Island of Icarus Read online

  We looked at each other as my heart continued to pound under my tongue, and then we began to laugh. It was a nervous, exultant laughter. Weak and trembling, I lowered myself to the ground. My palms were raw and red from the rough tree bark, but I was well and in one piece. Marcus dropped down next to me and pushed his goggles up. He threw his arms around me and kissed my mouth with a smile on his lips.

  “Marcus, your shoulder—” I gasped.

  “It’s fine.” He grinned and kissed me again. “You are marvelous!” Then, his expression grew serious and he said, “The ship.” He looked off in the direction of the shore.

  I reeled. “But the wings—” I began. There was his dream, crushed.

  Marcus looked back at the pile of crumpled metal, wood, and leather that had been his wings, now bent beyond recognition. His lips flattened. He said, “Destroyed beyond repair, I’m sure. But they worked, and that is the important part. I have the plans still. And we are alive.” He hugged me again, cheek to cheek, then took my hand. “The ship!” he cried, and led me to the shore.

  I staggered before falling into pace with him. “Are you sure you are all right?” I asked, breathlessly.

  “Absolutely fine!”

  Through the forest and out across the sand we ran. We halted, panting, at the shore. “There!” He pointed.

  Sure enough, there was the white glint of a sail, and it appeared to be getting closer.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The ship took anchor before the reef, as Marcus said it would, and the crew rowed ashore in small boats. We watched from the beach.

  Marcus said, “Well, it’s taken longer than I expected, but here it is.” He added, “If you are planning to leave, we had better get things packed for you.”

  Leave? Marcus’s words stung me. Yes, of course. Leave. Home, I could go home. A sober feeling washed over me. I had wanted this, hadn’t I? Well, yes, but hadn’t I also decided to stay? Suddenly, I did not know. And since Marcus was the one to mention it, it must mean that he had planned for me to leave, that he expected me to. Perhaps he wanted me to. But hadn’t he said…? I responded automatically. “Oh, yes. I suppose. Of course.”

  The boats reached the shore, breaking our quiet and solitude. The beach was suddenly crowded with loud, red-faced seamen. “Excuse me,” Marcus said, and went to them. He seemed to know several of the men, for they smiled and shook hands. For a self-styled hermit, he appeared quite natural and at ease. I could see him speaking and laughing from where I stood. I imagined him in London in a proper suit and hat, milling with other physicians at the university, a natural socialite.

  A sick sense of anxiety and foreboding made me turn away. I walked along the forest paths that had become so familiar to me, losing myself in the embrace of green foliage. Soon, the cries of the men faded from earshot. My head spun with doubts, mixed emotions, and conflicting thoughts—a mental noise that threatened to overwhelm me.

  Back to England, back to the life that was familiar to me. My lodgings would be waiting for me, as would the housekeeper and old Ferrous, who by now was probably being chased by mice instead of the other way around. Luther had promised me I could return to my accustomed university position. I could return to teaching. I could bring my notes with me and write a book, as Marcus had suggested. I could clean off and send out those manuscripts that sat gathering dust. I would return with a new confidence and a sleeker prosthetic. Luther would be pleased. After all, was this not why he had sent me off for field work to begin with? So that I could regroup and recuperate?

  Yes, return to England. That would the most practical thing for me to do, the most reasonable. However, the thought of walking onto that ship, of watching the island fade from view, of stepping off onto the sooty streets of London made me green. Most of all, I could not bear the thought of leaving Marcus behind. The thought of looking into his hazel eyes and knowing it would the last time I would see them made my heart seize.

  It was a long afternoon. I spent most of it hiking through the forest or watching the activity of the sailors from a hidden distance. They rolled barrels ashore to refresh their water supply. They also brought crates of goods. There was movement in the trees as men captured ducks and rabbits, picked fruit, and bathed. I saw little of Marcus, only fleeting glimpses as he hurried about the island.

  I thought of him here, of what it would be like if I left. Perhaps he would rebuild the wings. Perhaps he would make it to the top of those cloudy peaks. I thought of him alone again, with no one to keep him company save the ducks, the rabbits, and the endless fluttering of the little yellow finches. I thought of myself, walking through the rain of London, alone. I thought of his arms around me, of our walks along the shore. I thought of his cock—filling my mouth, filling me. I thought of his murmured appeal, “Stay with me.”

  And with the memory of those words, I knew with certainty that I could not leave. I would not leave.

  I made my way back to the cabin. Marcus was in the bedroom, kneeling next to a small chest on the floor. It seemed to be filled with an assortment of small metal parts. He was writing something. At my approach, he looked up only briefly, his expression flat.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “A repair kit. For your prosthetic. I am jotting instructions for their use and for the most likely repairs you will need to make.”

  I settled into the chair. There were butterflies in my stomach, but I managed to sound cool as I asked, “And why do I need that?”

  He looked at me with an expression I could not read. “Because your arm is a prototype and I won’t be there to fix it.”

  Those words hurt, and I blinked back the sudden burning in my eyes. I feigned puzzlement and asked, “You’re leaving?”

  He furrowed his brow at me. “You’re not?”

  I slowly shook my head. He lowered the paper and pen to the floor. He said, “This is the last ship for months. You won’t have another opportunity for a long time.”

  “Good,” I said, trying not to sound as if my mouth had gone dry. “I could do without all the noise.”

  A smile began to curl the end of his mouth upward, and with that, my butterflies began to vanish. “You won’t grow tired of my company?” he asked.

  “Hardly,” I replied, my own grin growing. “The conversation, the sex, and the view are all too good. Besides,” I added, “who else will help you reach that mountaintop?”

  There was a full, genuine smile on his face now. “Well,” he said, standing to embrace me. “If you change your mind in four mouths, there will always be another ship…”

  “Never,” I said, placing my hands at the small of his back, pressing his warm body to mine. “I wouldn’t care if they didn’t stop at all.”

  “Well,” said Marcus. He closed in for a kiss.

  I pulled my head back, just out of reach of his lips. “Just…do me one favor.”

  “Yes?” he asked, eyebrows knitting together.

  “Stop getting yourself into trouble.”

  He laughed, and he kissed me, and I knew that he wouldn’t.

  But then, that was fine, because he had me to get him out of it.

  About the Author

  Christine Danse is a native Floridian, a rather rare species of hominid with an aversion to the sun and a love of air conditioning. She has been writing stories of fantasy and the paranormal since she was old enough to hold a pen, and she has been telling them even longer. She is particularly fond of shape-shifters and strange steampunk, although she has yet to write a story that involves both. (The excitement might cause her to spontaneously combust.) She lives in Ft. Lauderdale with her dog, Bait; her best friend, Rhianna; and the two talking cats from whom they rent.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-9080-2

  Copyright © 2010 by Christie Bailey

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