Blue Tide (The Nike Chronicles Book 3)

by M. L. Bullock

  It was a beautiful moment. Meri’s lack of speech didn’t stop her from gaping at us. She stomped her foot at me once while Heliope honked the horn in the driveway. She nudged me toward Ramara and with a silly wave left us alone.

  “Hey there.” I broke the silence first.

  “Hey.” His husky voice sounded quiet and careful. Then I realized that for the first time ever I could read Ramara’s mind. It lasted only for a few seconds, but it was a revealing moment.

  Maybe I should leave before she gets hurt?

  I reached out and took his hands to reassure him. I would never confess that I’d accidentally invaded his mind. That was a secret worth keeping, and it might come in handy later. We were both in uncharted waters now. I tried not to stare at his arms, but I couldn’t help myself. His tattoos were completely gone; the skin on his hands was perfectly smooth—even the battle scars had disappeared. The Order had stripped him of those and his immortality. And he’d lost all that for me.

  “Shall we dance?” I said to him with a smile.

  “I’ve never danced before,” he said, laughing nervously.

  “I’ve seen you handle a sword. That’s kind of a dance.” I swayed in his arms, refusing to take no as an answer.

  He chuckled a bit. “I’ve always been pretty rough on weaponry. I’d hate to hurt you, princess.”

  “You’ve never seen me dance, have you? I think it’s you who’d better worry about getting hurt. I mean, come on, you’ve heard me sing. Let’s try it anyway, Ramara. And for the last time, my friends call me Nik.”

  He pulled me close, and we shuffled under the strings of white lights. The man on the radio crooned a love song:

  The smile on your face lets me know that you need me.

  There’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me.

  The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me if ever I fall.

  You say it best when you say nothing at all.

  We were terrible dancers. Ramara moved like a robot and I stepped on his feet twice, but we laughed through our first dance. When the song ended, we stayed in place and danced through another one. The second time around was better, not because we’d improved our moves, but because I got to feel him in my arms. And because I knew, without reading his mind, that he was crazy about me.

  When the music faded, he stopped his shuffling and stared down at me. “It’s not too late to walk away, Thessalonike.” He peered down at me cautiously.

  “Oh, yes it is, Ramara. Way too late.”

  Without another word, he leaned down to me, and I was thankful for the first time that night that I had worn heels. His warm lips met mine, and we kissed again and again.

  With a wide smile that reached his sexy eyes, he answered me.

  “I hate it when you’re right.”

  Coming soon…

  Blue Star

  the fourth book in The Nike Chronicles!

  Connect with M.L Bullock on Facebook. To receive updates on her latest releases, visit her website at M.L. Bullock and subscribe to her mailing list.

  About the Author

  Author of the best-selling Seven Sisters series and the Desert Queen series, M.L. Bullock has been storytelling since she was a child. A student of archaeology, she loves weaving stories that feature her favorite historical characters—including Nefertiti. She currently lives on the Gulf Coast with her family but travels frequently to explore the southern states she loves so much.

  Read more from M.L. Bullock

  The Nike Chronicles

  Blue Water

  Blue Wake

  Blue Tide

  Blue Star

  Blue Sky

  Blue Moon

  The Seven Sisters Series

  Seven Sisters

  Moonlight Falls on Seven Sisters

  Shadows Stir at Seven Sisters

  The Stars that Fell

  The Stars We Walked Upon

  The Sun Rises Over Seven Sisters

  Christmas at Seven Sisters (bonus short stories)

  The Idlewood Series

  The Ghosts of Idlewood

  Dreams of Idlewood

  The Whispering Saint

  The Haunted Child

  Return to Seven Sisters

  (A Seven Sisters Sequel Series)

  The Roses of Mobile

  All the Summer Roses

  Blooms Torn Asunder

  A Garden of Thorns

  A Final Wreath of Roses

  The Gulf Coast Paranormal Series

  The Ghosts of Kali Oka Road

  The Ghosts of the Crescent Theater

  A Haunting on Bloodgood Row

  The Legend of the Ghost Queen

  A Haunting at Dixie House

  The Ghost Lights of Forrest Field

  The Ghost of Gabrielle Bonet

  The Ghosts of Harrington Farm

  The Creature on Crenshaw Road

  Shabby Hearts Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

  A Touch of Shabby

  Shabbier by the Minute

  Ghosts of Summerleigh Series

  The Belles of Desire, Mississippi

  The Ghost of Jeopardy Belle

  The Lady in White

  Lost Camelot Series

  Guinevere Forever

  Guinevere Unconquered

  The Desert Queen Series

  The Tale of Nefret

  The Falcon Rises

  The Kingdom of Nefertiti

  The Song of the Bee-Eater

  The Sugar Hill Series

  Wife of the Left Hand

  Fire on the Ramparts

  Blood by Candlelight

  The Starlight Ball

  His Lovely Garden

  More from M.L. Bullock

  From the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

  A smile crept across my face when I turned back to look at the pale faces watching me from behind the lace curtains of the girls’ dormitory. I didn’t feel sorry for any of them—all of those girls hated me. They thought they were my betters because they were orphans and I was merely the accidental result of my wealthy mother’s indiscretion. I couldn’t understand why they felt that way. As I told Marie Bettencourt, at least my parents were alive and wealthy. Hers were dead and in the cold, cold ground. “Worm food now, I suppose.” Her big dark eyes had swollen with tears, her ugly, fat face contorting as she cried. Mrs. Bedford scolded me for my remarks, but even that did not worry me.

  I had a tool much more effective than Mrs. Bedford’s threats of letters to the attorney who distributed my allowance or a day without a meal. Mr. Bedford would defend me—for a price. I would have to kiss his thin, dry lips and pretend that he did not peek at my décolletage a little too long. Once he even squeezed my bosom ever so quickly with his rough hands but then pretended it had been an accident. Mr. Bedford never had the courage to lift up my skirt or ask me for a “discreet favor,” as my previous chaperone had called it, but I enjoyed making him stare. It had been great fun for a month or two until I saw how easily he could be manipulated.

  And now my rescuer had come at last, a man, Louis Beaumont, who claimed to be my mother’s brother. I had never met Olivia, my mother. Not that I could remember, anyway, and I assumed I never would.

  Louis Beaumont towered above most men, as tall as an otherworldly prince. He had beautiful blond hair that I wanted to plunge my hands into. It looked like the down of a baby duckling. He had fair skin—so light it almost glowed—with pleasant features, even brows, thick lashes, a manly mouth. It was a shame he was so near a kin because I would have had no objections to whispering “Embrasse-moi” in his ear. Although I very much doubted Uncle Louis would have indulged my fantasy. How I loved to kiss, and to kiss one so beautiful! That would be heavenly. I had never kissed a handsome man before—I kissed the ice boy once and a farmhand, but neither of them had been handsome or good at kissing.

  For three days we traveled in the coach, my uncle explaining what he wanted and how I would benefit if I followed his inst
ructions. According to my uncle, Cousin Calpurnia needed me, or rather, needed a companion for the season. The heiress would come out this year, and a certain level of decorum was expected, including traveling with a suitable companion. “Who would be more suitable than her own cousin?” he asked me with the curl of a smile on his regal face. “Now, dearest Isla,” he said, “I am counting on you to be a respectable girl. Leave all that happened before behind in Birmingham—no talking of the Bedfords or anyone else from that life. All will be well now.” He patted my hand gently. “We must find Calpurnia a suitable husband, one that will give her the life she’s accustomed to and deserves.”

  Yes, indeed. Now that this Calpurnia needed a proper companion, I had been summoned. I’d never even heard of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood until now. Where had Uncle Louis been when I ran sobbing in a crumpled dress after falling prey to the lecherous hands of General Harper, my first guardian? Where had he been when I endured the shame and pain of my stolen maidenhead? Where? Was I not Beaumont stock and worthy of rescue? Apparently not. I decided then and there to hate my cousin, no matter how rich she was. Still, I smiled, spreading the skirt of my purple dress neatly around me on the seat. “Yes, Uncle Louis.”

  “And who knows, ma petite Cherie, perhaps we can find you a good match too. Perhaps a military man or a wealthy merchant. Would you like that?” I gave him another smile and nod before I pretended to be distracted by something out the window. My fate would be in my own hands, that much I knew. Never would I marry. I would make my own future. Calpurnia must be a pitiful, ridiculous kind of girl if she needed my help to land a “suitable” husband with all her affluence.

  About the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

  When historian Carrie Jo Jardine accepted her dream job as chief historian at Seven Sisters in Mobile, Alabama, she had no idea what she would encounter. The moldering old plantation housed more than a few boxes of antebellum artifacts and forgotten oil paintings. Secrets lived there—and they demanded to be set free.

  This contains the entire supernatural suspense series.

  More from M.L. Bullock

  From The Ghosts of Idlewood

  I arrived at Idlewood at seven o’clock thinking I’d have plenty of time to mark the doors with taped signs before the various contractors arrived. There was no electricity, so I wasn’t sure what the workmen would actually accomplish today. I’d dressed down this morning in worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. It just felt like that kind of day. The house smelled stale, and it was cool but not freezing. We’d enjoyed a mild February this year, but like they say, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes.”

  I really hated February. It was “the month of love,” and this year I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating. I’d given Chip the heave-ho for good right after Christmas, and our friendship hadn’t survived the breakup. I hated that because I really did like him as a person, even if he could be narrow-minded about spiritual subjects. I hadn’t been seeing anyone, but I was almost ready to get back into the dating game. Almost.

  I changed out the batteries in my camera before beginning to document the house. Carrie Jo liked having before, during and after shots of every room.

  According to the planning sheet Carrie Jo and I developed last month, all the stage one doors were marked. On her jobs, CJ orchestrated everything: what rooms got painted first, where the computers would go, which room we would store supplies in, that sort of thing. I also put no-entry signs on rooms that weren’t safe or were off-limits to curious workers. The home was mostly empty, but there were some pricy mantelpieces and other components that would fetch a fair price if you knew where to unload stolen items such as high-end antiques. Surprisingly, many people did.

  I’d start the pictures on the top floor and work my way down. I peeked out the front door quickly to see if CJ was here. No sign of her yet, which wasn’t like her at all. She was usually the early bird. I smiled, feeling good that Carrie Jo trusted me enough to give me the keys to this grand old place. There were three floors, although the attic space wasn’t a real priority for our project. The windows would be changed, the floors and roof inspected, but not a lot of cosmetic changes were planned for up there beyond that. We’d prepare it for future storage of seasonal decorations and miscellaneous supplies. Seemed a waste to me. I liked the attic; it was roomy, like an amazing loft apartment. But it was no surprise I was drawn to it—when I was a kid, I practically lived in my tree house.

  I stuffed my cell phone in my pocket and jogged up the wide staircase in the foyer. I could hear birds chirping upstairs; they probably flew in through a broken window. There were quite a few of them from the sound of it. Since I hadn’t labeled any doors upstairs or in the attic, I hadn’t had the opportunity to explore much up there. It felt strangely exhilarating to do so all by myself. The first flight of stairs appeared safe, but I took my time on the next two. Water damage wasn’t always easy to spot, and I had no desire to fall through a weak floor. When I reached the top of the stairs to the attic, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it locked.

  “What?” I twisted it again and leaned against the door this time, but it wouldn’t move. I didn’t see a keyhole, so that meant it wasn’t locked after all. I supposed it was merely stuck, the wood probably swollen from moisture. “Rats,” I said. I set my jaw and tried one last time. The third time must have been the charm because it opened freely, as if it hadn’t given me a world of problems before. I nearly fell as it gave way, laughing at myself as I regained my balance quickly. I reached for my camera and flipped it to the video setting. I panned the room to record the contents. There were quite a few old trunks, boxes and even the obligatory dressmaker’s dummy. It was a nerd girl historian’s dream come true.

  Like an amateur documentarian, I spoke to the camera: “Maiden voyage into the attic at Idlewood. Today is February 4th. This is Rachel Kowalski recording.”

  Rachel Kowalski recording, something whispered back. My back straightened, and the fine hairs on my arms lifted as if to alert me to the presence of someone or something unseen.

  I froze and said, “Hello?” I was happy to hear my voice and my voice alone echo back to me.

  Hello?

  About The Ghosts of Idlewood

  When a team of historians takes on the task of restoring the Idlewood plantation to its former glory, they discover there’s more to the moldering old home than meets the eye. The long-dead Ferguson children don’t seem to know they’re dead. A mysterious clock, a devilish fog and the Shadow Man add to the supernatural tension that begins to build in the house. Lead historian Carrie Jo Stuart and her assistant Rachel must use their special abilities to get to the bottom of the many mysteries that the house holds.

  Detra Ann and Henri get a reality check, of the supernatural kind, and Deidre Jardine finally comes face to face with the past.

  More from M.L. Bullock

  From The Tale of Nefret

  Clapping my hands three times, I smiled, amused at the half-dozen pairs of dark eyes that watched me entranced with every word and movement I made. “And then she crept up to the rock door and clapped her hands again…” Clap, clap, clap. The children squealed with delight as I weaved my story. This was one of their favorites, The Story of Mahara, about an adventurous queen who constantly fought magical creatures to win back her clan’s stolen treasures.

  “Mahara crouched down as low as she could.” I demonstrated, squatting as low as I could in the tent. “She knew that the serpent could only see her if she stood up tall, for he had very poor eyesight. If she was going to steal back the jewel, she would have to crawl her way into the den, just as the serpent opened the door. She was terrified, but the words of her mother rang in her ears: ‘Please, Mahara! Bring back our treasures and restore our honor!’”

  I crawled around, pretending to be Mahara. The children giggled. “Now Mahara had to be very quiet. The bones of a hundred warriors lay in the serpent’s cave. One wrong move and tha
t old snake would see her and…catch her!” I grabbed at a nearby child, who screamed in surprise. Before I could finish my tale, Pah entered our tent, a look of disgust on her face.

  “What is this? Must our tent now become a playground? Out! All of you, out! Today is a special day, and we have to get ready.”

  The children complained loudly, “We want to hear Nefret’s story! Can’t we stay a little longer?”

  Pah shook her head, and her long, straight hair shimmered. “Out! Now!” she scolded the spokesman for the group.

  “Run along. There will be time for stories later,” I promised them.

  As the heavy curtain fell behind them, I gave Pah an unhappy look. She simply shook her head. “You shouldn’t make promises that you may not be able to keep, Nefret. You do not know what the future holds.”

  “Why must you treat them so? They are only children!” I set about dressing for the day. Today we were to dress simply with an aba—a sleeveless coat and trousers. I chose green as my color, and Pah wore blue. I cinched the aba at the waist with a thick leather belt. I wore my hair in a long braid. My fingers trembled as I cinched it with a small bit of cloth.

  “Well, if nothing else, you’ll be queen of the children, Nefret.”

  About The Tale of Nefret

  Twin daughters of an ancient Bedouin king struggle under the weight of an ominous prophecy that threatens to divide them forever. Royal sibling rivalry explodes as the young women realize that they must fight for their future and for the love of Alexio, the man they both love. The Tale of Nefret chronicles their lives as they travel in two different directions. One sister becomes the leader of the Meshwesh while the other travels to Egypt as an unwilling gift to Pharaoh.