Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4) Read Free

you are.’ He crossed the room then and took me by the
shoulders and looked me in the eyes and said firmly, ‘Being with you isn’t impossible,
Scarlett. It’s essential.’
    And that was that. He was mine and I was his, and the future
stretched out ahead of us, full of the promise of laughter and passion and
tenderness – except at night, when I retreated to my isolated cottage on the
cliff, alone.
    I had chosen Luke over a life in Cerulea, and he had chosen
me over a life of normality, and they were simple choices, right choices. And
yet my hand stroked that lonely pillow beside me.
    *
    Downstairs, I sat in my usual chair at the big pine table in
the kitchen. I started each day here, in this spot – my favourite because it
pulled together the very best of old and new. Old: the chair made by my
grandfather in his garden shed; the table bearing the remnants of felt-tip pen
streaks from my childhood days; the Aga breathing out heat. New: the
shock-proof toaster and kettle; the regularly restocked cake tin; the colourful
framed Joan Miró print; the fridge magnet letters arranged to spell THERE’S
NO PLACE LIKE HOME .
    Breakfast was a warm, sweet affair: two croissants smothered
with apricot jam, alongside a cup of hot chocolate to take the chill off the
spring morning. I ought, I suppose, to have opted for healthy, rabbit-food
cereal, but after four months stuck on an island without so much as a sniff of
sugar, I was making up for lost time. Plus, today I needed the energy from a
big breakfast.
    Not that I had much planned for the day itself. I never did.
Daytimes were quiet. I pottered about the cottage, scouted out treasures online
for Luke’s Project, emailed my mum. Walked Chester on the quiet cliff path and
surfed deserted waves beneath the noonday sun. Navigated the twisting lanes of
the South Hams in my Mini, stopping to explore a footpath or take in a sea
view. And sometimes, I took a trip into the sleepy village of Twycombe, to pick
up some groceries or lay flowers on graves at St Mary’s church.
    They were calm days, days of freedom I treasured after
months of captivity. But there was an aching emptiness in them. I lived for the
moment that five sonorous peals rang out from the clock tower, signalling the
opening of that window of time when I could be with others.
    Then, Cara and I would rummage through her latest vintage
clothes delivery and play dress-up, giggling like toddlers in rhinestone tiaras
and too-big heels. Then, I would sit in Si’s back garden and drink soda and eat
pizza and listen to surfers bantering over the steady pulse of the stereo’s
base. Then, I would be with Luke – walking on the beach hands entwined,
devouring his latest creation in the kitchen, sitting on his roof terrace to
watch the sunset, curled up beside him in his bed, lost in him. In those golden
hours before darkness set in and Luke’s lips were brushing mine and whispering ‘Good
night’, all was right with the world.
    But there was something missing from the safe daily routine
I had fallen into. I was a Cerulean. And though I wouldn’t stand with my fellow
Ceruleans – neither those on Cerulea nor those who were Outcast – still being
Cerulean meant something to me. I had a gift. I meant to use it. And tonight,
all going well, I would work out how.
    My eyes were straying to the croissant packet – perhaps just
one more, to fuel me up for the day’s preparations? – when I felt the tugging
sensation I’d come to associate with the presence of a person, a human, nearby.
I didn’t mind the interruption. The small pleasure of a croissant paled in
comparison with what I knew awaited me on the doorstep.
    ‘Morn–’ was all Luke managed to get out before I smothered
his greeting in a kiss, and by the time I released my grip on the dark curls on
the back of his head and we broke apart, he was reduced to a simple, ‘Mmmm…’
    We looked at each other intensely for a heartbeat, two, and
then Luke gave himself a