The Thrice Born Page 20

  He sat in the shaded cool of the stone, knowing he was both fortunate to escape a beating, and damned to have lost any chance of contact with Astara.

  That was the worst part. He could live with the beatings, but not without her.

  Jacinto didn’t have long to wait to find out if Astara had learned of his imprisonment. She visited him briefly the next morning, against orders, he was sure, but she was a welcome sight in the damp cave.

  A look of sorrow and dismay fell over her as she met him just out of reach of his chains. She shook her head, looking to his cot and chains before her eyes lifted to his face.

  This is unforgivable,” she said in a hurt tone. “You’re wearing double the shackles.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, stepping back into the cave confines, hoping to draw her closer. “They’ll release me in a month.” He grinned with rare confidence for a worker. “No one can do what I can do. Samyaza knows it.”

  She smiled, but then shook her head. “His cruelty is unparalleled.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” He stepped back, seeing her take a hesitant step forward. “Can you imagine a life like this? My brothers and sisters, charged to labor meaninglessly until death, against our will?”

  The unease of guilt crossed her face, bringing a cloudiness to her blue eyes. She shook her head, letting herself stand beside him, not touching the abrasions the cuffs had left on his wrists. “It’s so wrong.”

  His voice lowered as he threw a wary look to the cave opening. “Can you help us, my love?”

  She smiled at the term, but a heaviness pulled at her lips. “You risk your own life to ask a thing like that. You underestimate the power of the Angelos.”

  “There is power in numbers,” he said. He took the chance to let his hand cover her arm, feeling her stiffen slightly. He took his hand away, silently rebuking himself. “And our numbers grow every day. I’m not alone in this, Astara. My fellow workers are willing.”

  For a moment she didn’t move, torn between what she knew to be right and her duty.

  She took a step back, avoiding his gaze.

  “Astara,” he said as loudly as he dared.

  She turned and held up one finger. “In time, my love.”

  Jacinto wasn’t sure what Astara had meant by those words, and he didn’t see her for several weeks. He’d overheard the prison overseer talking about the archives building and how Samyaza was willing to wait another month for any more work to be done.

  Jacinto knew it meant he may have another month in the cell. It meant another long spell deprived of Astara.

  He wondered what had happened, why she had not returned. He feared it was because of his request for her help. Or perhaps she’d gotten caught speaking to him against Samyaza’s wishes.

  Or, perhaps Samyaza had swayed her into seeing his view of the matter.

  That was the idea that bothered Jacinto the most.

  He tormented himself those weeks with wondering about her, but by the third week he was poisoned with the thoughts.

  It was a rainy night that she came back. At first Jacinto wasn’t sure it was her. She wore a white linen cloak with the hood pulled up against the gently falling rain.

  But as soon as she neared enough to slip past the corner of this darkened cave opening, he knew. He recognized the slender form and the scent of heliotrope hanging around her. As she neared, he also saw she was hiding something.

  There was no hesitation this time as she approached his section of the cave in the dim light. He stood from the cot and without thinking, pulled the hood back to see her face.

  She smiled, a few tendrils of blonde hair damp from the rain.

  “I missed you, Astara,” he said lowly, his hands settling the hood at her shoulders, taking the opportunity to touch the silken hair there. “I was afraid you –”

  “These will help.” From beneath the cloak she pulled an armful of swords.

  Jacinto stared at the weapons with shock, and then looked to her face with equal astonishment.

  She smiled wider. “You cannot revolt without arms, my love.”

  He smiled and quickly gathered from her and set them next to the cot. When he turned, she was standing before him, pushing back the cloak.

  For a moment the only sound was the slow rattle of the chains at his shackles as his hand unfastened the gold clasp holding her cloak shut, his eyes on hers.

  He knew his hands were rough from working with stone, his manners unpolished from the mines, but in that moment he let his arms encircle her waist, drawing her near to his chest in an engulfing embrace that she shared whole-heartedly.

  He kissed her lips, finding them softer than he’d imagined, her arms reaching around him eagerly. For a long moment she remained pressed against him, returning his fervent kiss, lips following his as his arms locked her against him.

  “I’ve been so alone here,” she murmured when they parted slightly.

  “No longer, my love,” he said, kissing her eyes, gently pulling her with him to the cot. “We’re no longer alone, Astara.”

  It was still dark when Astara awoke the next morning still in Jacinto’s arms, but the rain had stopped. For a long moment she lay contentedly in his strong embrace, her fingers playing over his chest beneath the ragged blanket. It was a small cot, but they had made good use of it, and the limited space was enough reason for her to enjoy the close contact.

  As much as she wanted to stay at his side and recall in great detail the events of the night, she knew her absence would be reported to Samyaza. Her every move was reported.

  She sighed, watching Jacinto sleep for a moment, letting her hand slide up his chest to his collarbone, feeling the tight muscles beneath her hand.

  “Rest,” she told him in a whisper. “You will need your every strength against them.”

  She slowly got out from under the blanket and dressed in the muggy morning air. She found her cloak where he had let it fall and took a moment to untangle her sword blaster from the inside holster. She went to the cot and put the sword beneath his worn blanket and covered it.

  “May God be with you, my love,” she said softly.

  She then turned and quickly left the cave.

  Chapter Eight

  ISLAND OF IDIOTS

  The Sea Pilgrim was being tossed like a toy by an angry child on the warm Caribbean waters that late afternoon. She’d weathered worse storms, but the one rocking the vessel was determined to put her against the shoals of Hogsty Reef. Her Captain did his best to ride out the rising wind, but as a chill lent the air, decided every hand on deck – and closer to the lifejackets – was best. He sent Rahul to the guest cabin where their lone passenger was battling his own demons.

  Professor Norwood was still sleeping, clutching the bed sheets in a fierce, desperate grip with sweaty hands as the dream bore into his mind. Decades of having the dream, a living vision, it seemed, had made him a haunted man, pursuing an elusive island of borrowed or regressed memories that drew him to the Devil’s playground.

  He fought the dream, struggling to wake up and remember this time what he always forgot. After what seemed an eternity, the Indian cabin boy’s frantic voice called to him.

  “...wake up!” Rahul said, shaking his shoulder insistently. “Professor, you have to wake up!”

  Norwood opened one eye, focusing on the boy in the semi-light of the few instruments on his shelf. One was a radar covering a ten mile radius, the other a seismic monitor, both showing red lights.

  “You were talking in your sleep again!” the boy cried, almost eagerly. “You said to tell you if –”

  “What did I say?” Norwood sat bolt upright in his bed, grabbing the youth’s arm. “Tell me!”

  Rahul shook his head. “Just got here. I not hear much. I –”

  “Think hard, boy!” Norwood demanded, his fingers vice-like on the boy’s arm. “What language was it? What was I saying?”

  Rahul was reluctant to admit overhearing; it amused him to listen
to the well-educated professor’s dream-ramblings, to admit he was eavesdropping. “You talk like this: ‘Samwaza, Semjaded, Semeljeed.’ Random sounds, Dr. Norwood.” He grinned. “It’s not a language. Just sleep babble.”

  A peel of thunder rocked the air, reminding Rahul why he’d been sent. “Besides, we no time for that now. The Cap’n wants you on deck, right now! There is terrible storm.”

  As if to emphasize the youth’s warning, a great swell shoved the research vessel hard, sending every loose book and gadget on the professor’s small bureau reeling. The seismic monitor skipped a beat, then resumed its steady pulse of red light.

  “Yes, yes, boy.” Norwood stood up, straightening his damp shirt and pushed a hand through his rebellious gray hair that had suffered his tossing and turning during sleep. “Let’s go, Rahul.”

  On deck the Captain was at the starboard rail, scowling out over the choppy water. Norwood made his way on the slick deck to the man, Rahul following.

  He looked out across the churning water. A strange, cool layer of fog was moving wisplike over the sea, out of place in the day and season. Norwood felt a chill go up his spine, both of expectation and the result of his dreams. The gray haze made the waters surface uncertain, playing tricks on the eye.

  “Are we there, Captain?” Norwood asked.

  The Captain grinned, his humor nearing mockery. “You mean in that tiny 2500 square mile corridor that you promote in your weird, little book?”

  “This is a very windy day for sarcasm, Captain,” Norwood said dryly even as the stiff wind forced the words back into his face.

  The Captain shot Rahul a glance before answering. “I thought we’d entered the corridor twenty minutes ago, but now, I’m not sure where we are,” he admitted with no real concern. “Our instruments are doing a strange magnetic dance.”

  A sheet of waves rose and fell before the boat, pushing it broadside, but not tipping. As the water lowered, Norwood locked one hand on the rail and pointed out over the other with the other. “There,” he said, indicating a small landform that was barely visible in the gray above the shifting blue waters in the distance. “What’s that?”

  The Captain’s grip on the rail tightened. “That’s Idiot Island, professor.”

  “Idiot Island?” Norwood got a better look at the spot as the sea rolled to a gentler fold.

  “A fitting name.” His voice took on a strained tone. “Strangely, that ridge does resemble one of those so-called natural energy shields you describe in your book.”

  The cattiness escaped Norwood. “It does, indeed. Maybe we’ve found it.”

  The Captain exhaled a deep sigh, feeling the vessel settle into another wave. “We’ll try to dock there before the squall is over. That is, if we can make it through this reef.”

  Norwood nodded absently, his gaze on another small dot floating off the boat’s bow further out. It was a steady bob in the choppy waters, but one that was stubbornly moving in their direction. “What’s that?”

  The Captain watched the other vessel for a moment. He’d seen it before, but was uncertain if it was a real or imagined object. Surely there was not more than one mad mind in those waters, he’d thought.

  Now, he could fairly clearly see the other boat. It was smaller than the Sea Pilgrim, but moving steadily toward the island.

  “Another craft. Trawler, looks like.” He gave Norwood a grin and chuckle. “Your island appears to be attracting yet another idiot.”

  While the Sea Pilgrim was dodging the reef to close in on the island hazing in and out of view in the fog, Corky was busy on the trawler several thousand feet away. It had taken some time, but Jason had finally decided he was going to get answers one way or another.

  Estelle wasn’t forthcoming with any information he was sure she had, so he did the only thing he could think to do. That involved Corky DeLeon and the handed-down shrimp trawler that was currently bucking the testy waters off Hogsty Reef. Mary Ann, Corky’s girlfriend and commonsense, had accompanied them, opposing the trip all the way.

  She stood now on the trawler’s rear working deck which still smelled of bait and chum tackle from its previous life in the cold Alaskan waters. Usually she didn’t complain about Corky’s chosen sideline of work involving some strange-to-dangerous theorists, but this time was different. It wasn’t Jason that made her misgivings so vocal; it was something else. Something in the air, in the fog.

  She pushed her dark, damp hair from her face as the wind tossed the boat, watching Corky shimmy into his wetsuit. She hugged the air tanks to her chest with one arm, squinting as a spray of water caught her. The wind was rising, now with spatters of rain in it. Near the back of the boat a smaller motorboat was tethered to an old downrigger port where Jason was doing a mental check of several pieces of equipment Corky had brought along for their impromptu trip. She looked back to Corky as he pulled up the tight zipper of his suit.

  He pointed to a waterproof case near the deckhouse. “Mary Ann, hand me those and pass me that gear.”

  She frowned, reluctantly giving him the tanks. “Don’t go, Corky! Please!”

  He gave her a grim look and she snagged the case and gave it to him.

  “Let’s wait out the squall.”

  He shook his head, clamping the case between his knees and struggling into the tank harness, sparing a hand to point to the Sea Pilgrim in the distance nearing the island. “You see that!” he yelled over a gust of wind. “I have to leave now! Chances are good that’s someone out here for the same reasons we are. Hey, get some footage of whoever gets off if they go ashore.”

  She gave him a pointed stare. “In this rain and wind? I’ve got my hands full –”

  “Just set it up and let it run,” he said, nodding to the video camera bolted on a pivoting bracket near the deckhouse window. “Just run it, sweetie.”

  She sighed, nodding.

  He turned to look behind him where the smaller boat hitched to the trawler’s side was loaded. “Jason, you got everything in the boat?”

  Jason nodded at him, not looking to Mary Ann’s pleading face. Only Corky was diving; Jason had opted for the boat and taking in the more sensitive equipment now safely tucked in the protective cases. He wasn’t sure what most of it was, and didn’t much care. It was Corky’s agenda, and Jason had his own.

  “I’ll meet you on the beach.” Corky moved to the deckhouse and gave the worried young woman there a kiss on her wet cheek. She gave him a pout in return.

  “Please?” she asked again.

  “Be back soon, sweetie.”

  A low whistle started from the magnetometer in the deckhouse’s onboard equipment, followed by a rapid beep-beep-beep from the sonar. The trawler made a diving turn.

  “Take the wheel, Mary Ann,” Corky said, eyes darting to the interior where the usual equipment sounds were now going haywire. “For God’s sakes, hold us steady.”

  As if in response, the fog grew chillier, heavier within seconds, enveloping the vessel in a thick gray of cold mist.

  “Hurry back!” Mary Ann called as she bolted into the deckhouse and began to attempt getting the instruments back online. A whimper came from her as a large blip registered on the sonar, and then it disappeared as every instrument jumped erratically with obscure readings. She grabbed the wheel, straining to hold the vessel steady.

  Corky gave the equipment a final glimpse from the open doorway. “Christ, the instruments are going crazy.” He glanced back to where Jason was preparing to climb into the motorboat. “I wish I knew where we were.”

  He looked into the direction where they’d last seen the island. The fog was starting to thin, but it did little to aid visualization. “I’m going!” he called to Jason.

  Jason raised a hand, climbing into the boat below the trawler’s side.

  “Be careful,” Mary Ann said as Corky left the doorway and moved to the side of the trawler.

  He nodded.

  Corky let himself over the boat’s side, into the cold, dark stillness
of the underwater environ of the reef. Below the water’s surface the sea was less turbulent, almost serene. He liked the quiet, but took no time to enjoy it. He dove deeper, blowing bubbles against the odd current coming from the reef, and followed the coral encrusted debris from other wrecks until he knew he was near the island.

  It was exhausting swimming and cold, but Corky didn’t want the boat any closer to the island. He didn’t trust the instruments and his eyes weren’t exactly to be trusted either, but he knew the island was one to approach with caution. He surfaced in the cove of the isle’s calmer side. Still the fog hung low and the wind gusted, blowing sand from the beach, making visibility sketchy. He found footing on the beach’s sandy bottom and walked it up to the shore, knowing he was nearing land even if the blowing sand made his vision unclear. The rustling palm trees were a welcome sound, letting him know where he was in relation to the surrounding cove shore.

  He stopped when the water was knee deep and looked back. A large rock jutted out from the water, giving him identifiable landmark. He loosened his pack strap, letting his air hose drop and he choked on wind and rain.

  He hoped Jason thought this watery hell was worth it.

  He certainly did.

  That inkling of satisfaction was magnified a few moments later as he hit the beach solid, seeing in the gusty rain a three-foot post that appeared to be gold. He washed to it, throwing his usual cautions aside as he discovered it was not a post at all, but a statue.

  “Hell, yes,” he muttered, kneeling at the object. He knew its form, even in the sand-blown rain. It was a Nephilim, the angelic-demon shapes he’d seen in his dreams and visions, but this time in miniature, and in gold.

  He ran a hand down its well-sculpted side and back up to the skeletal wings, fingering the fine detailing of the stern face. He sat back and let his backpack fall and rummaged through it for the small hacksaw. In a lull of rain and wind he carefully wiped away the sand from the statues base and sawed off a toe.