Hot-Blooded (29 page)

Thirty minutes passed. No sign of Justin. The earth trembled beneath my feet. Long-dead fires stoked deep under the island, stretching, smoking, coughing. Air rushed over my arms, in a big hurry to get the hell away from this place.

My flesh crawled. The island was telling me something I didn’t want to hear: the truth.

When the sun set and the natural voices grew so loud, my head ached, I had no choice but to look for Justin. I got in his car and searched for him. The thick shadows made it nearly impossible to see anything. The headlights seemed entirely too dim. I stopped every few minutes and called his name out the open window.

I finally found him lying face down in the dirt. His skin was clammy, his pulse erratic. His hypoglycemia must’ve kicked in after the pot and sex and the run down the mountain. I’d brought water bottles and snacks, but they were long gone. I hadn’t planned on being away all day. There was no food left in the car. He hadn’t eaten anything for hours, which was not good.

At the same time, I was relieved for the hiker.

I rolled him over, slapped his face. His eyes fluttered open, but he was disoriented and couldn’t seem to focus. With great effort, I dragged him into the car, and we headed for the convenience store a few miles away. He refused to go to the hospital, even though it was obvious he needed to.

A great weight lifted from me as we put the mountain behind us, but I was far from calm. Between the rush of fear, the fear of violence, and the violence of the forces warning me to go home to safety, the tears fell. “What the hell were you thinking?” I yelled at him.

He didn’t answer. I went into the gas station and bought orange juice and crackers. I helped him drink in slow sips, warnings screaming in my head all the while. His eyes cleared up, and he came around. First thing out of his mouth was, “We gotta go back to the garden.”

I told him no. We were done with that place. I’d find somewhere else to grow my plants. We sat in silence for several minutes while he seethed. Enraged, he insisted I let him drive. When I refused, he slapped me and told me to either let him drive or get out. His anger neared the point of no return, and arguing would only make it worse. But I couldn’t allow him to go anywhere alone. He’d surely do something we’d both regret.

I moved to the passenger seat without further comment. Justin sped out of the parking lot and headed back toward Haleakalā. I shuddered with a sudden chill. He demanded to know where the garden was. I said nothing. He could find it himself. I refused to be a party to his violent whims.

Silence enshrouded us. Darkness thickened.

Up ahead, someone walked on the quiet stretch of road. Justin slowed the car. My heart sped up. He squinted at the person. The guy wore a familiar backpack. I screamed, “No, Justin! Don’t you dare!”

Dare, he did. And much more. He revved the engine and mowed the poor man down amidst my terrified shrieks and pleas not to. The front corner of the car clipped him and dented with the impact. The guy flew in the air, flipped, landed hard on his back, and rolled. Justin hit the brakes as I shrilled and shouted. He backed up, and ran him over. As the tires mounted the body and tore whatever dregs of life lingered inside, I stopped breathing.

It was the most horrifying thing I’d ever witnessed. The man I loved—or used to love—was the perpetrator of this violent, evil act.

Justin showed no sign of emotion, no mercy, no remorse. He just kept on driving as if he’d rolled over a smudge of road kill. I cried as I turned around to see if the man was okay. The bloody disaster we left behind didn’t move an inch. He was dead. No way he’d have survived the mauling by Justin’s car.

I begged Justin to go back so we could help him. He refused. “Help a dead guy?” he yelled.

Something under that mountain—a pure black pit of malevolence—had transformed him. Into what, I wasn’t sure.

I sobbed the whole way home, cringing at the thought of him touching me, of his DNA inside my keiki. Justin’s filth polluted my babies. Polluted
me
on the slopes of the mountain earlier today. I itched all over.

When we pulled into the neighborhood, Justin turned to me. A black aura sucked the light from within him. He warned me not to breathe a word to anyone. He told me to stop crying and pull myself together for the children’s sake. I opened the door and dry-heaved for ten minutes before I could go inside.

As I slid a pleasant mask in place for my keiki, I plotted Justin’s death.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dread seeped into Keahilani’s gut. Justin didn’t want what was growing on top of the land. He wanted what was growing beneath it.

Fear tainting her blood, Keahilani covered her mouth. Whatever happened on Haleakalā seemed more like a prophecy fulfilled than a shocking, unbelievable story. Every time she visited Mahina’s garden, she felt what she could only describe as a pull. A sort of
gravity
beckoning her with a curled finger. Whatever
force
spoke to her must’ve spoken to Justin too. That
presence
was also the reason she went there only when she had to.

Keahilani rubbed her arms. His darkness was inside her. And Kai, Manō, and Bane too.

She stared at the journal, afraid to continue, compelled to nonetheless.

Mahina’s explanation of Justin’s death had always been vague—an unfortunate surfing accident. Keahilani hoped the remaining pages would reveal the truth her mother had never told. Torn between apprehension and burning curiosity, she read on …

December 13

I haven’t breathed a word to Leilani about what Justin did, but I want to so badly. If he finds out anyone else knows, he’ll surely kill them too, so I’ve kept quiet. And plotted.

December 15

The police visited today and wanted to know when Justin had bought new tires for the murder weapon parked on the side of the house. He answered their questions, showing no fear of being caught. The cops also inquired about whether he’d recently had any bodywork done to his car. Of course, he claimed he hadn’t. They didn’t have enough evidence or a warrant to inspect the car closely, but it’s obvious they’re on to him. The revenge shading his eyes as he watched them leave chilled me to the bone.

I have to do something. Soon.

December 19

How fitting. It’s the anniversary of the day Justin left me on Oahu in 1976. Goodbye again, my love. This time it’s goodbye forever.

Before this morning, Maui’s North Shore winter welcomed more ripples than waves. Today, the seas became violent. Word spread quickly about the incoming giants, and a group of surfers got together with plans to hit Peʻahi. Like so many surfers, Justin couldn’t resist the allure of showing off in front of his friends. After all these years, he’s still searching for the ultimate wave.

He found it.

When we got to the boat ramp at Māliko Bay, I followed with my koa wood longboard under my arm. I told him I was going too. He laughed at me. Said a woman couldn’t handle waves this big and that my board was way too heavy. He had no idea.

After a short argument, he blew me off like a child and said, “Good luck.”

The line up was about twenty surfers deep, but Justin wouldn’t miss this for the world. Neither would I.

Justin’s friends towed us out on their jet skis. We waited our turn. When a fifty-footer opened up, we both hopped to our feet, riding the
barrel
parallel to each other. Grinning ear to ear, hands raised in a victory pose, he lived his dream while I prepared to kill my nightmare.

Cheering spectators lined the cliffs above. The wind and
spit
tore at my hair. I absorbed the energy of the massive wave underfoot. Though I’d never surfed one this big, it was as easy as breathing. Navigating the
tube
required very little concentration. It became an autonomic response running in the background while my forebrain worked up the courage to do the unthinkable.

My feet merged with the board, and the wood blended into ocean. We three became one tool—a killing machine. I looked over at Justin. He finally got his wish. He mastered the Big One.

But he was evil camouflaged in handsome flesh. He had to die.

As I rode the wave, I summoned the sea around us, drew its energy through the soles of my feet, and channeled it through my limbs. I’d never been one to harm others with my powers, but some things were too wicked for this beautiful world. Justin was a blight that had to be wiped out. My keiki never really had a father, so they wouldn’t miss him much. And after seeing his true colors, I’d die before that beast laid another finger on me or my loved ones.

And so, I corralled the sea by its molecules, lifted it, and folded the lip of blue over Justin’s head. His expression right before the wipeout will stay with me forever:
You betrayed me.

Yes, I did. But you betrayed me first.

The breaking curl smacked him and dragged him under. I
felt
it crush the life from his black heart. I channeled the next two big waves and guided them over the spot where he went down to ensure he had no chance of surviving. I slammed his body onto the underwater rocks, pummeling him repeatedly until he was nothing but a ragdoll with male parts. The sea and I smothered him.

I hate to admit it, but I’m not sorry for any of it. I ridded the world of a terrible person. A huge weight lifted off my shoulders. Now I can live without the fear of him coming back to weasel his way into my or my kids’ lives. We’re free of his poison. We’re free of his control.

No one suspects I had anything to do with Justin’s death. The police came and declared it a surfing accident. Plenty of witnesses lined up along the jagged cliffs saw the same thing: an experienced surfer who got mauled by Mother Nature. Too bad. So sad. Case closed.

As I lie in bed now, I rub my belly and dream about the future. Though it may be too early to tell with a test, I’m pregnant. I sense this child’s soul pulsing within. I’ve already decided my long-awaited baby will be called Bane. And he’s my salvation.

Keahilani stared at the last page, stunned. So, Mahina had caused the accident that killed her father. Or at least, she believed she did.

There was no denying Mahina had supernatural powers. If the weird shit surrounding them lately was any indicator, she may have passed some of her spiritual gifts along to her children.

Keahilani shook her head, disbelief sloshing inside it. Not that Justin didn’t deserve it, but Mahina had always used her special talents for good, not evil. Maybe she and Keahilani weren’t so different. When it came to protecting your blood, you did what you had to. And really, did Mahina have another choice?

Keahilani studied Blake’s face. His brows knitted together, his arms jerked, and his legs twitched under the covers. She thumbed the spot where his dimple hid. “You’re not going all Justin on me, are you, Blake?” she whispered.

She really wanted to trust him. But until Bane got home safe and sound, she had to treat Blake as foe rather than friend.

Whatever battle he fought in his dreams, he seemed oblivious to her presence. She lay beside him and laced her fingers between his. She didn’t want to kill him. Much as he kindled her ire, he’d worn a threadbare spot into her tough heart. And strong as it was, cardiac muscle didn’t regenerate. That hole was there to stay.

* * * *

The tikis were back. They treaded a path straight toward Blake. He dove for cover under the low-hanging mists, rolled out of the way, and played dead. Their torches glowed eerie green. Through the masks, their eyes reflected the same dead, silvery light Manō’s did, though Blake had been careful not to meet any of the specters’ gazes directly. Something told him making eye contact would end very badly for him. He gathered information by sneaking quick peeks from his facedown position in the ash, and he always looked on from the side rather than head-on.

Primitive drums emanating from a hidden layer beneath the mists kept time. Bare feet hovered above the ground as if walking on the fog itself. Nothing impeded their progress. If a rock or tree blocked their way, the tiki men passed through like it wasn’t even there. Blake shuddered at the prospect of one of those things stepping through
him
.

As the procession wound past him, the line forked, and two branches formed. The apparitions on the left headed toward Pele, who stood at the foot of
Hale Mahina
, also known as the West Maui Mountains. The ones on the right filed up to a cloaked figure, who occupied the space at the bottom of Haleakalā. He was still as stone, and his identity was a mystery. His feet spread shoulder-width apart. Arms behind his back, he seemed ready for anything. Another person stood behind him, more diminutive, cradling something in her arms. Blanket? Baby?

The marching stopped when the two lines were equal. The beating drums silenced. Eager to see what would happen next, Blake lifted his head from the mists and sat up. The moon rose above Pele, and the sun hovered above the man. House of the Moon and House of the Sun. Hell of a dichotomy.