§ § § -- February 9, 1999

Disgruntled and with a lot to think about, H.R. took a slow stroll along a jungle path, meandering aimlessly for a good hour, till he found himself atop a small promontory overlooking the ocean. A lone tree stood sentinel against the stiff breeze that blew ceaselessly along the clifftop, but H.R. barely noticed the wind or the strong sunlight. He was annoyed by the envy he felt over his cousin's close relationship with his only child; more than that, he was worried that Rogan seemed to be on Roarke's side in this. The kid had too much conscience for his own good, H.R. thought disgustedly.

"H.R., my dear fellow, how good it is to see you again! Finally caved in and decided to visit your long-lost cousin after all, then?"

H.R. turned around and regarded the dapper man with surprise. "Fancy meeting you here, old chap. How've you been?"

"Bored," came the reply. "Bored beyond belief…until I heard about the situation here. I suppose that's what brought you here as well."

H.R. grinned. "Mephistopheles, my good man, you do have a way of reading my mind. Am I truly that transparent?—never mind. I don't necessarily want P.Q.'s island, mind you. I'm merely fed up with that cousin of mine getting all the breaks."

"So I understand," observed Mephistopheles, gesturing to one side. "Shall we?" H.R. nodded, and the two began to wander along the clifftop. "Just what sort of shape is Roarke in, now? The website merely said the fantasy business was on hiatus due to illness."

"And what an illness," concurred H.R. "He has the bone-eating disease that's been the curse of our people for countless centuries. It's killed almost as many of us as the damned witch trials used to do in the Middle Ages, when people were even more stupid and ignorant than they are now."

Mephistopheles nodded. "Has he any hope of recovery?" H.R. frowned and said nothing, and Mephistopheles smiled. "Apparently not without the cure you discovered. So, tell me, why haven't you shared it with him? You are related, are you not?"

"Bah," muttered H.R.

Mephistopheles stopped walking and peered more closely at him. "You resent him, don't you? It would suit your wounded sensibilities perfectly to let him die. You don't want to save Roarke, do you?" His face began to light up, and H.R. watched impassively. "Do you realize what this could mean to me?" He grabbed H.R.'s arms and beamed. "I've been after your cousin's soul for sheer ages, and the chase is driving me insane…but I simply must have it. Simply must. He has the most vexing way of eluding me. But now that he's ill and will never get well again…the opportunity is absolutely irresistible!" Mephistopheles began to cackle gleefully. "My good man, you've done me the most amazing favor! How serious is this illness? How soon can I expect to escort him home with me?"

H.R. gave him a strange look. "I don't think he has very long to live. He's been confined to bed for some time, as I understand it, and he often has barely enough strength to speak. I'd wager he won't last out the month."

"Wonderful!" cried Mephistopheles, beside himself with delight. "I have so many plans for that irritating man! I intend to make him pay for what he's done to me for all eternity, and I'll never be bored again, with Roarke to play with. You simply don't know what this means to me!"

"Are you planning to do a victory dance right here on the edge of the cliff?" H.R. asked dryly. Mephistopheles giggled deliriously.

"A celebration certainly would be in order, would it not? Ah, the things I have in mind for your cousin…I really must get back and start preparing…"

"Wait." Abruptly H.R. caught Mephistopheles' arm and stopped him cold. "Just wait one damn minute here. Just for laughs…tell me, what would it take to prevent you walking away with P.Q.'s soul?"

"Just for laughs, then," Mephistopheles said affably, too overjoyed by the looming promise of his most sought-after goal to be his usual crafty self. "All you would have to do is provide the cure, my good fellow. It's as simple as that. But you've found Roarke a thorn in your side for so long, I'm sure you won't bother."

Some distance away behind a boulder, Rogan Callaghan pushed Julie back for at least the fourth time and waved impatiently at her to keep quiet. H.R.'s and Mephistopheles' voices carried easily on the wind and he had picked up every word of their macabre conversation. Julie was outraged and trying to express it; it was all Rogan could do to keep her from shouting aloud and avoiding detection. "Julie, for God's sake shut your mouth," he hissed urgently at her. "Do you want those two to walk away with you, rather than uncle?" Julie snapped her mouth closed and crouched as far down as she could get, and he nodded sharply with approval and focused his attention on the conversation again.

"I'll admit it freely enough," H.R. said, standing there staring over the ocean without seeing it. "It would be a pleasure to get my cousin out of the picture. My fool son could have this island, since he refuses to set foot on mine, and there would be no way in hell that P.Q.'s merely-mortal daughter could run the place. And I certainly don't want it—I hated it when I was doing it. But this island would be a prize, no question about it."

"Then all you need to do is stand back and watch!" Mephistopheles crowed. "Easiest thing you've ever done! You can buy back your son's affections by giving him Roarke's island, and everyone walks away happy, including me! Not a loser in the lot!" He giggled again and added cheerily, "Except Roarke, of course."

H.R. faced him and peered oddly at him. "What is it about my cousin that makes you so greedy for his soul, anyway, old chap?"

"His very elusiveness," Mephistopheles said. "Never before have I come across someone so brilliant, so deft, so skillfully evasive. It's become a personal challenge to me to get his soul—the most glittering prize of all those I've ever collected across the millennia. To walk away with Roarke's soul would be the coup of coups. The man comes across like a saint, and he has cheated me out of not only his own soul, but quite a collection of others as well. Which is something else that irks me no end."

"I see," H.R. murmured. "I had no idea he was that good."

"Too good," Mephistopheles complained. "But you, my old friend, you can change all that. What do you say, eh?"

H.R. studied him for a moment, frowned again and turned away. "You realize this is my cousin we're speaking of, don't you? It really is rather blatant and presumptuous of you to suggest I allow you to carry him off when the damned disease does him in."

"You're not in such a hurry to save his life," Mephistopheles pointed out, and H.R.'s frown deepened. "It would save you the trouble of having to dispose of the corpse." Behind the boulder, Julie's face contorted, and Rogan clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. Even H.R. shot him a pained look, and Mephistopheles shrugged. "Pardon me…the future corpse. At any rate," he went on, smirking at H.R.'s eye-roll, "you need only stand back, let him die, and make way for me. I'll handle everything from then on and you won't have to worry about him at all. If you like, I'll even dispose of his daughter for you. Don't underestimate that mortal girl, H.R. The last time I came after Roarke, she was the one who saved his miserable carcass, and all I got was her birth father, who has proven to be nothing but a weeping, wailing banshee who spends every moment of every day begging his dead wife to forgive him. I have to wear earplugs when I visit that corner of hell." H.R. grinned in spite of himself, and Mephistopheles caught it. "A little respect there, H.R. I may decide to take you too, when I come to get Roarke."

H.R. laughed. "Bah…hell holds no terrors for me. Threaten me all you like, chappie, I don't care. Look…you'll have to let me sleep on this. I'm not the slightest bit sentimental, mind you, but he is my cousin, in spite of everything. You've waited all this time to come and claim P.Q.; I daresay a little more waiting won't harm you. It's a very large decision."

Mephistopheles sighed deeply. "Very well…I'll give you until this coming Friday at midnight. Friday, the twelfth of February, when I will at long last claim the one thing I have coveted most in all the universe—Roarke's immortal soul. Don't let me down, old friend." The last six words came out in a deep, ominous monotone, and Mephistopheles dropped a hand heavily on H.R.'s shoulder before walking right off the cliff, leaving his anticipatory laughter curling through the air behind him.

"Rogan, are you going to let him get away with this?" Julie gasped.

"Wait here," he directed her curtly and stepped out from behind the boulder. H.R. saw him coming in his peripheral vision and faced him with surprise.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

"I've heard just about everything that's gone on here," Rogan said, his voice like granite. "You sicken me, Da. Making a deal with the devil to sell your cousin's soul, with hardly a second thought. Here's a thought for you. If you give uncle up to Mephistopheles, you'll guarantee yourself a life alone, because you'll never see or hear from either Miranda or me again—ever. And there's a great deal more you'll miss out on as a result. You'd better think very, very carefully about what you're going to do, for there's much more at stake here than you seem to realize." He wheeled around on one foot and marched away, collecting Julie from behind the boulder and towing her along with him while H.R. watched them retreat and tried to convince himself he really didn't care.

§ § § -- February 10, 1999

Both Roarke and Leslie slept the rest of Tuesday and straight through the night; but Leslie woke shortly after first light began to tint the eastern sky and squinted around the room, disoriented at first. A long, soft, fragile sigh drifted through the air and she suddenly remembered where she was and why she was there. The room was still too dark for her to see anything, but she reached out nonetheless, found Roarke's hand and caught it in hers, clinging for all she was worth. She heard, more than felt, his slight shift in his sleep, and his fingers twitched fractionally against her palm as if he were responding somehow. It wasn't much, but Leslie was reassured all the same, allowing her to release his hand and creep quietly from the room.

She had slept so much, and so heavily, that she knew she wouldn't be sleepy again till bedtime that night; so she retreated to her bedroom and booted up her computer to see if there was any e-mail worth looking at. Her bedroom faced east, and there was now just enough light coming through that she didn't bother turning on the bedside lamp. After a few minutes she logged onto her e-mail account and grinned ruefully to see almost fifty messages waiting for her. Most of them were from her friends; one, she noticed with surprise and delight, was from Frida Rosseby, whose busy life allowed for only sporadic contact with her Fantasy Island friends. Leslie took a few minutes to reply, congratulating Frida on the birth of her baby girl, then forwarding the message to her other friends. She pulled up the next page of messages—and, as if they were magnetically attracted, her eyes zeroed in on Christian's name in the list. Instantly she opened the message and read it with the greedy excitement of one too long denied contact with a loved one.

My darling Leslie Rose,

As you have probably figured out from the simple presence of this message, I'm back home, about three weeks early. Actually, Marina and I were called back. My niece Gabriella, Arnulf's middle daughter, is getting married, for one thing, so we will be caught up in the wedding excitement for the next week. The other reason we were summoned home is that we just learned of the death of Marina's older sister, Paola.

Marina is sad, I believe, but not especially upset. Paola, she has told me, was a haunted woman, one with many secrets and many torments. Perhaps it's as well I never met her. In any case, we got word from Marina's father, who apparently has known for only a few days himself. It seems he had no contact with Paola for quite a few years before her passing, perhaps partially due to her mental condition, as well as some manner of feud that Marina has yet to explain to me. I did notice, oddly enough, that in the most recent two weeks, the illicit trade in amakarna-derived drugs has dropped to almost nothing. I always notice news about that spice, what with the impact it's had on my life, but this time it was significant. I mentioned it in passing to Marina, who confessed then and there that Paola was in fact the ultimate and sole source of the amakarna used in drug manufacturing. Somewhere, perhaps on their father's estate, Paola had her own special greenhouses in which she grew the spice, solely for illicit purposes, and apparently had a great deal of knowledge about all the terrible things that damned spice can be perverted into. If I never hear the word "amakarna" again, I would die happy.

But enough of that. It's good to be home again, I must admit. I am dying for news of you and Fantasy Island, my Leslie Rose. Tell me everything that's happened, will you? I hope you are well, and please give my greetings to your father. I'll be waiting to hear from you. I love you so very much.

All my love, Christian

The euphoria that had swept Leslie when she first began to read Christian's message drained away, and she slumped back in her chair, biting her lip. How much should she tell Christian? Truth be told, she wanted to spill out everything; she'd been under a good bit of strain for several weeks now with no one to really talk to, and there had been many a time when she had desperately wished Christian were there for her to unload on. In the last week or so, the enormous worry she'd had over Roarke had eclipsed just about everything else, and her inability to reach Christian in any way had fallen to the back of her mind.

But she knew she must reply; for all she knew, he was sitting at his computer right now watching for her message to pop up on his monitor screen. Leslie tried to figure out what she should say to him that wouldn't precipitate a blizzard of questions that she wasn't prepared to answer. If she told him about Paola's sojourn on the island, he would want to know why she had been there and what had happened during her stay—as if he could have done anything, then or now! More than that, he might ask if Paola had died there, and she'd have to tell him where it had actually happened. Then he'd want to know how she knew that, and… Leslie shuddered and shook her head. Being able to tell Christian about all this would have been a boon while it was actually happening; now it was almost unthinkable. For now she had a quandary of her own. If and when she told Christian what had been going on all this time, it would eventually come out that Roarke's cousin was here, and that he had a cure for the bone-eating disease that had killed Paola and was ravaging Marina, her father, and Roarke. And the presence of a cure could put a permanent and shattering end to Leslie's and Christian's hopes of ever being together.

Of course, Leslie thought bleakly, it was all academic. They couldn't get the cure out of H.R. anyway, so it was entirely possible that the status quo would be maintained. Unable to make a decision, she twisted around in her chair and noted the time: 5:23. Dawn had brightened the entire sky and the sun would be up within another half hour. It was still early enough that Christian could assume she was asleep right now. With a twinge of guilt, Leslie logged off and left the computer running for the moment, intent on a shower and a change of clothes. Maybe that would help her get a grip on things.