Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4) (2 page)

The perfect end to a romantic evening with the guy I loved:
going home, closing the door on the world, stripping off the costumes, climbing
into bed and making up for all the time we’d lost during the long, dark months
of our separation. The perfect end. But not for Luke and me.

When I awoke the next day to the sun streaming into my
little bedroom in my little cottage, I was alone. And though it had been this
way – had
had
to be this way – for the month since I’d come home, still
my first waking action was to stretch out a hand and smooth the cool, unrumpled
pillow beside me and wish he was there.

We had tried, of course we had. That first night after I
returned and the next, we’d been inseparable. Nothing could come between us; we
would not let it. The heady euphoria of reunion left no space for the story of
our time apart, for the limitations I’d been warned we would face now that I
was a Cerulean.

He said, ‘Please tell me you’re here to stay.’

I said, ‘If you’ll have me, if you want me here, I’ll never
leave you again.’

And that was it: we were Luke-and-Scarlett,
Scarlett-and-Luke once more, two halves of something bigger, better, brighter
than its parts.

But it couldn’t last, the blissful honeymoon. The morning of
my third day home, reality blew apart our hazy, happy dream when Luke awoke but
I didn’t – not when Luke nudged me, not when he poked me, not when he shook me
and shouted my name. Plunged into too-familiar panic, he phoned his sister and
raised the alarm. Thankfully, Cara had the presence of mind to call in the one
person who knew what to do (despite the fact he was also the one person Luke
was loath to contact).

Once fellow Cerulean Jude arrived on the scene, calm was
quickly restored. Humans were banished from the cottage, and free from their
draining presence I slept off my stupor for the rest of the day and awoke
refreshed and re-energised – and then horrified to discover the drama I’d
caused.

A sighing Jude sent me on my way with an earful of warnings,
and I headed straight to Luke and Cara’s house, where I sat far away from them
in their living room and told them of my experiences in the wild blue yonder.
They listened silently, taking it all in:

My imprisonment on an island mere miles from Twycombe.

My Cerulean purpose: to create with Jude a small army of
babies that I would not bring up.

Our escape from Cerulea, and stakeout in Newquay for the
Fallen.

My reunion with Sienna, and its terrible, damning conclusion.

I told them everything, every detail, but one: the drunken
kiss I’d shared with Jude on a dark beach. There was no need to share what had
been a mistake – a liberating one, as it turned out, because it had cemented
that Jude and I were no more than friends. Jude loved Sienna. I loved Luke.

But would Luke love me still, want me still, given the
limitations we faced with him human and me Cerulean? Fear of his rejection had
held me back, but now I had to be entirely honest with him. He had to
understand that to be with me meant not quite
being
with me. Our time
together could only ever be short, fleeting. His humanity drained me – as a
Cerulean, I couldn’t be with him constantly; I needed space, lots of space, to
survive.

‘My grandfather may have been a Cerulean,’ I told him. ‘I
mean, I think he was. And he managed to be with my grandmother, though she was
not a Cerulean, in the cottage for many years. I remember them as happy. But
you have to know, Luke, that Grandad was always... distant. Detached. As I’d
have to be. If we were together...’

‘If!?’

Luke leapt up from the sofa, cheeks red, hands fisted. I’d
expected anger. Sadness for all we couldn’t do together now. Hesitancy, at
least. But he said:

‘There’s no if. I’ll take moments,
lots
of moments,
with you over none – of course I will.’

‘But they say it’s impossible for a Cerulean and a human to
be together...’

‘Well, “they” say it’s impossible to die and come back to
life too, and yet here you are.’ He crossed the room then and took me by the
shoulders and looked me in the eyes and said firmly, ‘Being with you isn’t impossible,
Scarlett. It’s essential.’

And that was that. He was mine and I was his, and the future
stretched out ahead of us, full of the promise of laughter and passion and
tenderness – except at night, when I retreated to my isolated cottage on the
cliff, alone.

I had chosen Luke over a life in Cerulea, and he had chosen
me over a life of normality, and they were simple choices, right choices. And
yet my hand stroked that lonely pillow beside me.

*

Downstairs, I sat in my usual chair at the big pine table in
the kitchen. I started each day here, in this spot – my favourite because it
pulled together the very best of old and new. Old: the chair made by my
grandfather in his garden shed; the table bearing the remnants of felt-tip pen
streaks from my childhood days; the Aga breathing out heat. New: the
shock-proof toaster and kettle; the regularly restocked cake tin; the colourful
framed Joan Miró print; the fridge magnet letters arranged to spell
THERE’S
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
.

Breakfast was a warm, sweet affair: two croissants smothered
with apricot jam, alongside a cup of hot chocolate to take the chill off the
spring morning. I ought, I suppose, to have opted for healthy, rabbit-food
cereal, but after four months stuck on an island without so much as a sniff of
sugar, I was making up for lost time. Plus, today I needed the energy from a
big breakfast.

Not that I had much planned for the day itself. I never did.
Daytimes were quiet. I pottered about the cottage, scouted out treasures online
for Luke’s Project, emailed my mum. Walked Chester on the quiet cliff path and
surfed deserted waves beneath the noonday sun. Navigated the twisting lanes of
the South Hams in my Mini, stopping to explore a footpath or take in a sea
view. And sometimes, I took a trip into the sleepy village of Twycombe, to pick
up some groceries or lay flowers on graves at St Mary’s church.

They were calm days, days of freedom I treasured after
months of captivity. But there was an aching emptiness in them. I lived for the
moment that five sonorous peals rang out from the clock tower, signalling the
opening of that window of time when I could be with others.

Then, Cara and I would rummage through her latest vintage
clothes delivery and play dress-up, giggling like toddlers in rhinestone tiaras
and too-big heels. Then, I would sit in Si’s back garden and drink soda and eat
pizza and listen to surfers bantering over the steady pulse of the stereo’s
base. Then, I would be with Luke – walking on the beach hands entwined,
devouring his latest creation in the kitchen, sitting on his roof terrace to
watch the sunset, curled up beside him in his bed, lost in him. In those golden
hours before darkness set in and Luke’s lips were brushing mine and whispering ‘Good
night’, all was right with the world.

But there was something missing from the safe daily routine
I had fallen into. I was a Cerulean. And though I wouldn’t stand with my fellow
Ceruleans – neither those on Cerulea nor those who were Outcast – still being
Cerulean meant something to me. I had a gift. I meant to use it. And tonight,
all going well, I would work out how.

My eyes were straying to the croissant packet – perhaps just
one more, to fuel me up for the day’s preparations? – when I felt the tugging
sensation I’d come to associate with the presence of a person, a human, nearby.
I didn’t mind the interruption. The small pleasure of a croissant paled in
comparison with what I knew awaited me on the doorstep.

‘Morn–’ was all Luke managed to get out before I smothered
his greeting in a kiss, and by the time I released my grip on the dark curls on
the back of his head and we broke apart, he was reduced to a simple, ‘Mmmm…’

We looked at each other intensely for a heartbeat, two, and
then Luke gave himself a little shake and said, ‘Right, I’ll release the beast.’

He turned and strode across the drive to his van, which was
rocking on its wheels thanks to the energetic jumping of the deranged old
English sheepdog within. I leaned against the doorframe and watched Luke’s
every move, admiring his tall, broad physique, visible through a paint-splashed
t-shirt and ripped jeans. I was picturing removing said t-shirt later that
evening when the back door of the van was flung open and eighty pounds of fur
and frenzy pounded across the drive and leapt into my arms – which weren’t
remotely strong enough to take the weight, so I promptly dumped the wriggling,
writhing dog at my feet.

‘Chester, sit,’ I told him sternly.

He gave an elated ‘woof’ in reply and then took off into the
house at lightning speed, sending the hat stand by the front door crashing to
the floor in his wake.

‘Well, that
Dog Training For Dummies
book was money
well spent,’ I said.

‘Stick to bribery with chocolate drops,’ called Luke.

He’d closed the back door of the van and was standing at the
driver’s door, ready to get in. As always when he dropped Chester off – which
he did most mornings on his way to work – he hesitated before driving away. It
felt so fleeting, this morning liaison. But then that was the idea: many
human-free hours a day for me, so that we could be together properly later.

‘What’s the plan today?’ I asked.

‘Knocking down walls,’ he returned cheerily. Even from here
I could see the sparkle in his eyes at the thought of wielding a massive hammer
at old plasterboard.

‘Have fun!’ I told him.

‘You too. See you later.’ He climbed up into the driver’s
seat, but paused before closing the door and called, ‘You
sure
you don’t
want me to bring anything later? Or come early and help you… set up?’

‘Nope. I have it all in hand.’

He did an impeccable job of keeping the doubt from his eyes;
just smiled, shut the door and blew me one last kiss before starting the
engine. The van roared off down the lane and turned the bend and slipped out of
sight. I waited until I could hear nothing but rustling grasses and birdsong
and the distant call of the sea, and then I made myself turn away.

Inside the cottage, I tracked down Chester. He was in the
kitchen, gnawing a squeaky bone with relish. His big, innocent eyes said, ‘Love
me.’ The croissant crumbs all over his furry face said, ‘Scold me.’

‘Chester,’ I told him, ‘you are a bad, bad, bad… lovely dog.’

He opened his jaws in a slobbery grin.

‘Now stay,’ I commanded, ‘while I get your lead on.’

Fifteen minutes and a smashed vase later, I had Chester on
the lead and was walking him along the winding coastal path to the west. I’d
planned an hour’s walk, a break in a field for me to rest and Chester to hurtle
about off his lead, then an about-turn and an hour’s walk back: a peaceful
excursion for me (few hikers followed this trail) but, more importantly, an
energy-sapping activity for Chester.

It worked: back at the cottage an unusually docile Chester
chomped his way through a bowl of dry dog food and then promptly fell asleep
sprawled belly-up in the middle of the living room floor, leaving me free to
get on with the many jobs I had to do.

Only in between sweeping and mopping and scrubbing and
dusting and shifting furniture and hunting out a tablecloth and folding napkins
and attempting to fashion an artistic table centrepiece out of flowers from the
garden and ribbons from my grandmother’s sewing box, I kept getting
interrupted.

First Cara, via text:

Cara: Hey, hon. What’s the dress code for tonight?

Me: There isn’t one. Wear whatever you like.

Cara: Way too many options then! Can it be a swinging
sixties night?

Me: Nope.

Cara: Why not? My legs look GREAT in a miniskirt.

Me: So wear one then. But I’m not telling the others they
have to dress up.

Cara: Who doesn’t love fancy dress?

Me: The boys.

Cara: Si does!

Me: Then he can dress up. But I had enough trouble
convincing the others to come without telling them they have to wear some
Austin Powers-style getup.

Cara: OK. Later.

Next my mother, on the phone:

Mum: Scarlett! How’s it going?

Me: Fine, Mum. Just looking for a gravy boat – do we have
a gravy boat?

Mum: We must have. Your grandfather loved gravy. Ate bowlfuls
as soup! Did you check the sideboard in the living room?

Me: Hang on… Yep, got it. Thanks, Mum.

Mum: You’re welcome. Did the delivery man come yet?

Me: No.

Mum: Well, I bunged him an extra twenty, so he’d better
make it in time.

Me: It’ll be fine.

Mum: ’Course it will. I’m so excited for you!

Me: Mum, it’s just dinner.

Mum: I know, I know. I’ll rephrase: I’m just so glad
you’re back from your travels, and you and Luke have got over whatever little
hiccup made you split up, and –

Me: Me too, Mum. See you on the fifteenth?

Mum: Yes, absolutely!

Next a bloke in a UPS uniform at the door:

Delivery bloke: Scarlett Blake?

Me: Yep.

Delivery bloke: Sign here, please.

Then Jude via text:

Jude: You sure about tonight?

Me: Yes. It’s time to clear the air.

Jude: Okay. Just keep Luke away from the salsa.

Me: It’s cool, Jude. It’ll be fine.

And finally, Luke via text:

Luke: You sure about tonight?

Me: Yes. It’s time to clear the air.

Luke: Okay. Just keep Jude away from the
guacamole.

Me: It’s cool, Luke. It’ll be fine.

Would it be fine, though? Come early evening, with just
minutes to go until my first guest was due, I was slumped on the back doorstep in
a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

The dinner party had seemed a good idea a week ago when I’d
come up with it, while watching an episode of
Come Dine with Me
with
Luke. A neutral environment, delicious food, free-flowing drinks and a friendly
atmosphere – surely these were the ingredients for breaking down barriers and
forming new alliances? Cara and Si certainly thought so, when I explained my
plan. But Luke and Jude took a lot of persuading.

‘I still don’t like that guy,’ was Luke’s complaint.

‘He still doesn’t like me,’ was Jude’s.

I could have just left it at that. Since they’d known each
other, Luke and Jude hadn’t seen eye to eye. Last time they’d seen each other,
a simple conversation had descended into a heated dip-throwing incident. There
wasn’t much animosity on Jude’s side, as far as I could tell. But Luke had a
long history of mistrusting Jude, and since I’d got back and told the tale of
my time away, he’d been deeply conflicted. Jude had taken me from him, withheld
the truth, kept me on that island for months and very nearly faux-married me.
But he’d also saved my life, healed Cara’s legs and given me my freedom so that
I could come home.

It was all such a tumultuous, emotional mess – not something
a typical guy would feel inclined to sort out. Better to keep a distance, they’d
both told me. Better to leave well alone.

Better for Luke, perhaps, but not for Jude and me! Four
months I’d spent alone with Jude; for four months he’d been everything to me –
friend, protector, partner in crime. I couldn’t just scrub all that away now that
I was home. I wouldn’t. Plus, Jude was going through a bad time, I knew, having
lost the girl he loved and the trust of the leader he respected. I owed him my
loyalty and support now.

But it was more than that – more than some selfless desire
to be there for Jude. I needed him. He was a Cerulean, and my guide to what I
had become. I could no longer stand to be entirely cut off from that world and
attempt to live the life of a simple human when I so clearly wasn’t.

So tonight, I’d promised myself, the vast chasm between Luke
and Jude, Twycombe and Cerulea, human and Cerulean would narrow. It was a
Herculean task I’d set myself. Could I pull it off?

In a corner of the garden a plum tree blurred out of focus.
Frowning, I squinted at the disturbance in the air. Then I stood up, smiling
broadly.

Of course the dinner party would be a success. Because I had
a secret weapon. And he had just materialised in my garden.

‘Michael!’ I called warmly as my Cerulean friend walked
across the lawn towards me.

‘Hello, Scarlett,’ he said.

He stopped in front of me and for a second we stood
hesitantly. My instinct was to stretch up and give him a hug, but he was
holding a large leather portfolio in front of him like a shield, so I settled
for a smile.

‘How are you?’ I asked him. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘I’m well. It’s been five weeks, actually. We last saw each
other at Si’s house, when I came to tell you about Evangeline’s reaction to
your departure and to let you know where you might find the Fallen.’

‘Right,’ I said brightly.

As if I’d forgotten our last meeting, which had led to
finding my long-lost sister and discovering that she was a fully paid-up member
of the Fallen. But what I had forgotten, I realised now, was how awkward
Michael could be. Having been brought up the lone human in Cerulea and kept
separate until his Becoming, Michael had spent far too much of his life alone.
The result was a sober and pensive guy with a lack of social finesse.

Still, beyond the slight oddness, there was something about
Michael that made me like him. His honesty with me, perhaps, and his willingness
to help me when others didn’t. Or was it simply that with his hunched shoulders
and darting eyes he reminded me of a frightened, untamed animal, and a primal
instinct drove me to befriend him?

Speaking of untamed animals...

‘Chester!’ I yelled at the miscreant mutt, who had appeared
out of nowhere and was intent on burying his nose in my guest’s crotch. ‘Sorry,
sorry,’ I said to a rigid Michael as I grabbed Chester’s collar and hauled him
off. ‘He’s only being friendly.’

Michael said nothing, but he was eying the dog warily so I
suggested, ‘Shall we go inside? Chester can stay in the garden.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

In the kitchen – door firmly closed – Michael said, ‘I
brought you something,’ and he held out a large brown-paper-wrapped rectangle
that he’d been concealing with the portfolio.

The shape gave away the contents. Michael was an amazing
artist; I’d seen his works at Kikorangi, the Cerulean school at which he lived
and worked. This was surely a canvas.

I said at once, ‘Wow, thank you!’

He nodded. ‘I hope you like it. It’s one of
my
paintings.’

I knew what he meant. In his studio at Kikorangi, two very
different styles had been evident in the paintings displayed on the walls – a
restrained, careful, true-to-life rendering of pretty landscapes and seascapes
and vases of flowers, and an altogether bolder, more passionate, more liberated
abstract style. The former was an appeasement of Evangeline’s expectations for
art; the latter was Michael’s true style.

‘I’ll open it later,’ I promised. ‘When I have time to
properly take it in.’

I sat him at the table and fetched him a glass of juice – he
refused a beer – and then slipped out to the living room to place the canvas
and Michael’s portfolio safely on the desk. Back in the kitchen, I opened the
oven to check on its contents.

‘Something smells good,’ commented Michael.

‘Doesn’t it?’ I said, turning and beaming at him.

Michael looked confused, and I realised I’d perhaps sounded
a little too surprised by the results of my own cooking. The clock caught my
eye. The other guests would be arriving soon. I’d better make the best of these
last minutes alone with Michael.

‘So,’ I said casually, coming to sit opposite him at the
table and sipping my own juice, ‘how’s everything at Kikorangi, and on Cerulea?’

‘Same old,’ replied Michael. ‘Disturbingly so –’

A mournful howl at the back door cut him off.

‘CHESTER, NO!’ I yelled. ‘Carry on,’ I told Michael.

‘Er, well, there’s nothing to tell, actually. Everything’s
as it’s ever been. Business as usual. No one mentions you, or your sister, or
Jude’s AWOL week openly. It’s like the past few months never happened.’

‘I guess wiping a rebellion out of Cerulean history is
easier than dealing with it,’ I said carefully. It was a test – to date,
Michael had gone further than any Cerulean I knew in criticising their society.
Had I guessed correctly that he was something of a dissenter in their midst? Or
was he here tonight as a spy, on Evangeline’s orders?

His answer said it all: ‘Just because no one mentions it
openly
,
doesn’t mean it’s forgotten. And certainly not by me.’

I nodded. I understood what he was saying: I could trust
him.

‘Before the others come,’ I said, ‘I wanted to ask, because
it’s been bothering me so much... When I found Sienna, she told me that there’s
a family connection. That Evangeline is my great-grandmother, and that my
grandfather, Peter, was her son – and a Cerulean. Is that true, Michael? I know
you’ve looked through Evangeline’s papers before. Have you come across anything
that confirms this?’

He stared at me. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, were a
funny shade of brown, I noticed. Eventually, he said, ‘No, I didn’t know that.
But I can try to find out about it.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I really –’

A loud Tarzan call interrupted me.

‘Message,’ Michael announced, and he dug his mobile out of
his back pocket and scanned the screen.

I was just trying to amalgamate sombre bloke with jolly
jungle ringtone when my own phone began chirping. I took it out of the wide
pocket in my apron (yes, apron – I was going the whole hog tonight) and read
it:

Scarlett, sorry. Can’t make it. Something’s come up.
Sorry! J x

When I looked up Michael was watching me. ‘Jude?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Me too.’ He sighed. ‘Oh well, can’t be helped.’

I searched for something to say that didn’t begin ‘Bloody
coward’. I was hopping mad. After all it had taken me to set this meal up, one
half of the dip-hurling duo had casually backed out at the eleventh hour,
leaving any chance of a truce well and truly scuppered. There was no excuse for
it. Next time I saw Jude I’d…

‘People,’ said Michael. ‘Getting closer. Can you feel it?’

I could. That tiny tug that said someone was close. No, not
someone, someones. A second later the roar of an engine was audible, quickly
drowned out by Chester’s delighted barking.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ asked Michael.

‘No! Of course not!’ I said. ‘I’m happy to have you here,
Michael. And I know the others will like getting to know you. And then there’s Luke’s
thing…’

‘Okay. Thank you,’ he said quietly.

Another wave of rage swept over me. Jude wasn’t just letting
me down; he was letting Michael down too. One of the reasons I’d invited
Michael here today was for Jude’s sake, so he’d have a friend here and feel
less singled out. But now he’d abandoned Michael with us, knowing full well how
difficult the introverted lad would find this evening alone.

No, I decided resolutely, Jude or no Jude, Michael was not
alone. Not on my watch.

‘Come on,’ I said, standing up. ‘Come and meet the others
with me.’

And as I led a somewhat stiff Michael to the front door,
behind which raucous laughter was ringing out, I reflected that really neither
of us had good reason to be nervous. After all, what could two Ceruleans – people
with power over life itself – possibly have to fear from dinner with a graphic
design student, a fashion designer and a chef? Well, other than the dinner
itself, perhaps, given my track record in the kitchen…