Paradise Island

by Charmaine Ross

  Without a second thought, without turning her head to see him, her friends and everyone that was dear to her, Lilura, the men she had saved or the spirit guardians of the ancient god, she ran into the cave and dove into the blackness.

  She spiraled through the absolute dark, spinning around until she had lost all sense of direction. Up or down. She waited until her body stopped moving. She moved her arms around her, pushed downwards with her feet and felt a vast emptiness yawning all around. She hung suspended without beginning or end.

  There was nothing here, no body, no sight or hearing or touch. There was only the knowledge of the sum of who she was and what she felt in her heart. All she had done in her life, a lifetime of learning sparked through her mind like a living book flicking through the years.

  She saw her mother as she did as a baby in her arms. Was there at her funeral. Saw her father as a young man through her child’s perspective, her childhood friends. As the memories flicked through her mind, she re-felt the emotions as though she lived them again, but this time with the advantage of hindsight.

  She relived the good and the bad, the tears, tantrums, laughter. If she concentrated enough she could even feel the textures of the objects and people she touched. The silk edging of her blanket, the little china doll she treated like a baby. Her mother’s skin, her mother’s love.

  She relived the day they came to tell her about her father. The destroying horror of it all. Saw herself, a coveted innocent, being turned out onto the streets by a father who cared too much for his daughter.

  Then there were the years she spent growing up all too quickly. The strength, the determination as well as the distrust, the cynicism, the anger that had grown within her. She watched as she took her first voyage at sea, pretending to be a boy as no girls were allowed on board a ship. She knew when her body was not going to hide her as a boy anymore. It was then she had stolen her first ship and saved her lifelong friend Clare, then Dalia.

  She felt her anger anew as she relived the memory of when she first laid eyes on Jack Cutlass. She had saved another woman from him that day. A seamstress. Jack had sworn vengeance on Estelle. She had laughed openly in his face, but from that day on had been a constant enemy on the open seas.

  She relived the day she kidnapped Gregory. Felt again the first pull of attraction even as she set her toes on the floorboards of the pier. He had looked at her with complete and utter awestruck wonderment that she had felt like a living angel to him. It had been the first time she had been looked at quite in that way. As if she alone had the power of his happiness in the palm of her hand.

  She relived the moments before Gregory disappeared into the black cave. The pain, the complete gut wrenching loss immobilized the review of her life. And here she was. Stuck here, envisioning the last moments she saw Gregory in her mind as she reached out for him, desperately trying to stop him from sacrificing himself for her.

  And she sacrificed herself back.

  Her skin prickled in that intense way when the body senses another. She was being watched; perceived in open curiosity that she was here at all, wonderment, an inability to comprehend why she had chosen to try to find Gregory and sacrifice herself in the process.

  She was being studied by the spirit god.

  She was but a miniscule speck suspended in the gut of a void which was the god, so small by comparison, but still was teaching it something it had no understanding of.

  She knew what it was intrigued by. Could easily name it. The power of love. It didn’t understand anything at all about love.

  “I want him back,” she said.

  The moments stretched and she was not sure that she had been heard at all. The she felt a shift, as though the air crackled, the process of a decision being made. There were no words, but a voice was in her head, asking her a question.

  “Why?”

  It was asked innocently. There was no malicious undertone, no right or wrong answer. It was asked in much the same way as a waitress might ask if porridge or bread was preferred for breakfast.

  “Because I love him,” she said simply.

  “Explain,” came the eventual answer, asked in the same nonjudgmental tone.

  But how could she put into simple words that power, that contentment, how could she name the attraction, that it made her feel anger, pain, ardor, pleasure. How could she state clearly and effectively how it had changed her from the angry woman she had been, to feeling that the world had some good in it, that she now had a future with children and someone who wanted to grow old with her. How could she explain the enchantment, the passion, the yearning for more, the anticipation of days spent together, forging a life between just the two of them?

  How could she explain that all those things were reciprocated?

  There were no words, so she chose not to use any.

  Instead she began her song, used her gift to reach out to the spirit god and with her melody she imprinted her feelings, her experiences, her memories, the pictures in her mind of Gregory. She imagined him standing before her, watching her with such deepness of emotion, capturing her enraptured attention so much so that the rest of the world contracted to just the two of them. She let the god feel the peace that washed through her, let it feel the unspoken communication that only two joined souls could ever pass between each other.

  She imagined so hard her vision was almost real. That if she were to reach out she almost knew she could touch him. To be able to feel him again was too much to bear. Knowing it could never be, still she lifted her hand and pressed it against his cheek. The stubble was rough against her palm, his skin warm and soft beneath.

  He lifted his lips and the smile shone like burning beacons in his eyes. She felt her own mouth pull into soft lines in response. She moved towards him, reliving the memory of how his body fit against her own. How his large, solid chest secured her world. His arms around her protected her. Made all those heady, all-encompassing sensations untangle and wash like a gentle tide through her body, flickering primitive responses, ancient needs into life.

  The temptation was too much to bear. She had to see him, had to touch him had to breath in his scent, fell him against her, hear his voice, let him touch her in those ways that made her alive and joyous.

  The sum of all that knowledge, all those blessed emotions was that life wasn’t worth living if he was not in it with her.

  She opened her eyes. And he was there.

  “You’re real,” she whispered.

  He gathered her in his arms, pulled her against him and brought his lips to hers. He kissed her deeply, tenderly, thoroughly, and she knew without a doubt, whatever the reason the spirit god had chosen, that he had been returned to her in flesh and blood.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Soho, London.

  The cave was closed. The ancient god lost to him forever. Months of planning, of altering the course of his career by strategic removal of competition, hours and hours of endless meetings and mindless parties, buttering the right people that would put him in front of other people who currently held the balance of power. Employing the aid of super natural powers that could help him advance his dreams. He’d finally been in a position where his careful plans, his sacrifices were coming into fruition.

  Now all gone to waste.

  Jack Cutlass was a big mistake. He should have known the man wasn’t worth his silver tongue and good looks. In the end he was too weak. Everything lost directly at the hands of a worthless woman no less! The Stonebridge daughter. She’d pay dearly for the dent in his plans. By now he should hold the fate of an entire country in the palm of his hands. So many souls to own, to use at his will.

  The god had been appeased and had been shut back into the cave now guarded around the clock by the ancient spirits of the land. There would be no second coming.

  The carriage halted and jerked t
o a stop. One of the horses stamped its foot, snorting in the frigid night air. No doubt the animal picked up on the sense of hopelessness in this area. That and the smell of rancid sewage that was never properly washed away, even in the rain of mid-winter. It was the stench of urine that stained the stone and kept the well-mannered, gently bred away.

  The type of area he could depend would swallow the secret of his presence. The type where people went missing as a natural event of the day, where life and death were so closely related it was a matter of wonder when children lived. Most of them didn’t get a name until they were five years old. But what life to be born into. It was almost a blessing when a child passed away. He could imagine he could be relieved if a child of his died, if he was a sort to have a wife and children. But then again, he’d never been one to keep dependents for long.

  The carriage door was opened by one of the guards he’d brought with him. Men that could be bought to keep their tongues from flapping. If that wasn’t enough persuasion, they had family they wanted kept alive if it came down to that. Best to keep them on his good side, though. Make them think that following him would be of some greater benefit to their lives. It was always easier to manipulate a certain sort of man if they thought they had a better future. Worthington stepped to the ground, careful not to show the assault on his nostrils.

  “This way, sir.” His guard offered a gesture to the steps of a soot blackened building. This particular Gentlemen’s Club had gone out of its way to remain anonymous. Entry by invitation only, nameless attendance guaranteed. Yet it was the most popular on the circuit among the upper echelons of the ton.

  He hadn’t come for the delights the talented women of the club provided. They were well known to be degrees above the average whore. His tastes were more … eclectic … than that. His attentions were drawn to one woman in particular who worked from the relative privacy the rooms provided, offering the types of services he was more interested in. And as long as the room was paid for by the hour, he would be guaranteed a meeting with her.

  The front door opened as he stepped to the landing. A large, bland-faced Butler ushered him into a warm but dimly lit reception area. The scent of expensive cigar smoke and cheap perfume hung heavy in the air. Muted seductive laughter amongst the low murmurs of the men could be heard from behind shut doors. And there were many of them that were shut in privacy from the central passageway.

  The butler inclined his head and indicated that Worthington follow him. Worthington let his men in behind him. The hallway held little interest for him, although it was decorated in well-crafted paintings of scenes depicting couples in various delicate positions, each lit by a single gas lamp to show off the best angle and to whet appetites. He followed the butler to the end of the corridor, pausing as the man turned with his back to the wall. As he was about the question the Butler, the man swept aside a midnight blue velvet curtain and indicated an alcove behind it.

  Worthington gave the man a curt nod and entered the room. He indicated his men to wait for him. They took positioned either side of the doorway. The curtain was dropped behind him and he was left in almost complete darkness, save for the golden glow of a small lamp on one of the walls. He barely saw another midnight curtain within hands reach.

  In the middle of the room was a round, oak table with two chairs set opposite each other. On the table was a bright red tablecloth, detailed with golden moons and stars that danced and glowed in the subtle flickering light. The edges were trimmed with golden discs, alternating with quarter moons. Situated in the center of the tablecloth was a large crystal ball balanced on an intricately designed golden stand. Four eagles claws rose from the stand on which the crystal ball balanced. Tarot cards were neatly stacked to one side of the ball. A well-worn brown leather satchel sat to the other side. Incense burned from a stick, reminding Worthington of the back alleys of Arabia.

  The walls of the room were covered by thick, velvet drapes of muted color. When he looked closer at them, he saw they were actually tapestries made from rows and rows of people fighting, ships coursing through thick ocean waves, people eating, stabbing, dancing. Each tapestry seemed to tell a tale in detailed pictorial representation. He was drawn to one in particular. A winged angel was in the process of stabbing a man crumbled over his knee. Red thread ran from the middle of the man’s chest to the ground below. It was the agony of the man’s face that held Worthington’s attention. It was so real he could almost see it happening in front of his eyes. The angel turned its head; its eyes dragged a path directly to his.

  Worthington blinked, stepping back in surprise. When he looked again, the angel was as before. Just a thread profile with a curved dagger embedded in a man’s chest.

  “The Curse of the Angel,” a seductively soft voice floated to him through the incense.

  He hadn’t heard her enter the room. There was certainly no indication where she’d come from. He did notice a certain shift in the air, as though it buzzed now that she was in the room. Before she was here, the air was flat and heavy with the burning incense. But now, it was alive with energy. He breathed in deeply, soaking the energy. This indeed was the type of woman he’d been looking for. Now to see if she would suit his plans.

  “Madam Rose.” He smiled.

  She inclined her head, but never took her eyes from his face. They were the eyes of the all-seeing. He felt them pierce his soul, searching, finding and assimilating information. They were of the darkest black, huge orbs that dilated as she immersed herself in his need.

  He let her find it. Let her know what he’d come about. Felt her attention recede. Her eyes sharpened as she drew her mind back to the room.

  “I cannot help you,” she said. Her voice was heavily accented from her homeland, the outlying country regions of France.

  “You don’t know why I’m here,” he said.

  “I know enough.” She didn’t move, simply held her ground. Her black hair fell from thick waves to her breasts. It was held beneath a translucent head scarf tied with a large bow at her nape. It served to make her eyes seem larger, her lips fuller than the crude red color she’d drawn over them.

  “Then you will also know you don’t have a choice,” Marcus said. “Please sit and I’ll tell you in more details what I require from you.” He indicated the chair she stood behind.

  She gripped the back of the chair. Her nails were as red as her lips. Both shone in the flickering light. Her white knuckles were the only indication of the way she felt.

  “I only have to call and help will come for me,” she said.

  “As do I, and may I assure you my men are far more skilled than the backstreet roughnecks picked for you this afternoon. One raise of their swords and your men will turn tail and run for their lives.”

  Madam Rose stared at him with shining, unreadable eyes, but he knew the clogs turned at a fast pace behind the stone façade. Moments stretched. “I will read for you and then you will go,” she said.

  She took her place at the chair and indicated to the other that he sit, which he did. She placed the stack of Tarot cards between the palms of her hands. Her mouth moved in some sort of prayer or incantation. She pulled a long golden chain from around her neck. At the end of the chain was an amethyst amulet that was hidden between her ample breasts. He noticed a golden claw clutched the end of the stone in the same design as the claws that held the crystal ball.

  She held the amulet over the cards, where it started to swing in a tight circle. It slowed and began a circle in the opposite direction. She placed the amulet back between her breasts and shuffled the pack of cards slowly. Her eyes had closed and the incantation was silent on her moving lips.

  Her eyes cracked open. She took the first card and placed it on the table. The design was intricate and quite unlike other cards he’d seen. He had no idea what it meant.

  “This is Death,” Madam Rose said in a flat voice. She
laid her fingertips on the bottom edge of the card.

  “Quite possibly,” Worthington murmured.

  Her black eyes locked onto his. “It is not death in the way you expect it to be. It does not mean loss of life, but rather the finishing of something to be replaced by something new.”

  “What is this new thing?”

  She withdrew the next card and laid it on the right hand side of the first card. She concentrated, her eyes narrowed. A frown marred her forehead. “A power. But not of this earth. Supernatural in design. It can cause great destruction.” Her eyes snapped to his, widened. “You seek it.”

  “Tell me how I can get it.”

  “I can only tell you what the cards want you to hear.”

  Worthington sighed dramatically. It always came to this. The extra push that would seal her help. “You have a brother Paris who looks after your aged mother and father. You send home what you can from what you earn here. It is their custom to go to the local pub after church on a Sunday where they leave your brother to talk to his friends who also congregate there for the afternoon, while they shuffle back to their little house by the river on the edge of the village. I’m told it is quite a nice house with a distinct stone fence at the front. And quite away from the rest of the other houses. Anything could happen in that house, and no one would be the wiser.”

  Her hands shook, with rage or terror, he didn’t know. But he’d got the desired effect. “Now my dear, if you get my drift, you will tell me everything.”

  She slowly turned a third card and placed it to the left of the original card. “You need to seek another who can help you locate the key to this power. With great power comes great responsibly.”

  “My dear, I know exactly how I will use this power. Tell me who this man is and where I will find him.”

  She folded the cards back into the pack and placed them neatly on top of the table cloth. She pulled the crystal ball closer to her, placing the tips of the fingers of both hands on either side of the ball. The crystal clouded with grey mists that swirled and deepened.