Stella Maris (The Legendary Rosaries) Page 28

  “Not if you don’t fight him. Please, work with me here. I don’t want anything happening to you. I care for you, Catherine. I really do.” He ran a hand over his face and let out a shaky breath. He looked so vulnerable, it made me want to wrap my arms around him and reassure him that everything would be all right. But it wouldn’t be, his grandfather always ruining things.

  Then he said it, said something I didn’t want to hear. “I think I love you.”

  I didn’t reply, not knowing how to respond to those simple, yet complicated words.

  He grimaced. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “I... I care for you too.”

  “But you don’t love me?”

  “I don’t know what I feel, I hardly know you.”

  His expression turned pained. “Don’t you feel it?” He indicated between us. “This pull?”

  “It doesn’t mean it’s love, it could just be lust.”

  He took a step back, looking like I’d slapped him in the face. “If I just wanted to bed you, I would’ve had you and been long gone. I fought with my famiglia for you, even got hurt for you. Do you think I’d do that for anyone?”

  I bit my lip, not knowing how to handle the emotions coming off him or how to deal with my own emotions. I liked him. A lot. But love? It couldn’t be more than an intense like, because I hardly knew him.

  Then, why couldn’t I stop thinking about him?

  And why did I smile so much when I knew I was going to see him?

  I shook my head, reasoning with myself as much as him. “It can’t be love, you just think it is. You need to get to know me more before you can say that and truly mean it.”

  His eyes flashed red at me. “Don’t tell me how to think! And if you don’t give a merda about me, tell me now. Tell me before I destroy my famiglia for a heartless girl.”

  “I’m not heartless, I’m practical.”

  “Cold, more like,” he spat.

  I scowled at him, hurt by his words, even though I knew he was lashing out because I’d hurt him. “I want to leave now.”

  “Then leave! Because you obviously don’t give a merda about me enough to stay. Go on, what the hell are you waiting for?”

  “My rosary.”

  He threw his hands up in the air. “Haven’t you been listening to me? My grandfather will kill you if you keep it!”

  “Stop yelling.”

  “Not until you get it into your thick head that I’m trying to save your life!”

  “He’ll still come after me either way!” I yelled back, now getting riled.

  “You don’t know that, and if I don’t give him your rosary, he’ll one-hundred percent come after you. There won’t be any ifs or buts, he will. At least if I give him the rosary, you’ll have a chance.”

  “I’ll have more of a chance with it.”

  His face crumbled. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

  My anger at him instantly melted. Stepping closer to him, I took hold of his face, but he flinched away. I did it again, forcing him to look at me. “The only way you can help me, is by giving me my rosary back, because when it comes time to fight him, I’ll need it more than anything in this world.”

  He took hold of my wrists, removing my hands from his face. “You’re not fighting him.”

  I pulled free. “Sister Cecile had a premonition, saying the same thing as your grandfather: that we’ll battle each other. Don’t you realise that’s why I’ve been training out on the water? To learn to protect myself from him. I knew it was coming, just wished it wasn’t so.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “Unfortunately, it does. Tell him that if he wants my rosary, he has to fight me for it, because I’m not giving it up to him, not leaving myself defenceless. We’ll have to set a place though, because if he so much as goes near my family, I will come after him.”

  “No! This isn’t happening!”

  “It is. Tell him to meet me here next Sunday, early in the morning. Say just before six, when there’ll be no one around.”

  “No, you can’t do this, he’s more powerful than you. You’re just a novice. You don’t have a chance of winning against him,” he begged, looking panicked. “How about we just take off, go somewhere else, maybe Mount Maunganui, where there’s so much water he won’t follow.”

  Touched by his need to protect me, I took hold of his hand and sat back down on the sails, trying to pull him down with me. He looked unsure, but followed nonetheless, settling next to me.

  I brushed back his hair and gave him a sad smile, wishing things didn’t have to be this way. “I can’t just up and leave. Agnaru’s my home. Everyone I love is here.”

  “But you’ll die if you stay.”

  “You can say it until you’re blue in the face, but I’m not changing my mind.”

  He spat out something in Italian and went to get up. I quickly climbed on top of him to stop him from leaving, straddling his lap. Then before I knew what was happening, I was on my back, looking up at him, stunned by how fast he’d moved, my heart pounding out of my chest. Suddenly his lips were on mine, ravaging my mouth, begging me to open up for him. And I wanted to so bad, the sparks between us so real, the pull so strong, but I couldn’t, his grandfather just too much of a barrier to get past.

  He pulled back, his expression so hurt that I hadn’t returned his kiss. I wanted to fix it, to yank his head back down and kiss him until all of his hurt melted away, but again, I couldn’t. This was about more than just our relationship...

  ...it was about my life.

  I placed my hands on my rosary, which was still around his neck. “Please,” I said, staring up at him. “I need it.”

  He shook his head.

  I moved my hands to his face, cupping it. “Please.”

  He stared at me for the longest time, then pushed off me.

  “Chris,” I said, scrambling to my feet, panicked he was going to leave with my rosary. “Don’t do this to me.”

  He pulled my rosary off, the beads dangling from his fingers. “If my grandfather kills you, I’m done with my famiglia. If you kill him, I’m done with you.” He dropped the rosary on the floor and walked out.

  Chapter 37

  ~ CHRISTOPHER ~

  As I entered my house, I could hear yelling coming from the lounge. It wasn’t an argument, just my father and grandfather excited over some football match.

  I closed the front door behind me.

  The excited yells stopped, my grandfather calling out, “Chris, is that you?”

  “Yeah,” I called back, aiming for the lounge. I headed through the doorway, finding my grandfather rising out of his chair.

  His brows pulled down, his expression a touch dumbfounded. “You haven’t been crying over that girl, have you, Chris? She’s not worth it.”

  “I haven’t been crying! I’ve hardly slept because of you, so why don’t you fuck off back to Rome.”

  Anger shot through his eyes, red lighting them up. He raised his hand, looking like he was going to slap me across the head, but my father shot out of his seat and grabbed his wrist before he could. “Don’t, Papà.”

  My grandfather yanked his hand free. “Don’t you dare disrespect me again, nipote,” he snapped at me.

  I didn’t reply, not in the slightest bit sorry for what I’d said.

  “Did you get the rosary?” my father interrupted the standoff.

  “No, she wouldn’t give it to me.”

  “You should’ve just taken it,” my grandfather growled. “She’s a novice, even you could overpower her.”

  “I’m not hurting her!”

  “Did you tell her what would happen if she doesn’t hand it over?”

  “Sì, and she said giving up the rosary won’t stop you from trying to kill her.”

  A mad laugh broke free from my grandfather’s throat, making me finally admit that Catherine had been right. Deep down, I knew I’d been fooling myself that my grandfather would s
top after getting the rosary.

  I clenched my hands. “She wants to meet you at Boyd’s Beach next Sunday, just before six in the morning, near the old red boatshed.”

  “I bet she does.” He ran a hand over his dark stubble. “There’s no way I’m going to meet up with her on a beach. Even a novice can drown someone of experience that close to the sea.” He shook his head at the very idea that Catherine would think he’d agree to such a suicidal arrangement.

  “Then where?” I asked.

  “Buckland’s Reserve would be good,” he said, making me freeze, his suggestion chilling me. Catherine’s sister popped into my head, her burns, her terrified expression. But my grandfather hadn’t done that, the perpetrator blond.

  He continued, “It’s surrounded by trees, and the sea is just far enough away not to give her the advantage. It would be the perfect battleground.”

  I blinked at him. “Battleground? Nonno, do you even hear what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, and you’ll tell her precisely what I said.” He patted me on the head, the patronising gesture done on purpose, letting me know I couldn’t do a thing about it, that I was just a stupid kid that had to do as he was told.

  I hit my grandfather’s hand away. “I may have forgiven you for killing Levy, but I won’t if you kill Catherine.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. “You will, ragazzo. It may take time, but you know you will. You love me as much as I love you.”

  I turned away from him and headed out the door, no longer sure he loved me at all.

  Chapter 38

  ~ CATHERINE ~

  That night my dreams took on a strange mosaic of different stories from other people’s lives. I watched over the scenes, not part of them, more like a voyeur or a movie-goer viewing a film.

  The first of my dreams was about a captive man struggling against thick silk chords as a woman hovered over him. He was sprawled out on a large, satin-covered bed, with his wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts. The woman was running her long wine-coloured fingernails down his muscular chest, murmuring something to him in a Slavic language. He stopped struggling, his violet eyes glazing over. All of a sudden, his face contorted in agony and a scream burst from his mouth as the woman pressed her hand against his chest. His screams ceased a moment later, his beautiful violet eyes changing to a murky brown. Laughing, the woman dug her nails deep into his chest, plucking out a shrivelled-up heart. After throwing the dead organ on the floor, she removed the purple and green rosary from around his neck and pulled it over her head.

  A male laugh sounded from behind the woman as the scene flashed to the face of a terror-struck priest, a man I instantly recognised. It was Christopher’s grandfather—or more likely his cousin Cristoforo, since he was much younger, mid-twenties at the oldest. He flung out his hands, sending a barrage of flames at a tall man, who was too beautiful to be real. He was wearing a long flowing cloak as black as his hair, which contrasted with his porcelain skin. He had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and sensual lips that topped off a picture of ethereal perfection. And if it wasn’t for his eyes and evil sneer, I would’ve assumed he was an avenging angel bringing damnation down on Cristoforo. I’d read about demons looking just as beautiful as angels, if not more so. But it was a false beauty, a veneer that their eyes couldn’t hide—like this demon’s. His red eyes had narrow slits, giving them a dragon-like quality. And it was apt, because he looked like he was going to spew fire at his victim. But instead, he pushed his hands out, conjuring up a barrage of black smoke, extinguishing Cristoforo’s flames. Cristoforo yelled out in response, looking like he was doubling his efforts to bring the demon down, but his opponent just propelled more smoke, along with flames, the two obviously both Seraphim.

  Without warning, an explosion ignited between them, flinging both Merges backwards several feet. Cristoforo pushed up first. He turned and ran, ignoring the sounds of a woman, who was screaming for his adversary to get up, the name Caleb the only thing I could decipher. The terrified priest didn’t take advantage of his fallen adversary, didn’t send more flames his way, finishing him off. Instead, he shot through the trees, which reached out for him, their branches scratching his face, arms, and body. He threw fire at them, making them retreat.

  The scene cut short, changing to one set in a roiling sea. A young woman dived off a cliff and into towering waves. Clad only in a thin silk gown and a blue rosary, she swam frantically away from an encroaching blackness. Swallowing everything in its path, the blackness turned into a human-shaped shadow as it neared the girl. It reached out for her, touching her heel. She let out an ear-splitting scream, crying out for help. A chorus of dolphins answered her plea, heading straight for her. She propelled herself into the air as the long line of dolphins zeroed in on the shadow. The dolphins rammed into the girl’s pursuer, knocking him backwards. A male voice roared in deafening anger. He hurled a long stream of black water at them, ripping a hole in their attack. He threw another attack at the retreating girl, causing her to cry out again, the black liquid appearing to burn her legs. But instead of slowing her down, it propelled her forward faster.

  Thunderous bolts shot down from the blackening sky, submerging the dream into a battle scene. Dead and dying soldiers were scattered across the trampled, muddied ground, blood soaking their uniforms and the battlefield that had stolen their futures. Not far behind a thin red line of infantrymen, a woman dressed in an old-fashioned nurse’s uniform was cradling the dead body of a handsome young soldier. She murmured the shielding spell, instantly making all the other men disappear, only the one in her arms remaining. She unfastened his red coat and lowered a Halo rosary over his head, laying it on his bare and bloodied chest. A brilliant white halo lit up his face, encircling his shoulders and head, extending out over his body. Little streams of white light penetrated in and out of his torn apart chest, like a needle sewing up his wound. The man’s eyes flickered open a moment later. The woman cried out with joy and grabbed him in a hug, kissing him with such passion it could only be love.

  The couple vanished into smoke, replaced by a huge burning bush. At the centre of the inferno was an old priest, screaming in agony, trying to escape a fiery death. My gaze moved to the source of the fire, instantly recognising Michael Laboure. He was standing several feet back from the burning priest, with his arms outstretched. Flames shot forth from the boy’s hands, bombarding the poor man. Red beads glowed against his bare chest, while little sparks flew off the main ruby. He continued to pummel his victim with fire, sending him to his knees. The priest started to convulse, then went still, his form now a burnt shell.

  As he lay smouldering on the ground, his corpse morphed into the nun I’d dreamt about: Sister Cecile’s mother. She was frantically tearing at her burning clothes as a tall male retreated with two tiny babies in his arms, looking like Cristoforo Rosario—the man Michael had later merged with.

  The nun’s dying screams morphed into my own agonised cry. No longer watching the scene, I was a part of it. I was standing in the middle of Buckland’s Reserve, completely encased in a swirling mass of water. Across the field, the figures of Michael and his cousin were standing side by side. Tears were rolling down Cristoforo’s cheeks. He looked distressed and much younger than the man who walked in his form. In comparison, Michael was much older than the teenager he’d died as. He was about the age Reprebus was now, his true self no longer hidden behind his cousin’s likeness. Latin words formed on his lips, fuelling the swirling mass of fire that was rapidly building around him and his cousin. As soon as his fiery shield was at its peak, both men ran towards me.

  I pushed my barrier of water at them. Bursts of fire and water hit at the same time, igniting into a massive explosion, flinging all of us backwards. My body slammed against a tree, the totara one Christopher had previously taken me to. I crumpled to the ground, blanking out for a moment. When I came to, Christopher’s terrified face appeared above me. Wanting to stay with him, but knowing I couldn’t, my eyes flutter
ed shut again.

  I awoke in the safety of my bedroom, realising what I’d just seen.

  My own death.

  Chapter 39

  ~ CATHERINE ~

  Sunday the 25th of June, 1989

  I continued to stretch behind a line of white-clad figures. My sensei barked out the next instruction. In unison, all the karate students squatted down in a wide stance. Fists pumped out at the count of Japanese numbers, while each person shouted out a kiai. Looking straight ahead, I changed from a punch to a block, raising my arm up at an angle a little above my head. My green belt flapped from side to side as I put power into each delivery. An image of Christopher’s grandfather flashed into my mind. I blocked again, then added a punch, imagining hitting him in the face.

  Phillip, the tall black belt leading the session, walked up and down the line, checking on each student’s technique. He stopped not far from where I was. An annoyed expression crossed his face as he indicated for me to approach him.

  “Why are you wearing jewellery?” he asked, pointing to my rosary.

  He was also giving me a strange look, probably because of the blue rings circling my irises. Most people assumed they were contacts. I didn’t bother to tell them otherwise.

  “You know it’s not allowed in the dojo,” he added.

  “Sorry, Sensei, it’s for religious reasons. I’m not allowed to remove the rosary until my confirmation is completed.”

  “Fine,” he said, begrudgingly, “you can re-join the class,” the guy obviously not Catholic, since he’d bought my lie.

  I bowed; then swiftly moved back into line. After I’d resettled into my stance, the other instructor ordered the students to do press-ups on their knuckles. Grimacing, I got down, doing press-ups on the two largest knuckles on each hand, which were used for punching.

  Once the class had finished, I changed out of my karate clothes, and into my black jeans and I Love Mexico hoodie, something I’d gotten from Shanton. I hadn’t been to Mexico, just liked the hoodie. The closest thing I’d gotten to the country was watching Elvis’ Fun in Acapulco, which I’d watched more than once, along with all his other films.