Fantastical Island (Old School Book 2) Page 7

  The reminder of the Roman ghost she’d seen yesterday punctured her confidence. “Have you ever seen a unicorn?”

  “No, but I’ve been thinking about Iovanius. We might be able to enlist his help.”

  “What? Why?” She forgot about unicorns and bakus. “How could a ghost help us? Could a fantastical creatures hunter trap a ghost?”

  Corey shook his head. “Iovanius is already trapped. He’s bound to the gladius he haunts.”

  “You’re not going to hand his sword over to the hunters?” She hadn’t liked the experience of meeting a ghost, but she didn’t want anyone at the mercy of the hunters, even an ectoplasmic entity.

  “Give them the gladius?” He tried to hide his disgust at the idea, but it leaked into his voice. “I’m hardly likely to reward them for their efforts on the island.”

  She recalled that his great-uncle had bought the sword at an auction. She hadn’t considered just how much he’d paid for it. All she’d focused on was how the sword looked, lodged in the tabletop. And then there’d been Iovanius shimmering into view. She’d been in shock.

  “Iovanius is a poltergeist,” Corey said. “That’s rare and useful.”

  Belatedly, understanding dawned on her. “He can move things!”

  Corey grinned. “It would be useful to be able to move things without wires, magnets or remote controls. It would open up possibilities in the location we choose to set things up. We could be more remote, which would be safer. Less chance of other people stumbling into the situation.”

  She liked the idea, but… “Do you think Iovanius will cooperate? He seemed awfully sulky.”

  “Iovanius isn’t the first ghost I’ve wrangled. I’ll need to find out why he’s haunting the gladius.”

  “Why?” She had no knowledge of ghosts or their behavior patterns.

  “Because it will be the reason he’s a ghost instead of passing over to the other side. When you understand what motivates a person, then you can—”

  “Manipulate them.” The words left a bad taste in her mouth. She was disappointed in Corey. She’d thought he was a straightforward kind of guy.

  He picked up on her disapproval. His jaw tightened. “I work with Hollywood producers. Hanging around them is a masterclass in manipulating people. But they are ruthless. I’m not. I care about people and in my opinion, that means expecting the best from them. I run a special effects studio that employs ten people full-time plus casual workers for specific projects and the outsourcing of sub-elements for other projects. If I didn’t get the best from them, the studio’s reputation would suffer and we’d all lose. Showing people how it’s to their advantage to achieve certain objectives is not manipulative, not in the negative way you mean.”

  She blinked, reassessing the man beside her. Their introduction had seen him bathing a cute behemi, then he’d been interested and low key as they crossed the island, searching for evidence of hunters. Attraction had hummed between them, but he hadn’t pushed it. She’d decided he was a good guy.

  Now, he was demanding that she re-evaluate how she defined “good”. Beneath his relaxed attitude he hid a spine of steel. That wasn’t a bad thing.

  It was her mistake. She’d classified him as a loner, misinterpreting his independent streak. Instead, he was a leader. Her mistake made her wary, uncertain of herself as much as of him. “And am I useful to you?”

  His stern expression relaxed. “You’re not useful at all.” Harsh words said in a soft voice. “You’re a confusion and a delight, disrupting my life.”

  It was a heck of a compliment. Without her willing it, her mouth curved in a smile.

  He held out his hand, palm up in invitation. “I won’t hurt Iovanius. If I know what he’s sticking around for, why he’s haunting the gladius, I can help him achieve it. Hopefully in a way that helps us achieve our goal of ridding the island of hunters at the same time.

  She searched his face. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses, but she looked for clues in the well-shaped mouth. A kissable mouth. Then she looked down at his hand outstretched in an invitation she could accept or refuse. And this invitation was nothing to do with the fantastical creatures. This was about her and him.

  “You’re formidable,” she said slowly.

  “I’m ordinary.”

  Her fingers brushed his. “Only until people truly see you.” As she was seeing him now, and she didn’t need the amulet to do so. He was a man who knew himself, his moral code, and his goals. He didn’t drift through life. He wasn’t still trying to work out what he wanted or where he belonged. Her palm skimmed over his, settling lightly. “You’re like a rock or like a tree growing out of a rock. Your roots are sunk deep in the island, but you’ve grown big enough—strong enough in who you are—to shelter others. You don’t just see through glamours, you see through the lies and excuses other people tell themselves, and you expect the truth. That’s what you mean when you say you demand the best from people.”

  His fingers curled around hers.

  Her own hold tightened, her decision made. “I like you, Corey Madrigal.”

  He lifted their joined hands to his lips. “I like you, too, Naomi Twain. I hope I can be half the man you see me as.”

  “You’re all that and more.” She leaned into him and kissed him. His lips were cool and tinged with salt from the sea spray on the air. His mouth was warm and tasting faintly of coffee. She was breathless, her pulse skittering madly when she drew back. The cabin at her back had to support a lot of her weight since her knees were wobbly.

  It hadn’t been a wildly passionate kiss. Their sunglasses weren’t dislodged. But it had been real. She stood beside him and her whole body was alive to the sound of his breathing, the knowledge that he was there. Kissing him for the first time was like walking into a house and smelling hot chocolate on the air and knowing that a huge mug of it waited for you with gooey marshmallows and extra chocolate flakes. In other words, the kiss was wonderful and it promised even better.

  “We need to repeat that when we have some real privacy.” His voice was husky.

  “Yes.”

  “Which won’t be my studio, unfortunately.”

  As for the ferry ride, they were out of time to talk further. Los Angeles loomed closer and closer, the quality of the air changing from ocean freshness to city smog. The ferry slowed as it maneuvered in and docked.

  As they disembarked, he touched her shoulder.

  It was no more than a quick, light brush of his fingers, perfectly innocent, but her skin quivered. She swiveled in the direction he indicated.

  Los Angeles was a city designed for people in cars, but he led the way on foot. In a strange way, being pedestrians joined them together more than sharing a car would have. Their strides matched and they had to watch for one another. When her toe caught on a crack in the sidewalk, he grabbed her elbow. His hand slid down, and he tangled his fingers with hers. When they crossed the road, they stepped out together.

  Forget the noise and smells of the heavy traffic. She could have walked with him forever. Everything felt magical, filled with possibilities, and when she turned her head to look at him, he smiled at her and his hand tightened around hers.

  “My studio.”

  The studio turned out to be an old warehouse built out behind a shopfront so that the warehouse was a looming presence behind the original brick store. A small sign above the door said, Madrigal Effects. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you wouldn’t guess it was a special effects workshop. There were blinds on the window to the left of the door. On the right, the blinds had been opened and showed a shabbily comfortable sitting area with a long sofa, its back to the window, and three armchairs.

  Corey unlocked the door and pushed it wide. “After you.”

  His hand rested lightly at the small of her back and she hesitated a moment, wanting to keep his touch. But cuddling on his studio doorstep on a busy street was hardly sensible. She entered. A pile of floor cushions lay toppled in a corner near
a bar fridge, coffeemaker and, yes, a fruit bowl. Someone at the workshop believed in healthy eating.

  To the left, a row of filing cabinets marked out an office space beyond. It contained a single desk with a couple of visitors’ chairs and a potted lucky bamboo. She assumed it was Corey’s office and he confirmed it when he offered for her to leave her handbag there. Since he’d locked the shopfront door and he seemed confident her bag would be safe, she left it in a corner out of sight, beneath one of a dozen movie posters.

  “You worked on these movies?” She indicated the posters.

  “Gothic Saturn was the first. It was low budget. The executive producer and director agreed they wanted old-style special effects rather than computer graphics. It was a lot of fun. A lot of work.”

  “I remember the haunted house in it. You did those flying candelabras? Neat.” At the edge of her hearing, she thought she heard voices, so she refrained from asking if his experience with ghosts and haunted objects had provided inspiration.

  “The real work is done out back.” He put a guiding hand at her waist again.

  She wondered if he was as addicted to the little touches as she was.

  They walked along a short corridor with a door on either side, probably store rooms or store room and a bathroom. The workshop was big. Its high ceiling allowed for a mezzanine floor above the back third of the building. On the ground, a side door stood open letting in light and traffic noise. Despite the early hour, she counted four people already in and working. What they were working on baffled her. It was metallic and had limbs, or limb-like attachments. Twelve of them.

  Work halted as Corey entered. Or maybe work halted because he entered with her? Certainly the four people—three men and one woman, all in their thirties or early forties—stared at her. “Hi, Corey.” Their gazes said, who is she?

  Naomi realized his hand remained at her lower back in a subtly possessive gesture. And just possibly, her nearness to him indicated her own sense of possessiveness. Hmm. Seemed they were both staking a claim.

  He made introductions, finishing with, “Naomi caught the ferry with me from the island. She has the freedom of the studio.” And to her. “The security code is ‘pegasus’ typed into the keypad on the side door.” The one currently propped open with a bucket of sand. In some ways the special effects studio wasn’t so high tech.

  In other ways, it was a modern alchemist’s lair; a magician’s workshop without magic. Strange and marvelous things lent from shelves, hung suspended from the rafters and were stacked along the left side wall. Some were metal skeletons of unidentifiable purpose. Perhaps they were the innards of Hollywood ghosts? But mostly it was a storehouse of parts and projects underway.

  Corey led her away from the four workers and up the broad metal staircase to the mezzanine level. Set against the back wall were three small rooms and a wide open space in front of them that stretched to the railing. This space was filled with models of theatre stages and movie sets displayed on low coffee tables. Some were of balsa wood. Others of plastic. One appeared to be under construction with a floor cushion abandoned beside its coffee table.

  “Computer graphics are useful, but actual models tend to spark better discussions, especially with customers. Viewing them, touching and turning them, often reveals practical considerations and constraints not immediately apparent in virtual reality. We’re experimenting with 3-D printing.” He guided her past the models to one of the rooms. “This is one of our quiet spaces. It’s not soundproof, but close enough. You’re welcome to hang out here, wander around, think of ideas for how to identify the hunters. My meeting with Blake should take about an hour. Two, tops.”

  The room was basic: a wide table, two chairs, and a window looking out at the warehouse behind them. It was an uninspiring view and she understood why he’d transformed part of the shopfront into the staff lunchroom rather than leaving people shut away all day.

  “If you have other plans…” Corey raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  “No, this is great. Clean and functional.” She hadn’t intended this trip to the mainland, although now that she was here, she might do some shopping. She was curious what he thought she’d gain from being in the studio—although the ferry ride alone with him was totally worth a day away from Catalina Island.

  They clattered back down the stairs.

  Three more workers had arrived. These were in their early twenties, clutching cups of coffee. The two women looked frankly intrigued at her presence, their eyes darting between her and Corey before looking questions and commentary at the other workers. The boss has a girlfriend practically rose like a thought bubble above them. But they didn’t appear in any way personally affected, which meant that Corey kept his romantic life separate from his business one.

  She’d have expected nothing less. He would never take advantage of a woman who worked for him. But she also liked that he’d brought her to his studio. It was a vital part of his life, and he’d invited her into it.

  “Let me grab some of our past project files,” he said to her. “They’ll give you an idea of what I can do.”

  One of the young women choked on her coffee.

  A hint of color darkened the skin over his cheekbones. He was aware that his staff watched his apparently inept courtship of Naomi. Offering to show a woman your project designs had to be the equivalent of the Victorian line, “come up and see my etchings”.

  Naomi bit her lip. He was trying to give her the information she needed to help plan how to tackle the hunters, but she couldn’t resist teasing him. “I’d love to learn more of what you can do.” She made her voice Marilyn Monroe breathy.

  A couple of guys snorted a laugh, proving that they were observing the interaction just as much as the women.

  Corey one-upped her tease. He stepped in close. “I’ll show you when we don’t have an audience.”

  They walked back to the shopfront to the echo of laughter and an ear-splitting wolf-whistle. She was flushed, happy, and hyper-aware of his arm around her waist. She collected her handbag while he pulled out files.

  A doorbell chimed.

  Corey expelled a sigh of frustration. “Of all the days to be early.” He off-loaded his armful of files to Naomi and went to unlock the door.

  The man who entered had the sheen of wealth—and the red supercar parked out front was probably his. He was tanned with dark hair and a taut face. His face said forty, his hands said seventy, and his eyes were ancient.

  So that’s what a Hollywood producer looks like. Naomi smiled politely as Corey briefly introduced them.

  “Blake, Naomi.” He didn’t explain her presence, and with her armful of files, Blake probably thought she worked there. She left Corey to his meeting. He would do his best for the business and the people it supported.

  Walking into the workshop without him, she faced smiles and obvious curiosity, but people refrained from questioning her. Since she wasn’t sure what she could say about her relationship with Corey—did they have one? They’d only met yesterday! But that kiss…

  She climbed the stairs to the quiet room he’d shown her. She couldn’t answer anyone’s questions till she had answers to her own, so she’d leave wandering around the workshop till Corey was with her.

  Flicking through the files, it became obvious that anything she could dream up, Corey could make. She left the door to the room open, and noises from the workshop floor floated up, muffled a bit by the room’s soundproofed walls.

  She closed the last file and frowned. A baku was a good idea for a fantastical creature that would lure a hunter into forgetting all caution in pursuit of it, but since Corey had reacted badly to the notion, she needed another option. She needed a creature that would make a good story, one that would be told and retold immediately, and get the hunters’ attention.

  Idly she sketched a baku with its improbable body shape. She exaggerated its elephant ears and had its trunk elongate so it could reach the length of its horse legs to touch the claws o
f its tiger paws. She grinned to herself. Her drawing skills sucked. She scribbled over it and tried again.

  Catalina was an island after all. How logical was it that a baku would swim over to the island? The hunters needed a lure they could believe in: either a marine creature or one with wings.

  She drew a circle with eight wobbly lines hanging off it. With whirlpools in the area, the hunters would believe a kraken sighting, but kraken were notoriously difficult to sight, let alone trap. She needed something on land, something believable but unique. Like the baku, it had to be a creature that a collector would pay top dollar for.

  A line here, another line there, and she colored over the stick-figure kraken drawing to have a stingray pictured on the page. She squinted. It looked more like a huddled bat.

  A bat… She turned the page of her notebook and paused, not drawing anything, just thinking. As far as she knew—and it was her field of study—there was one fantastical creature that resembled a bat. Not that most people called it that.

  “The mothman,” she whispered. It was more properly called a death diver for its feeding habits. Death divers were about the height of a five year old child, but super-skinny and covered by a fine fur. Their wings were both bat-like and feathered, shimmering darkly like an oil slick. They drank the blood of marine mammals, diving beneath the ocean to drink from whales, dolphins, seals and so forth. They were mostly a phenomena of the eastern seaboard, migrating with the warming weather from Central America and Florida to Newfoundland and other Canadian islands to breed.

  Death divers had been reported on the American west coast. There’d been that sighting in San Diego and a body washed up on an Oregon beach. Flying up the east coast, an occasional bad storm might blow one off-course and inland. Lost and often injured, they had to suck blood from land mammals, and that seldom worked so well. Able to attach themselves limpet-like to a diving dolphin, on land, a death diver would bounce off a running cow or horse, or the prey animal would roll and squash them.

  Such rare inland sightings of death divers had given rise to the myth of the mothmen.