Loe raamatut: «Son of the Sea»
Son of the Sea
MILLS & BOON
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Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea.
—“The Forsaken Merman”, Matthew Arnold
Chapter One
Dear Miss Davos,
Excusing my English, we have faith we are your family in Athens, Greece. You and Sofia Davos are the children of Stavros and Helena Davos? You are Keeper?
It is of our understanding that Stavros and Helena are no more. I am to search many years for Helena and family. I find your restaurant on the computer. If you are these maidens, please write to me now. There is much importance. Please to take most cautions, you are in danger. I am Maria Karras, aunt. TELL NO ONE. Be of haste!!!
I kiss you, beloved maidens, and pray for you, Maria Karras (sister from Helena Karras Davos)
“Oh, my God,” Nia murmured as she finished reading the e-mail on her desktop computer. Her heart pounded and her mind raced.
We might have family. In Greece. We might not be alone in the world after all. But what kind of danger could we be possibly be in? We’re nobodies. What’s a Keeper? Is this woman trying to ask me if I own the restaurant?
Her face tingled as she reread the e-mail. With trembling hands, she freed her riot of black curls from her prized tortoiseshell clip, holding the clip between her teeth as she re-wound her hair into a chignon. It was a nervous habit. Tendrils grazed her temples and forehead as she put the clip back in place. It had belonged to her mother, and it was one of her most treasured possessions.
Maria Karras, aunt. Davos is such a common Greek name. But she got our parents’ names and our names right…except that it’s Sophie, not Sofia. Is this some kind of Internet prank?
Narrowing her thickly fringed, dark Grecian eyes in thought, she looked across her tiny, messy office to her little sister Sophie, who was curled up cross-legged inside the bulging storage closet like a cat. Sophie, engrossed in her new book, was oblivious of the boxes of linens, dishes and cooking implements stacked around her. Nia would have panicked inside such a hidey-hole; she was extremely claustrophobic.
Stripped down from the many layers she’d donned against the Montreal winter to one of Nia’s pink T-shirts and black tights, Sophie was reading the latest fantasy novel by one of her favorite authors.
Nia understood Sophie’s love of fantasies and happily-ever-after. Orphaned at the age of five, now eleven and nearing puberty, with a frazzled older sister who worked long days to keep their Greek restaurant going—it wasn’t the kind of life a sweet little princess should live.
If Maria Karras was Ma’s sister, she could tell them so many things they didn’t know. About her childhood, and her life before their births. Ma had disliked talking about herself, and she had died a mystery. Maybe this bolt out of the blue would give them answers—to all Nia’s new questions as well.
Sophie unfolded her long legs and hunched forward, self-conscious of her blossoming figure. “Why are you staring at me?”
I think we have an aunt. We have family, my darling. Except…there may a catch. They may be crazy…or our mother might have a past she kept hidden…and that’s catching up with us.
“Just because,” Nia said.
“I love you, too.” Sophie smiled sweetly and went back to her book.
Nia turned back to the desktop and searched the Internet for “Keeper.” Embarrassingly, the first thing that popped up was a feminine product, and then an entry for a character in a computer game.
She tried to frame a response to Maria Karras. She knew what to say: Dear Ms. Karras, I think you may be our aunt. My mother was born in Mykonos. Please tell me what sort of danger we may be in.
But the truth was, she was afraid, and not just of the warning in Maria’s message. Nia was a veteran of dashed hopes. The centerpiece of her messy alcove desk was the bouquet Nico had sent over a week ago—roses in winter, their petals dead and dropping all over her tax forms. The accompanying card crowned a stack of receipts. It was inscribed with a single word: Adio. Adio to their engagement, to someone to share her life with and to a father figure for Sophie.
Why? Because she’d been “too busy.” Caring for Sophie and running a business hadn’t left much time for romance.
“And I want to raise children of my own,” he’d added—the final blow. He wasn’t the first man to run scared at the thought of an instant family with an eleven-year-old.
She picked up the loose petals and dumped them in the little metal trash can. She really should just throw the flowers out. Who was more upset over the breakup, she or Sophie? Two hearts were wounded, of that she was sure. She wasn’t actually sure if Nico had a heart.
She didn’t want another disappointment so soon after that one. What if Maria Karras’s next e-mail said, I’m so sorry, but my sister Helena was born in Cyprus?
At least she wouldn’t have to worry about being in danger.
“Gia sou! Hoopa!” The cheers in the private room sharing her office wall were followed by the crash of a plate.
“Uh-oh,” Sophie said without looking up from her book. Nia groaned and reached for her slingback pumps. She slid them onto her black-stockinged feet and smoothed her charcoal wool skirt as she rose. A tug of her tailored white blouse and a touch-for-luck of her mother’s gold cross, and she was ready to stop the bachelor party in the private room from running up an enormous bill.
She glided into the room adorned with the mural of the Greek islands to see a dervish of young men in white shirts and dress trousers whirling in the center of the room with handkerchiefs in their hands and mouths. The tipsy bridegroom was about to hurl another plate against the wall, under the mistaken impression—no doubt gleaned from movies—that this was customary in Greek circles.
The happy man was Polish, and he was getting married to a Greek girl in two days. He didn’t know it, but Nia had severely undercharged him for his bachelor party. She knew how much—make that how little—bus drivers made in Montreal. Too bad restaurateurs made even less.
But he was young and in love, and it was her secret gift to the couple….
“Mes amis!” she called out, clapping her hands. Her French was definitely improving; when she’d first moved to Montreal from Chicago three years ago, no French Canadian had been able to understand a single word she said. “S’il vous plaits—”
And then the room exploded.
The ceiling burst apart like a shattered plate and rained down fragments. Smoke and flame poured in, searing her eyes and her lungs. Masked figures barreled in, aiming submachine guns at the groaning men on the floor. The invaders moved methodically, turning in circles.
Sophie, Nia thought frantically, trying to crawl toward the door. The bridegroom writhed beside her, groaning. Then she saw the barrel of a weapon pointed straight at the man’s chest….
No, not at his chest.
At her.
Her mind went blank. The image of the weapon shrank to a pin dot and Sophie’s face took its place.
Sophie, run. You’re in danger.
The man reached down and roughly grabbed her arm. He started to pull her along the floor. She shook her head and he dug his gloved fingers into the flesh of her bicep. It hurt.
“No,” she rasped; it came out as a croak followed by a fit of coughing.
Then he went down, crumpling to his knees, falling in an ungainly sprawl onto his side. There was a large, smoking hole in his armored back. Another hooded, masked man stood behind him.
“So-Soph—” she pleaded as he bent his knees and threw her over his shoulder, firefighter style. Machine gun fire roared and tat-tat-tatted; men screamed in pain; the restaurant was an inferno.
“Attends,” she begged. “My sister…”
They were outside. He threw Nia into the open door of a black panel van and landed on top of her.
“Vite! Vite!” he bellowed, as he whipped off his mask. He had dark eyes in a craggy face. Men piled in after him, and the van shot away from the curb like a bullet.
“My sister!” She was yelling in English, her voice screeching like a cat; she couldn’t remember a word of French. “Sophie!” She flung herself at the man, grabbing his armored shoulders, pushing her face nose-to-nose with him. “Let me out!”
“Alors, mademoiselle,” he said. “I am Gils de Devereaux, of the House of the Shadows. We are going to headquarters. There you will speak with our Guardien. He will help you.”
“But she’s back there! She’s there now!” she shrieked at him. “You’re leaving her! Listen, Maria Karras—”
Danger. Tell no one.
He raised his glove and made a circle, murmuring soft words that sounded like Latin. The sudden, overpowering fragrance of oranges and roses surrounded her, as if someone had wrapped her in a warm, scented blanket. Her terror faded and she became still, drowsy.
Deep inside her mind, she was still screaming. But her cries grew progressively muffled, even to her own ears, and to her heart. Her burning lungs stopped hurting; her eyes no longer watered. Something sweet and cool trickled down her throat. He was pressing a vial to her lips and she was drinking it down as if she were dying of thirst.
“Bon,” he said. “Now rest.”
She sank into the man’s arms and the world went black.
“Earlier today, the Keeper Sophie Davos was taken,” Jean-Marc de Devereaux reported, turning from Gils, his ops commander, to address Erik. Dressed all in black, Jean-Marc walked to the brilliant stained-glass window bearing the coat of arms of his ancient magical family, the House of the Shadows—a white bird flying from a castle tower and a gauntleted hand reaching out, whether to seize the creature or set it free remained unclear. The motives of House Devereaux were often equally murky.
In a large sliver of cobalt glass, Erik caught his own reflection, a foil to Jean-Marc’s dark looks—Norse through and through, with long, straight blond hair, dark cerulean eyes, and the rough-hewn features of a Viking. He wore a dark blue sweater, blue jeans, a navy blue watch cap and black sea boots. He was the Guardian of the North Sea—a Gifted magic user like Jean-Marc; however, unlike Jean-Marc, he was not fully human. Never had been, never would be.
For that, he thanked Njord, God of the Sea.
Since his legs were killing him, Erik sprawled in the ornate Louis XIV chair placed for him beside Jean-Marc’s ceremonial throne of gold and jewels. His own, back home, was made of coral, gold and pearls. He left the pacing to Jean-Marc.
Erik knew Jean-Marc had other pressing concerns. He had recently located the long-lost heiress of the House of the Flames in New Orleans. Erik also knew that Jean-Marc was in love with her, whether Jean-Marc realized it himself or not. The heiress was under attack by the House of the Blood, the third of the three original French Houses. He figured that once Jean-Marc debriefed him, he was on his own. The Guardian of the Shadows had a different battle to fight. The world above was going to hell.
“And she’s Keeper of the Jar of Naxos,” Erik filled in, ignoring the stabbing pains in his thighs, bemused, as usual, by the strange sensation of two appendages extending from his hips. Two long appendages; the rest remained as it was. He was a male, after all, whether man or sea king.
“Oui. One of two. The other is her sister, Nia. We got her out,” Jean-Marc told him. “She’s here.”
Erik raised a blond brow. “Two? Good. I’ll take this Nia to the Jar and—”
“Nia Davos doesn’t know where it is. She doesn’t know what it is. She didn’t even know she and Sophie were Keepers,” Jean-Marc said. “Nor that the Gifted even exist.”
Erik was shocked. She’d been kept ignorant of her exalted position? In his realm, those who bore heavy responsibilities were never allowed to forget it. He, of course, was a prime example. Not that he was complaining. He had undergone the ancient trials by ordeal to claim his right to be Guardian of the North Sea.
Jean-Marc walked over to a pool of water set in a large stone basin carved with arcane symbols and sigils. The Guardian of the House of the Shadows moved his hands, conjuring. He gestured for Erik to join him.
Erik groaned silently at the thought of walking across the vast, cavernous room, but he did as the other Guardian requested. He really should come on land more often; maybe then it wouldn’t be so difficult to use his legs.
Together they gazed into the bowl of crystal-clear water. Jean-Marc moved his hands across it, and the water solidified into a field of crystal. Inside the prism of swirling indigo, purple and black, the silhouette of an amphora, an ancient two-handled Grecian vase, began to glow. He clenched his fists and gazed at the find. It was the Jar of Naxos, a weapon of terrible power, one that had eluded him for decades.
He studied the boxy, earth-colored shadow surrounding the Jar, noting the ancient Greek lettering and arcane runes.
“Still in the original chest, and not yet opened. But if someone has a Keeper and the location of the Jar…” Jean-Marc said.
Erik felt the heightened anxiety crackling between them. Though the other Guardian shielded his thoughts, Erik knew they shared images of carnage and destruction.
“I’ll speak to Nia Davos now,” Erik said.
“Well, here I am,” a voice said from the doorway.
Both Guardians turned; Erik was thunderstruck. Faen, the woman was a beauty. Her dark eyes were enormous, her lips lush and beckoning. Long curls of blue-black hair tumbled down creamy white shoulders. She wore a beautiful nightgown made of yards of near-transparent white silk, which she had gathered up and held across her torso to create some layers. The effort served only to accentuate the high firmness of her breasts and her gently rounded hips.
Celibate for over a hundred years, Erik was still very much a male. And his masculine need responded to the sight of her.
He felt her thoughts, swimming sensually toward him. No, not just her thoughts; she herself. Her essence—the qualities of spirit, body and mind that made Nia Davos uniquely Nia. As if she herself were a jar of magical power, and he were the Keeper…the only one would could open the vessel….
Perkele, he swore. How can this be? She is Calling me. She’s not a daughter of the sea, and no full human should be able to Call anyone, much less a Guardian.
Or so I have always believed….
It was the truth of the gods; he had been tempted by women, both of land and of sea, many times before, and would be again. But he had no woman, and would have none. He would die—if he ever died—alone. It was still a challenge to ignore her song.
I’m here on a mission to save my people, he reminded himself. Not to lose myself in a siren’s beckoning.
For her part, as she gazed back at him, color rose in her cheeks.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
