A fair fight, that was. Abaddon’s hoard had the funds to buy weapons, even a bomb big enough to, say, remove a pesky threat to his quest for world domination.
“Do you think Malone’s going to stay in Vegas?” Mads asked, staring at his phone screen.
“Only if he thinks there’s an egg.”
“Leo’s going to be monitoring the seismic reports for that area, and it goes without saying, if there’s any hint of a volcano waking, Pip and I will be on the next flight out.”
“Excellent. Remember, if you do find a hatchling, you’re to bring it to me”—so Abaddon could attempt to brainwash it into obeying his obvious superiority—“And no killing Malone.”
Abaddon wanted that pleasure for himself.
Chapter One
A week earlier…
The black sand radiated heat, making me glad I wore thick-soled shoes. Burns weren’t the only peril on this beach. Given its relative newness, formed by a volcanic eruption a few years ago, you had to watch for small bits of obsidian, sharp bits of lava turned glass, that would slice through even the toughest calloused feet.
Tutu, my grandfather, complained—something he did often—that I wasted time hunting for obsidian at the beach. He preferred paying a visit to Puu Waawaa to acquire the black glass we used in our shop. However, I chose to drive the two hours, not only to search for interesting remnants from the volcano, but because it was pretty.
Despite living on the Big Island, part of the Hawaiian chain in the Pacific Ocean, I didn’t often get a chance to lounge on the beach. Since Tutu refused to hire any help—Why would I overpay some lazy bums?—it fell on me to help him create custom objects from the obsidian we scavenged. Furniture, household items, even decorative pieces, the art of crafting had been passed down through our family for generations. As the only remaining Mahelona of my line, it fell on me to carry on the tradition—whether I liked it or not.
Most days, I didn’t mind. There was a certain satisfaction in the intricate process involved in melting the volcanic glass and reshaping it to take the form we desired. Or in the carving of interesting pieces to bring out the hidden beauty in the obsidian. But as my grandfather aged, more and more tasks fell on me, leaving little personal time—and absolutely no dating life.
Probably for the best. I didn’t have a great track record when it came to men. Surfer boys who seemed to not understand the concept of monogamy. Tourists looking for a vacation fling. Then there were those who expected me to abandon my grandfather and our family business to become a housewife, barefoot and pregnant. My grandmother used to tell me the right man would come along one day. At the ripe age of thirty-three, I kind of wished he’d hurry the heck up.
I stumbled, the grains not depressing underfoot as expected. As my balance wavered, my arms flailed and did nothing to stop me from hitting the ground, satchel rattling by my side. My only saving grace, other than the soft landing—no one saw me fall. I’d hate for some stranger to record me being clumsy and post it online. Becoming a viral meme did not appeal in the least.
The toe of my foot poked at the sandy hump I’d tripped on, revealing a surprisingly large hunk of glossy black. Jackpot.
My knees dug into the ground as I scooped the sand out from around the obsidian, loosening it enough I could pluck my prize. The hefty, football-sized hunk made me smile. Tutu would be hard-pressed to complain about my find. I slid it into my satchel, along with the smaller pieces I’d collected.
Time to head back. I’d promised my grandfather I’d be present when he met with our newest client at four. Some rich dude, living in the prestigious Kukio community, who wanted some custom pieces for his newly built home. Bloody outsider. Hawaii had a dearth of them, rich folks who bought up the nicest land and built ostentatious places, while the true natives of the islands toiled to survive. Although, some would scoff at me calling myself native due to my half blood. Mom had a fling with a guy who’d visited for a few months on his summer break to surf and play. When he left, he didn’t bother giving mom any contact info. After all, they’d both been fully aware their affair wouldn’t last. Only Mom ended up with a constant reminder.
Me.
Not that she ever resented having me. Mom loved me, as did my grandparents—even my constantly harping grandfather. All four of us lived together quite happily until tragedy struck. It began with my mother getting caught in a riptide and washed out to sea. The tides never brought her body ashore, which meant nine-year-old me held out hope for years she might come back. Hint, she didn’t.
A few years later, grandmother developed the Big C. She hid her illness until my high school graduation. But soon after… Let’s just say things went downhill fast. The next few years proved tough, as the grief of losing the love of his life made Tutu, already an ornery fellow, even more grumpy. The only time he seemed content? When he worked, and, even then, he grumbled quite a bit.
As for me? Not happy or unhappy, just kind of meh. My life never changed. Wake up. Work. Sleep. Repeat. At times I thought of running away and starting over; however, I couldn’t leave Tutu alone. Losing me would kill him.
The car ride back to the shop proved scenic and took a little over two hours since an accident caused a delay. As I neared the huge metal hangar we used as a workshop, set several yards from our little house painted a bright blue, I noticed a luxury sedan parked out front. Our client had already arrived. A glance at the clock showed him early, but Tutu likely would find a reason to harangue me for being late. Sigh.
While I would have liked to freshen up, I thought it best to skip it to not antagonize Tutu further. It wasn’t as if I cared what a client thought of my appearance, messy ponytail, ragged jeans shorts, a T-shirt so faded even I didn’t remember what it used to say.
Upon entering the workshop, I dropped my satchel on a scarred metal table where we sorted the obsidian into piles depending on what we planned to use the pieces for. Rounded pebble-like bits for jewelry and adornment. Slivers and mishappen chunks for melting. Bigger pieces for possible sculpting.
The murmur of male voices drew me toward the back, where we kept our wood-fired kiln. While there were other more modern ways of melting obsidian into liquid glass, our kiln achieved high enough temperatures to do the trick—and my grandfather, being cheap, saw no point in paying to upgrade.
Tutu gestured with his hands as he explained our process to someone dwarfed by my grandfather’s girth and height. Grandfather did enjoy his sweet rolls. Even if he didn’t, he would have still towered over most folks.
“…and then, depending on what you want, we’ll pour the liquid obsidian into molds or, in the case of a tabletop, we’ll make it into a sheet to fit right on top of your reclaimed wood.”
“I browsed some of your finished pieces on your website. Impressive work.” The deep male voice could have been any age.
“Do you know what you want? You’d mentioned wanting some accent pieces for your home,” Tutu asked as I reached his side.
The client, rather than reply, settled his gaze on me. “You must be the granddaughter Keanu mentioned.” My grandfather, Keanu Mahelona, hated being called Mister Mahelona. Said it made him feel old, funny considering his ripe age of sixty-two.
