The Curse [Legend of Blackbeard's Chalice Book 1] Page 5

  The cryptic message was as much of a mystery then as it was now. But Jack knew it held the clues to the stone's magic. He'd tried to lift the stone that day, but it was impossible, too cumbersome to be moved. So he'd contemplated the stone's purpose and then left for home. But it haunted him the rest of that day and into the night. He became so restless that he left his bed, and by the moon's light, had returned.

  For a few days he did that. The stone called to him at night, pulling him out of his warm, comfortable straw tick and into the night's chill. He went to it, not able to resist the strength of its magnetic draw. Sitting there, he could feel the stone's power, its seduction, but felt helpless as to its purpose. It wasn't until a week had passed that, as he stood late into the black night beside the stone, listening to the hard pounding of the surf and the storm brewing off the coast, glancing up at the moon overhead, that he decided to step on it.

  It wasn't until then that he felt the stone's strength.

  As his right foot centered the slab, he immediately saw sparks of flashing light. At the instant both feet were firmly planted at its median, his body became as nothing. He felt both giddy with joy and suspended within time as he was surrounded by thousands of tiny swirling lights, dizzying him beyond all sense of direction, time, or space. And the sound, the sound was unlike any he'd ever heard before, eerie and rhythmic, almost like an ancient chant.

  Then in a flash, he became one of those minute points of light and was sent hurtling throughout the heavens. When it stopped, when there were no lights, no sounds, Jack dared to open his eyes.

  He'd landed inside a round structure, very tall and very straight. Even in the dark he could see it was larger than anything he'd ever seen before. He turned in circles as he looked around him. A sliver of light shined through a large crack in the structure behind him, so he walked to it and stepped through.

  The surf pounded in his ears and he'd instantly felt at home. He tried to walk toward the moonlit sands, but was stopped short by some sore of strange enclosure. Then after walking the entire circle, he came to an opening.

  At that point, frightened beyond all belief, Jack had wondered if he'd died and gone to heaven. Or perhaps to Hell. He'd questioned why he had been brought to this place. Then as he looked across the sands, he knew.

  The moonlight backlit her against the dunes. She was there, facing the beach, her blond hair blowing behind her in the wind, her angel's gown whipping about her body.

  His Hannah.

  * * * *

  Claire slapped a client's folder down on her desk. Sinking into her chair, she sighed, trying to erase the images that danced before her closed eyes. She'd tried everything, but the image took hold, leaving her shivering and panting and wanting more. Since she'd returned to Cincinnati she'd tried every quick-fix, home cure, and researched technique she could get her hands on to rid herself of the dreams ... and the voice ... and her reaction to each.

  But she couldn't. It was impossible.

  She eased her head down over her crossed arms. If I could only sleep. For just one night. One long, uninterrupted night. If only I could sleep.

  What a way for a successful real estate broker to act, she thought as she opened her eyes, sat up slightly, and leaned her head into her cupped hands. She was a business owner, for God's sake. She had won awards for her professional accomplishments. She was the high school valedictorian. The summa cum laude college graduate. The woman who...

  Oh never mind. What good has all that done you anyway, Claire? It can't solve your problems right now, can it? It can't tell you if you're going crazy. No. None of it can. So what good is it?

  It's made you strong. It's preparing you to come back to me.

  Back to you? Claire hit the desk with her fist. Damn it! Who are you?

  But he never answered when she asked questions like that. She was only at his mercy, it seemed. He was never at hers.

  He invaded her days as well as her nights. She couldn't function, was late to work each morning because of her restless sleep. She stumbled over her words because of her incessant yawning while showing a house to a client. She was a bore at dinner parties because she wanted to doze off in a corner somewhere. And it was hell trying to cover up something as obvious as an orgasm, but she was learning to be a master of escape in certain circumstances.

  His voice—the voice of this Jack—came to her as smooth and low and sexy as it had that night they'd made love. She'd relived it nightly in her dreams. Her spine stiffened with a jolt of trepidation. She shouldn't let it startle her so, but it did. His voice came to her often now, and at the most inopportune times, in the shower, in her sleep, when she was with a client...

  It wouldn't be so bad, just to hear his voice, but the fact that the dreams and the voice made her positively spontaneously orgasmic, on a fairly regular basis ... it could be a bit, inconvenient.

  It was driving her insane. He was driving her insane.

  Perhaps the voice came simply because it was compelled to, like the incessant pull she felt to return to the islands. Perhaps she was still conjuring up the man, the voice. Maybe she'd made up the entire damned scenario in her head.

  It was true that she wanted to go back—needed to, almost. It was the first time she'd ever been to those barrier islands, and yet suddenly she felt homesick.

  Pulled.

  Compelled.

  Drawn to return.

  The feeling was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

  Except for the magnetism of the man she'd made love to that night. Or thought she'd made love to. Whatever. There had never been a pull like that before. And somehow, she knew there never would be again.

  Defeated, she reached for the phone. Her eyes caught the glint off the ring on her finger. The wedding band. Try as she might she couldn't get it off, it was there to stay. She'd passed it off as her grandmother's to those people nosy enough to ask.

  Funny how Rick had yet to notice. Thank God he'd gone out of town on a business trip for a few days. She'd created every excuse in the book to keep him at bay the short time they'd been together since her return. It hadn't even been all that difficult. He was preoccupied. His strange comings and goings would be enough to set her on edge normally, but she had too many other things to worry about at the present.

  Like the voice.

  And the ring.

  And those incredible orgasms.

  It mystified and mesmerized her each time she looked at the ring. It was the one physical piece of evidence she had to prove her sanity, but how it got there did warrant explanation. And she couldn't explain it.

  Shaking her head as though to ward off an unpleasant chill, she reached for the phone once more.

  "I've got to do it before I lose my mind.” She reached into the bottom left desk drawer to retrieve the Cincinnati yellow pages.

  "Surely I can find something...” Her finger trailed past the names of physicians until it stopped two-thirds down the page. “Here,” she mumbled. “This one looks as good as any other.” She double-checked the psychologist's number.

  Cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear, she paused to look at the numbers one last time before punching them in with her index finger.

  The phone crackled strangely on the other end. “Hello?"

  "Claire? My God! The phone didn't even ring!"

  Her best friend's voice startled her. “Vicki? Is that you?” She shook her head at the turn of events.

  "Yes, it's me, you dope. That was weird. We must have picked up the phone at the same time."

  Weird? She thought that was weird? “I guess I picked it up right after you dialed and before it had time to ring. What are you up to?"

  "Lunch! How about it? I haven't seen you since you got back from your vacation. How was it?"

  You wouldn't believe me if I told you. “Great. It was great."

  "Boy, you sound enthusiastic.” Vicki was practically bubbly. Strange. “The thought of you riding out that hurricane, well, I never w
ould have thought it of you."

  Claire screwed up her face and looked across her desk. “Why?"

  "Oh, come on, Claire. You're not the adventurous type. You're not the live-for-the-moment gal. You're much too serious."

  "Gee, thanks.” Claire yawned.

  "You know what I mean. You're too left-brained for all that stuff. You're too regimented. You need to fly by the seat of your pants one of these days, you might like it."

  Claire closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Fly by the seat of my pants, indeed. “Hmmm. Sounds more like Rick, not me."

  There was a definitive pause on the other end. “Oh, really? Maybe you need to look in the mirror. Look, let's get off this subject. How about lunch?"

  Stunned at the turnabout, Claire swiveled her chair to look out over the city. “I don't know. I was going to try to make a doctor appointment."

  "Are you ill?"

  "Well, no. Actually, I..."

  "Check-up?"

  "No."

  "Can't it wait? I'm dying to tell you something. And I can't wait to hear about your trip. I want every detail."

  Maybe I should tell her. A best friend is just as good as a shrink, right? Best friends understand, don't they? Maybe the coincidence about the phone call wasn't all that much of a coincidence. Maybe Vicki was the person she really needed to talk to. Her friend had always had a sort of sixth sense anyway.

  "All right,” she said. “I guess it can wait. Where should I meet you?"

  "How about that little Chinese place in Montgomery. I know it's a bit of a drive, but it's so good. Sound okay with you? Think you could take an extra long lunch today?"

  "No problem. One of the perks of owning your own business is that the lunches can be as long or as short as they need to be. I don't have an appointment until late afternoon."

  "Sounds great."

  "I'll meet you there at twelve-thirty."

  "Good."

  "See you then."

  "Bye."

  Vicki. If anyone would understand, she would.

  * * * *

  This will be the last time.

  Jack stared at the stone. He was convinced the magic was gone. He had surely used it all up. If he couldn't find her this time, if the magic didn't take him and wrap around him and send him to Hannah once more, so he could bring her back home, he would never try again. He would cover the stone with sand. He would bury it so far and deep it would no longer remind him of what he'd once had.

  Of what he had lost.

  Or what he didn't understand.

  "Sometimes I think it would be better if I'd never found you again, Hannah. Sometimes I wished I'd died along with you. Sometimes I think I might, still."

  He talked to her often. He thought he could hear her voice, faint and sweet at times, but it was fading. Fading with every passing day. He drew a long, ragged breath deep into his lungs then he exhaled slowly. The line of his jaw twitched slightly. Without hesitation, he stepped upon the stone.

  The vibrations wracked his body. The dizzying lights took him away again. The chanting filled his ears and his soul and moved him forward with a great sense of urgency.

  And he arrived once more and hurried to the place where he'd found his lovely Hannah, where he'd been given a chance to touch her once more.

  The moon's glow haloed the house high on the shore. He watched. And waited. There were no strange people. There were no lights.

  No Hannah.

  He approached it. Stared. Then he bravely walked the porch, peered through the glass-covered windows. Searched for any sign, anything that would tell him his Hannah was there.

  Nothing.

  He slept then, on the porch near the door. And as the sun began its early morning ascent over the ocean he woke, alarmed that he'd stayed too long, that daylight was approaching, that the magic would no longer work in the light of day.

  He ran, pulse racing, fear building inside him, with all the speed that he possessed and stepped on the magic stone that rested in the crack of the tall building.

  It took him home. Home.

  Without his Hannah.

  Then with only his hands, he heaped sand over the stone, hoped he was burying it forever.

  * * * *

  Claire arrived early and was sipping her tea when Vicki bounded into the restaurant. She watched her friend approach the table, long skirt flowing nearly to her ankles, her ample breasts bouncing beneath her poet's blouse. The jewelry she wore, her trademark, was as long and flowing as her skirt. Dangling, chunky earrings, ropes of beads at her neck, layers of bangles around her wrists. Her Bohemian friend. Claire thought Vicki more suited to the Outer Banks than she.

  But she loved her. She hated her clothes, but she loved her friend. She and Vicki had been best friends since their freshman year in high school when they were thrown into the same gym class. Then the next year, the same science class, and then finally, they took an art class together. That was when Claire first witnessed Vicki's talents.

  As artistic on canvas as she was in reality, Vicki added the color to Claire's life. She added the pizzazz, the cherry on top, the mint on her pillow. Claire had always found her life to be incessantly boring. Vicki was her alter ego. Her fun. Her imagination.

  She'd never let herself have one of her own.

  Claire looked down at her prim navy suit and thought they were still as odd a couple today as they'd been throughout high school.

  Maybe Vicki's right. Maybe I need to fly by the seat of my pants once in a while.

  Maybe you already did.

  Claire wasn't sure if she was conjuring up the voice again or if he really was trying to communicate with her. It just seemed the voice countered every thought so easily these days. Perhaps she was just answering herself. Perhaps she was going insane.

  When I get home, I'll make that call.

  "You're early!"

  Claire smiled at her friend and motioned her to sit. “Got away a little sooner than I expected. How have you been?"

  "Great!” Vicki was all sparkles and light. What had she said earlier? She wanted to tell her something?

  Claire stared at her for a moment longer. “Okay. Out with it."

  Vicki popped her napkin and laid it across her lap. “Excuse me?"

  She leaned forward. “I said, out with it. You're a freaking Cheshire cat. What's going on with you?"

  "Oh, nothing."

  "Is it the gallery?"

  Vicki shook her head. “The gallery's doing great. My paintings are selling well. But that's not it."

  "Then what?"

  She stared at her then her lips broke into a slow grin. Her eyes damned near twinkled. “I'm pregnant."

  Claire's arched a brow and whispered. “Pregnant?"

  Vicki leaned closer. “Pregnant,” she echoed back.

  "Are you happy about it?"

  "Ecstatic."

  "And Jeremiah?"

  "The same. We're getting married. Two weeks. You are standing up for me. We're just doing a civil ceremony."

  Claire sat back, dumbfounded. She couldn't believe her ears. “You? Who said you'd never wear that ball and chain? The woman who cried that marriage was never an equal partnership, that is was more like eighty/twenty and you never wanted a part of it? You the woman who—"

  Vicki held up her hand. “You can stop now."

  "I just can't believe it."

  "Well, it's true and I'm very happy about it. Maybe you and Rick should think about it yourselves?"

  Claire's smile faded.

  "Uh-oh. What did I say?"

  She shook her head. “It's nothing. Rick's just acting a little weird lately. But I guess I have been, too."

  "Weird? What do you mean by weird?"

  Claire screwed up her face. “Well, you know Rick is usually the Mr. Perfect incarnate. The thing is, he's just not Rick lately. He's chucked the oxford cloth shirts. His hair is longer ... I don't know. It's just weird."

  Their server stepped to the table to take their or
der. Conversation ceased as they glanced over the menu. Vicki's gaze burned into her. Soon they'd ordered and Vicki sat patiently, waiting.

  "I don't think I'd worry about it, Claire. Maybe it's just some midlife thing. When he starts wearing gold chains and red polyester, with rings on every finger, that's when you worry. Now, tell me about you."

  "What do you mean?” Claire fidgeted in her chair.

  "Well, you're not exactly the Cheshire cat, but there's something you're dying to tell me, so what is it?"

  "It's nothing, Vicki."

  She narrowed her gaze. “You're lying, I can tell. Does it have to do with the trip?"

  It has everything to do with the trip. “Yeah, it does."

  "You want to talk about it?"

  Claire shook her head and glanced down at the tablecloth. “I'm not sure.” She flicked a snag in the fabric. “I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you."

  Vicki leaned closer. “Try me."

  "Not here."

  "The place is nearly deserted, Claire. No one is going to hear you, now what is it?"

  She reached for her tea. Bringing the glass to her suddenly parched lips, she sipped the cold beverage and then swallowed. She set the glass back down and stared at the amber liquid, swiping the sweat from the outside of the glass with her fingertips. Glancing past Vicki, she thought seriously about telling her friend everything, but her mouth wouldn't move, the words wouldn't come.

  "This is stupid.” She rose, dropped her napkin onto her chair, and practically ran toward the women's restroom. She heard Vicki's chair scrape across the floor behind her.

  "We'll be right back,” her friend told the server.

  They entered the restroom door together and Claire turned her tear-streaked face to her friend. Vicki enfolded her into her arms. When her sobs subsided, she drew back and looked into Claire's eyes.