Through the Maelstrom (16 page)

"We should thank her in the morning."

She agreed. After cleaning up, donning fluffy bathrobes provided by the cruise line, ordering room service, and cutting the lights, Serena laid back in Christophe's arms, listening to him tell her about his life in the eighteenth century. It was all so surreal, yet...she'd seen the maelstrom with her own eyes. She turned to look out the window at the precise moment another shooting star passed by.

Thank you.
She closed her eyes, willing the message to whatever power had seen fit to grant her birthday wish. Who said wishes never come true?

N
aturally, Serena convinced herself it had all been a dream by the time she awoke the next morning. The first clue it was real had to be the very handsy male kissing the back of her neck and urging her to wake by gently stroking and licking her skin. His erection pressed into her hip and she grinned. What was she to do at the hands of a notorious pirate?

She had a few ideas, but she told him they had to wait until morning breath was defeated. She was glad he'd adapted well to the better hygiene of this century, and after using the bathroom, washing hands and faces, and brushing their teeth, the bed play was back on full force.

They were in the shower when Becky Ann returned. Serena groaned, having forgotten her friend had been put out for the night and discarded clothes and rumbled sheets were evidence enough to prove what they'd been doing. There was no way she could live this down if her friend realized Christophe was in the room with her.

"
Five
of them!
Five?
Holy shit, Serena!"

Christophe started to laugh and she clamped a hand over his mouth. Serena, however, was seconds away from melting into the floor. She'd never live down her wanton ways. Never.

"He's in the shower with you too?"

The door banged open, releasing the steam they'd built up and allowing in the cooler air. Her skin prickled with goosebumps.

"What the hell!" Serena stuck her head out of the shower curtain. "Ever heard of privacy? Go away."

Becky Ann's clothes were askew and her hair a mess. She'd definitely done the walk of shame through the ship to return here. Ordinarily, that would make Serena feel sorry for her, but right now she wasn't able to move past being called out for the number of times she'd had sex over the past eleven hours. She definitely wouldn't admit that the banana flavor wasn't
as bad
as she thought it would be, but it still wasn't that wonderful. Worth it though, to see Christophe's reactions.

That memory sent delicious heat through her and she shivered.

"I stayed away the entire night for you." Becky Ann smirked. "Is that a hickey on your neck?"

"What?" She pulled herself back into the shower, away from her friend's critical eye. "No."

"Not judging! By the way, Josiah is
hung
. Also I want to give Christophe a high five."

She'd stayed with Josiah last night? Well, that explained her belated appearance since the spectacle last night.
Wait...high five Christophe?
"Why the hell would you do that?"

"Hmm... Can you define 'do?'" Becky Ann said cheerfully. "Because if you mean Josiah, I don't think I need to explain because you've seen..." she paused, and when no comment was made, she sighed, as if realizing details would not be sought. "If you mean the high five, it's because he pulled you out of your shell, duh. I witnessed the crazy woo-woo whirlpool shit last night, and the show-stopping kiss that shut it down. See what magical things making out with hot pirates can get you?"

"Go away," Serena hissed, peeking back out the side of the shower curtain. Christophe was laughing so hard now he was shaking. He'd pay for that later, but would probably enjoy it.

Becky Ann stood her ground and leaned against the counter where she studied her cuticles as if she had nowhere else to go. "Not until you admit I was right to push you at Christophe since it all worked out better than a movie. No one got poisoned. Okay, there was the shark...but no one got
eaten
..." A wicked smirk crossed her face as she arched an eyebrow. "Or did they?"

Christophe had to sit down in the tub to keep from falling over. So much for her sexy morning shower. "Becky!"

Her friend held up her hands in response to Serena's shriek. "Calm your tits, I won't ask about the details. Until you're alone."

Jesus Christ, would she have to get out, naked, and push her friend out the door? "Fine. Thank you. Go away.
Please!
"

Smiling brightly, Becky Ann curtseyed. "You're welcome." Finally, she stepped out of the bathroom and shut the door. "But I'm changing clothes so give me ten minutes to be out of the way!"

Serena leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, covering her face with her hands as the warm water trickled over her skin. God, how mortifying. Some people had no filter whatsoever, and she'd had to befriend the one whose filter had never existed. She couldn't look at Christophe. What if he thought her slutty for going through five condoms with him in so short a time? What if, in the morning light, he realized he'd gotten what he wanted from her and there were bigger fish in the sea of the new century he was in?

"Your friend is most entertaining." Christophe said, and she heard him maneuvering off the floor of the tub. Suddenly she was in his arms, and he was rubbing her back in soothing circles. "But she should learn when enough is enough. I'm sorry I laughed. It took me by surprise. I'm not sure when I will be used to women speaking so openly about private matters, and she merely continued with it undaunted."

"She's going to be merely
dead
if she embarrasses me one more time." It was frustrating having extroverted friends. She loved that girl like a sister though, which was the only reason she put up with the trauma. "And you can't play the time travel card every time you laugh at something she says that's out of line."

"Card?"

"Turn of phrase." She looked up at him, her lip twitching at the puzzled expression on his face. "I know there's a lot of adjusting for you, but I have to as well. I'm used to being alone. I'm not really good at being so...exposed."

"Ah," he said. "We all look silly when we are teased, love. That's how things are. But know this." He kissed her briefly and tilted her head up so she would look at him instead of his shoulder. "I will never think ill of you."

They bathed in silence, waiting for the sound of the door closing loudly to signal Becky Ann's departure before they turned the water off and grabbed their towels. It gave Serena time to think. Before they docked, she wanted to visit Mrs. Baker one last time and make sure they had each other's information. She knew Christophe wanted to find work to provide for her, but until he had a modern identity and a background to be searched, he didn't exist in any databases. She'd never thought she'd have to participate in document forgery, but if the Powers That Be thought it fitting to send her a soulmate, the least they could do was turn a blind eye so she could keep him.

As he helped her towel dry her hair, he asked, "What's making you frown, love?" He seemed to have a knack for picking up on shifting emotions. As soon as her happiness drifted into anything sad or even stressful, he would ease her back into contentment. She could ask where he'd been all her life, but she knew the answer.

She shrugged. "Wondering about things. The future. Where do we go from here? Where to hide Becky Ann's dead body."

"You'd miss her," he warned.

"Only a little. We can build a sculpture in her honor. One that can't talk."
There's a thought.

"As for what happens later, we'll deal with it as it comes." Christophe traced the edge of the towel she had wrapped across her breasts, tugging to catch a peek. "Anything I can do to keep your mind off tomorrow and here with me?"

The desire in his expression was worth any amount of embarrassment if she was to be rewarded with pleasure. She couldn't have received a better birthday gift.

"Well," Serena shivered as he stripped her of her towel completely, tossing it with his into the tub. "There
are
two more condoms." And she'd be buying more the minute they made it back to the mainland. "Should I prepare to be boarded?" It was his fault she was turning into a wanton woman, but then again...what could one expect when falling for a pirate.

––––––––

If you enjoyed
Through the Maelstrom
, check out these great paranormal and fantasy reads by Rebekah Lewis

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THE CURSED SATYROI SERIES

Wicked Satyr Nights

Midnight at the Satyr Inn

Under the Satyr Moon

Mercury Rising

Satyr from the Shadows

––––––––

THE WONDERLAND SERIES

The Vanishing

The Unraveling

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Turn the page for a sneak peek at
Wicked Satyr Nights
and
The Unraveling
!

The Cursed Satyroi, Book 1

––––––––

T
he clamor of nearby voices woke Pan from a most relaxing slumber. Morning sunlight glared through the canopy of trees above, mocking him. Because the times he managed to sleep dreamlessly were few and far between, the disruption grated his nerves. He gritted his teeth at the sounds and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the bright onslaught. After adjusting, he yawned and supposed it was time to get up and occupy himself somehow. Finding a method to distract from his eternal boredom hadn't gone very well lately.

There wasn't much to do aside from playing tricks on the hapless humans. He supposed he could fall back on old habits and allow himself to be ruled by his lust as he had three thousand years ago, but he worried he wouldn't be able to stop if he did. He'd been close to mindless, living for the pleasure of it. Something he'd been able to control enough around others like him, but not entirely.

And now...
Pan lived for a nice, leisurely nap. But at least he did eventually rouse, unlike so many of the other gods of olden times. Last he'd heard, most of them were just shy of comatose within their fortified realm of Mount Olympus, hoping to wake the day they had followers once more.
Idiots.
They were long forgotten, enjoyed as bedtime stories and fanciful movie characters. It amused him beyond words.

The gods had become lessons in morality, gender, religion, sexuality, and culture. Reduced to a fictional existence because the humans who told their stories had long since died. Those who remained couldn't wrap their minds around anything other than science and what their own two eyes could perceive as reality. Sure, there were several religions that believed in a higher power capable of defying the laws of science, but even those individuals would scoff when confronted with the idea of an extraordinary being and turn the other cheek. Unfortunately, those who were open-minded feared the worst from the unexplained, considering anything unheard of as unholy monsters. Demons.

Pan stretched before reaching his hand behind him to brush the moss and grass from his denim-encased backside. He'd gone through a period of nudity while living in seclusion at one point, a few centuries back. Wearing clothes served him no purpose or comfort, but rolling over on a pinecone was even less wonderful than the freedom being naked provided. In the old days, he covered himself in animal furs or even the light fabrics of the Greek and Roman civilizations of long past. But since arriving in North America, he'd had to adapt to new cultural trends should he wish to go among society without drawing attention to himself. The clothing over the decades changed rapidly, but he found jeans agreeable. Luckily, he could manifest his clothes, as he needed them tailor-made, so to speak. It was difficult to shop for pants that worked with hooves rather than feet. Too much length could trip him, and balance was still an issue—even for a god.

Not that anyone could see him under his cloaking glamour, but if they could, they'd see a tall man in denim and a T-shirt. If they glanced at his head or his feet they'd believe he'd escaped from a circus sideshow. Unlike the common depiction of satyrs, his legs hadn't become scrawny appendages that could barely support his weight. Where his calves would have met with ankles and heels, they curved in the opposite direction of his knee and into thick cloven hooves. Curling along the sides of his head were two horns, like those of a ram. They were bulky and hard, the ends blunted.

Mythology painted satyrs in various different forms, but he didn't have a goatee or elongated ears. His legs were hairier than a normal man's past his knees, but looked like any other man's above mid-thigh. He didn't have a tail or any other animal-like features. In truth, he was not part animal at all, though the horns, hooves, and hairy legs might seem that way. He had been cursed into this form, and his body had grown, reshaped, and mutated into the beastly appearance. An appearance was all it was; he didn't take on animal behavioral characteristics or anything crazy like that. He was just malformed and horny.
Eternally horny.
The punishment for a crime he'd not meant to commit. A crime that hadn't been truly a crime. A misunderstanding really...

Fortunately for him, he was a god. He had powers at his disposal which allowed him refuge from his fate, but he always reverted to satyr form when he wasn't focused on cloaking himself in one illusion or another. He could appear as a he did once, like a human, although he never was one. If scientists had been able to study the ancients, they would have categorized gods and humans in the same family in their taxonomy charts, perhaps even the same genus. The species, however, was where things would definitely differ. Gods were immortal, for the most part, and had special gifts—powers, like magic. Humans were mortal. Mundane.

The duet of yammering voices reminded Pan he had trespassers to elude. He debated wandering off in the opposite direction in order to continue enjoying the blissful solitude that was his life. Most days. He pondered if it wasn't time to find a new home as he wasn't in the mood to expel the energy it took to avoid people who hiked so far into the Pine Barrens. For them to do so meant they were looking for something. About eight times out of ten they were hunting him.