, the loss of my longed for "I do".

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The next few days passed by in a daze.

  More people arriving, the house becoming a hive of muted activity, the mirrors draped in black, the conversation a low buzz moving from room to room, Mikalo veering between being the perfect host despite his pain and everyone's collective grief and barricading himself in our room to crawl under the covers and quietly weep.

  I did what I could, introducing myself and assisting when allowed. A plate of simple food here, an ice cold drink there, a finger or two of Scotch when necessary.

  Deni and Damen were largely gone, their work on the House of Broken Hearts continuing uninterrupted, Damen burying whatever grief he felt in the hammering of nails and the sanding of rough, distressed wood.

  I promised Deni, the brief moment I saw her at breakfast, that I would get up there soon. Check on their progress, offer to help, escape the sadness of the house.

  "You're needed here," she insisted. "Besides, it's all Damen and a few of the men from town doing all the work. I just stand around looking pretty and handing them nails when they need them."

  I couldn't help but smile, a small grin she returned as she stood up to leave.

  And then the day of the funeral was upon us.

  I had nothing black to wear.

  Mikalo, realizing this, wore a blue shirt and dark slacks.

  "This was for the wedding," he suddenly said before he could stop himself.

  I felt the tears in my eyes.

  He stood still, not sure what to do.

  Usually he would quickly come to me, pull me into his arms, and then embrace me, hugging away my pain.

  But today he simply stood still, awkwardly silent and unsure.

  "You look very handsome," I finally said, desperate to break the silence.

  He didn't respond. No small smile, no small nod, no acknowledgement that I had spoken though I'm certain he heard me.

  And then he turned and left the room.

  I decided not to question it or go too deep into worry.

  Instead, I walked to the closet and got dressed, chosing a simple shirt, kind of dressy, and a pair of brown slacks, the darkest I had. A pair of shiny black ballet flats later, I was as ready as I was going to be.

  Mikalo waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, the tribe of various Delises wandering out of the house and through the driveway to the small graveyard.

  Suffice it to say, I had no idea there was even a graveyard on the island.

  "It is where the family is always placed to rest," Mikalo explained, wrapping my hand in his.

  "You look beautiful," he then said with a small smile.

  His way of apologizing.

  I offered a small smile back.

  "Are you okay?" I asked, aware of how stupid it sounded.

  He squeezed my hand.

  "With this," he said, giving our entwined hands a small shake, "all will be well."

  With that, we joined the line of mourners walking through the driveway, skirting the beach, and then heading onto a small, well-wor
n path into the yellowing brush.

  His hand in mine, I felt him hesitate, his feet growing reluctant.

  His parents were buried here, I suddenly realized.

  God, this must be killing him.

  I reached my other hand over, resting it on his arm and doing what I could to steady him.

  But the truth of the matter was there was little I could do.

  A small walk later, we stood gathered at an open crypt, Nona's large simple coffin resting before it, covered in flowers and small handwritten expressions of love. Small notes, folded and placed among the long stems and fragrant blossoms.

  Had I known, I would have written a note. A small expression of what I hoped she and I could have had and how grateful I was she had entrusted me with the key.

  Had I known.

  Then again, I was a stranger and my slipping in my sentiments might have been seen as presumptuous. Especially in light of the family's open disdain for me.

  No, I would thank her silently in my prayers.

  We stood, Mikalo and I, hand in hand toward the front, the heavy polished wood of the coffin within reach.

  He had his eyes closed as he listened to the priest say something or other about eternal life, slipping between the rough choppy sounds of Greek and the more familiar, dulcet tones of heavily accented English.

  Occasionally the mourners would respond in unison after he'd say something, the routine familiar to them, but a mystery to me.

  Occasionally there would be a muffled sob or a sigh. A trembling of the chin as we stood under a hot sun surrounded by above ground crypts that looked like squat, square houses, names chiseled on their smooth faces in both English and Greek.

  And then suddenly it was finished, the crowd pressing forward to place their hands on the wood, thread their fingers through the flowers, press their faces to their beloved Nona and weep as they mumbled and muttered and cried their last goodbyes.

  Silvestro drunkenly stumbled forward, leaving Caugina who stood out like a sore thumb in purple Chanel haute couture, a ludicrously large snake covered in diamonds wrapped around her throat.

  I reached forward, my hand on Silvestro's arm as I steadied him.

  He turned his head, his eyes tear stained and weary, finding me and, with a small nod, wordlessly thanked me.

  Caugina glared.

  The mourners hushed.

  I didn't care.

  The last thing this day needed was the drunken grandson stumbling forward and knocking the coffin over.

  A moment later, he had said a silent goodbye and listed back to Caugina who, aware of her faux pas, insincerely welcomed him with wide open arms.

  And then there was Mikalo and me.

  People had started to leave, their goodbyes said, the crowd thinning.

  He and I stood silently, waiting.

  And when it was almost quiet, the space almost ours, Mikalo stepped forward, his hand leaving mine.

  He approached the coffin and bent low, his face pressed to the flowers. He was speaking, the words soft and private, the tears on his cheeks, his chin trembling.

  Standing up, he took a step back.

  I stepped forward, my hands instinctively wiping the tears from his face.

  He allowed it with a small sigh.

  Nona waited.

  I placed my hand on the wood, the smooth surface having grown warm under the sun, the flowers beginning to wilt, the aroma still pungent.

  Nona, I said silently, thank you. Thank you for giving me your last night. Thank you for giving me the key. And thank you for allowing me to give you that last kiss.

  Please know that I love him very much, I continued, the words in my mind as my hand rested among the flowers. Know that I will always love him. That will never change. Even if I stay forever just his lover and never his wife, he will always be in my heart.

  There will never be another, I then said, finishing, and saying goodbye.

  We turned to go.

  Mikalo paused, hesitating.

  He then took me by the hand and guided me to a separate set of crypts.

  "Mama, Papa," he then said, my hand firmly in his as we stood before his parents, "this is my Grace, the woman I've told you about."

  Stopping, he took a deep breath.

  "I love her very much. I hope you know this. I know you can see this from Heaven."

  At this, his voice broke.

  Taking a moment, he gathered himself before continuing.

  "Know that I will always love her, Mama, Papa. That will never change. She will always be in my heart."

  He gripped my hand tighter.

  "There will never be another," he repeated, his spoken words echoing my silent prayers to Nona.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  New mortar gleamed between the cracks in the stone walls. Fresh panes of thick square glass glinted in the sunlight, the shutters I'd discovered in the second room repaired and sanded and hanging in place with a new coat of bright white paint. A new wooden door now sat in new hinges, thick solid planks of darker wood framing the doorway. A new roof was still needed, but it didn't seem to matter.

  And a new lock, one that matched the key, waited.

  He stood near the Jeep, Mikalo, in shock.

  I waited with Damen and Deni closer to the house.

  We watched him, silently urging him to join us. To come and have a look.

  But he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth agape.

  "What ...?" he started to say before shaking his head.

  I wanted to go to him, take him by the hand, and bring him near. But it was better to let him work through the impossibility of this on his own, his feet carrying him to us when his heart was ready.

  He wandered near.

  "How ...? he said, stopping, the words belying his disbelief.

  Turning toward Damen,

  "You?" he asked.

  Damen nodded with a big smile and then a small shrug.

  At once, Mikalo rushed toward him, their bodies colliding, Mikalo's arms around him as they embraced, Damen's feet leaving the ground for a brief moment as the two friends hugged and laughed and cried.

  "But, no," Damen said, pulling himself free. "It was not only me. It was her."

  He pointed at Deni.

  "She is to blame for this, too."

  A squeal from Deni as her feet left the air, Mikalo's arms lifting her easily, his lips covering her face in kisses.

  He put her down, my blonde friend breathless and delighted.

  "And you," he said, turning to me.

  I held up the key.

  Mikalo stopped.

  Taking his hand in mine, I turned it over and placed it in his open palm.

  "From Nona," I said.

  And then I stopped, letting those two words sink in and find an easy home in Mikalo's heart.

  He swallowed, blinking back tears, his gaze on the shining key in his hand.

  "This," he said, "this is from my Nona? A gift?"

  I nodded.

  "Yes," I agreed. "For you."

  He lifted his head, his eyes on mine.

  "But when?" he asked with a small shake of his head. "When did this thing happen?"

  I hesitated, not wanting to resurrect the pain of her passing by admitting it was the night before she died.

  "It is yours," I said instead, the When of it not as important as the fact that it was given to him with love.

  "And this is yours," I then said, turning toward the stone house.

  He approached the door.

  Stopping, he waited, and then turned to me.

  "I have the key now, my Grace."

  I nodded.

  "But, no, this is not mine," he said, returning to me. "This is ours."

  And then he took me by the hand and, together, we stood side by side as he put the key in the lock.

  With a turn and a click, the door was open.

  I waited, holding back, allowing him to walk through first, keenly aware of how momentous this moment w
as for him.

  But no. Without a word, he scooped me up in his arms, carrying me over the threshold, my head bumping the wood of the door frame.

  He put me down, my feet standing on brand new, wide, polished planks of dark wood. The walls had been painted a stunning shade of white, a bright blue border along the bottom near the floor and the top close to the ceiling.

  Over to the side, a small square wooden table sat next to the window, a wooden chair on each end. And a low couch, also of wood, waited in front of the fireplace, small and cozy and made for two, bright blue cushions for the seat, a matching cushion against the back, an equally rustic coffee table bridging the space between the couch and the wood of the mantle.

  A small fire glowed in the fireplace, despite the heat of the day outside.

  Above, the ceiling needed work, the beam still swinging free.

  Damen stood next to Mikalo, pointing out the wood of the floor, explaining what he was going to do with the ceiling and those heavy beams, how he had chosen to go with a sturdy, durable, rustic tile for the roof outside.

  Deni moved to stand next to me.

  I wrapped my arm around her waist.

  "It's pretty, isn't it?" she asked.

  "It's amazing," I agreed.

  "It needs more work," she said in a whisper. "I'm just glad the illusion is enough for Mikalo."

  "Are you kidding? He's in seventh heaven right now."

  "Come," she said, taking me by the hand.

  "Mikalo!" she called over her shoulder, indicating he was to follow.

  We passed into the second room, the door framed in new wood, much like its twin in the front room.

  The same planks on the floor as before, the same heavy squares of small glass for the windows, the shutters hanging outside, the fireplace in here cleaned up and repaired and quiet.

  No, what stopped me in my tracks was the bed.

  I hadn't expected a bed.

  This was really now a home. Mikalo's home. My home. Our home.

  Large enough for two, it stood on solid wood legs, a mattress wrapped in white bed sheets, a quilt stretching from side to side, four large pillows at the top, a large chest anchoring the end.

  Mikalo gasped.

  He approached the bed, pausing before his fingers traced the colorful quilt.