Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4) (6 page)

I thought of the fields of wild grasses and flowers, and the
cherry blossom tree on the cliff, and the shell-strewn beach where we surfed,
and the quiet and the calm and the beauty. It was no use pretending that the
place meant nothing to me, that I hadn’t had good times there too. That I
didn’t miss it, just a little.

And Estelle, my friend – I’d abandoned her in Cerulea
without so much as a goodbye. I could check on her, and her baby, April.

And talking to Evangeline could help me learn more about my
grandfather. Had he been a Cerulean? If so, how had he come to be living in
Twycombe for all those years? And, most importantly, how had he made it work
living with my grandmother, a human?

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said finally.

The smile that eased across Jude’s face told me he knew I
wanted to say yes, but he was sensible enough not to push. He simply nodded and
then stood. I followed suit, and together we gazed at the hospital.

‘Shall we?’ said Jude.

I slipped my arm through his. ‘Lead the way to the nearest
minorly injured person,’ I told him.

The certificate was printed on a sheet of thick yellow card.
Around the edges a border had been created out of brightly coloured clipart
images: bandage rolls and sticking plasters and pill bottles and spiky
comic-style ‘Kerpow!’ bubbles. In the centre, in a dramatic font, was typed:

This is to certify that Scarlett Blake is officially
awesome, having healed:

a broken arm, a broken ankle, a broken hip, a broken
nose, a broken rib, a backache, a headache, a toothache, a neck ache, a stomach
ache, a knee ache, a lacerated arm, a lacerated scalp, a grazed knee, a grazed
palm, an ear infection, a throat infection, a cough, a cold, a boil, a bunion,
a verruca and a varicose vein

… and she is hereby granted the title – da, da, DA! –
Healer Extraordinaire!!!!!!

At the bottom were scrawled three signatures:
Luke
,
Cara
and
Si
.

I looked up from the certificate at the three grinning faces
around the patio table.

‘I made it!’ declared Cara. ‘To commemorate how much
amazing
stuff you’ve done already!’

‘Really, that’s sweet of you, but –’

‘No buts,’ broke in Luke, leaning over to kiss me on the
cheek. ‘This past fortnight, you’ve helped a lot of people, and that, as Cara
put it, is “officially awesome”.’

I smiled and thanked them all, but was relieved when Si
steered the conversation onto how the cafe was coming along, leaving me to stare
out at the sea that beckoned invitingly beyond the cottage garden and drift in
thought.

I was beginning to see why Jude kept so quiet about his
healing work; it was highly uncomfortable being applauded for my efforts.
Still, it was my own fault, because for the past fortnight, since the day at
the hospital, I’d been relating my daily exploits to Luke and Cara and Si.
After so long sitting quietly while Cara talked about her online fashion shop
and Luke talked about his Project and Si talked about his uni course, I finally
had something interesting of my own to share.

It had been surprisingly easy, with Jude’s help, to master
the art of ‘the mini heal’, as I’d come to think of it. My gift was powerful,
and it didn’t take much physical contact with a person to heal a minor ailment.
I didn’t even have to touch the part of the body that was damaged – I could
simply lay a hand lightly on a shoulder, or brush against someone, and will the
energy to travel to where it was needed.

As for identifying people to heal, a morning spent at the
hospital had given me experience across the full spectrum of suffering. I knew
well the repellent push given out by someone not meant to be helped (we’d found
plenty of those in the palliative care ward). And I recognised the strong pull
of a person in serious need (several had called to us in the emergency
department). I was to work with those who gave just a mild tug, a quieter call
for help.

It was Luke who helped me work out how to do the mini heals.
The evening of the hospital visit, he’d come to the cottage and I’d told him
everything Jude had said. To say he was relieved would be an understatement:
the thought that my healing would be so restrained, that I wouldn’t be in
danger of pushing too far, that I’d be protected from harrowing sights – he was
elated. Together, we planned out a new daily routine.

In the morning, after a good sleep, I went out into Twycombe
and neighbouring villages and I scouted about for people in need. At first I
was constantly on edge, waiting for someone to shout, ‘What the hell do you
think you’re doing! Stop touching that person!’ But I discovered that friendly
eighteen-year-old girls don’t attract suspicion at all. Especially when
accompanied by a goofy, lovable dog – the ideal ice-breaker and, given his
habit of knocking people over, a good reason to hold out a helping hand.

Over the course of an hour or two, I usually found two
people to help (okay, some days it was three… or four... once five), and the
healing itself was quick and simple. Afterwards, I tried to find a way to melt
into the background and watch the now-healthy parties. The look on their faces
when they realised they felt better made it all worthwhile.

‘Job’ done, I would head home to recharge ready for an
evening with Luke. I managed three to four hours with him before the tiredness
got too much. Our time together was shorter, which saddened me, but I don’t
think Luke minded too much because I was undeniably...

‘… tired, Scarlett?’

‘No, happier,’ I said. ‘Happier now.’

I pulled myself back to the present to find Cara and Si
still chatting away but Luke leaning close and peering at me.

‘I know you’re happy,’ he said. ‘But you look tired, even
without healing this morning. Do you need to go up and lie down for a bit? I
can manage in the kitchen.’

I shook my head. ‘There’s no point. She’s due soon enough.’

Si and Cara had stopped talking and Cara pounced on my
words. ‘She!
She!
Your mum, Scarlett! Here! For lunch! With us all! You
must be so excited to see her!’

For once, rather than tempering Cara’s over-exuberance, I
matched her grin and declared with feeling, ‘I am! I haven’t seen her in so
long – not since Luke came to Hollythwaite to bring me home.’

‘Is she okay about your… absence?’ asked Si.

‘She hasn’t a clue about it,’ I told him. ‘Thanks to Cara
emailing her as me.’

Before my death, I’d set up lots of scheduled emails for my
mum, so she wouldn’t worry about me. After my death, Cara had hacked into my
account, deleted all the prepared messages and started emailing my mother as
me, reasoning that a fluid conversation was a lot more believable. I’d read
their lengthy email exchange, and seen she was right; Mum was relaxed and chatty
in her messages. The only undertone was disappointment: my mother kept
suggesting we meet up, and Cara kept making excuses. At least now I could make
up for the distance.

‘Honestly, I enjoyed emailing your mum, Scarlett,’ said
Cara. ‘We had some brilliant conversations about fashion. And her wedding
planning business ideas. Did I mention, by the way, that since I – you – told
her about Cara Cavendish Designs, she’s excited to add me to her suppliers
list?’

‘Yes,’ said Si and Luke in unison.

‘Many times,’ added Luke wearily.

Cara looked a little hurt. ‘Well, anyway, all I was saying
is that Scarlett’s mum’s pretty cool.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘These days.’

Once, Mum had been anything but ‘cool’. An embarrassment,
more like – and a worrying one at that, given her boozing and pill-popping and
depressive episodes. But since she and my father had split up, she’d made a big
effort to sort herself out. I’d only seen her twice since her transformation,
though. While I’d believed then that her progress was genuine, it was new for
me after a lifetime of disappointment and I worried that the change in her was
fragile. Judging by our phone conversations, which had resumed as soon as I got
back to Twycombe, she was in good spirits. But the little flutter of disquiet in
my stomach wouldn’t settle until I laid eyes on her. Then I’d know how she
really was.

‘My girlfriend the writer,’ Si was musing. ‘Well, it’s good
to have a fallback career option.’

Luke snorted. Cara glared.

‘I read the emails,’ said Luke. ‘You do know there are other
punctuation marks in the English language than exclamation points, right?’

That earned him a kick under the table.

‘Ow, Cara!’ he shouted. ‘That
hurt
!’

‘Sorry, brov,’ she said innocently. ‘I forget how strong my
new legs are.’

He rolled his eyes and then stood, dropped a kiss on the top
of my head and walked across the lawn to the cottage, bellowing: ‘Get those
strong new legs working, little sis, and help me sort lunch.’

‘I’ll help,’ I called out at once.

From inside the kitchen came a stern order: ‘No, you won’t,
you’ll rest.’ And then a softer-toned tease: ‘Besides, no reheating required in
here.’

Cara and Si looked a little mystified, but when I shrugged
in a ‘No idea what he means’ kind of way Cara got up and padded away.

Si watched her go with a little smile on his lips, no doubt
inspired by the rear view of Cara in her latest design – a maxi dress that was
see-through from the butt down. Then he gave himself a little shake, turned to
me and said, ‘So, I’ve never met your mum, Scarlett. Is she very like you?’

I had to laugh at that.

‘No, not at all. She’s tall and slim and red-headed. She’s
theatrical and emotional and stubborn. She’s a lot like my sister, actually…
well, except that my mum’s a good person.’

‘And she still knows nothing about Ceruleans?’ asked Si.
Then, quickly, he added, ‘Sorry, do you mind me asking?’

‘No, not at all.’

I trusted Si, I liked him a lot and he was very easy to talk
to. Plus, given that he knew all about the Ceruleans, I counted him as one of ‘us’.

‘I thought about telling Mum,’ I explained. ‘I thought,
perhaps, given her wealth, she could become a sponsor. But telling her that
would mean telling her about Sienna. I can’t do it.’

I blinked away a memory:

Sienna

the alley

the dead man

the satisfaction on her face.

‘Better Mum thinks Sienna is dead than knows what she is
now.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Si. ‘And what about your dad?’

‘Him? Oh, I haven’t heard from him in a year almost. He’s
long gone. Their divorce was finalised in February. Good riddance to him.’

Si looked a little lost. He had a good relationship with
both of his parents – not difficult given that they were both kind, honest,
loving people.

‘The way I look at it, Si, it’s actions that count. My
father may be my father in blood, my sister may be my sister in blood, but if
they don’t act like a father and sister should, they’re not family.’

‘And Evangeline?’

I thought about that. ‘Well, if she is my great-grandmother
and she wants to start acting like that, maybe…’

I left the sentence dangling. I had no idea how to finish
it.

Si’s face was scrunched up. ‘I still don’t get that. If
Evangeline is a Cerulean and she had Peter, and Peter was Cerulean and he had
your mum, wouldn’t your mum be a Cerulean too? I mean, you’ve got three generations
in four that are Ceruleans there – great-grandparent, grandparent, grandchild.
Wouldn’t the generation between grandparent and grandchild have a Cerulean in
there too?’

‘No,’ I said automatically. ‘It’s not inherited. At least,
not by girls. That’s why they have to Claim girls who have the potential. And
anyway, both partners have to be Ceruleans to make a Cerulean, I think.’

Si shook his head. ‘It’s all Greek to me.’

Now it was my face that was scrunched up. ‘Do you know, Si,
when I try to explain it, it’s all Greek to me too. It doesn’t really make
sense, does it?’

Si shook his head. ‘What you need is
An Idiot’s Guide to
Ceruleans
.’

‘Sadly, it doesn’t exist. Michael’s my best source of
information, and the most he’s ever found is an extension to the Ceruleans’
origins story, and a fragmented family tree.’

‘A family tree? That sounds interesting.’

‘It is,’ I said. ‘He emailed it to me last week. I asked him
to find out whether I was related to Evangeline, and he got his computer hacker
mate on it, apparently. They found this tree buried in some archived computer
file. Looks like someone got into genealogy, but then gave up. All it has on it
is a single branch of a family with loads of gaps – no siblings listed, for
example.’

‘So who’s on it?’

‘At the top are William and Mary – they were two of the
eight original Ceruleans, according to the origins story. From them a Robert
and Sarah. From them a John and Evangeline. From them, a Peter.’

‘Your grandfather.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s not exactly hard proof. There’s no
Alice connected to the Peter, no Elizabeth and Hugo underneath them – and no
Sienna and Scarlett at the bottom of the tree.’

‘But if it’s true then Evangeline is your great-grandmother
– and your – hang on…’ Si muttered under his breath and counted on his fingers.
‘Then your great-great-great-grandfather was a founding Cerulean!’

‘
If
the origins story is true. And really, how can it
be? It’s way too simple: eight saintly soldiers and nurses are granted angelic
powers and create a brand-new race of healers?’

‘Blimey, it’s a complicated business.’

‘Too complicated to fathom.’

Si cocked his head. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said.

‘Huh?’

‘Perhaps that’s the point. “What is important is to spread
confusion, not eliminate it.” Salvador Dali, the artist. Confusion is a means
of control.’

‘Which leads us back to Evangeline again.’ I sighed. ‘I can
ask her about it all, I know. But the question is, will that lead to the truth?’

With that sobering thought, we fell silent. From inside the
house drifted the clatter of cookware and Cara singing along with the radio,
which apparently was tuned to ‘Sounds of the Musicals’. Either that or some
hapless pop star had released a cover of ‘Oklahoma!’.

‘How about asking your mum today?’ suggested Si suddenly.

‘No point. She doesn’t know about Ceruleans, remember?’

‘I meant ask her about your family tree. Presumably she
knows a thing or two about her ancestry? You could see whether the names she
gives tally.’

That hadn’t occurred to me. ‘But wouldn’t my grandfather
have lied about his past – to hide what he was?’ I said.

‘Maybe. But the best lies are usually pretty close to the
truth. It’s worth a shot.’

‘I’m not sure, Si. Mum doesn’t talk about that kind of
thing. My dad used to bang on about it constantly – the Blake lineage, blah
blah blah. But Mum… well, I guess there was never any need to. It was always
just Grandad and Nanna and the cottage. It never occurred to me to wonder where
that all came from.’