Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze)

by Jade Hart

  “I can't take this. It's worth a fortune.”

  Maurice pinched it from my fingers and clasped it around my neck. The gold whispered with a chill as it settled in the dip of my throat. I touched it reverently while Maurice pecked the top of my head. “It's yours. I want no arguments.” He went to serve the English fry-up, adding, “It's an antique. I had it designed as a wedding present for Betty. She loved it. It's a cross between a phoenix and a peacock. Betty used to say it reminded her that beauty was only powerful if the soul was strong and pure.”

  I didn't know how that related to the pendant, but I smiled. “It's lovely. I’ll look after it very carefully.”

  “I know you will. That's why I gave it to you.” He plonked a plate in front of me, ladled high with food. Mushrooms, hash brown, sausage, tomato. Instead of worrying about my waistline, I tucked in. This breakfast replenished much-needed calories.

  Food was my Achilles heel, as well as my savior. Without it, I couldn’t port, but with it, the entire world was open to me. I could never get enough. I wished I could put on weight—at least I’d have reserves if food was scarce—but no matter how much I consumed, I always needed more.

  Maurice sat opposite me. “I think the peacock is you. Pretty, elegant, exotic. And the phoenix tail is the rise of who you will become.”

  A blush graced my cheeks. Funny enough, I always thought of myself as a phoenix rising from the ashes of my childhood, not who I'd become. But I liked Maurice's version too. “I'll never take it off.”

  After I inhaled my breakfast and helped Maurice with the dishes, we settled in the small library nook, which housed as many cobwebs and dust bunnies as it did books. I melted into the old wingback chair, breathing deep the scent of history and parchment. If I could jump into the pages of a book and leave my life I would. I'd dive into a fairy tale and meet a man who’d look after me while I pranced around in pretty dresses.

  I wrinkled my nose. As if, Ocean. You’d rather kill a man than let him order you around. And dresses? I hated the damn things. Guess I lived my own story, flawed as it was.

  Maurice disappeared, then returned with a leather satchel and a tin of pens. He had a stationary addiction—he needed at least four pens on him at all times. I found this little quirk adorable.

  I smiled as he perched on another identical chair, placing the satchel on the ottoman in front of him. Opening his glasses case, he gave the lenses a quick sweep with a cloth before placing them on his nose. When he was settled, he pulled out his ledger from the satchel.

  “Have there been many requests while I've been gone?” I tried to read upside down, but couldn't make out his spidery writing.

  “A few. Some I was able to do without your help. But others were out of my control.”

  A spike of jealously. Who helped Maurice when I wasn't here? I had no right to be jealous. I always wished he had family and friends to help him. I wasn't enough to keep him company. Especially when darker hobbies demanded attention.

  Maurice scribbled something, then passed the ledger to me, pointing to entry number ten.

  In his scrawl was an address: 22 Ian Place, St Kilda, New Zealand. A name: Ms. Edith Jones, and an instruction: Collect said item and take to where she requests. Perfectly normal, the same as all the rest. Maurice was an artifact acquirer. However, over the years, we dabbled in different work. It was fun. Most of the time.

  “Do you think you can travel to New Zealand from here? It's not too far for you, is it?” Concern riddled Maurice's face.

  “I arrived from Australia yesterday, and they're practically neighbors. No problem.” I frowned. “What's said item? Don't they normally have to stipulate what I'll be collecting? I'm restricted to certain sizes, after all.”

  Maurice gave me a look. I knew when he hid the truth from me.

  I crossed my arms. “Tell me. What is it?” I'd done enough messenger work for Maurice’s clients to know I’d better ask, otherwise, I could be handling live kangaroos—or worse.

  “It's a child.”

  My eyes popped wide open. “Excuse me?” Teleporting another human wasn't a problem. It did cause me extra pain—agony, which sometimes gave me a seizure—but I could manage. But taking a child from country to country was unethical, not to mention illegal.

  “She wants you to take a girl of five from Cape Town, South Africa, to her. Ms. Jones will give you the details.”

  The skin on the back of my neck tingled. He wasn't telling me the truth in its entirety. “And why am I bringing a child to her? What about the girl's parents?”

  “Her mother died three months ago, and Ms. Jones has been working through the adoption process. She was granted custody of the girl, but at the last second, the father appeared and broke the agreement.”

  A slow feeling of dread filled me. Three months. . . anything could’ve happened to that little girl. “Please tell me the father is madly in love with his daughter and raining affection upon her.” Even as I said it, I knew that wasn't the case.

  “He’s sold her into sex slavery. She is too young yet, but in another few months she will be taught how to—”

  “Stop. I don't need to hear anymore. I snatched his pen and wrote the address on my hand. “I'll go now. I'll be back in a few days, depending on how long it takes to find the girl.”

  “You don't need to rest longer?” Maurice asked. “I hate that teleporting causes you such pain.”

  I shook my head so fast, strands of hair stuck to my lip. “I’d never relax, now that I know.” Already my heart was a fist of worry, my stomach a riot of turbulence at the thought of the clutches the little girl was in. “You know I gladly pay the price to save others, Maurice.”

  Maurice stood. “Please be careful, Ocean. I'll miss you.” His eyes watered and I allowed myself to be tugged into an embrace.

  “I'll take care of me, if you take care of you. Don't worry. That little girl will be safe very soon.” I called my power and the headache bloomed behind my eyes, causing a small rivulet of crimson from my nose to tickle my upper lip. Why couldn't this power activate without murdering me, too?

  As the room grew intangible, I was saddened to leave so soon. I’d waited six months to come back and we’d had no time to speak in different languages, or play poker by the fire. The bookcases wisped and the house was sucked up a vacuum as I popped from the room. The swirl and surge of colors stole the breath from my lungs.

  I didn't know how time related to distance or speed, but New Zealand was pretty freakin’ far from England. I gritted my teeth and held on as I plummeted through whatever fabric I ripped through.

  I concentrated on the address while my body was sucked along with the whirlwind of teleporting power, whisking my way to the destination.

  A pavement appeared beneath my feet, followed by the crystallizing of buildings and the sound of waves in the distance. The taste of salt wafted on the breeze. I stared at the old villa in front of me. The portico was cheery, with peach and white trim, and settled in a garden bursting with roses. I followed the paved path and used the old copper knocker to announce my arrival. It opened immediately by a much younger woman than I anticipated.

  “Are you Ms. Jones?” I eyed her.

  She wore a pearl cardigan with beige slacks. She matched her home perfectly, dressed as an old maid, rather than an attractive woman in her thirties.

  “Yes. You must be Ocean. I just got off the phone with Maurice. He warned me you would be, um, popping by.”

  Ah, so Maurice had the necessary conversation with her. “Did you sign the confidentiality agreement?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I signed it a few months ago when I first heard Maurice could help me.”

  Maurice and I often argued if we should keep the truth from our clients. My secret was exactly that—a secret. To let others know about me was a huge gamble. But lying never worked. The amount of questions raised about how I did what I did, or the disbelieving comments, were more detrimental than telling the truth. So we covered our b
acks with an iron clad contract that promised a fine of over two million dollars if so much as a whisper of my talent surfaced. So far, it worked.

  A stab of hatred at myself lanced through me. I should've been here sooner to help. How many people did I let down by running for the last six months? “I'm sorry about the delay.” My voice thickened with anger at my weaknesses. “If you give me a photo and a location of the girl, I’ll go and retrieve her.”

  Ms. Jones bustled down a wooden corridor, complete with carved archway and potted plants.

  I followed. The lounge was elegant and the air was thick with heat from an old coal range. I stood in a patch of sun as she rummaged in an antique armoire drawer. Finally, she came over, and presented me with a dog-eared photograph of a little ebony skinned girl. Her eyes were huge—white globes staring from smudged cheeks.

  “Her name is Thembi.”

  I ran a fingertip over the image. Pretty name for a pretty girl. “Where can I find her?”

  “The location is on the back of the photo. She was sold to a man named Atsu Bazeer. I don't know where she is exactly, but the last I heard, she was on the outskirts of Cape Town in a town called Century City.”

  “Are you sure? Century City isn't known for trade in children or sex. If anything, it's a clean suburb. Good entertainment and shopping.” It was handy travelling as much as I did.

  Ms. Jones's eyes filled with tears. “It's the perfect place. All that money. . . little girls are better entertainment to some men than a sparkly building or clean streets. It's just a front.”

  Scarily, she was right. I wanted to hug her, to take away her pain. Stop that. Heart of stone, remember? If I wasn't careful, I would ruin my ice queen image.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” My eyes searched hers. “Anything at all? It could take months to track her down.” An annoying thought came to mind. It didn't have to take months if I called in a certain police officer. Could an Aussie cop search the Cape Town databases? Probably not. I rolled my eyes. Why the hell would he help me anyway? Stupid thought.

  Ms. Jones stared at me blankly. “There is something, but to say it out loud terrifies me.” Her lip trembled. “Atsu Bazeer has a ruthless businessman persona. It took my lifesavings just to find out he was behind Thembi's sale. She’s so young. I wondered why he’d want such young girls for the sex industry. Turns out there’s a voodoo tale that any man who’s infected with the HIV virus will be cured if he sleeps with a young virgin.” She stopped, unable to go on.

  I didn't need her to. My heart pulsed with thick hatred. How could people be so insane? My head pounded, and I didn't notice, but my nose bled again. This was going to be hard. Sick, sick bastard.

  Sucking in confidence, shoving the dark images away, I said, “Leave it with me. I'll return as fast as I can.” Finding Atsu Bazeer might prove to be easier than I originally thought if he was a high profile businessman. It was the seedy underworld devils who proved hard to track. If someone was cocky enough to be well known while doing underhanded dealings, then months might very well be days.

  I pulled power from my veins and tensed as it pooled in my stomach.

  “Eh, do you want a drink before you go? Food? Anything?” Ms. Jones interrupted my building migraine.

  Crap. I almost forgot the most important part of the transaction. It was also the part I hated. I was so uncomfortable asking for money. “Um, did Maurice discuss payment with you?” I swiped at my nosebleed.

  I wanted to offer my services for free, but I needed cash to survive, just like everyone else. I tried to be fair, only asking what they could afford. One man paid me twenty thousand pounds to find his wayward mistress. Another paid me a measly twenty dollars to return his dog—over two continents! The value of money was held by the circumstances of the people who called for my help. I doubted I’d receive much if this woman already spent her life savings.

  My heart thudded with discomfort. I straightened my shoulders in a vain attempt at feeling less like a jerk.

  Returning to the armoire, she shuffled back with an envelope. “I want to give you everything, but this is all I can spare. Please bring her to me. She belongs with me. I’ll give her a good life.”

  The truth of her words shone in her eyes. The little girl would be loved here.

  I needed to go. Now.

  It was rude counting in front of her. I couldn't ask for more, regardless if there was one bank note or a million in the envelope.

  “I’ll be back soon. With Thembi.” The words I promise were on my tongue, but I learned the hard way not to promise. Sometimes I broke it. Sometimes I wasn't good enough.

  With that, I ported.

  I swallowed my scream as I soared and fought the mind-pulverizing pain. The rush of colors kept me company as I swirled in a travelling vortex. The dirty streets and musky air of South Africa replaced the elegant beige and white lounge of Ms. Jones’ house.

  I wobbled. My lips clamped tight, fighting the urge to hurl. Breathe. You're fine. My legs were Jell-O as I risked a step. My knees buckled and I settled for standing with hands on my thighs, letting my body recoup. Sometimes teleporting knocked me stone cold out. At least I was still lucid.

  After the crashing waves of sickness diminished, I opened the envelope. Inside rested approximately two thousand dollars. On the light side, but it would be enough to survive while I found Thembi. After that, perhaps I could get a normal job.

  I snorted. Me? A normal job. Yeah right.

  Chapter Seven: Callan

  I came to work early, not because I was brown-nosing the captain, but because I still hadn't found any contact details for Ocean Breeze. No online information at all, and I refused to believe she was a ghost. She was real. I didn’t imagine her, no matter how much my brain refuted.

  After working all night, frustration seared my veins. My eyes were rocks in my sockets, my brain a platter of scrambled eggs. But it didn't matter if I ran on fumes of adrenaline, I’d find her. Defeat wasn’t an option.

  I blinked. Finally.

  Four hours of hacking every database I could: Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo—all the public domains—I finally found it.

  Ocean Breeze's email.

  My heart did a stupid stutter. I was about to commit a serious breach of privacy. I clicked on her inbox.

  Two emotions hit me hard: relief and jealousy. Relief to find she only wrote to one person. Jealousy because that one person was a man. Maurice Green. Who the hell was he? Her lover?

  I swallowed, hating myself for reading her personal messages, but unable to stop. How low have you stooped, Callan? I gritted my teeth and ignored rational thinking.

  Hundreds of emails dated back ten years or so. Each one I clicked on stole my breath. Ocean telling Maurice the deed was done. That everything went to plan. Questions from Maurice asking where she was, was she safe? Did she complete her mission?

  One email made me freeze. It seemed Ocean and Maurice had a fight. Half a year ago Ocean told him to stop caring for her.

  From: OBAnon@gmail.com

  Date: 10 December 2011

  Subject: Let me die free.

  Maurice,

  I’m sorry you’ll wake up and find me gone. Believe me when I say it has nothing to do with you. I need distance between us while I still can. Your concern over the marks has become too much for me to bear. Not because of your love for me, but because I’ll only cause you more hurt when I don’t listen.

  You’ll always mean so much to me, but I can’t be around you. I need to do what I’ve always done. Let me die free, Maurice. Forget about me. I’m gone already.

  Love, Ocean.

  What the bloody hell did that mean? And this Maurice loved her? That left a harsh taste in my mouth. I could see why she’d be loved, and she obviously loved him too. Deeply.

  A cold boulder settled in my gut. There was no point chasing her. Yes, I wanted to know her secret of vanishing, but I also wanted to know the woman. Something inside me connected with her on a deeper l
evel—the same level that her icy exterior protected. And now she was off limits.

  Hope unfurled as I read Maurice’s reply.

  From: MG99@hotmail.com

  Date: 10 December 2011

  Subject: You are free, but you will come home.

  My Dear,

  It was not a surprise to wake up to an empty house. I expected as much after our argument. I will not accept your guilt for causing me pain. To not have you in my life would be ten times worse than what I’ll feel if you disobey me.

  Take the time you need to rid yourself of your worry. I will wait every day for your return. I have no doubt I will see you again. Until then, Sweet Girl, I will wait, and try to figure out the meaning of the marks.

  Love, Maurice.

  The language. Could Maurice perhaps be older than her? Would a lover call her ‘sweet girl’? The boulder in my gut lightened to a cloud. Maybe she wasn’t off limits after all.

  The more I learned about this woman, the deeper I sank into trouble. What was she up to? Marks? What was that? Code?

  I opened up my own email, fully intending to write to her, demanding that she see me again, but how to do it so she thought I was guessing? She'd despise me if she knew I hacked her personal space. I despised myself for stooping so low. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

  “Bliss.”

  I jumped a mile, guilt plastered all over my face, as Captain Gray stuck his head in my shoebox. His sideburns were meticulously groomed, his moustache the same color of wish-washy brown on his head.

  Swallowing, I tried to resemble stoic innocence. “Eh, yes, sir?” Be cool. He doesn't know what you're up to.

  “You're to accompany Wade and a few of the newbies. Someone discovered a body in the Cross,” Gray muttered, then stormed away with all the air and grace of a magistrate—and the station was his kingdom. He never minced words or lingered. My kind of man.