Tentatively Nico lifted his hand from the railing. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Slamming his hand back down. Silence.
Frowning, Nico glanced up the stairs at the ground floor rear sundeck. There were two reclining chairs there, boasting dark purple and white striped cushions. Between them stood a sun umbrella, currently down, the material matching the cushions.
That striped material looked familiar. Something about that particular shade of purple stirred a memory and for some reason his cock. Perhaps he really was going insane. But you know what, those recliners looked mighty comfy. Slowly, he climbed the four steps leading up to the wooden rectangular deck. At the top he reluctantly let go of the railing. What do you know, the silence, well, not silence, the seagulls still cawed overhead and the rush of small waves breaking on the shoreline continued in a comforting rhythmic fashion. Yet the roar of the ring remained gone.
On sandy trembling legs Nico stumbled forward, collapsing down onto the nearest recliner. A small thankful groan falling from his lips in appreciation, and in the next breath he knew nothing but sweet oblivion.
***
Nico felt like a new man. Six hours of sleep had recharged him. Lucky for him it had been an overcast warm early Autumnal day. Leaving the deck, what he’d come to think of as his own personal sanctuary, had not been easy. Taking that last step onto the sand, wham, the ring and its insistent nagging pulsing call was back with a blast. Still, with some sleep under his belt he felt like he had some breathing space. He could think clearly again. At least for a little while.
Unfortunately, he had nothing but questions swirling around in his head and not a single answer. What did the cursed ring want of him? Why couldn’t he dispose of it? Or destroy it? Did he know anyone who might be able to help? What was up with these bouts of silence? Yesterday at the Valhalla farmhouse and today on that deck up the beach? Were they protected places? Places that just naturally blocked out the ring’s howling demand for attention?
He rang Darcy, no answer. And instead of a recorded instruction by Darcy to leave a message, there was nothing but Darcy laughing manically for twenty seconds. Nothing else but the laughter. Too chilling for words. No way was he leaving a message after that.
With no answers. With no path of action. Nico had little choice but to go about his normal day. Thankfully being the owner meant he could set his own hours. But standing behind the bar, making polite chit chat, pouring drinks, it made him antsy. He wanted to be out there tracking down leads as to who had sent the dude in a toga. Perhaps if he found out more about the formerly glowing asshole he might discover where the ringhad originated from and how to off load it. Figure out options available to him other than getting dead and some other idiot coming along and picking it up.
It was a relief then when a reminder sounded from his phone that he had an appointment across town for a catering gig. How had he forgotten that? No, upon investigation, he noted the request had come through the Bar website very early this morning. Grabbing a pen and a couple of fresh bar napkins to write on, Nico headed for the Transportal. Feeling only a smidgeon of guilt. The Bar was hopping, kind of unusual for a late Tuesday afternoon. Suddenly strangely conscious of a lot of eyes on him, following his progress towards the Portal door. Mostly those gazes belonging to young single women.
A few he recognised as locals, most though seemed to be tourists or from the artistic community two towns over, Reverie Valley. Nico tried to remember if there had been an event scheduled in Haven Bay today that would explain the sheer number of female customers. But came up blank. Unless the bookstore had restocked Adelaide Dunst’s latest erotic bestseller – Latin Shackled Heat.
Which would go a long way to explaining the numbers present in the Bar today, the imbalance of gender, and the fact that Nico was attracting a lot of notice.
The model used on the cover of the book had more than a passing resemblance to him. Not a coincidence, since Adelaide had told everyone loudly and proudly that she had used Nico as a muse in regards to her dominant alpha hero. Nor did it help matters that the cover depicted his look alike stark naked, except for a strategic shadow across his rear end, and a carefully positioned set of handcuffs.
Yeah. The bookstore getting a fresh batch of Adelaide’s book would go a long way in explaining the coy fluttering of eyelashes and longing looks being sent in his direction. Hopefully the bookwould sell out again soon and his notoriety would once more sink into welcome obscurity. In the meantime, Alan and Digby were perfectly capable of manning the bar in his absence.
Yet, something about all the attention he was receiving was proving a little unsettling. There was a look in the majority of the women’s gazes that felt like it stepped over the line of casual interest, it felt heavier, weightier. Which was stupid, and fanciful. And he couldn’t blame that unsettling feeling upon lack of sleep. Not right at the moment anyway.
Unconsciously Nico walked a little faster. Too many gazes keeping track of him for comfort. That bloody erotic book cover had a lot to answer for.
Closing the door of the Transportal, located conveniently next to the ladies and gents bathrooms, Nico stared hard at the picture his newest prospective client had sent. He needed the visual to set the Portal address. Stepping out five seconds later into what was clearly a working farm kitchen. The smell of drying herbs wafting his way from the racks hanging over the large sink. De-hydration ovens along the opposite wall adding the sweet tang of drying stone fruits to the air.
His hostess, prospective client Gaia Langtry, was standing at the kitchen island, putting last minute touches to a tray full of scones, pots of jam and of course the obligatory steeping pot of tea. The locals sure did love their tea. Three cups he noted, as he moved forward to shake Gaia’s hand and take a seat on the proffered bar stool. Seems like they were waiting on a third party to join them.
Whilst they waited, they made small talk. Or Nico tried to. Clearly Gaia had an agenda. As she not so subtly attempted to confirm the catering details that he had made with Lucy Valhalla the previous day. Probing whether decorations had been mentioned. A theme agreed upon. Or a colour palate selected.All things Nico could easily claim no knowledge of, because it was the truth.
He was politely dodging a query regarding whether there had been any talk of folding the napkins into whimsical shapes, when the Transportal door opened and out stepped Gigi DeWitt and the blasted hammering by the dove ring abruptly cut off, silenced.
No, not silenced, replaced. Again. There was still something pulling on his treasure hunting senses. But it wasn’t the ring. If the ring was like a hammer, then this niggle, was like the first warm breeze of Spring travelling over your skin. Soft. Muted. He thought in his sleep-deprived state he’d imagined the feeling yesterday at the Valhalla farmhouse when the call of the ring had been silenced for an hour or so.
No. It was real. This pull on his senses was weirdly peaceful and oh so seductive. Nico’s gut churned in response, he so didn’t trust this new call any more than the one created by the ring.
Though at least this tug at him was liveable. It didn’t bash away at him. It almost reminded him of the ocean, when you were on the deck of a boat. Rhythmic. Lulling. Natural.
What the…?
Was it the woman? Gigi? Or the ridiculous dark purple bunny she insisted upon dumping out on the kitchen table? This time sporting a real diamond and white-gold bowtie. Or perhaps it was something Gigi was wearing. Though once more he couldn’t see any visible jewellery.
Yesterday he hadn’t had all his wits about him, practically zombified from lack of sleep. And whilst the tea was poured he discreetly watched Gigi smiling away, chattering on about the weather as she unfolded the medium sized purple and white striped box, transforming it into a tray, laden with a fresh batch of treats and cookies.
Nico attempted to cut ties with the little niggling pull.
As a treasure hunter, one with a specialty in silver, he had the ability to decide which pulls on his senses to concentrate upon and which to discard. When you were searching a wreck at the bottom of the ocean you couldn’t afford to get distracted by hundreds, sometimes thousands of little tugs. Thankfully with time and experience came the ability to tell the difference between worthless nails used in the build of the boat, versus a stash of hundreds of coins gathered together in one spot, or an eight-hundred year old sword.
Cutting off the pulls was easy, should have been easy. Nothing more than an almost unconscious dismissal usually all that was required. Yet this particular muted niggle would not be dislodged. Gritting his teeth, Nico attempted for the twentieth time to severe the pull. By All The Saints, what the hell was going on with him?
