The Shape of Night(27)

    A firefly.

I sip my whiskey and think of other warm summer nights when Lucy and I would chase fireflies on our grandparents’ farm. Running through a meadow that glittered with a thousand stars, we’d swing our nets and trap entire galaxies in Mason jars. Back to the farmhouse we’d go, like twin fairies carrying our firefly lanterns. The memory is so vivid I can feel the grass tickling my feet, and once again I hear the creak of the screen door as we stepped back into the house. I remember how we stayed awake half the night, marveling at the lights whirling inside our jars, one on her nightstand, the other on mine. A matched pair, like Lucy and me.

The way we used to be.

I empty the last of the whiskey into my glass, gulp it down, and stretch out on the bed.

It’s now the fourth night since Captain Brodie last appeared. I’ve lain awake for far too many hours, plagued by doubts that he exists. Wondering if my sanity has finally cracked. Today, when I visited the ghost hunter, what I’d wanted most was her reassurance that I’m not delusional, that what I’ve experienced is real. Now my doubts are back.

God, I need to sleep. What I would give for just one good night’s sleep. I’m tempted to go down to the kitchen and open a new bottle of wine. Another glass or two might quiet this electric hum in my brain.

Hannibal, lying beside me on the bed, suddenly lifts his head. His tufted ears are pricked up and alert as he stares toward the open window. I see nothing unusual there, no telltale swirl of mist, no thickening shadow.

I climb out of bed and gaze out at the sea. “Come back to me,” I plead. “Please come back.”

A touch grazes my arm, but surely it’s just my imagination. Has my desperate longing for company conjured up a ghostly caress from the mere whisper of a breeze? But now I feel the warm weight of a hand resting on my shoulder. I turn and there he is, standing face-to-face with me. As real as any man can be.

    I blink away tears. “I thought I would never see you again.”

“You have missed me.”

“Yes.”

“How much, Ava?”

I sigh and close my eyes as his fingers stroke down my cheek. “God, so much. You’re all I think about. All I…”

“Desire?”

The question, asked so softly, sends a sudden thrill through me. I open my eyes and look at a face obscured by shadow. In the starlight I see only the sharp cliff of his nose, the jutting cheekbones. What more does the darkness hide?

“Do you desire me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He strokes my face, and although his fingers are gentle, my skin feels scorched by his touch. “And you will submit?”

I swallow hard. I don’t know what he wants, but I am ready to say yes. To anything.

“What would you have me do?” I ask.

“As much as you are willing.”

“Tell me.”

“You are no virgin. You have known men.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Men with whom you have sinned.”

My answer is barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“Sins for which you have not yet atoned.” His hand, which had so gently cupped my face, suddenly tightens on my jaw. I stare straight into his eyes. He knows. Somehow he has looked into my soul and has seen my guilt. My shame.

“I know what torments you, Ava. And I know what you desire. Will you submit?”

“I don’t understand.”

    “Say it.” He leans closer. “Say you will submit.”

My voice is barely audible. “I will submit.”

“And you know who I am.”

“Jeremiah Brodie.”

“I am the ship’s master. I command. You obey.”

“What if I choose not to?”

“Then I will bide my time and wait for a woman more suited to my attentions. And you will depart this house.” Already I feel his touch melting away, see his face dissolving into shadow.

“Please,” I call out. “Don’t leave me!”

“You must agree.”

“I do.”

“To submit?”

“Yes.”

“To obey?”

“Yes.”

“Even if there is pain?”

At this I go silent. “How much pain?” I whisper.

“Enough to make your pleasure all the sweeter.”

He strokes my breast and his caress is warm and gentle. I sigh and my head rolls back. I crave more, so much more. He traps my nipple and my knees go weak as the unexpected pain blooms into pleasure.

“When you are ready,” he whispers, “I will be here.”

I open my eyes, and he is gone.

I stand alone in my room, shaking, my legs unsteady. My breast tingles, the nipple still tender from his assault. I am wet, so wet with desire that I feel moisture trickle down my thigh. My body aches to be filled, to be claimed, but he has abandoned me.

Or was he ever really here?





Eleven


The next morning, I awaken with a fever.

The sun has already burned away the mist and birds are chirping outside, but the soft sea air that wafts in through the open window feels like an arctic blast. Chilled and shivering, I stumble out of bed to close the window and then crawl back under the bedcovers. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to eat. I just want to stop shaking. I curl up into a ball and sink into a deep, exhausted sleep.