Authors: Katherine Irons

Tags: #Romance, #Paranormal, #Fantasy, #Chick-Lit, #Mythology

Seaborne (27 page)

BOOK: Seaborne

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Once Richard had concluded the call, Justin made a second, to the housekeeper’s son. He’d jotted down Nathaniel’s cell number off the board in the utility room the last time he’d been at Claire’s home. He had Mrs. Godwin’s number as well, but contacting Nathaniel seemed the most sensible thing to do.

The taciturn groundskeeper twanged an “Ey-ah?”

“Nathaniel Godwin?” Justin asked.

“Speak up. Who did you say it was?”

“Is this Mr. Godwin?”

“Ey-ah. Who is this? Sounds like you’re talking through a drainpipe.”

“Mr. Warren. Justin here. Mr. Bishop wanted me to contact you and your mother. He’s out on the West Coast, so he asked me to call. Due to weather conditions, Mr. Bishop wasn’t happy with Claire being alone at the house, so he asked me to pick her up. She’ll be staying at a hotel in Bangor for the week.”

“She won’t be at the house?”

“No. I’m taking her to Bangor this evening.”

“I was planning on being back there no later than …” The rest of Nathaniel’s sentence was cut off.

Damn this cheap over-the-counter phone
. Justin rapped it twice against his hand. “What was that?” he asked. “Poor reception. Must be the storm.”

“I said I’d be back tomorrow,” Nathaniel said. “Next day at most.”

“No need for you to rush. Mr. Bishop suggested you take a few days personal time.”

“With pay? I’m a working man. I can’t afford to go—”

“I’m certain you’ll be paid,” Justin assured him. “Now can you contact your mother, or should I call her myself?”

“You say I’ll get my full check?”

“Yes, I guarantee it. Do I need to call Mrs. Godwin’s—”

“No need. Ma’s sitting on the seat next to me. Lotta heavy traffic. We’ve been bumper to bumper for—”

“Enjoy your time off.” Justin cut him off. He had no interest in where she was or what she was doing, so long as she wouldn’t be returning to Seaborne early or calling Claire to confirm his story. Justin offered a hearty good-bye, dropped the phone on floor and stamped on it. The case crumbled, and he scooped up the pieces, started the car, and drove to the edge of the lot.

The heavily grown-up property dropped off sharply from the parking lot to the river below, but there were scraggly trees and underbrush. He didn’t want some kid coming upon the cell phone, broken or not. Reluctantly, he got out of the car and walked a few yards through the rain and mud to a spot where the edge of the road met the bridge. He tossed the phone high in the air, and although he couldn’t see the surface of the water below, he knew the evidence was going to end up in the bottom of the river.

Mud seeped into Justin’s shoes, ruining a four-hundred-dollar pair of Italian loafers and a new pair of silk socks. He hadn’t had the shoes more than two months, but you couldn’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. He promised himself that he’d replace these with two new pairs. Once the technicalities were worked out, money wouldn’t be a problem for him ever again.

It was all Claire’s fault. If she’d only been reasonable, none of this would be necessary. He would have played the role of noble, devoted husband to his grossly handicapped wife. The sympathy vote alone would have ensured that he was never without feminine company. After all, a man as wealthy and obviously virile as he was, trapped in a marriage with a human vegetable, he would have nubile women flinging themselves into his arms and begging to comfort him.

And now that he’d been forced to resort to more permanent measures, no one would ever suspect that he had a role in Claire’s tragic end. After all, Justin had driven all the way from New York City to see to the safety of his dearest ex-wife. What a pity that he’d arrive too late, some hours after the botched burglary, and discovered Claire’s body.

He got back into the car and checked his map. He didn’t trust the new satellite direction finders, couldn’t abide the idea of some robot voice giving him orders about where to turn or what highway to take. He much preferred the old-fashioned way. Not that he didn’t know the way to Seaborne; he did. He just didn’t want to miss a turn in this rotten weather. He might end up driving miles out of his way to reach the house. And it was important to arrive sometime after midnight, well after Claire was asleep. He had a key to the kitchen door and the code to the security system, also compliments of Nathaniel’s carelessness.

He decided to leave the Glock in the trunk until the last moment. There was no sense in having some do-gooder policeman stopping him without reason and seeing the pistol case on the seat beside him. Justin felt certain that he could do what had to be done without fuss. Not that he was any Rambo, but he knew the basics of using a firearm, and his contact had assured him that there was no chance of anyone tracing the weapon.

His last meeting with Carlos flashed across his mind. He was sorry that he’d had to ensure Carlos’s discretion so violently. Yet, it would have been foolish to leave a witness or to pay so much for a handgun that might be defective. He might not have a second chance to deal with Claire. So, it had all worked out for the best. Sooner or later, Carlos’s occupation would have been the end of him. The worst of it was that now Justin would have to deal with some other scum when he needed something that wasn’t strictly above-board.

CHAPTER 27

“A
lex?” Claire shivered as the pulsing light flashed and then faded, taking the image with it. Then there was nothing there but a pot of ferns and a blank wall. She laughed nervously. Is this what one bottle of beer did to her now? Was she so far gone that she was seeing specters in the night?

A blast of wind rattled the doors, and she jumped at the sound. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped by twenty degrees. It had been pleasant when she’d carried her chowder to the table. Now … Now she wasn’t hungry. She couldn’t have eaten a bite. Gooseflesh rose on her skin, and she rubbed her arms against the chill.

Ridiculous! How could she be so childish? She might be brain injured, but she wasn’t crazy. She turned the chair and prepared to wheel out of the breakfast room. She’d clean up what was left of her meal in the morning. She’d go upstairs, call someone, anyone. Have a chat about nothing important and put a romantic comedy in her DVD player.

“Claire …”

Her heart skipped a beat. The hairs on the nape of her neck rose. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “This isn’t funny.”

“Claire.”

The voice was the faintest whisper, hard to hear above the force of the wind and rain … difficult to know if it was real or her imagination. “Richard? Is that you?” If this was his idea of a joke, she’d make him wish—

Something warm and wet touched her arm. Her breath caught in her throat. Not something—someone. She could feel large fingers grasping her wrist, but she couldn’t see anything. “Stop it!” she cried. She tried to pull her arm free, but it—he was too strong. She felt an overwhelming male presence. “Let go of me!” she screamed.

Soft in her ear, someone whispered, “Claire. I mean you no harm.”

Light flashed, so brightly that she involuntarily closed her eyes. Whimpering, she snapped them open to find Alex standing there inches from her chair. At least, part of Alex was visible. His muscular bare legs were only suggestions, but the kilt or loincloth or whatever he was wearing seemed solid enough. It appeared to be gilded leather or perhaps steel armor. Alex’s chest was definitely solid. She could make out his hard muscled shoulders and the sinewy column of his neck. His face was not nearly as distinct, like a TV station without a proper signal. Still, she was certain that the image in front of her was Alex.

“What … what do you want?” she stammered, ashamed of herself for being so frightened, ashamed of herself for feeling the giddy excitement rising up inside her. She wanted this—welcomed this madness. Hell, she’d be happy if he came to kidnap her again and take her down the whirlpool to Morgan. “Where is he?” she stammered. “He’s not sick or hurt, is he?”

“Mor-gan. Coming … Wait for … Trust him.”

The pressure on her wrist faded. In an instant, Alex was gone. She stared down at her arm, wondering if she had imagined it all, wondering if she was still in her bed dreaming or if …

If what? What explanation could there be? “Trust him.” Trust Morgan. “Wait for him.” That’s what Alex had said. But this hadn’t happened before. When Alex had appeared in her bedroom, he’d been solid enough to pick her up and carry her out of the house. He hadn’t faded in and out like Casper.

“Alex. Are you here? Please. I don’t understand.”

Hands grasped both her wrists, and she heard Alex’s voice once more, not in the room, but in her head. “Listen,” he said. “Listen and feel.”

“Feel what?”

Strong fingers pressed into her flesh. Instinctively, she closed her eyes and let her mind go blank. Mist swirled around her. She had a sensation of water all around her. Shadows of fish and the sandy sea floor … She could taste salt on her tongue, feel the pressure of the water again her body. “Morgan, where are you?”

It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t working. She could feel the wheelchair padding against her back … the straps that held her in. Her legs were frozen blocks of wood. In frustration, she tried to slap them and realized that Alex wasn’t holding her arm anymore. But her legs were dead weight. Waves crashed over her head.

She was sinking … sinking. Water poured into her mouth … down her throat. Was this death? Was this how it was all meant to end? Strangely, she wasn’t frightened by the prospect … only that she might not be able to reach Morgan … to hold him in her arms.

“Morgan?”

She sensed rather than saw him. Wherever she was, everything was dark, and it was almost impossible to breathe. She tried to rise from her chair, wanted to stretch out her arms and legs and swim, but couldn’t. She was trapped by her disability, drowning with no way to save herself. “Morgan, where are you?” she cried.

A crash and the sound of shattering glass broke Claire from her trance. Raindrops splattered against her, and she felt the force of the wind blow against her face. A large limb had broken off the tree outside the breakfast room and crashed through one of the tall windows. One leafy branch jutted into the room and lay across the table.

There was no sign of Alex or of Morgan. No waves, no water other than the pounding rain. She was in her house, with what was left of her supper covered in dirt and leaves, partially in her lap, and partially spilled on the table.

“Morgan?”

She knew when she called his name that he wasn’t here. Her head hurt, as if she’d had a migraine and was coming out of it. And the cold truth was she would never know whether or not Morgan had been here. Her ghostly sighting of Alex could have been nothing more than a misfiring of brain cells that had been damaged in the boating accident.

You have to hold it together
, she told herself.
Reality is here in this room … reality is being confined to this wheelchair for the rest of my life.

Doubt crept in. Had she slammed the door on a chance at happiness when she’d refused Justin’s proposal? Had she traded a husband, friends, a child, and a life for a cold supper alone in a house with rain pouring through the window?

“Stupid is forever,” she said, and then laughed out loud. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t go there again. She’d chosen not to allow a selfish, lying man to control her life. She’d chosen independence, and if that meant dealing with ghosts and broken windows in a nor’easter, it went with the package.

She turned her chair around and pushed her way out of the breakfast room. With effort, she closed the double doors behind her. There was nothing she could do about the broken window or the tree branch tonight. Luckily, the floor was tile. Nathaniel could clean it up and replace the glass when the storm passed.

She made her way through the dining room to the hall and the elevator. She hadn’t eaten much, but she was no longer hungry. Her bar refrigerator upstairs was stocked with an assortment of snacks, juice, and water, so she wouldn’t perish.

She was convinced she’d made the right decision about Justin, and she was well rid of him. If she’d considered his offer simply because she wanted to be a mother, maybe she should pursue private adoption. There must be some woman who would see the advantages she could give a child, regardless of her handicap. She might make an excellent choice for a baby or an older child with special medical needs. Race or age didn’t matter to her.

She wouldn’t give up on finding her own birth mother either. If the agency she was using couldn’t help her, it might be wise to consider switching to another. New detectives might have fresh ideas or sources. The chances were that her mother was out there somewhere, and she might just be waiting for Claire to contact her.

If she put it to Richard when he was in the right mood, she might even convince him to share more information about her birth mother with her. She’d call him tomorrow and they’d patch up their disagreement. Richard was bossy and he’d never given up attempting to run her life, but she’d never doubted his love.

Maybe she
would
consider that clinic in Switzerland, she mused as she closed the elevator door behind her and began the short roll down the hall to her bedroom suite. A change of scenery might do her good. If she stayed here much longer, they’d be scooping her up with a net and carrying her off to Pineview.

Whatever craziness had happened downstairs in the breakfast room, the second floor was perfectly normal. She felt exhilarated at the thought of actively pursuing her dreams rather than simply waiting for a phone to ring or someone to help her. She’d start checking adoption agencies on her laptop tonight.

She turned the knob on her bedroom door and was pushing it open when a particularly strong gust of wind hit the corner of the house. Wood creaked, the lights flickered once, and then went out.

In Atlantis, Halimeda lay moaning on the stone floor of a cell deep in the cellars of the palace. Never had she imagined such agony. She felt as if her insides were being slowly devoured by crabs or sliced partially away and roasted over hot lava while still attached. She curled into a fetal position on the stone floor and clawed at her face. To her horror, pieces of skin and flesh came away. Blood oozed out of her pores, and her hair fell out in clumps.

She tried to scream, but her tongue was swollen and she couldn’t raise her voice above a strangled rasp. Her eyesight was dimming. The stench of vomit, urine, and feces hung in a cloud around her. “Poseidon,” she croaked. “Take pity. I’m innocent. It wasn’t me, I swear. It wasn’t me.”

Blisters rose on her arms and legs; her scales peeled away, and her skin curled. “Caddoc!” she begged. “Help me!” She tried to think of him … of her only son, but the pain was too great. She’d never imagined such suffering.

How could this happen to her? Who had betrayed her? How had Poseidon guessed what she’d done?

She tried to tell herself that it would soon be over, but she knew that it wasn’t true. Without the antidote, the poison killed whoever drank of it, but death was lingering and excruciating. And the brain remained functional to the end, so that the victim would feel every drop of anguish until the heart stopped pumping.

Halimeda attempted to summon her protective spells, ancient and dark formulas that should have guarded her from such an end, but the searing fire burned and charred its way through her body and mind, rendering her helpless before the slow spread of the poison.

One last hope flared in her memory. Melqart. “Melqart.” She panted, seeking enough strength to call out to him. “Lord of the darkness, help me. I pray you, heed my cry!”

Mocking laughter, deep and malignant, echoed off the walls and assaulted her wretched body. She whispered her plea into the void. “Melqart, do not abandon your servant. Have I not always been faithful?”

“Have you? Have you? Have you?” The booming voice was inside her head, but the thing materializing in her cell was real. The man was naked, silver-white and covered in tiny fish scales—a magnificently endowed male with two legs and two arms, a head of black curling hair, and eyes as red as pomegranate seeds.

For seconds, cold terror pierced Halimeda’s skin as though from a hundred spear points. As she watched, the image grew blurry, and for an instant the beautiful man traded his nearly human features for a horned reptilian head, and an extra set of arms. Her scream became a gargle, and she wished she had died rather than call up this loathsome and evil creature. Hooded eyes stared at her, and it bared daggerlike teeth in a scarlet maw. “Do you know me?”

“Melqart?”

The laughter rolled over her once more.

“More or less. One of my simpler manifestations.” A tail covered with tiny hooked spines coiled and lashed, curling around her bare leg.

Halimeda screamed as a long strip of raw flesh tore away.

“Does this mean you’re reconsidered my previous offer?”

“Heal me, and I’ll do whatever you want.” She was beyond caring, beyond thought. Only the primitive desire to live mattered.

He came closer. A forked tongue flicked against her face. The stench of a thousand bodies rotting in the sun blasted into her nostrils. She gagged and drool spewed from the holes in her face.

“I can save you, restore your beauty tenfold. With a flick of my fingers, I can make you whole and give you eternal life. Will you pay my price, Halimeda?”

“Can you … can you stop … stop the pain?”

“I can do better than that. I can promise that you will never feel physical pain again.”

“Do it, then. Do it.” In her excitement, she forgot how fragile her flesh had become and parts of her lower lip crumbled and fell to bounce off a ravaged breast.

“And your soul is mine.”

“You can have it.” Halimeda groaned. “My body and soul. Just take the pain from me.”

“Do you think me a fool?” he blasted. “You summoned me! You need me! My price has increased.” Again, the image wavered, and she saw not the demon but the silver-scaled man with the glowing red irises.

Her eyes widened. She tried to ask him what else she could offer, but she was too frightened to speak.

“It’s your son I want. Give me Caddoc.”

To her shame, she didn’t hesitate, but nodded.

“His soul for your life!”

BOOK: Seaborne

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