The Siren's Song

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Gilly looked at once relieved not to be going to the sepultura but terrified that she might be in for something worse. ’Twas a coin toss on which situation she would fare better.

  “Come, Captain Drake. Machete waits.”

  “What about this crate, Galo?” a swarthy fellow asked.

  “Bring it.”

  They separated under the arcade. Quint and his Gilly were led in the same direction as his crew, and he was prodded the other way. The men jostled her forward as she peered over her shoulder. “Thayer!”

  He struggled against the powerful urge to fight the men driving him on with their bayonets, run to her side and kill the men handling her so roughly. No, he must allay his emotions. Machete wouldn’t get the chance to hurt her. Tonight had been a long time coming.

  “Galo, is it?” Drake called to Machete’s crony. “Do you pray?”

  “Shut up, pirate.”

  “Make your peace with your God. You are going to die tonight. All of you.”

  Galo snorted and continued to lead them through a grand door. “Pompous arsehole, you are.”

  “One who once sailed with Edward Low.” He smirked at the soldier beside him. “You’ve heard of him, haven’t you, lad? The most evil pirate to sail the seven seas?” The man’s eyes widened. “That’s right. I may have picked up a trick or two from Low.” He leaned in to him. “Best you atone your sins, boy. I’ll not spare you.”

  The poor fellow shed his coloring and he snapped his attention forward. Drake chuckled. Anticipation of the blood bath to come quickened his heart rate.

  * * *

  Gilly’s fear notched upward as she entered Machete’s bedchamber. Opulence overflowed with red fabrics covering every piece of furniture. The ceiling was painted with frolicsome cherubs and woodland creatures. Tassels hung from the tester of a massive four-poster bed and swept down the velvet drapes of the posts. What harnessed Gilly’s attention was the bare wall of huge iron crosses and shackles. The softness of the room clashed in stark contrast with the metal chains.

  No windows. An unearthly chill crept across Gilly’s skin, as if wisps of lost souls circled around her. Evil lurked in the dark crevices and folds leaping away from the flickering candelabras scattered about. What horrific tortures happened there, she cared not to imagine. She had to get out of there. No way was she going to allow these men to chain her up for Machete’s pleasure. She’d rather be shot dead trying to escape.

  “Let’s go, pretties,” a guard said. Manacle chains clinked together. “Time ta get ya fitted.”

  By God, Joelle appeared far too relaxed for a woman about to be strapped to a wall. Gilly dug her heels into the floor.

  Joelle smiled the instant before a guard took her by her arm. What was it about these pirate captains that they enjoyed teetering on the edge of life-ending danger? Joelle whipped her foot around the back of the man’s ankle, causing him to lose balance, and flipped him over onto his back. Her defensive haste happened in a blur, catching them all unaware. Still holding the man’s arm, Joelle kicked him squarely in the back. Gilly cringed under the pop of his shoulder. The man holding the shackles charged Joelle, but she twisted away. Another crack of bone, and the man on the floor howled. Joelle let go of the injured man to grab a chair.

  Gilly’s guard seized her. Something instinctual tripped in her mind. She snapped up a taper from a candelabra. No thought went into her action. She formulated no plan as to what she would do next. Only the pounding of the blood rushing in her ears and the cracking of a wooden chair rallied her on. Gilly shoved the lit candle into the man’s eye. He cried out, dropping his musket and slapping both hands over his eye socket. She grabbed the unwieldy gun.

  “Best you point it at him, not me,” Joelle said. At her feet lay her attacker amid remnants of the chair.

  “Oh sorry.”

  Joelle retrieved a weapon from the floor and led Gilly’s guard, cursing and swiping at his eyes, to the shackles. “You’ll make a fine woman for Drake. He’d be proud of how you handled this bastard.”

  “Drake! We’ve got to help him.”

  “He can handle himself. Come on. Help me get these other worms chained up.”

  Hauling a dead whale knee-deep in powdery sand across a beach had to be easier than dragging the men to the shackles. Sweat coated her hairline and she labored to catch her breath. Clamping the last fetter in place, she yanked the chain. Those fellows weren’t going anywhere.

  Joelle poked her head out the door. “It’s clear. We’ll need to be quick and quiet if we are to find the men.”

  “What about Drake?”

  “He’ll be fine. We need to release the others. Here take this and for Christ’s sake don’t point it at anyone unless you mean to shoot them.”

  Gilly traded the rifle for the pistol Joelle had pried off one of the guards. “They’re in no immediate danger,” she said. “They’re in a cell.”

  “A cell that fills with water. They do not have as much time as Drake. We save them, and then we can find Drake. But we must go now before we are discovered.” Joelle ended the discussion and slipped out of the room.

  Cold shadows of the hallway were broken by lit torches. Gilly wished she could linger within each pool of warm light. There was safety in light, wasn’t there? She wasn’t so sure she believed that anymore. She silently followed Joelle. While she quaked in her fancy shoes, a spot of envy for the redhead grew with a steady pace. She was beautiful, strong and undeterred by the unforeseen dangers ahead.

  They approached the corridor in which they had gone separate ways from Valeryn, Sam and Henri. Dampness hung in the air, heavy as the tapestries lining the wall. Her nose picked up scents of slimy water and stone. And something else. She couldn’t quite describe it, but it was a smell bloated with death.

  “This way,” whispered Joelle.

  * * *

  Sounds of their boots clicked on the marble floor as Drake and his escorts entered a large chamber. With the sweep of his eyes, Drake took in the indulgence of the room. Machete had been busy these years amassing luxuries. Paneled walls of gold and yellows were painted with flowered ivies and elegant birds. Naked females draped in red robes and wielding spears graced the center of the larger panels which flanked a large mirror atop a fireplace. Reliefs of chariots, horses and warriors crowned the walls of the room and heavy gold drapes hung from the windows. Did the French vomit in this room?

  “Galo, my friend. You brought me a guest.”

  Machete appeared from a side door. The bastard wore a smug sneer and his full military regalia. Such apparent flaunts of his station hardly exacted respect or concern from Drake.

  “I see you were expecting me,” Drake said, thumbing at Machete’s appearance.

  “You should be honored, Capitán Drake,” he answered. “I dressed for the occasion.”

  “What occasion would that be? Your death?”

  Machete clucked and perched on the edge of his desk. “Your optimism is amusing. But, I am curious. How will you kill me?” The tinny sound of his sword scraping across the metal throat of his scabbard sliced through their verbal draw. He casually acted as though he inspected the sharpness of the blade. “You are unarmed and surrounded by my men.”

  “A minor detail,” Drake said.

  “Then an interesting evening we will have. Galo, what is this box you bring?”

  “’Tis a gift,” Drake said before Machete’s crony could answer. “’Twas a pity the ship following my wayward lights off the Florida coast happened upon a reef. Imagine my delight when I discovered the many, finely crafted French furnishings I fished from the wreckage belonged to Commander Mancho Diaz of Havana.”

  Machete’s eyes widened to the size of Spanish dollars. Laying aside his sword on the desk, he motioned for Galo’s men to open the crate.

  “Don’t
look so angry, Machete. I saved most of your precious things. Though, I suppose you won’t be taking them with you to the afterlife. Don’t you fret. I’ll make a tidy profit off it all. Now, about those diamonds.”

  Machete grabbed a pistol from Galo’s waistband and in two strides had the muzzle pressed to Drake’s heart. “You play with me, hijo?”

  * * *

  Joelle was a crafty woman. Gilly had little doubt the pirate captain could free the men. By herself. Alone. Without Gilly’s help. Gilly took two steps back and turned on her heel, sprinting down the corridor. She would find Drake. She would help him escape. She had to. How, she had no idea. But she couldn’t let another moment pass without trying.

  Each door she passed down the hall had her question whether Drake was on the other side. Instinct drove her farther into the depths of the fortress. The passage angled and down at the end stood an ornate door and she knew that was where she would find her captain.

  Footsteps echoed behind her and were growing louder. Oh, dear Lord. No place to hide. She dashed to the only other door in the corridor and sent a hasty thank you above that it was not locked. Gliding inside, she leaned her back against the door. Her heart hammered in her chest as her hand tightened on the handle. The footfalls neared. Only after they faded did she dare open her eyes and breathe. Another prayer of thanks that the room was empty slipped from her lips.

  Overstuffed chairs and chaise lounges littered the room filled with bookcases. A gaming table sat close to a wall of windows. But it was the open cabinet displaying many bottles of liquor that captured her attention. Beside a half-empty crystal glass of amber liquid sat her purple bag.

  Gilly rounded the furniture but her joy of finding her beloved bag died. Loose threads and bits of velvet hung from where the rosettes had been slashed unmercifully off, the diamonds removed. Her heart broke at the terrible state of the bag. Perhaps she could have it repaired. She picked up the tattered pouch.

  Oh, mighty heaven above! I couldn’t be luckier!

  On the silver tray where the bag had lain was her laudanum. Gilly wasted not a moment. She helped herself to a hearty gulp. The poison slid down her throat and warmed her belly. More, she had to have more. To give her the strength she needed to carry on this insane mission. But without realizing it she finished off what was left in the bottle. Bugger.

  She set the empty bottle back on the tray and a gasp hitched in her throat. Did her eyes deceive her? Could it be? Had she drunk too much laudanum and was now dizzy with fantastic visions? Was that glass filled with…with diamonds?

  Gilly lifted the glass. Splinters of prisms sparkled in the light as she inspected the contents. Blood rushed to her head, her hands shook, and the gems clinked in the glass.

  Voices carried from across the room. Another door nestled between two large bookcases was left cracked open. Gilly poured the gems into a napkin, shoved it into her bag and tiptoed to the door. She held her breath, afraid if she breathed in any air, she’d be spotted. The adjoining room appeared to be some sort of suite for conducting business. She recognized Machete’s voice and angled for a better view.

  Thayer! She bit her tongue to keep from calling out his name.

  That was before Machete pulled his pistol and placed it to Thayer’s chest.

  * * *

  Drake clamped his jaw tight and cracked his knuckles. His spine tingled with the excitement of death, be it Machete’s or his own. “Do I anger you, Machete? You should know better than to steer by passion.”

  The pistol’s barrel pressed harder against his chest. But the commander wouldn’t kill him, not at that moment. He would be unsatisfied by Drake’s quick demise. Nay, he would want Drake to suffer first. It was the way of most undisciplined, vain men with power.

  “Go on, Machete, lose control. Kill me.” Eyes locked in a battle of wills, Drake egged him on, pushing for him to make that fatal mistake. “Kill me, you filthy prick.”

  A muted squeal caught Machete’s attention. His deliberating eyes flickered and Drake reacted to the fleeting breach in Machete’s concentration. Drake grabbed Machete’s wrist, but the bastard anticipated the move. His ears rang from the deafening blast before the sharp pain sliced through his gut. The floor rose up to meet Drake. Swallowing hard, biting back the agony ripping through his body, he breathed deeply through his nose. Mustering strength, he pushed off the floor and sat back on his knees. Drake felt his side fast becoming numb and when he brought his hand into view, blood, slick and bright, covered his palm. He choked on the laughter burbling in the back of his throat.

  Screaming, he heard screaming. A woman’s cries shut out the buzzing in his head. He slowly raised his head and focused on Gilly who was calling his name, struggling against Galo.

  “Señorita. What an unexpected surprise.”

  Drake wasn’t in enough pain to not notice Machete’s sour tone. Nor was he any more pleased with Gilly’s appearance than his enemy.

  “You.” Machete pointed to one of his lackeys. “Find the other woman. If this one is free, so is she. I want her waiting for me properly in my room. Check the sepultura. The woman might be bastante absurda and try to free her friends.”

  Machete sneered down at Drake. Obviously finding him no longer a threat, he turned on his heel and strode over to Gilly.

  “I must say, I am mildly disappointed not to find you waiting for me in my chambers.”

  “I’d rather die than be a part of your depraved sport.”

  “Many have, mi pequeña.” He cupped her chin, leaning in close to her lips. “I do not think you have many options. But no matter. I have a new task for you. The entertainment you will provide me will be even greater than squirming beneath me. This I am sure.”

  Machete squeezed her face as she tried to pull away. He kissed her. Drake growled. Fire raged in his blood. Machete would pay for kissing his woman. The wretch snapped back, as if bitten by a viper. In fact, he had been bitten. Machete dabbed the blood on his lips and laughed. “Spiteful. This is good. The more you fight, the better the show, no?”

  Drake tried to stand again. The effort burned his side, his leg buckled, and his knee hit the floor hard. A new pang shot up his thigh. Blazes! Breathe. Get a hold of the pain. She needs you.

  Machete yanked her bag off her wrist and tossed it to his desk. “I must be frank,” he said, walking behind his desk. “Taking your woman, Capitán, on my writing table for you to witness appeals to me. However, I cannot squander this, how do you say it, occasion. I will like it very much to watch your face as she dies before you.”

  “I won’t let you kill her,” Drake growled.

  “No, no, mi amigo. You are mistaken. I will not kill her.” His grin unfurled like a toothy crocodile. “You will.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Sí, quite mad.”

  Machete retrieved a pistol from a drawer and a rondel dagger from another. He held up the dagger for display. Its wooden, cylindrical handle was carved in a weave pattern and the blade was long and thin. “Impressive, no? It is three hundred years old and, I am told, once owned by a knight.” He laid the dagger on his desk and came back around to stand beside Drake.

  What in all hell was Machete up to? Drake needed to clear his mind, calculate any measure he might be able to take to turn the tables in his favor. Ignoring the pain, Drake again tried to stand. Machete placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back to his knees.

  “Galo, let the woman go.”

  Apprehension fanned out across Gilly’s lovely face, as it should. Machete had conjured up an evil design. But Drake wasn’t going to kill Gilly no matter what tortures the bastard had planned.

  “Pick up the dagger, mi pequeña.”

  Gilly looked to Drake. “It’s all right,” he said. “Do as he says.”

  With hesitation, Gilly did as she was instructed.

/>   Machete chuckled. “You have feelings for the capitán, no? So much that you risk your life to come here. Let us see how much you fancy him.” He placed his pistol to Drake’s head.

  Saint’s blood! Drake suddenly knew his foe’s wicked scheme. His chest tightened, his mouth became dry, his heart beat in his throat. It was happening all over again. Helpless. He was helpless once more to change the situation.

  “If you don’t want to see him die, señorita, you must take your own life. You have until the count of ten, and then I blow his brains out.

  “One…”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Two.”

  Gilly’s heart pounded faster than she could breathe. Her mind muddled with a fury of thoughts. Machete holding a gun to Thayer’s head was more than she could endure. Her legs grew weak beneath her and she had to steady herself with the edge of the desk.

  “Three.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Gilly,” Thayer said. His face was drawn and his eyes pleaded with her to heed his demand. “He won’t do it.”

  Machete cracked the butt of his pistol upon Thayer’s skull. Gilly cringed, swallowing back the knot of sobs burbling up in her chest.

  “Let us see,” Machete said. “Four.”

  No, Machete would indeed kill him. Thayer only meant to spare her. Deep inside, she knew she would never leave Machete’s fortress alive, no matter what choice she made. She couldn’t let Machete murder Thayer. She would be lost without him.

  “Five.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes. Gilly’s hands shook so, she feared she might drop the dagger. Oh, what could she do? Her life for his.

  “Six.”

  Stop counting! I can’t think! Dear Lord, help me. Give me the strength.

  “Gilly. Look at me.”

  Thayer’s voice, sure and dominant, stilled her mind. Coaxed her to look at him, really look at him. He was ever strong, ever courageous. She should be more like him.