The After House (15 page)

Hugh looked over his shoulder, and a chill danced down his spine.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Remy shook her head. “No, why?”

“It got cold in here. I know a way to warm you up.” Hugh smiled, holding out his arms to her. It seemed natural for Remy to step into his embrace. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know, it feels like…”

“It feels like I’ve come home,” Remy told him, her voice soft and low.

Eli circled the two humans, wondering what exactly was going on. He leaned close to the male, sensing the attraction to Remy.
“Wait a minute,” he thought, his eyes narrowing with concern. She was pretty banged up, as if she’d been knocked around in a squall. Eli felt guilty after he trashed her place. He knew he wasn’t behaving well, especially after she blamed the Scott guy. He had decided to take her under his wing. She really wasn’t a bad sort after all. He had tried to protect her in the car, from the Scott guy, of all people. They were fragile things. While he wasn’t too fond of the daughter, this one never gave him much trouble. Just what was this sailor’s intentions? He blew a blast of cold air, trying to make him uncomfortable enough to leave. They liked heat, these mortals. Didn’t she know it wasn’t safe? She needed someone to keep her from harm? A woman needs protection. He vaguely remembered watching out for someone else.

He leaned into the man, feeling him shudder. “Nothing’s going to happen on my watch,” he whispered pointedly.

“Did you say something?” Hugh asked, batting his hand.

Remy looked up at him sleepily. She stretched, moaning when her muscles protested. “No. Do you mind if I lie down? I’m so tired.”

“Call your parents and let them know what happened. Go to sleep. I…” He made a decision. “I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“You don’t have to stay.” Remy kissed his cheek feeling the beginnings of a beard. “You could come back tomorrow when I’m in better shape. You must be tired too. You were at the hospital all last night.”

“I have to keep my constituents safe. Don’t want you slipping over to the Republican side.”

Knowing he wanted to stay made her insides melt. “You don’t have to,” she whispered huskily.

“I want to.”

Remy stood, pulling him close. She reached up to kiss him softly on the lips. “Thanks,” she whispered, then shivered, feeling a chill. “You are right, it is getting chilly in here.”

Remy went upstairs after alerting her parents about her accident. They wanted to come. She insisted she was fine, told them she was taking a nap. She never mentioned Hugh was staying.

Hugh entered the den, taking in the dangling arm of the television on the wall. He ran out to pull a small tool kit from the back of his truck and worked in the silence of the house. It had started snowing, and the world was taking on that muted, cozy feel. When he found a woodpile outside, he loaded up a stack next to the hearth, then stirred up a nice fire in the parlor, toasting the room. Hugh paused and dug into the logs. The feeling that he was being watched made him uncomfortable. He crouched by the fire, and his eyes darted around the room.

He spun, the poker raised in his hands, just in time to see the outline of a man against the shadowy walls. He blinked, and the vision was gone, but the mural of the old
sea captain pulled him closer. He inched up to it, drawn by the captain’s glare. Hugh leaned close, and the captain stared back in a feral snarl. How had he miss that? Why would the painter make such an unfriendly face on the character?

They dark eyes glared back angrily, the bearded face taut with hatred. Hugh’s shoulders hunched with the same feeling that he was being watched from the opposite direction. He pivoted, and this time a gray fog wavered. Hugh gasped and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He fell into a winged chair, thinking he must be more exhausted than he realized.

When he opened his eyes, on the edge of his vision, the air moved again. He heard light footsteps on the narrow staircase.

He walked silently up the stairs brandishing a poker.

“Rem,” he whispered cautiously. He climbed the steps slowly. Reaching the top, he peered into the half-opened room. Remy lay amid a fluffy white comforter, her head buried in the pillow, her small foot exposed.

Eli watched Hugh suspiciously as he approached the sleeping woman. While the poker was now down, he didn’t trust the young man. Winding up his fist, Eli was poised, ready to attack.

Marum hovered overhead, prepared to interfere with Eli. Sten appeared from thin air. His hand stopped her. “Wait. It will be all right.”

They watched raptly as Hugh lifted Remy’s foot, tucking it under the plump coverlet. She sighed prettily, her eyes opening, a satisfied smile on her face. Hugh tenderly brushed back the hair from her face.

Eli skidded to a stop. Perhaps he had been too hasty with this human. He debated his next move, leaving it to them to decide for him.

Remy held out her hand. Hugh leaned down and, wrapped her in an embrace. Remy lifted her face to his. Hugh kissed her sweetly, then again, and again.

“I have to stop, or I won’t leave,” he told her, his cheek leaning against hers. “Go to sleep. I’ll watch over you.” He glanced around the room warily. “I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

Eli’s face reddened. His skin tightened in embarrassment. He smacked the walls with his fists, creating small torrents of wind. That was what a real man was supposed to do. That is exactly what he didn’t do. He didn’t protect Henry, his ship, his crew members, his wife, or even his…there was more. He couldn’t protect…who else…who else had he failed? He evaporated with shame.

The house brightened after Hugh closed her door. He sat in the tiny living room, turning the chair away from the scowling captain. Pulling a stack of magazines from the study, he managed to catch up on all the crap of modern
culture, from Bieber to the Kardashians. Not that he really cared. But it served as a mild diversion from the face on the wall. Either way, Hugh said to himself, he’d rather look at a serial killer than the scowling captain.

Off the coast of Puerto Rico, six days at sea, 1840

is eyes had swelled shut, glued together from the salt. Not that it mattered. He was sun blind. He could barely make out things close to him. His jacket was gone, his shirt shredded into strips to tie him on to the roof of the afterhouse. It was all that remained of his ship. He had managed to grab some rope and secure the boy to the rocking wood. The roof floated on the water, he and Henry tied to the top. His skin felt like it had shrunk from too many washings. It pulled tightly across his back. The cabin boy still lived, but barely, no thanks to him.

“Henry,” he called out, his voice a mere croak. “Henry, speak to me, lad.”

The boy moaned, his head rolling on the wooden boards, his fingernails torn and bloody. If Eli didn’t get them some water soon, they were as good as dead. Dead as his bloody ship. Dead as his crew.

Eli forced himself to raise his head. He untied his hand, cupping the warm seawater, to dash it across his face. The salty water burned his face as if his skin was flayed. Cursing, he untied his ankles to crawl over to the
boy. He nearly cried out from the pain of his burned skin. With shaking hands, he brushed back Henry’s matted curls. Henry’s cracked lips parted as he cried, his body too depleted to release tears.

“We’re dead men, Cap’n. Let me go. Roll me into the water. I’m tired,” Henry pleaded.

“No, no, Henry. We’ll get saved. I told you the after-house would keep us safe.”

Eli looked down at the tourniquet he had created above the child’s knee. The wound had stopped bleeding. Maybe he should let the lad slip quietly under the water. What if they did manage to get rescued? What use was a twelve-year-old with one leg? It had snapped like weak kindling when the ship went down. He was near drained of blood by the time Eli reached him. Using his belt, he had tied it off.

He dragged Henry to the center of the makeshift raft, keeping a steady watch for the pesky sharks that circled.

“I’m done for,” the boy protested. “Let me go. Please let me go. Even if we get rescued, who will want me now? I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

Eli barely slept. He touched the boy’s wrist, bound tight to broken timber. Loosening the knot, he glanced down at the pale face. Eli bit his raw knuckle with indecision. Should he let him slide away? Would it matter? He was not God, but a man. A man who promised to bring this boy home to his parents. He retied the rope, binding the boy to the flotsam.