Son of the Sea. Nancy Holder
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Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea.
—“The Forsaken Merman”, Matthew Arnold
Chapter One
Dear Miss Davos,
Excusing my English, we have faith we are your family in Athens, Greece. You and Sofia Davos are the children of Stavros and Helena Davos? You are Keeper?
It is of our understanding that Stavros and Helena are no more. I am to search many years for Helena and family. I find your restaurant on the computer. If you are these maidens, please write to me now. There is much importance. Please to take most cautions, you are in danger. I am Maria Karras, aunt. TELL NO ONE. Be of haste!!!
I kiss you, beloved maidens, and pray for you, Maria Karras (sister from Helena Karras Davos)
“Oh, my God,” Nia murmured as she finished reading the e-mail on her desktop computer. Her heart pounded and her mind raced.
We might have family. In Greece. We might not be alone in the world after all. But what kind of danger could we be possibly be in? We’re nobodies. What’s a Keeper? Is this woman trying to ask me if I own the restaurant?
Her face tingled as she reread the e-mail. With trembling hands, she freed her riot of black curls from her prized tortoiseshell clip, holding the clip between her teeth as she re-wound her hair into a chignon. It was a nervous habit. Tendrils grazed her temples and forehead as she put the clip back in place. It had belonged to her mother, and it was one of her most treasured possessions.
Maria Karras, aunt. Davos is such a common Greek name. But she got our parents’ names and our names right…except that it’s Sophie, not Sofia. Is this some kind of Internet prank?
Narrowing her thickly fringed, dark Grecian eyes in thought, she looked across her tiny, messy office to her little sister Sophie, who was curled up cross-legged inside the bulging storage closet like a cat. Sophie, engrossed in her new book, was oblivious of the boxes of linens, dishes and cooking implements stacked around her. Nia would have panicked inside such a hidey-hole; she was extremely claustrophobic.
Stripped down from the many layers she’d donned against the Montreal winter to one of Nia’s pink T-shirts and black tights, Sophie was reading the latest fantasy novel by one of her favorite authors.
Nia understood Sophie’s love of fantasies and happily-ever-after. Orphaned at the age of five, now eleven and nearing puberty, with a frazzled older sister who worked long days to keep their Greek restaurant going—it wasn’t the kind of life a sweet little princess should live.
If Maria Karras was Ma’s sister, she could tell them so many things they didn’t know. About her childhood, and her life before their births. Ma had disliked talking about herself, and she had died a mystery. Maybe this bolt out of the blue would give them answers—to all Nia’s new questions as well.
Sophie unfolded her long legs and hunched forward, self-conscious of her blossoming figure. “Why are you staring at me?”
I think we have an aunt. We have family, my darling. Except…there may a catch. They may be crazy…or our mother might have a past she kept hidden…and that’s catching up with us.
“Just because,” Nia said.
“I love you, too.” Sophie smiled sweetly and went back to her book.
Nia turned back to the desktop and searched the Internet for “Keeper.” Embarrassingly, the first thing that popped up was a feminine product, and then an entry for a character in a computer game.
She tried to frame a response to Maria Karras. She knew what to say: Dear Ms. Karras, I think you may be our aunt. My mother was born in Mykonos. Please tell me what sort of danger we may be in.
But the truth was, she was afraid, and not just of the warning in Maria’s message. Nia was a veteran of dashed hopes. The centerpiece of her messy alcove desk was the bouquet Nico had sent over a week ago—roses in winter, their petals dead and dropping all over her tax forms. The accompanying card crowned a stack of receipts. It was inscribed with a single word: Adio. Adio to their engagement, to someone to share her life with and to a father figure for Sophie.
Why? Because she’d been “too busy.” Caring for Sophie and running a business hadn’t left much time for romance.
“And I want to raise children of my own,” he’d added—the final blow. He wasn’t the first man to run scared at the thought of an instant family with an eleven-year-old.
She picked up the loose petals and dumped them in the little metal trash can. She really should just throw the flowers out. Who was more upset over the breakup, she or Sophie? Two hearts were wounded, of that she was sure. She wasn’t actually sure if Nico had a heart.
She didn’t want another disappointment so soon after that one. What if Maria Karras’s next e-mail said, I’m so sorry, but my sister Helena was born in Cyprus?
At least she wouldn’t have to worry about being in danger.
“Gia sou! Hoopa!” The cheers in the private room sharing her office wall were followed by the crash of a plate.
“Uh-oh,” Sophie said without looking up from her book. Nia groaned and reached for her slingback pumps. She slid them onto her black-stockinged feet and smoothed her charcoal wool skirt as she rose. A tug of her tailored white blouse and a touch-for-luck of her mother’s gold cross, and she was ready to stop the bachelor party in the private room from running up an enormous bill.
She glided into the room adorned with the mural of the Greek islands to see a dervish of young men in white shirts and dress trousers whirling in the center of the room with handkerchiefs in their hands and mouths. The tipsy bridegroom was about to hurl another plate against the wall, under the mistaken impression—no doubt gleaned from movies—that this was customary in Greek circles.
The happy man was Polish, and he was getting married to a Greek girl in two days. He didn’t know it, but Nia had severely undercharged him for his bachelor party. She knew how much—make that how little—bus drivers made in Montreal. Too bad restaurateurs made even less.
But he was young and in love, and it was her secret gift to the couple….
“Mes amis!” she called out, clapping her hands. Her French was definitely improving; when she’d first moved to Montreal from Chicago three years ago, no French Canadian had been able to understand a single word she said. “S’il vous plaits—”
And then the room exploded.
The ceiling burst apart like a shattered plate and rained down fragments. Smoke and flame poured in, searing her eyes and her lungs. Masked figures barreled in, aiming submachine guns at the groaning men on the floor. The invaders moved methodically, turning in circles.
Sophie, Nia thought frantically, trying to crawl toward the door. The bridegroom writhed beside her, groaning. Then she saw the barrel of a weapon pointed straight at the man’s chest….