Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

The Ceruleans: Book I

Death Wish

By Megan Tayte

Copyright 2015 Megan Tayte

All rights reserved. No part
of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or stored in an
information retrieval system in any form or by any means (other than for purposes
of review), without the express permission of the author given in writing. The
right of Megan Tayte to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

To contact the author, visit
www.megantayte.com.

For Ally.

DEATH WISH

‘Who so loves
believes the impossible.’ – Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Waves everywhere, swirling, surging, seething – a raging
melange of foam and salt and inky water biting at me, pulling at me, thrusting
upon me a solitary invitation:

Death.

As I fought to remain on the flimsy polystyrene surfboard
that seemed more bucking bronco than wave rider, I thought:
That’s how easy
it is – you just let go.
Just release the grip on this world that in recent
months had seemed so much an effort, and sink into the blue, beneath the waves,
where chaos and fury turned to quiet and calm. Like
she
did.

Was drowning as they claim? I wondered. The easiest way to
die – peaceful? How would it feel to give up all the dragging myself through
the day, all the struggle to evade the aching void inside? A relief?

Another wave rose me up and slammed me down with
breathtaking power. Its force stirred me. You could say a lot of things about
Scarlett Blake – she’s a loner, she’s a wallflower, she’s a menace in the
kitchen – but no way was ‘she’s a quitter’ on the list of character flaws.

‘Screw you!’ I shouted through the spray.

Funny, sounded like someone shouted back. But who else would
be out in this tumultuous sea at six a.m. on a summer’s morning? Solitude was
the entire point of hauling myself out of bed in the still-dark and picking my
way down the cliff path to the beach just in time to see the horizon light up
with the first burnt-orange glow of the rising sun. No one to see me make a
damn fool of myself on my first surfing attempt.

‘Trying… yourself killed?’

Definitely a voice. Male. Angry.

Scanning the surroundings for the source proved difficult
while lying stomach-to-board. On an upward surge I got a glimpse of the
Devonshire cliffs that fringed the cove, all dark, jutting rocks topped by
bushes of gorse, and then a flash of the beach. On a downward plummet there was
nothing but eye-burning, throat-choking seawater.

‘Forward… next wave!’

The voice was closer now. There was an edge to it beyond the
anger. Something raw.

My eyes picked out a black form between the waves. Someone
on a surfboard, paddling it expertly seaward. I took one hand off the board to
push sticky tendrils of hair from my eyes. Rookie mistake. Turned out holding
on one-handed was impossible. The board shot upwards, out of my feeble grip,
and then it was just me and Old Man Sea.

Kicking frantically, I tried to keep my head above the
surface, but the waves were burying me, one after the other, only a second or
two to come up for air before the next one hit. Far away now were thoughts of
letting go – I was fighting furiously for life. Never in my seventeen years had
I been so desperate. But my legs were tingling with effort, and I knew it was
just a matter of time.

When the final wave broke me all I could think was,
Sienna
.
With her name on my lips I inhaled a lungful of water and I sank…

… for all of a second before something grabbed the back of
my t-shirt and hauled me upward. Coughing and spluttering, I emerged from the
blue and was pulled roughly onto a board, my leg shoved over so that I
straddled it. I had the fleeting thought that this board was much sleeker and
more substantial looking than the one I’d just lost before my rescuer settled
pretty much on top of me and started paddling toward the shore.

With him in command, we crested waves and glided down the
other side with apparent ease, though I seemed unable to match the rhythm of
our motion and kept taking in great gulps of brine. Over the sound of the waves
and the wind and the splash of powerful arms cutting into the water to propel
us along, I picked out low, irate grumblings.

‘…
idiot
tourists… total waste of… all we need…
another bloody drama…’

Finally, we reached the shallow waters and he slid off the
board and pulled me off to walk to the beach. But my legs didn’t seem willing
to respond to basic instructions like ‘walk’ or even ‘stand’ and breathing
between wrenching gasps had become a challenge, so he threw an arm around me
and half-carried, half-walked me, dragging his board with his spare hand.

Ten steps up the beach he let me down onto the sand.

‘Head down,’ he commanded. ‘Between your legs. Cough it
out.’

I did as I was told. Liquid spilled out of me with each
retching cough, and the cool air I gulped in burned my throat. I fought the
panic, I fought the pain, focusing instead on the shells and stones strewn
around. Finally, breathing won out.

‘You okay?’

I was reluctant to look up. For starters, I knew I must look
a mess – long hair plastered to my head rat-tail style, face flushed and
salt-burned, eyes teary and bloodshot. And then there was the fact that this
guy, whoever he was, had just saved my life, and was evidently pretty mad about
having had to do so.

‘Hey, you okay?’

I lifted my head slowly. Took in broad thighs clad in black
neoprene; hands reaching out, palms raised; a wide, muscular chest; a striking
face – rugged, square jaw, full lips, ruddy cheeks, Grecian nose bearing a thin
scar across the bridge, thick black lashes framing eyes… oh, his eyes.

I opened my mouth, tried to speak, but I was paralysed by
his gaze. All at once I was home in the cottage, tucked up beneath the blue
patchwork quilt of my childhood; I was watching my grandmother remove
vanilla-scented fairy cakes from her powder-blue Aga; I was running through a
meadow of sky-blue forget-me-nots with my sister – free, exhilarated, happy.
The memories took my breath away. I felt the familiar burn in my tear ducts.

His eyebrows pulled together and he placed a hand on my
trembling knee.

‘Are. You. Okay?’ he said with exaggerated care, as if he
were speaking to an elderly lady having a turn at a bus stop.

I blinked, cleared my throat and managed a husky, ‘Yes.
Th-thank you.’

Concern melted into exasperation.

‘What’s the deal,’ he demanded, ‘out there on your own,
clearly no idea what you’re doing, children’s play surfboard… you got a death
wish or something?’

I cringed. I’d known the board was short, but I’d thought it
was me-sized – at five foot three, what use was some enormous board?

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You would’ve been sorry if I hadn’t seen you.’

‘I just wanted to get a feel for it. I didn’t realise it was
so rough out there.’

‘Rough? That’s not rough. Not even optimum surfing weather.
Piece of cake for someone who actually knows how to surf…’

He paused when he saw a tear escape my eye and roll
traitorously down my cheek. Furrowed his brow, combed his fingers roughly
through dark hair that was drying fast in the breeze.

‘Listen, I didn’t mean to…’

I brushed the tear away furiously.
Enough
with the
vulnerability.

‘Right, well, thank you…’

‘Luke. My name’s Luke.’ The stress lines in his face
smoothed out and his lips curved. Like this, smiling and relaxed, his scrutiny
was a touch less unsettling. ‘And you are…?’

‘Thank you, Luke, for your, um, help, but I’m sure you’ve
better things to do, so I’ll just be...’

Before he could protest, I launched myself to my feet. He
instinctively rose with me, and my water-fogged mind registered belatedly that
my rescuer was a giant of a guy – my head was at the level of his chest. As I
looked up to take in his stature I staggered slightly and he reached out to
right me, but I stepped backwards. I didn’t need his kindness.

He looked awkward, unsure of himself, as he towered over me.
‘Hey, will you be okay?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’ll just head home.’

‘You live close?’

I pointed vaguely west. ‘Yes, not far.’

‘Up
there
?’ He looked puzzled, and then interest
sparked in his eyes. ‘You mean the Blake place?’

Busted. Of course being vague was pointless. My
grandparents’ ramshackle cottage on the western cliff was the only building up
there.

I made a noncommittal
mnnnhnnn
noise, but Luke was
not to be deterred.

‘But that place has been empty since…’

He was looking at me now with such scrutiny that I took a
further step back. I saw the cogs turning in his mind as he took in the classic
green Blake eyes and then compared
her
– short, spiky red hair,
eternally crimson lips, tall and impossibly slender – with me – petite and
curvy, hair more blond than auburn reaching to the base of my spine and a
pallor worthy of a vampire. His eyes widened.

‘Scarlett? Scarlett Blake!’

There was shock in his tone, and then sympathy.

I said nothing; I only nodded.

He smiled tentatively, as if not sure how to react, and
said, ‘I’m Luke Cavendish. Mike and Elsie’s grandson. Our grandparents were
friends.’

Cavendish. The name stirred something deep inside, an echo
of a memory.

‘I used to see you when you were young, when you came to
stay with your grandparents for the summer holidays. I think we played together
once or twice on the beach… you and me, and my sister, and your sister…’

A flash, and there it was. Just a fleeting moment, a scene
playing across my mind. Sienna here, in this cove, leaping confidently from
rock to rock, digging deep into rock pools with a neon-green net, finding a
crab here, a shrimp there, flinging them around recklessly, laugh singing on
the breeze. Me picking my way anxiously along in her wake, returning displaced
crustaceans to their home pools, imploring Sienna to respect the creatures. A
younger girl scrambling along behind, eager to impress Sienna, holding up a
starfish for approval. And a boy, a boy a year or two older than Sienna and me,
a boy with unruly hair and pink cheeks and the bluest of eyes shouting from the
beach, ‘Caroline, come back!
Caroline
, careful now!’

Luke looked pained and his hands fluttered at his sides
uselessly.

As I stared into his eyes, I thought how much nicer it would
be to drown in this kind of blue, in a gaze that contained depth and warmth and
compassion and soul.

‘Idiot! I didn’t think. Listen, I’m sorry about what
happened to your –’

But I wouldn’t let him finish. ‘Well, Luke, it was nice to
meet you. Um, again.’

I plastered a smile on my face and started edging backwards
up the beach to where I’d left my towel and trainers. I shoved my blue-tinged
feet into the battered old Adidas, heedless of the abrasive sand encrusted on
them, and wrapped the thick old towel around my sodden t-shirt and swimsuit.
‘Better be off.’

He nodded, his face serious. ‘Okay, Scarlett. Take care,
eh?’

‘Will do!’ I replied breezily. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t go out
there
again.’

I gestured to the sea, which from the shore, I now realised,
looked more tame than tempestuous, and then spun around on my heel and
squelched along the beach to the western side of the cove, where an age-old
path cut into the rocks led me up the cliff. At the top I risked a glance down.
The boy was standing right where I left him, watching me, head tilted to one
side, hands resting loosely at his sides. I raised my hand in an awkward
half-wave, and then hurried along the narrow, overgrown path to the cottage –
to a warm bath, a mug of hot coffee and another day of wondering and aching.

And plotting. For as kind and honourable as Luke Cavendish
was; as much as I now owed him my life; as much as in another life I might have
felt the pull to be friends, to let someone in – I had lied to him.

I
would
go back out onto the ocean. I would once
again sit astride a surfboard on surging, rollicking, crashing waves. Not by
choice – I was deeply frightened of the sea; always had been – but out of
heart-crushing need. To answer the question that had echoed in every beat of my
heart for the past two months – since I had walked into the headmistress’s
office of my private boarding school and been confronted by the sight of
Mother, collapsed in a chair and sobbing into a handful of tissues, and Father,
standing before the fireplace, white-faced and rigid, and my headmistress
frozen at her desk with the most sickening look of pity on her face:

Why, why, why, why?