tagNonHumanCaribbean Rising

Caribbean Rising

byBajanBelle©

Author's Note:

This is my first submission to the site. I intend it to be a story of several chapters, so I do I look forward to hearing whether I've managed to capture your attention or not. I'm doing the editing myself on this first chapter and I'm trying very hard to make sure it's readable with a minimum of typos, etc. However, if you spot any, please feel free to point them out to me. All the scenarios come from my imagination and involve characters that are over the age of 18. Their inner thoughts are shown in brackets ( ); while mind speaking is shown in [ ]. Finally, please note that this is an original work to which I reserve all copy and other rights.


*

Chapter One - Awakening

Before...

"Find Aston, Gabriel and Dylan!" Declan flung over his right shoulder as he sprinted down the hallway. "It's A....!"

Whatever Declan was about to say faded into nothingness at about the same time as Jiordan Montaigne's smooth, long stride, which had already begun to quicken into an anxious run when his senses suddenly went haywire in the study, trembled to an abrupt halt. His knees buckled as the power of his eldest brother's emotions slammed into him with the force of a brick wall.

"Oh, dear God in heaven! NOOOOOO!!!"

It was his last fully-conscious thought. Wave upon wave of fear-laced pain suddenly shot a lighting fist through his skull, setting ablaze every cell in his body before concentrating its power in his heart. From afar someone yelled his name; his keen hearing registered what sounded like pounding feet, and then there was nothing...

-----------

Now...

Long thick lashes the colour of honey swept lazily upward as Jiordan Montaigne's eyes drifted open. The startling aquamarine-tinged, emerald orbs that were unveiled swept towards the breathtaking vista below. Lost in his reverie, his keen senses had nevertheless picked up the subtle shift as the pilot slightly adjusted controls of the plane now flying on a course parallel to the West Coast of Barbados, on approach to the airport.

Jiordan was already bringing his seat upright as the stewardess removed the intercom to prepare passengers for their arrival and the end of the almost eight-hour flight from London. He gathered his headset and the latest novel from his favourite author which he'd rested on the chocolate brown leather seat beside him, He slipped them into a black leather satchel and returned it to the spot under the seat in front of him.

The flight was full, even here in first class, but Jiordan never had to worry about being crowded when flying anywhere, or doing anything else for that matter. Standing at six feet, nine-and-a-half inches he dwarfed most people. Add to that the sleek well-toned physique that fairly screamed leashed power without being overly muscular, along with the piercing gaze that seemed capable of cutting through steel, and it was easy to see why people automatically stepped aside to give him more than enough room to pass by them. Indeed, considering the granite jaw set tight below high cheekbones the same golden toffee hue as the skin now exposed below the rolled-up sleeves of his bright-white shirt, it was doubtful anyone would have chosen to sit next to him, even if Declan hadn't thought to buy the adjoining seat when he'd booked Jiordan's ticket.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our descent into the Grantley Adams International Airport in Barbados. The Captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. In preparation for landing please bring your seats into the upright and locked position, stow away all tray tables and return any items you may have used during the flight to the overhead bins or under the seat in front of you."

As she finished her well-rehearsed spiel the stewardess allowed her eyes to rest alluringly on Jiordan, tacking on an enticingly dimpled smile in an unmistakable invitation for him to do with her whatever he wished. He caught the look, but denied her the benefit of eye contact, his gaze lazily cutting away from hers to again embrace the scenery now drawn closer outside the window.

(Yes, I can see you looking at me... I can hear your heart beat faster; I know your clit is shivering and your panties are getting damp from the pussy juice flowing from your cunt. I can smell your arousal; I can hear your breath quickening and I can see the tension that is coiling your body so tight that any moment now you will have to excuse yourself and go to the bathroom so you can bring yourself to orgasm before you are driven crazy with need. I know all these things, but I can do nothing. I can do nothing because I can feel nothing. Dead men don't feel...)

"Mr. Montaigne?"

It was another stewardess standing in the aisle next to his seat, a curious expression on her too perfectly made-up face. Her eyes tried to search his, as though trying to figure out why such a handsome, obviously wealthy young man should seem so... uninterested.

"Yes." The smooth, deep timbre of Jiordan's voice sounded strange to his own ears. He couldn't remember speaking to anyone since he said goodbye to Declan back in London.

"We've just had a message, sir. Your party will meet you at the bottom of the steps once we have safely arrived at the gate."

"Thank you," he nodded. Turning to gather up his jacket from the seat next to him.

"Is there anything else we can do for you, sir?"

(God, I wish they would all just stop trying...)

"No, thanks," he glanced away to the window, hoping she would get the message...

By pre-arrangement Jiordan was first out the door of the plane, ducking his head to avoid the low overhang. Muttering a hasty "thanks" to the stewardesses gathered to wish their charges a pleasant stay in Barbados, he descended the steps.

It wasn't that he wanted to be rude, Jiordan reasoned with himself for the umpteenth time in what seemed like forever. He just couldn't feel anything. He'd already discovered that having even the most inane conversation when he couldn't even feel enough interest to muster a clear thought was simply too exhausting, so he preferred to say as little as possible. To anyone.

The man standing off to the side just past the bottom of the steps was almost as tall as Jiordan, slightly less broad in the chest perhaps, but with an enviably trim waistline. The silver just barely glinting at his temples suggested that he was older, but gave no clue as to his exact age especially since the rest of his mahogany brown locks flowed full and free to his shoulders. The eyes that followed Jiordan's descent from the plane flashed briefly with some deeply felt emotion, before returning to a warm hazel.

Jiordan ran his hand over his head, registering the slightly prickly texture of the severe cut. It was a sharp contrast to the feel of the smooth, honey-blond tresses that reached the middle of his back up to two days ago. Coming to a stop before the older man, Jiordan regarded him silently through a full ten beats of his heart, then extended his hand in greeting.

"Hello Grandpops."

The older man stared into his grandson's eyes. Then, sweeping aside Jiordan's outstretched hand he barrelled into his grandson, folding him into a tight hug. His heart lurched as he felt Jiordan's arms slowly come up to pat him lightly on the back, once. He stepped back, but only enough to again gaze deeply into his grandson's eyes before kissing him on both cheeks, suspicious moisture igniting the burnt amber flashes in his hazel eyes.

"Hello Jiordi, my boy. It's so good to see you," he said, pulling his grandson close for another hug.

(His eyes are open, but Jiordan sees nothing. It's like he is breathing, his heart is beating, but there's nothing there. Whatever made me think we were going to be the ones to help him through this thing?)

"Well, that's enough of that," boomed the older man. "Let's get your luggage and head off home. It's a nice smooth drive since they put the new highway in and you'll get to see the new office tower we're building, the one I've been telling you about. But we have to hurry though or your grandmother will be kicking up a fuss about me keeping you all afternoon and starving you to death. I can hear her now: 'Cecil, why'd you take so long to bring Jiordi from the airport; you know they don't feed you on those flights'."

Jiordan half-listened to his grandfather chatter away about all the changes that had taken place on the island in the last ten years since he'd been back. Oh, he'd seen his grandparents in that time of course, when they visited England, but his life had been so busy with friends and parties and clubbing and weekend trips to Europe, he'd hardly taken the time to look at the postcards and photos they'd sent him over the years, let alone pay them any real attention.

He followed his grandfather through the arrivals hall, staring straight ahead. He could feel the stares, hear the whispers from the locals who'd no doubt heard the story by now, but he avoided making eye contact with anyone. Cecil Montaigne was well known in the island as much for his generosity to the locals as his wealth which was spread among various industrial and social concerns. The older man had arranged courtesy of the port so passage through immigration was swift and in no time they had collected his luggage and were heading for the arrivals area and the waiting limousine. Jiordan was vaguely conscious of people shaking his hand in welcome at various points, but remained detached, content to let his grandfather do the talking.

In this semi-conscious state they were through the exit and the automatic doors had swished close before Jiordan registered the tantalising whiff of hibiscus and citrus mixed with something exotic yet so elusive, he found he could not retain it long enough to identify the scent. Jiordan's eyes scanned the landscape, but he quickly dismissed the shrubs and flowering plants bordering the roadways outside the arrivals hall as the source of the unusual scent that was suddenly causing water to spring in his mouth. The scent was faint, quickly disappearing, and he was aware enough to understand that it had his senses snapping to life in a way they had not been awakened in over a year.

Jiordan Montaigne lifted his head, closed his eyes and inhaled.

Striding ahead of Jiordan towards the limousine waiting at the edge of the pavement Cecil was just about to shake hands with the airport manager who has accompanied them from the arrivals hall when he sensed the surge in energy from his grandson. So unexpected was the sensation that Cecil almost skidded to a halt, the abrupt movement causing the airport manager to reach out a steadying hand in alarm.

"Cecil! Are you alright?" asked the man anxiously.

Cecil stood looking at Jiordan, registering the look of alertness on his grandson's face. He sniffed the air unobtrusively, trying to see if he could pick up what had so enthralled Jiordan, but could sense no danger among the mix of scents in the area. Glancing down at the airport manager, Cecil smiled disarmingly, assuring the man that he was just fine.

"Just lost my step for a second there, Harold. Nothing to worry about. Maybe I need to get home and rest for a while."

The airport manager smiled. "I'm sure Estlan will be happy to hear that. She's always telling my wife that you've earned the right to put up your feet, but she can never get you to slow down enough."

"Well, you know what I always say, Harold. I'll sleep when they bury me," Cecil laughing heartily when Harold uttered the well familiar saying right along with him.

The jovial banter between the two friends gave Jiordan enough time to collect himself, so he was outwardly composed by the time his grandfather turned back to him.

"Come on, Jiordi. Let's get moving."

"Great to see you again, Harold. Say hello to Monica. I'm sure Estlan will be in touch with dinner invitations to officially welcome Jiordi back."

"We look forward to it as always, Cecil. Our regards to Estlan. Take care Jiordi. We'll see you soon."

With a last wave from the airport manager, the limousine slid smoothly away from the curb, heading for the exit.

"We'll be heading straight home, Michael," Cecil leaned over to the driver.

"Sure thing, sir. Welcome home, Mr. Montaigne. It's good to see you again," the driver said, smiling at Jiordan in the rear view mirror.

"Thanks, Michael."

Cecil regarded Jiordan closely, trying to discern the reason for the sudden surge of emotions he could feel down their bond. He was startled by the unexpected sensation of longing he detected in his grandson, his frantic worry and his almost feral need to hunt. No one in the family had felt anything from Jiordan in over a year!

Flicking the switch that would raise the privacy shield between the passenger compartment and the driver, Cecil leaned forward to his grandson, his worry showing clearly as he grasped his hands to bring Jiordan's eyes to focus.

"What is it, Jiordi? What's the matter, son?"

Jiordan seemed to pull himself from somewhere far away and it was a while before the dazed look left his eyes, only to be replaced by the bright sheen of tears. If Cecil was unprepared for the sudden appearance of tears in Jiordan's eyes, there was no way to hide his complete shock when his grandson whispered:

"Grandpops," Jiordan said, his voice full of wonder. "My mate is here."

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