Demons of the Ocean

by Justin Somper

  “Won’t you come inside?”

  As before, the voice was only a whisper but the words were perfectly clear — as if they came not from deep inside the cabin but from inside Grace’s own head. Instinctively, she stepped toward the door and crossed over the threshold. Her eyes were met only by darkness. The door closed behind her, seemingly of its own accord.

  “Welcome, Grace. Come in.”

  Again, the words were whispered. Again, they seemed to be spoken inside her own head. But though it was only a whisper, the voice was commanding. The contrast between the light outside and the dark within temporarily blinded her, but as Grace walked farther forward, she began to see through the veil of darkness.

  It was hard to get a sense of the size of the cabin as her sight could not yet pinpoint its corners. But in the center was a round polished wooden table, strewn with charts and an array of navigational instruments. In the center of the table, an oil lamp burned low. It appeared to be the sole source of light in the room.

  Though the lamp lit the circle of the table, beyond its edges the rest of the cabin was still shrouded in darkness. She looked down into the pool of golden light. Some of the navigational instruments looked familiar to her. Others were new and curious. Beneath them, the map itself was richly illustrated. She scanned the artwork, looking for a familiar stretch of coast.

  She heard his voice. “Please come and join me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m out here, of course. Where else?”

  At these words, the light in the room shifted. Two thick curtains separated and lifted and Grace found herself facing a panel of shuttered doors, through which daylight filtered.

  Then the doors folded back on themselves and she saw a dark figure standing on a balcony, his gloved hands fixed on a vast wooden steering wheel.

  “Please, try not to be alarmed by my appearance.”

  Tentatively, Grace walked outside to join him at the wheel.

  Above the gloves, the captain’s arms disappeared into the folds of a dark, multilayered cape, made of thin leather. Grace’s eyes traced up to his neck, where the cape fanned out in a jagged ruff and was fastened by a chain of black gemstones. And then she glimpsed his face. Or rather, the space where his face might have been. For in its place was a mesh mask. She could see nothing beneath the mask, but it was shaped to the contours of a face, with indentations for the eyes and mouth. It fitted as perfectly as a death mask but was not as rigid. It couldn’t be because, as she gazed at it, the mask creased on either side of the mouth indentation. Grace realized with a shock that the captain might be smiling at her.

  “You must have expected something like this.”

  Grace was speechless.

  . . . they say that the captain, he wears a veil

  And his eyes never see the light . . .

  It was strange to hear the words in the captain’s rich, resonant whisper.

  “I dispensed with the veil some years ago. I find this mask more . . . practical.”

  The back of the captain’s head was closely shaven and Grace could see that far from being deathly pale, his skin was a deep brown color. The mask was fastened by three leather straps: two extending from each ear to the center; the third reaching down over the crown of his head. The three straps met in a buckle, shaped like a pair of silver wings, in the center of his head.

  “But why . . . why do you cover your face at all?” Grace asked.

  The query slipped from her mouth instinctively. In the silence that followed, she began to regret the question and to fear the coming whisper.

  “Why do you think?”

  The obvious answer lay in the shanty.

  They say that the captain, he wears a veil

  So as to curtail your fright

  At his death-pale skin

  And his lifeless eyes

  And his teeth as sharp as . . .

  “. . . but your skin isn’t death-pale.”

  The captain nodded, turning the wheel slightly.

  “So maybe the rest isn’t true, either,” Grace said.

  He did not answer but waited, watching her.

  Suddenly, Grace felt a shooting pain in her head. At the same time, she had a fleeting vision of a tearing of flesh and a flash of crimson blood on dark skin. It was a horrible sight, but in an instant it was gone and she was looking at the captain’s mask again.

  Who was this monster behind the mask? Maybe he wasn’t human at all. Maybe he never had been.

  The shooting pain returned, this time more strongly. Grace closed her eyes, partly for relief and partly to avoid witnessing the horror she’d seen before. But, eyes open or closed, there was no escape. Once more, the sudden tearing of flesh and a flash of crimson on dark skin. And then it was gone.

  The pain disappeared along with the image, but Grace felt numb and a little giddy from it. Opening her eyes again, she looked back at the captain’s strange, eyeless gaze.

  Nothing had changed. But this time she did not see a demon.

  “Are you covering up a wound?” she asked hesitantly.

  For an instant, there was no response, then the captain nodded slowly.

  “Very good, Grace. You are as exceptional as I might have expected. While others see only the mask, you see beyond.”

  Again the captain appeared to be smiling at her.

  “So, we meet at last.”

  The whisper was not without warmth, but it was not enough to stem the tide of Grace’s fears.

  “What is it that you want from me?” she asked, no longer able to hold back the question that burned inside her.

  “What do I want from you?” came the slow, deliberate reply. “Grace, it was you who sought me out, was it not?”

  It was true. Grace had sought out the captain in his cabin. She had wanted answers and Lorcan seemed to have run out of those.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  “But what about . . . the wheel?”

  The captain had already brushed past her and gone into his cabin. Grace stood out on the balcony, dumbfounded. Before her, the wheel continued turning — a touch to the left, a little to the right — as though the captain’s hands were still upon it.

  20

  SAFE HAVEN

  Grace followed the captain back inside. Behind her the shuttered doors closed themselves and the dark curtains slammed back together.

  “What makes you think I want anything from you?��� The captain’s whisper swirled in Grace’s head.

  Grace considered the question as she searched for him in the darkness.

  “It’s just a feeling I have. You told Lorcan to tell me that Connor was safe. And then you locked me away in that cabin, and assigned Lorcan to protect me — or so he says at any rate.”

  “Midshipman Furey speaks the truth.”

  “Well, then,” said Grace, realizing that he had sat down at the map table, “it seems to me there are two possibilities. Either you’re protecting me from some danger on board this ship, or else you have some other purpose in mind for me. Maybe both.” She looked directly into the captain’s mask, wishing she could see his eyes.

  The captain nodded. “Come — sit with me if you will.”

  She did as he commanded, her eyes falling from his mask to his cape. Now that she looked more closely, she saw that the material was not leather, as she had first thought. It seemed lighter and the lamplight illuminated thin veins running through it. The veins appeared to soak up the light, making the cloak glow. Grace would have liked to touch it, to see how it felt, but she did not dare.

  “Let us suppose you are right, Grace. What dangers might I be protecting you from? And what purpose do you suppose I might have with you?”

  No wonder Lorcan spoke in riddles, with a captain like this. Clearly, this was the way of the ship. No matter — she would play the captain’s game. It would not further her cause to displease him.

  “I know what you are,” she said. “I don’t know how many other vampire
s there are on board, but my guess is quite a number. And vampires need blood, don’t they?”

  The captain nodded. “In most circumstances, yes, they do.”

  This was interesting. What did he mean by “most circumstances”?

  “Do you think we’re after your blood, Grace?”

  There couldn’t be any other real possibility, could there — no matter how kind Lorcan had appeared, no matter how carefully the captain now framed his words. This was a ship of vampires. She was nothing to them but a fresh supply of blood. The very thought of it made her shiver.

  “The fact is,” continued the captain, “that the . . . crew are well catered to in that department. If you choose to stay with us a little longer, you will see what I mean. I think you’ll find it most . . . enlightening.”

  If you choose. That was an interesting choice of words. Did she have a choice in the matter?

  “How much do you know about this ship?” the captain asked her.

  “Very little. I wanted to leave my cabin, but Lorcan wouldn’t let me.”

  “Perhaps he was being a little overprotective, but he had your best interests at heart.”

  “So I am in danger then?”

  “A new arrival is bound to provoke interest.”

  She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but something in his tone made her halt this line of inquiry.

  “You’re naturally curious, aren’t you?” the captain said at length. “It’s what I should have expected. A child as bright as you would never be content to be shut in a cabin, all alone.”

  Grace was not at ease with compliments but she nodded. It was true. The last thing she wanted was to be shut back in the cabin. She wanted to explore the ship.

  “There’s certainly no reason you can’t leave your cabin,” the captain told her, “but it would be safer not to go above deck after Miss Flotsam sounds the Nightfall Bell.”

  “Why?” Grace asked. “What happens then?”

  “It’s when the ship comes to life. There are many tasks that the crew must attend to. We have only the hours of darkness to work in. They must have no distractions from their work.”

  “I’ve seen people outside sometimes, Captain, but they must be very quiet most of the time or I’d have noticed them.”

  The captain smiled again. “Yes, you’ve been looking out of that porthole quite a bit, haven’t you? Again, I should have expected that. But you’ve also been sleeping a lot, Grace, and sleeping rather deeply.”

  “It’s the food,” she said. “I know there is something in the food. Have you been drugging me?”

  “No,” the captain said, “at least not in the conventional sense. It’s complicated.”

  “Was it you who delivered the food to my cabin? And the candles — do you bring the candles back to life?”

  “So many questions,” the captain said. “There’s no rush to know all this, is there, my child? There’s always time. I know what I’m talking about. There’s always time.”

  “So it’s fine for me to wander around the deck alone during the day, when all the crew but you are asleep. But once you are up, I must scurry back inside like a mouse?”

  “Fascinating,” said the captain. “What a brave child you are. Doesn’t it scare you, being surrounded by people like me?”

  “My dad always comforted us with the Vampirate shanty,” Grace said. “He said that whatever was scaring us, nothing could be so bad as a Vampirate. But now, after everything I’ve been through these past days, even you don’t seem so scary.”

  “Even with my mask and this cape? Even though you think I want your blood?”

  “Do you want me to be scared?”

  “Far from it, Grace. You’re a guest aboard my ship. I want you to feel at home.”

  Grace couldn’t help but smile. “Home? Here?”

  “This ship has been sailing for a very long time,” the captain said. “It’s a refuge, Grace, a safe haven — for outsiders, for those of us forced, or drawn, to the very edges of the world.”

  The captain paused, giving Grace a chance to contemplate his words, before continuing.

  “I think you are an outsider, Grace. I don’t think you have ever quite fit in. It’s true, isn’t it? For Connor, too.”

  Grace was taken aback. And not just at the mention of Connor. The captain seemed to know so much about the two of them. It was true — the Tempest twins had always been misfits. But how did the captain know? Had he been watching them? If so, from where? And for how long? He seemed to know even their most private thoughts. Or was it a trick? Her mind ached from all the possibilities.

  “I wish Connor was here now,” she said at last.

  The captain nodded. “He’ll be with us soon. Did you like your gift?”

  “The vision of him? Yes, yes, I did. It confused me, but it was great to see him.”

  “You shall see him again, my child, for real.”

  “Where is he, Captain? Is he on a pirate ship? Is he close by?”

  “Ah, such a lot of questions. He is safe, Grace. Connor is coping very well — as are you. You do your father great credit.”

  “Our father,” Grace said. “Do you know him?”

  There was a long pause.

  “I’m afraid I’m growing tired, my child. We will talk again, but for now I must rest.”

  He rose from his seat and approached a rocking chair, in front of a fire she had not noticed before. Perhaps because it was merely glowing embers. The captain sat down in the rocking chair, arranging the folds of his cape over its sides.

  “It was nice meeting you at last, Grace,” he said, before leaning his head forward. She realized she had been dismissed.

  21

  SWORDS

  For the first time since arriving on The Diablo, Connor slept well. Hearing his father’s voice had calmed him deeply. Somehow it had allowed him to let go of the constant torment of what to believe and what to do. Make yourself ready. Trust the tide. He had kept repeating those words as he’d drifted off to sleep. It didn’t matter what the others thought. Grace was still alive. His feeling had been right all along.

  “Hey, buddy, wake up! Shake a tail!”

  Connor opened his eyes to find Bart already dressed, shaved, and buzzing with energy.

  “What time is it?” Connor asked. “Did I miss breakfast?”

  “Nah, buddy, it’s early. But did you forget? It’s your first sword-fighting class this morning. Get your gear on. We don’t want to keep Cate waiting!”

  “What’s that smell?” Connor wrinkled his nose.

  Bart blushed.

  Connor smiled. “Are you wearing cologne . . . for Cate?”

  “I just thought I’d freshen up. Now get a move on, mate.”

  Less than ten minutes later, after the quickest of washes, Connor and Bart arrived on the foredeck. Cutlass Cate was busy laying out an array of weaponry. She was friendly but businesslike, her red hair twisted back in a neat ponytail and covered by her customary bandanna. Her eyes were bright with energy and purpose as she pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

  “These are not toys,” she told Connor, as she continued setting out a selection of swords. “Some of the crew treat them as toys. They don’t get very far. We never put them to the fore in battle — they’d get minced.

  “Today, I’ll show you some of the main swords we use in combat. Some will feel more comfortable to you than others. Each sword has a personality. We need to find the one that fits you. It’s like meeting a group of people for the first time. With some, there’s an instant connection. Others, you don’t click with. We need to find the right sword for you. Your sword becomes an extension of you — of your body, of your personality.”

  Connor nodded, fascinated.

  “Bartholomew, please stand up,” Cate instructed.

  As he did so, she wrinkled her nose.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Extract of Limes,” Bart said, smiling.

  “Trying to ward off scurv
y?” she said with a grin.

  Bart puffed out his chest and grinned lopsidedly at Cate. She shook her head, all business, and threw a pair of gloves at him. He put them on and reached forward to grab the largest of the swords.

  “Now, Bartholomew here, he’s quite a big guy, so he carries the broadsword. It’s heavy, too heavy for some, but in the right hands, it’s a powerful ally.”

  She stepped back out of Bart’s way. “A mollinet, if you please, Bartholomew.”

  As she moved out of his space, Bart began slicing the sword through the air. It sparkled in the sunlight. Suddenly, Bart was all business, moving with the grace of a ballet dancer, and the precision of a knife thrower, as he spun the sword left and right, up and down, circling it about his head and then to either side.

  “Okay, okay, enough showing off,” Cate said firmly. “Do you see, Connor, how the sword and Bart fit together?”

  He nodded and high-fived Bart as his buddy set the sword carefully down on the deck and resumed his position beside him.

  “Now, you take the broadsword. Put on these gauntlets first.”

  Connor stepped forward and, having slipped his hands in the rough leather gloves, reached out for the hilt of the sword. It was unbelievably heavy. It had looked as light as a reed in Bart’s hands, but Connor wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to hold it steady.

  “That’s it,” Cate said, “you hold it here. We call that end part of the sword the pommel. The cross parts are the quillons. This, the tip, is the weakest part of the sword. It’s called the foible.”

  She ran her finger along the flat edge of the sword, toward Connor’s hand. “The strongest part of the blade is here. It’s called the forte.”

  Careful to angle himself away from Cate, Connor lifted the sword, using both hands. He shivered at the power he now held in his grip. Light glinted off the edges of the blade. This was no game, Connor realized. This was an instrument of death.