This is a pre-edited copy of Ocean KIlls, book one of Ocean Breeze. Publication date is December 2012. You can contact Jade on jadehart888@gmail.com
Chapter Four:Ocean
I paced through the age-stained cobble streets of Manchester, pondering my next move. England was a totally different planet compared to Australia. The atmosphere seemed brighter in Aussie, the horizon a deeper teal, the sun an orb of flaming gold. Here, in England, everything was grey. From the drizzle misting from the grey sky, to the concrete pavements mirrored in grey buildings. Luckily I could escape whenever I wanted, otherwise depression would crush me. I wanted eye-shattering brightness. Exoticness. Heat.
Sea-foam eyes slammed into recollection, followed quickly by a semi-naked figure in the surf. Officer Bliss had lived in Bali. Surfing, relaxing. Lucky freakin' cop. Bali was one of my favourite places. The vibe was so chill-lax—something I needed. I didn't know how to unwind. A constant drive urged me forward. If I didn't keep hunting, keep purging, then guilt was a dark passenger stealing my soul bit by bit. I could never stop.
But right now, I had business to complete. I needed cash. With the ability to port, there were countless untapped avenues of money. Robbing banks for one. But I refused to be a thief. I may be a killer, but I had morals to uphold.
Taking note of which grey street I stood on, I sucked in a breath, and straightened my shoulders. My breasts teetered on the cusp of popping from my silver boob-tube, and my exposed mid-drift looked hoochy. Definitely not acceptable attire for wandering English streets at lunchtime. I didn’t need to go far, Maurice lived on this block.
The imposing black and white Tudor home beckoned me with old world charm and ghostly wonkiness. The facade was well cared for—a much loved home, but the stories were melting. Instead of the crisp lines of modern architecture, the building slowly sagged. Gravity extracting its toll as the centuries lashed at the structure.
It was the one and only place I was safe, and I'd avoided coming here for six very long months. Stupid. So stupid.
My pride. . . my fear, kept me from the one person I loved. I could blame the last hunt. Blame my responsibilities. But it would be a lie. How I lasted six months away from Maurice, I couldn’t contemplate. I needed him as much as I needed food to port.
Smoothing my chocolate fire hair—courtesy of Garnier hair colour—I gulped some courage, and knocked the twisted Tudor door. Eyeing the prehistoric plaque stating how historical the dwelling was—1597 to be exact, I thought, not for the first time, how cool it would be to port to the past; to see how people lived without electricity or indoor plumbing.
“Ocean.” The door remained closed.
Frowning, I looked for the voice. A small communication panel crackled as I pressed a button to respond. This was new. Looking directly into the small security camera staring me in the face, I said, “Open up, Maurice. Don't make me lurk on your doorstep dressed in these clothes.”
He chuckled, and the door clicked open.
Stepping over the threshold, the house seemed to sigh and hug me with its dark panelling, oriental rugs which had seen better days, and a welcoming musty smell. Crap, it had been too long. Way, way too long. Me and my stubborn pride.
“Come in here!”
Was he in a grump or excited? I couldn’t tell. If he was mad, I supposed it was fair for how I left last time. Still didn't stop me from shaking my head at the command. For a whippet of a man, Maurice was bossier than the queen.
I followed his voice toward the drawing room brimming with porcelain figurines and trinkets. The exposed redbrick fireplace roared with heat. The cognac coloured walls glistened with a fine layer of coal dust. Maurice did his best with housework, but a renovation was in dire need.
