Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (44 page)

“Simply part your legs for me, okay? I promise I will not hurt you.”

Kyra nodded and slowly spread her knees apart.

“Very good, Kyra.
Thank you.” He turned to Brian and whispered, “Get those damn straps off her now,” before leaning in for a better look.

He pushed up his glasses while Brian worked on getting Kyra free of her restraints. The woman’s inner thighs were badly bruised, yellow and black splotches that spread from her crotch to just above her knees. Reaching into the box on the table to his right, he removed a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on.

“I am just going to poke around a little, okay?”

Kyra didn’t give him an answer, but she didn’t tell him to go away. She simply stared at him with those beautiful, rage-filled eyes.

“Okay.
Easy now.”
He traced her inner thigh with his knuckle as his hand approached her most sensitive of areas, trying to let her know he would be careful. The he slipped a couple digits into her and turned his head to the side.

“Miss Kyra, you are ninety percent effaced, eight centimeters dilated, though your water has yet to be broken. I would say this child is indeed coming.” He again glanced at the discoloration on her inner thighs. While he withdrew his fingers he added, “You have some pretty major bruising here. Did you take a rather nasty fall recently?”

Kyra’s fingers curled into fists. She squeezed them so tight she drew blood.

Bruises.
Abrasions on her hip.
And now that he was looking closely, he spotted a welt on her lower jaw, weakly covered over with makeup. His breathing hitched.

“Oh my goodness, I apologize. Who did this to you?”

She didn’t answer, and tears started to form in the corners of her eyes, but the look of fury on her beautiful face said it all.

He stroked her wet, matted hair, trying to calm her down. “It’s okay. You are here now, with friends. No one will hurt you.”

“See?” said Brian, shaking his head with hands firmly planted on his hips. “I
told
you there’s some fucked up shit going on here. And to think, this is supposedly the guy in charge’s girl.”

“Is that what the soldiers told you?”

“Yup.”

“This is not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

Horace turned back to Kyra. Her body tensed, another contraction wreaking havoc on her nervous system. He held her hand tight and eased her back against the mattress. With a swift nod, he told Brian to get in position.

“Disturbing events or not, this child is coming,” he said. “Hopefully, the beating she suffered did not hurt it. Get started.”

Horace kept hold of Kyra’s hand while Brian went about the business of breaking her water.
When the liquid poured out of her and over the table, the contractions came on even stronger, which he expected.
She squeezed his hand so tight he heard his knuckles pop on more than one occasion, but it didn’t hurt too badly. At least it made him forget, if only for a second, the pain he felt everywhere else.

Another spasm hit, and Kyra’s head pitched back. She let out an ear-splitting screech. Horace caressed her forehead with his free hand. “Breathe, just breathe,” he whispered into her ear. “Slow, in and out, in and out. Work through it. Relax.”

He breathed deliberately with his cracked lips puffed out, offering her a model. She mimicked him, panting faster and faster with each heartbeat. Finally she seemed to settle down, and those green eyes looked directly into his. For the first time in the short time since he’d met her, she smiled.

It was breathtaking.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she sighed.

“You are very welcome, Miss Kyra,” he replied. “But just to warn you, now is the hard part.”

The tortured woman closed her eyes.

Forty-five minutes later, a new child entered the world. Kyra flopped back on the gurney, caked with sweat and panting. The area between her legs was soaked with blood and piss, and Brian handed the viscous-covered child, swathed in a clean blanket, over to Horace so he could clean up the mess. “Don’t bother yet,” said the old scientist. “She still has to deliver the afterbirth.”

Kyra moaned, followed by an, “Oh, yeah,” from the young Mr. Singer.

The moment the child was in Horace’s arms, everything began to change. His vision brightened, his breathing became easier, his thoughts not as muddled. He laid the baby out on the table and unfolded the blanket.

“Miss Kyra, it is a girl,” he said.

Again he stared at the child, captivated by her beauty. She was tiny, obviously premature, but only by a week or so, not a month. Her breathing was steady and her blue eyes were opened wide. Atop her head was strawberry peach fuzz. She didn’t cry, only offering gentle, throaty purrs each time one of her hands found her mouth. He snatched up a stethoscope and went about examining her. The lungs sounded fine, the heart strong. She was, in a word, perfect.

“Dr. Horace?” Kyra asked, wheezing after pushing out the afterbirth.

“Yes, Miss Kyra?”

“Is she all right?”

Horace wiped the remaining blood and vernix from the child, wrapped her back up in the blanket, and turned around. He offered her to her mother and said, “Yes, she is fine.
Could not be better.”

Kyra gasped. “She’s beautiful.”

“That she is.” He placed the child in Kyra’s arms, his heart lifting as mother clutched daughter to her chest, tears filling her eyes. “Do you have a name for her yet?”

Her voice faltered. “No. We never decided on one before…before…”

She broke down, grasping the baby to her bosom and gently rocking back and forth. Gone was the indignation from earlier, the anger. She now looked completely defeated. Horace wanted to interrupt, to ask her what he could do, but decided to let her wind down on her own. When she did, she gazed up at both him and Brian with wide, desperate eyes.

“Y-y-you have to t-t-take her,” she said.

“What?” Brian and Horace said in unison.

“G-g-get her out of h-h-here.
As far as y-y-you can.
It’s not s-s-safe. He’s gonna k-k-kill her!”

Horace dropped to his knees, still feeling amazingly refreshed, and grabbed her shoulder. “Who is going to kill her? Why?”

“B-B-Bathgate.
He w-w-wants me for hims-s-self.”

Brian shook his head. “What’re we gonna do, Horace? I mean, the soldiers are gonna be back any minute now to get her…with
him
. They said we had two hours. It’s been…” he checked his watch, “…an hour and a half now.”

Horace gazed into Kyra’s face, into those dazzling eyes, and took a deep breath. “You’re sure you want us to do this?” he asked.

She nodded.

“And you will come with us?”

She shook her head, the tears slowing down.

“And what do you want us to do with her?”

In a sudden feat of strength, she grabbed his collar and yanked him off his knees. Her lips pressed against his ear, sending a shiver down Horace’s spine.

“Keep her safe,” she whispered. “I have to make sure no one ever hurts her.
Ever.”

And that was all.

CHAPTER 18

THE REDISCOVERY OF PURPOSE

When the dream ended, it was followed by a flash of bright light and a roll of thunder that shook Eduardo so thoroughly he tumbled off his makeshift bed. He hit the sand with a thud and cried out.

He opened his eyes and glanced frantically about him. He didn’t know what time it was, but the dimness hinted at morning. Rain pelted the canvas top of the hovel. The sides buckled and flapped, appearing close to being yanked from the rope holding them in place. Another flash of light, another rumble of thunder, and he tentatively poked his head out into the open air.

It was windy as hell, so much so that the palm trees had bent almost horizontally. In the sky sheets of dark clouds rolled past, dumping buckets of rain onto the shore. Eduardo noticed the canvas sagging above him, and yanked the corner, stretching the material downward. A wave of water rolled off the top of the hut, forming a pool in the sand in front of his knees. He crawled back inside, sealed the flap, and wandered back to his bed of sea grass and pillows scavenged from the
Bendición
. He gazed at Lucia, sleeping peacefully despite the racket going on outside, with Eddie Jr. nestled in her arms. Eduardo nudged her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered open.

“My love,” he whispered.

Lucia blinked awake. Another crack of thunder sounded and she recoiled.

“Do not worry,” said Eduardo. “It is only a storm.”

He crawled back into bed and draped his arms around her. Lucia sighed, pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck. His fingers twirled the loose curls atop her head, and their lips met.

“Something troubles you,” Lucia said.

“It is not important,” he replied.

“What do you wish for me to do?”

“Just hold me.”

There they lay, this lost family of three, waiting out the driving rain. Trees crackled outside, the sound of their broad leaves meeting the ground like a symphony of menace to their ears. When Eddie Jr. stirred, his father and mother placed their hands upon his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath his ribcage, using that gentle rhythm to quell the worry strumming in their own chests.

The rain drifted away, the storm rushing off to assault a different landmass with its strong winds and pounding rain. The sun emerged, baking away the mist the storm left behind. Eduardo exited the shelter, standing tall on the beach, and watched the waves assail the shore. The swells were huge—storm swells, six feet high, rolling like a liquid avalanche. He clasped his wrist and stared at his boat, rocking in the distance, small as a toy.

The dream once more entered his mind, a vision of decay and pestilence and terror. He saw despair and panic. And yet below all that horror, like a shimmering band of gold, had been the unmistakable impression of hope.
That hope existed in the eyes of a young child with eyes as blue as the ocean before him.
Just thinking of this child filled his soul with lightness. He and his family had been stranded on this island for months, living each day while ignoring the events that led them here. They searched for distractions, for different ways to pass the time. They’d explored the island, discovered the ancient ruins atop the mountain, killed wild boars, built sailboats for Eddie Jr. out of driftwood, written messages and placed them in discarded plastic water bottles, setting them to sea as a way not to communicate with the outside world, but to complete the mirage of what he thought people
should
do when stranded on an small landmass in the middle of the Atlantic.

And now, as he gazed at his ship and thought of that innocent, propitious child, he realized how futile his efforts at forgetting his mission had been. If none of it mattered, he wouldn’t have ventured out to the
Bendición
every other day, spending hours hacking away at the engine with his ratchet, fastening support struts to the toppled mast. He wouldn’t have done his best to chart the island, naming it
Isla de la Luz
in the process. And he wouldn’t have held that sliver of optimism in his chest, a sliver that seemed to grow larger with each passing day, until his vision of the blue-eyed child caused it to blossom into something grand, something necessary,
something
hopeful.

Eduardo smiled and lifted the satchel he held over his shoulder. In that satchel was the dagger he’d found in the graveyard atop the mountain. He felt its hardness through the old, beaten leather case, traced the outline of the jewels embedded in its handle. A realization came over him. Everything he’d done—building the shelter, climbing the mountain, discovering the ruins, charting the island—had been important. The feeling of purpose that had departed him when the Virgin stopped visiting his dreams returned, telling him to return to the
Bendición
and its repaired motor, pull up the sails, and continue the quest he’d ignored for too long. There was another storm brewing, the aftermath of which would bring his cargo to him, allow him to carry them back to this very island and begin life anew, just as the Virgin had promised ages ago.

He ran back to the shelter, where Lucia and Eddie Jr. were busy cooking boar meat and coconut slices over the crackling fire, and dropped to his knees. He panted, hands clutched over his chest, tears in his eyes. His family turned to him, the confusion in their expressions overwhelmed by the joy of seeing the man who meant so much to them looking joyous and encouraged for the first time since they arrived. He took their hands in his and wept openly, rubbing their palms with his fingers, letting the sea breeze rustle his long, ratty hair.

“My loves,” he
said,
his voice as choppy as the waves. “Gather your belongings. Tonight, we set sail.”