Authors: Kristin Dearborn
Karen should arrive in front of Merriweathers any minute now. A half mile north down the beach. Toward town. He didn’t much care for that. But beggars, it is said, can’t be choosers.
A 230-pound white guy has a hard time being secretive and sneaky pretty much anywhere. Yes, he was tall. Yes, he carried his weight well. But it still didn’t make him a little dude. Didn’t make it easy for him to cross the beach without being noticed.
He caught a glimpse of Jemma talking to Mr. Lucky. He should have grabbed one of her dresses for her, but on the other hand, she had the rest of her life to curl up in a burlap sack. He kept his head down, and tried to walk like a man with a destination. He wondered what Terry was doing.
A half mile down the beach wasn’t so far. He wished he could check on Jemma. He executed a casual, wide turn, hand shielding his eyes from the sun, hoping to look like a dude scoping the scenery, and nothing more. There was fantastic scenery to scope. He wished he had even the slightest chance to enjoy it. Vampires and being locked in cottages sort of bled the fun out of the lovely vistas.
He could see Jemma, as she made her way down the beach. She stopped to talk to a native boy. Well, it was un-Jemma. The Merriweathers resort sign featured a margarita glass, a palm tree, and a crescent moon, painted faded Day-Glo pink. Alex dropped into a wicker beach lounger, and stared out at the water. He examined each
Bangka
and motorboat. He hoped
Lucky Daze
could outrun
Baby Roxanne
. Once Mr. Lucky went back to the cottage, he’d see they were gone.
From his peripheral vision (god, he hoped he was being discreet) he watched Mr. Lucky leave the beach. Alex stood, willing Jemma to hurry the fuck up. Where was Karen? He’d stressed the gravity of the situation, so it wasn’t as though she would get distracted and wander off. There were plenty of little boats out there, but most of them seemed to be unmanned, waiting in the early morning to collect tourists and head out into the islands.
Where was she?
Jemma moved down the beach at a casual, meandering pace. They had maybe three seconds before Mr. Lucky came after them. Would he put two and two together, or was Jemma’s disguise solid?
Two things happened at once: Karen put-putted the
Lucky Daze
into view. A half mile down the beach, Mr. Lucky came sprinting from the Vista Breeze resort, a tiny white Terry behind him.
Jemma ran.
Alex headed into the water toward Karen, the boat name gnawing at him. Running from Lucky to
Lucky
didn’t quite sit right. Jemma saw him and cut into the water—which would slow her down, shit—to triangulate the distance.
Karen worked her boat in as shallow as she dared.
This, Alex reflected as his heart slammed against his ribs, is why people run for fun. So when the time comes to run for your life, it’s not quite so painful.
Closer to the boat now, he paused and watched Jemma struggle through the calf-deep water.
Lucky closed the distance between them.
Alex waited, not sure if he should board the boat or go try and hold off Mr. Lucky. The man carried a machete, there wasn’t much Alex could do.
A loud pop—gunshot?—rent the morning, and something splashed and exploded in front of Mr. Lucky, then blazed brilliant green. For a moment it glowed brighter than the sun.
Karen stood on the nose of her boat, wildly sexy in her conservative khaki shorts and button-down shirt, a neon orange flare gun in her hand.
It bought them the time they needed. Jemma came to him, and he stepped out of her way, letting her clamber gracelessly on board.
Karen extended a hand to help her, and Jemma muttered a terse “no thanks,” then a harsher “please don’t touch me.”
“Go!” Alex flung himself into the boat with a wave of warm seawater.
Jemma curled into one of the seats, wrapping her arms around herself as best she could. Karen lobbed the flare gun to Alex, gawked at Jemma a little, and started the motor.
Alex pointed the gun at Mr. Lucky, who’d resumed his pursuit. He didn’t want to shoot anyone. He wanted to get away. He fired another flare in front of his pursuer, and again, Mr. Lucky stopped. He shielded his eyes, and started to laugh.
“Not so lucky now, eh?” Alex called. The guy’d finally flipped his shit. Good. Now to get to Puerto, get on a plane, and get the hell out of here. Back to New York, back to snow and sleet and rude people. Back to home.
Jemma found a towel and wrapped herself in it.
“Are you guys okay?” Karen asked.
He nodded. How much to tell?
There’s a vampire on
Sakripisiyuhin
Island, and once we found out about it, it was then time to leave, as our charming British resort owner was going to feed us to her
?
“We’ve not made friends.”
“Was that Alastair Lucky?”
Alastair? Who would have imagined Mr. Lucky would have a first name. Or that his last name was actually Lucky?
“Yes. He’s pretty pissed. He works for Terry Brenton, who’s not the least bit impressed with our snooping.”
“Huh,” Karen said, and then turned her attention to the calm ocean waters. They rode along in silence, and Alex found himself almost lulled to sleep by the rhythmic motion of the speed boat. Faster than the
bangkas
, Alex wondered why all the tour guides didn’t run these.
“Where are we going?” Jemma asked, pulling Alex from his thoughts.
Karen mumbled something, lost in the breeze.
“This is the island!”
Karen cut the engine, said, “Don’t you touch me,” to Jemma.
The cross of the island loomed over them. Jemma was right, of course. This was
Sacrifice
Island. The midmorning sun indicated they had plenty of time before Virginia came out of her hiding place.
“Why are we here?” Alex asked, his voice seeming way too loud in the silence left behind from the engine. Waves lapped at the boat and the shore in the protected beach cove, and the hull of the boat scraped the sand. Karen hopped out, and he watched the water swirl around her muscular calves as she tugged the boat in a little farther, then dropped the anchor.
She reached into the hull of the boat, and picked up the radio. Alex watched in stunned silence.
“I’ve got them here, over.”
Static responded.
Jemma picked up a cooler and used it to bash the radio. Sparks flew, pieces skittered across the damp floor of the boat. She glared at Karen, the towel still looped over her shoulders.
Karen replaced the radio handset. “It doesn’t matter. Get out.”
“No way—” Jemma went for the outboard motor. Alex stood closer; he chastised himself for not thinking of it. She tugged at the starter, but was utterly unfamiliar with the operation of such things. By the time Alex collected his wits enough to help her, Karen pulled a petite, snub-nosed pistol from a concealed holster.
“Get out. Right now.”
Alex gave the starter another tug, and she fired into the sky. A flock of birds erupted from nearby trees, shrieking and flapping.
“It’s not worth dying over,” Jemma said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t kill you. Virginia would be angry if I did. I’d just shoot you in the leg, or somewhere where I’d be sure you’d survive till nightfall. Now get off my damn boat.”
Jemma did. Around her ankles, the spray tan rinsed off, revealing alabaster skin underneath.
“Why?” he asked Karen as they disembarked.
“Neither of you have any idea what you got yourselves into. The night I met you, you were babbling about ghosts.” Karen followed them ashore. “You can’t simply come in and interfere with the top predator in an ecosystem. A tiger won’t take more than she needs when things are in balance, it’s when you force her hand, and make her come in contact with humans she becomes a man-eater. We’ve gotten used to having creatures like Virginia around. We know she needs to feed, and we know so long as she gets to in peace, she won’t go on a rampage.”
“He feeds her tourists.”
“So what? Not enough so anyone notices.”
“We noticed.”
“Bullshit. You thought there were ghosts on this
haunted
island. It wasn’t until you got here you saw people were missing. And no ghosts.”
He couldn’t argue.
Alex climbed up on the beach, baking in the midday sun. Jemma headed into the jungle, not even bothering with the well-trodden path. He needed to think. On the one hand, great that Jemma disabled the radio, but now they couldn’t call for help if they needed it. He held his cell phone. At home, he knew to call 911. What the fuck do you call in the Philippines? And what the fuck do you call in a place where everyone is in bed with the monster?
22
Jemma’s throat burned. Thirsty. She couldn’t remember a time when she was thirstier, then she did, and she ignored it. She focused on the dry pain inside her. It made a nice reprieve from worrying about being barely dressed. She would have tried to take hold of Karen if she thought it would help…depending on the person she touched, it could be worse for them, or worse for her. Karen could feel guilty about this, could feel great. Jemma couldn’t risk being incapacitated if Karen hurt worse than she did.
The shadows and pungent, earthy smells of the jungle enveloped her, and she felt better already. She couldn’t blame Virginia for shirking the tropical sunlight.
“Why is she letting us wander away?” Alex asked.
“Why wouldn’t she? Mr. Lucky and Terry are coming, I’m sure. We can’t get off the island, she controls the only boat. Virginia, I’m sure, will be able to find us quite easily when dark comes. What does she care if we wander in and get a drink?”
They passed the dormitory, lower windows were dark, the upper windows reflected palm trees and sun. Was Virginia lurking in her basement nest, waiting for the sun to sink so she could hunt? Should Jemma go on in, confront her there?
The sound of water coursing over stones melted together with the sound of wind through the trees. She needed to drink first. The stream they’d heard when Mr. Lucky abandoned them here. She headed through the jungle, Alex, exasperated, on her heels.
The stream ran red. It wasn’t much of one, barely more than a trickle of water through the rocks. But it ran the color of blood.
“I never thought we’d find it,” she said. “And we don’t have a camera. No one will believe us.”
Alex stared at the stream for a few minutes. “I’m sorry. This is my fault.”
“How is this your fault? How could you have known?” Of course it wasn’t his fault.
“Incomplete research.”
“I twisted the data to be what I wanted it to be. An island where people were afraid to go? Must be ghosts. We made it fit. It made sense. I didn’t realize vampires were real.” She laughed. It sounded silly, said out loud in the sunlight.
If she didn’t laugh, she would cry. In Terry’s mind, she saw a weapon. A particular kind of bamboo the
Aswang
is sensitive to. She scanned the jungle. Stood, marched forward in search of it.
Alex fumbled after her.
There.
“Do you have a knife?”
“Always—why do you ask?”
It wasn’t a big knife. Wouldn’t be of any use against, say, Karen or an
Aswang
, but it would, given enough time, cut through this bamboo and sharpen it down to a point.
“Give it to me.”
“Why?”
“I need to make myself a
bagacay.
”
23