The Immortal by Christopher Pike Read Free Book Online Page B

his head and acted slightly confused. "I take care of them." He smiled. "They like me. I like them."
    Tom spoke. "Pascal is a wonder with children. They think he walks on water. When my nieces and nephews met him they forgot their uncle was even there."
    "How do you two know each other?" I asked.
    "From here," Tom said.
    Pascal laughed. "From the vin."
    "What?" I asked.
    "From the wine," Tom said.
    "What are you majoring in?" I asked Tom.
    He shrugged. He seemed reluctant to talk about his academic achievements, perhaps, I thought, because he was humble. I knew Oxford wasn't easy to get into.
    "I don't know," he said. "Our system is different from yours. I enjoy literature, which is a wide field, of course. I sometimes dream of staying here and becoming a fisherman."
    "I can understand that," I said, enjoying the music pouring out from every food joint and bar. "I don't know if I'll ever leave."
    We reached the water a few minutes later. Inside the walls of the buildings, we had been protected from the
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    breeze, but once out in the open the wind swept through my hair. The harbor, however, was well protected from the ocean, and the many anchored boats rocked easily. Along the waterway were another dozen bars and restaurants. The whole town was geared for tourism, which Tom said was the lifeblood of the island. The place was dead in the winter, he told us.
    Tom and Pascal led us north, away from the hustle and bustle of Hora. Helen wondered at this.
    "Where are we going?" she asked.
    "I thought we might walk to where the ferries come in," Tom said. "Pascal bought a used truck on the mainland and it's supposed to arrive sometime this week. It could come in on a boat tonight."
    Pascal nodded. "Camion for work. Save le dos — 'back' for better things."
    The moon had risen high by now, and the brilliant silver light had transformed the ocean water into a mystical brew worthy of a titan's thirst. Our path, at first, took us up, so that the harbor was laid out below us, then back down again toward the water. When Tom had first used the word ferry I'd had the image in my mind of a small boat. But when Tom pointed out to sea at the gigantic vessel approaching the island, decked in what could have been a mile-long string of yellow Christmas lights, I realized I was being foolish. I had read in Helen's book about the ferries that went from island to island, how they transported literally hundreds of cars along with their passengers. This incoming boat was as huge as an ocean liner.
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    It moved with amazing speed and precision. We were barely back down to the water when it plowed into the north side of the harbor, sending out powerful waves that rocked the pleasure boats docked on the other side of the bay. For a moment the ferry seemed to stand still, before suddenly pivoting on its axis and neatly sliding into the wide slot allotted for it. The entire docking procedure took only minutes.
    The end of the vessel split open, a garage door several stories tall descending onto the shore. Soon a horde of cars was pouring from the bowels of the vessel. Half the drivers looked as if they had already been drinking on neighboring islands.
    "Boats like this run night and day between all the main Greek islands," Tom said.
    "Have you been to many of the others?" I asked.
    "Yeah," Tom said. "Corfu, Santorini—there are a lot of them. But I'm always happy to get back to Mykonos."
    "Why's that?" I asked.
    "There's just something here," he said. "A good feeling."
    I nodded. "I know what you mean."
    "It comes from Delos," Helen said suddenly. We glanced at her. "You'll see tomorrow, Josie."
    "I'm intrigued," I said.
    Pascal's truck was on the boat. Apparently a Greek associate of his had helped bring it over from Athens. Pascal hailed him as he rolled off the massive ramp. The guy did not stay with us, though, not after he got his money from Pascal, an envelope with God only 52
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    knew how many drachmas