Grave Destinations

by Lori Sjoberg

  “Hmm.” Jolie pursed her lips, her eyes closed and her head nodding to some silent affirmation. “You have demon inside you. Part of you. Keeps you young, strong.” Her eyes cracked open, and she gave him a knowing smile. “Virile.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” A blush heated Jack’s face. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from his meeting with Jolie Duquette, but talking about his sex life wasn’t on the list of possible topics.

  In all fairness, she was correct about the curse keeping him young. He’d been bound to it a few months after his twenty-first birthday, and since then he’d aged about a year for every decade. So even though he’d been born in 1899, he didn’t look a day over thirty.

  “Now how can I get rid of it?” A few chants and incantations? Some bizarre island ritual? Maybe sacrifice a goat? He didn’t know and he really didn’t care, so long as he broke free from the bane of his existence.

  “Get rid of it?” Jolie stared at him as if he’d just sprouted a third eyeball. “There is no getting rid of it. The demon’s essence is a part of you, just as yours is a part of it. To sever the bond would mean death to you both.”

  “What?” Jack wrenched his hands from her grip. Denial mixed with despair; he was unwilling to accept what Jolie was telling him, but deep down he realized she spoke nothing but the truth. So many years of searching, only to learn there was no means of escaping the nightmare. He swallowed hard, forcing back the nearly overwhelming sense of panic. “There has to be something you can do.”

  The old woman reached across the table, her fingers wrapping gently around his wrist. Her features softened, her expression shifting to one of sympathy and understanding. “I am sorry, but the loa cannot help you. Too much time has passed for the bond to be broken. Now you must learn to adapt. Harness the demon; bend its strength to your will. Only when you master your demon can you find true peace.”

  “Great. And how the hell am I supposed to make that happen?” he asked, panic giving way to hostility. “Build a campfire and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

  Her brows knitted, and she pinned him with a withering glare. “First you must learn not to fear your demon.”

  “I’m not afraid of it,” he insisted, his chin jerking up in defiance of her accusation.

  “Yes, you are. You fear the times when it takes over. The demon feeds on that fear, draws strength from your weakness.”

  Jack scowled, offended at being called weak, but realizing she was correct in her assumption. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing his temper to settle down long enough to hear her out. “Go on.”

  “Open your hand.”

  He did as she asked, his left fist slowly uncurling until his hand lay flat against the table, palm facing up.

  Jolie wrapped a hand around his wrist. Before he realized what she had in mind, the razor blade sliced across the center of his open palm.

  “What the fuck!” He tried to jerk his hand away, but her grip turned stronger than iron. The cut was thin but still stung like a son of a bitch, the blood flowing freely from the wound.

  “Hold still,” she snapped, lifting his hand and guiding it over the bowl. Blood from the cut trailed down his palm and dripped into the water. “Ah, yes,” she murmured as she stared at the water, which grew murkier with each crimson drop. “Very interesting.”

  Jack looked into the bowl but saw nothing but bloody water. “What’s so goddamn interesting?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead she remained silent, her focus locked on the water, her eyes wide and unblinking. A full minute passed before she glanced up, meeting his questioning gaze. “This demon. It is very old. Very powerful.” She cocked her head a little to one side, curiosity plain on her face. “How did you come to possess it?”

  “I was drugged.” He thought back to the time when his entire future lay ahead of him, bright with promise. He’d just come home from the Great War after serving two years in the military, looking forward to settling down and starting a family of his own. The Deverells’ textile business had returned to operating at full capacity, and as the oldest son he stood to inherit when his father stepped aside.

  But he’d also attracted the attention of one of the household maids, a pretty young woman his father had hired fresh off the boat from Barbados. Of course he’d found Keisha attractive, but he’d already set his sights on Victoria Hughes, a lovely young woman whose father owned and operated the local shipyard. He’d courted Victoria prior to his time in the navy, and he proposed the same week he’d been discharged from active duty. To his pleasure, she accepted his proposal without a moment’s hesitation, and a wedding date was immediately set.

  Keisha had not taken the news of his pending nuptials well.

  “I don’t remember a lot of what actually happened,” Jack told Jolie, the resentment seeping into his blood, his voice. “I remember eating dinner one evening and not feeling well about an hour later. I went to my room to lie down, and Keisha brought me something to drink.” His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face drawing tight with anger. “She said it was a special recipe from the islands, and that it would make my stomach feel better.”

  “This drink. What did it taste like?”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s been so long, I’m not sure anymore. I think it might have tasted a little sweet, but I can’t say for sure.”

  The old woman nodded but said nothing.

  “The rest is a blur. At the time I assumed I’d just had a really strange dream.” He thought back to the candles, the murmured chants, the faint scent of blood and candle wax in the air. “A few nights before the wedding Keisha came back to my room. She told me about the curse, and how she wouldn’t lift it unless I called off the ceremony.”

  “You refused,” Jolie said, more a statement than a question.

  “Of course. Back then I didn’t believe in any kind of mumbo jumbo.” He did, however, inform his father, who’d promptly put Keisha back on a boat to the Caribbean.

  Poor Victoria. She’d paid the ultimate price for his insolence. The curse had made its debut appearance on their wedding night, taking full advantage of Jack’s state of ignorance. Unable to stop it, he’d watched in horror as it sapped the life force from his beautiful bride, turning their first and only act of intimacy into a living nightmare. Her death had devastated him, and before he’d even begun to grieve, the insinuations about the nature of her death started flying.

  The county coroner ruled Victoria’s death the result of a weak heart, but Jack had known better. Guilt and sorrow consumed him, eating at his psyche while the curse demanded more. He’d spent the next decade learning to control the curse as he searched for Keisha, hunting in vain for clues to her whereabouts. Some said she’d married a wealthy merchant from Ecuador, while others insisted she’d returned to the States in search of new fortunes. Either way, he never laid eyes on her again, eventually abandoning the search and redirecting his efforts toward finding a way to remove the curse without her assistance.

  Jolie murmured something too low for him to hear, then sprinkled a small satchel of dried herbs into the bowl. The herbs floated on the surface of the water, their pungent odor rising over the rim.

  “Your demon is very powerful. Descendant of Lilith.” Her hand was still wrapped around Jack’s, his blood still trickling into the bowl. Her eyelids drooped low, almost closed. “But tired. Restless. It grows weary of its prison and seeks to dominate. To find peace, you must strike the proper balance.”

  “That sounds great, but how?”

  Jolie’s eyes snapped open. “This demon, it is a sensual being. Find what it desires most, and accept it for what it is. Then, and only then, can you reach your true potential.”

  Chapter 8

  Since the island lacked a deep enough port to accommodate a vessel as large as the Sunshine of the Caribbean, the ship had dropped anchor about a mile from shore. Local ferry boats carried passengers from ship to shore and back again, working almost nonstop throughout the day to me
et the continual demand.

  Ruby stood near the end of the wharf, staring at the boats with a critical eye.

  The ferries looked harmless enough. Most of them appeared old but well cared for, with fresh paint covering the hulls and a healthy rumble to the engines. She’d grown up around boats like these, had helped her daddy fish for red snapper off the coast of Georgia. During the summer months of her childhood, when school was in recess, she’d spent more time on the boat than on dry land.

  Still, her stomach churned at the thought of climbing aboard. The morning ride had been difficult enough, and back then she’d been motivated by the intense need to plant her feet on shore. She’d kept her eyes closed and her head down, with earbuds blasting Pink to block out the noise, and she still hadn’t made it halfway to shore before heaving her breakfast over the side.

  An offshore storm had made the seas rougher than before, the heavy surf promising a choppy ride back to the cruise ship. Ominous black clouds blocked the late-afternoon sun, and she couldn’t help but think of that rainy August night so many years ago when she’d lost her mortality on the deck of the Kimberly Jean.

  The thought of going AWOL and staying on shore sprang to mind, but then she imagined Samuel’s reaction and the idea lost its appeal. For some strange reason, Samuel had specifically chosen her for this assignment, and he would certainly take great offense if she jumped ship prematurely. She knew other reapers who had been punished by Samuel for stepping out of line, and the stories ran far from pleasant. Like it or not, she had to get back on board.

  “Honey, are you all right? You look a little green.” The voice sounded raspy, and old, and oddly familiar.

  Ruby blinked, shifted her focus to the little old lady touching her right arm. The woman wore a flowery blouse over bright orange shorts and matching Crocs, her bleached blonde hair squished down by a floppy straw hat. A full foot shorter than Ruby, she tipped her head up as she smiled, her teeth shiny white against the backdrop of pink lipstick and tanned, leathery skin.

  “Hi, Adele,” Ruby said, remembering the elderly woman from that first night in the main dining room. She forced a smile and added an extra layer to her accent. “I’m fine. It’s just been a busy day, and I’m plum tuckered out. Where’s Louis?”

  “He said he was feeling tired, so he stayed on board.” Adele’s voice was more gravelly than a two-pack-a-day smoker’s. She shifted the weight of the dozen or so bags in her hands. “Knowing him, he’s probably by the pool with his pipe and a book so he can look at all the pretty girls in their bikinis.”

  Lightning streaked across the clouds, followed by a clap of thunder so loud it made the entire dock vibrate. A young Hispanic couple ran toward the waiting ferry, undoubtedly eager to get back on board before the storm soaked everything in sight.

  Adele nodded toward the end of the dock. “Come on, the boat’s almost full. If we don’t catch this one, we’ll have to wait another twenty minutes.”

  Oh, goody. Not seeing much in the way of alternatives, Ruby squared her shoulders and steeled her nerves as she followed Adele toward the waiting ferry.

  Technically, it was no more than a fishing boat fitted with rows of bench seats and a canvas canopy to shield the tourists from the Caribbean sun and afternoon showers. A lanky, dark-skinned man gave her a hand as she stepped on board, directing her to take one of the remaining spots on the port side.

  Ruby scooted to the end of the bench and stashed her bags beneath the seat. She’d taken the spot at the rail not by choice but as a precaution, in the event her lunch decided to make a second appearance. Adele sat on the seat beside her, some of her bags piled on her lap while the rest shared a spot beside Ruby’s.

  Loaded to capacity, the ferry backed away from the dock, its engines rumbling to life as it puttered away from shore. The boat gradually picked up speed, its hull bouncing over the rough chop as it veered to the west.

  The old lady’s shoulder brushed against Ruby’s as she leaned toward the rail. “Oh, I just love these little boats. You get to see so much more of the wildlife this way,” she said, one hand on her hat so it wouldn’t blow off. “Look, dolphins!” With her free hand she pointed toward the water, and Ruby chanced a look at the frothy whitecaps.

  A pair of bottlenose dolphins swam side by side at the front of the boat, riding the waves created by the ship’s bow. Tourists bolted from their seats and swarmed the rails, eager to snap pictures of the graceful marine mammals before they disappeared from sight.

  Long-buried memories bubbled to the surface, taking Ruby back to the last time she truly focused on the cold Atlantic waters. Her vision flashed, and instead of dolphins she saw flying fish skimming over the choppy waves. She’d watched them for over an hour that evening, while the Kimberly Jean chugged east until the shoreline disappeared from view and the starless night grew darker than pitch. She remembered the sting of the handcuffs digging into her wrists, the look of pure hatred from Sheriff McAllister.

  “Thought you could get away with what you did to my boys?”

  The shocking pain of jagged metal slicing across her throat, followed by the chill of the ocean swallowing her whole, turning everything black as the blood left her body faster than the air escaped her lungs.

  “Jesus Christ, she’s making a mess. Dump her in. We’ll hose down the deck when we get back to shore.”

  Ruby shivered, rubbing her arms for warmth but unable to banish the cold from her bones. Had she lived, she’d be collecting Social Security by now. Perhaps she would have settled down and gotten married, had kids, made a comfortable life for herself. She might have made a difference, fighting the good fight against the injustices of the world.

  None of that mattered now. What’s done is done, there’s no use crying over spilled milk, and all the other crap people tell themselves when they want to feel better about royally screwing up something important in their lives.

  Now her world revolved around paying penance, to erase the stains on her soul that barred her admittance to the afterlife. That was the calling for all reapers—a final shot at salvation for mortal sinners like herself. Until the slate was clean they collected the souls of those who died through unnatural causes, be it murder, suicide, war, accidents, or any other means outside the standard definition of ordinary.

  For almost fifty years she’d performed her duties without fail, harvesting the souls of the dead after an unfortunate demise, her body altered to act as a portal between humanity and what lay beyond. How much longer would she be required to serve before her debt was finally paid and her own soul could rest in peace?

  Honestly, she had no idea. Reapers weren’t privy to such information, and wasn’t that just a bitch? From what she understood, a reaper’s tenure depended on the severity of the sins committed during their mortal lifetime, the number of souls retrieved, and the reaper’s ability to guide them to the next realm without incident. Looking back at the pair of stains marking her soul, it was going to be a very long time before she earned her redemption.

  Relief flooded her when the ferry bumped lightly against the cruise ship’s dock and a member of the crew tethered the two vessels together. She gathered her packages and followed the crowd off the tiny boat, eager to put distance between herself and the past.

  After waiting in line for about ten minutes, Ruby placed her bags on the security scanner and handed her key card to the attendant manning the gateway. The older woman flashed a sixty-watt smile as she scanned the card, recording Ruby’s return to the ship.

  “Welcome back aboard. Did you enjoy your time on St. Angelique?”

  Not really. “Yes, thank you.”

  Truth be told, she’d been too tired and frazzled to enjoy what the island had to offer. She couldn’t stop thinking about the night before, of being pegged for a reaper by Jack and the discovery of the dead woman who wasn’t supposed to be dead. Hopefully she’d hear back from David or Dmitri soon, and then she’d have only Jack to worry about.

  She slipped
her key card back into her pocket and took the stairs to the upper decks. Since the ship wasn’t scheduled to leave for another three hours, the breezeways were fairly quiet. She took the opportunity to make a quick detour at the buffet for a bite to eat before heading back down to her tiny cabin. Once there, she planned to take a long, hot shower, followed by an even longer nap. With luck, the ship would be well on its way when she eventually woke from her slumber.

  By the time she turned off the water in the shower, her fingers and toes were all pruned up and the bathroom mirror was completely fogged over. The hot water had worked wonders on her muscles, dissolving most of the tension at the base of her skull. With a bit of creative maneuvering, she managed to get out of the cramped shower stall without the curtain clinging to her butt, wrapped a towel around her torso, and opened the bathroom door.

  She bit back a shriek when she discovered she wasn’t alone.

  “I’d be surprised if there’s any hot water left on board,” Samuel said the second she stepped out of the bathroom.

  He was sitting on the bed that was made, one leg crossed over the other, his hands folded neatly on his lap. As usual, his appearance was immaculate. Freshly pressed suit. Not a hair out of place. His eyes fixed on her; dark and sharp, with an intensity that never failed to make her more nervous than a kid in the principal’s office.

  Ruby clutched the knot holding her towel in place, her free hand pressed against her bare throat. It made no difference to her that Samuel knew all about the scar. She simply hated anybody seeing it.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” she snapped. He may be her boss, but she was getting tired of him barging in uninvited. What if she’d come out of the bathroom naked? Not that she was big on modesty, but the thought of Samuel seeing her in the buff gave her a case of the heebie-jeebies. “Next time, I’d appreciate a little common courtesy.”

  “Really, Miss Dawson,” Samuel drawled, a look of boredom crossing his face. He stood, tugged on the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt. “At this point, I didn’t think privacy was much of an issue for you.”