Blood Captain

by Justin Somper

  Connor realized that he had killed Alessandro and saved Moonshine. But he had made no conscious decision to kill. There hadn’t been time for that. Nor had he had time to weigh whether he could safely wound Alessandro or just kill him outright. In fact, as he’d seen his rapier plunge through Alessandro’s shirt and into the flesh between his shoulder blades, it was as if he were watching someone else make the attack. As if someone else had seized the sword from his clutches and done his dirty work. His head raced with these thoughts. This isn’t happening to me. I didn’t do it. I’m not a . . . I’m not a . . . But there, in his hands, was the indisputable truth. The blood-stained rapier.

  “Get him off me!” Moonshine cried once more.

  It was as if everything until now had happened in slow motion, but what happened next occurred in double-quick time. Cate was suddenly at Connor’s side, reaching out her own hands and helping him haul the deadweight off Moonshine. Later, Connor would remember that weight and think of a haunch of meat or a sack of potatoes. Then, all he thought of was the effort it took and how much blood there was. It seemed to soak from every pore of the dead man’s body. All three of the survivors now had Alessandro’s lifeblood on them. Moonshine lay stock-still, bathed in it.

  “Run!” Cate cried to him, pulling him up. “Quick as you can! Onto the ship!”

  Now, she turned and pushed Connor forward. “You, too,” she shouted. “Run!”

  But Connor was unable to move. “I killed him,” he said, looking down at the pool of blood which had turned Alessandro’s shirt from white to crimson. Reality was sinking in. Fast. “I killed him.”

  “Yes,” Cate said. “I killed one and you killed the other. What do you want, a medal? Get back on the ship. NOW!”

  She pushed him forward and they both ran toward the pontoon. Connor’s heart was racing wildly, a terrible cocktail of adrenaline and fear. He made it across the wish as The Diablo began to make its hasty exit from the harbor.

  Stumbling onto the deck, he was growing more and more confused about what had happened. He wanted to rewind time, not so much to change what he’d done but just to see it as it had happened, slower than it had happened, in order to understand it. But there was no way to turn back time. Not for him. Nor for the two fallen security aides, who lay on the green sward in front of the fort, fast disappearing from view as The Diablo continued on its way.

  Connor glanced down to his side. His rapier was still clasped tightly in his hand. Its blade was coated with the fast-drying blood that, until moments previously, had pumped through Alessandro’s body. How long was it since Alessandro had been alive? Five minutes? Ten? Exactly the same amount of time since Connor had become a killer.

  He had known that one day he might kill. But he had expected that day to be far ahead in the distance. When he had had time to prepare for it. But that wasn’t what life had in store for Connor Tempest. With no real preparation, he had made a journey he could never return from. In a matter of seconds, he had traveled from pirate to assassin. Now, he had a whole lifetime to come to terms with what instinct had made him do.

  As the ship raced away across the ocean, Connor stole one final glance at the guards splayed out on the lawn, then back to his blood-stained sword. His hand began to tremble and he felt the rapier slip from his grasp and tumble onto the deck. As he reached down for it, he had a sudden image, not of the sword, but of Alessandro lying there, looking up at him, blood pooling around his prone body.

  “You killed me!” exclaimed the security aide, half in surprise and half in anger. “You killed me! But why?”

  “I had my orders,” Connor said.

  Alessandro looked up at him in disgust. “You can’t explain away what you did in terms of orders.”

  “Yes I can,” Connor said. “I was protecting my comrade.”

  “Him?” Alessandro said, disparagingly, glancing across the deck. Connor twisted his head and saw Moonshine stripping off his blood-covered shirt and reaching for a towel. Alessandro’s words rang in his ears. “But you don’t even like him. In fact, you loathe him.” This wasn’t far from the truth, Connor realized, turning from Moonshine. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I only did what I had to do.”

  Alessandro shook his head. “I’m going now,” he said. “But you’ll never forget me. You never forget your first kill.”

  Suddenly, the guard’s image was gone and Connor was crouching on the deck, looking down only upon his sword. He picked it up and wiped away the blood on his trousers. For a moment, the sword was clean. Then he saw that the blood had returned once more. How could this be? The sword was coated in blood. He wiped it clean again. And for a moment, it remained clean. Connor sighed with relief. Then fresh blood coated the surface of the blade. It was as if the wound was in the blade itself.

  “No!” he said. First, dead men were talking to him. Now, his own sword was playing tricks on him.

  37

  STUKELEY’S FEAST

  Stukeley is grinning from ear to ear. How he is enjoying his fourth Feast aboard The Nocturne. The captain — ahem, that is to say, Sidorio, for now he has (or at least pays lip service to) a new captain — Sidorio did not tell him about these delights. He wouldn’t, of course, have appreciated such things. He’d have been bored by the ritual — by the dressing up in your best finery, as if you were setting off to a summer dance; bored by the formal dinner during which no food touched your lips, because what need had you for food? And perhaps, most of all, Sidorio would have been bored by the need to make small talk with his donor. But everything that would have bored his master is a source of rare delight to Stukeley. From the tuxedo and dress shirt he is wearing — with its starched white collar — to the glow of candles, which stretch the length of the vast table; from the way Shanti curtsied before him and he bowed to her as they took their places at the long table; yes, for all these reasons and more, Stukeley could not be happier.

  Shanti, it seems, is happy, too. She chatters away, under the impression he is hovering like a fly upon her every word. He nods and makes small noises from time to time, smiling when she smiles. In this way, she seems convinced he is paying her his complete attention when, in fact, his mind is elsewhere altogether. He has much to think of. He dares a quick glance along the table. The rows of vampires and donors stretch out almost to infinity on both sides. He remembers his mission.

  “Excuse me, my dear,” he says to Shanti, reaching forward and taking her glass in one hand.

  She watches him curiously as he grabs her unused knife in another. (Shanti eats everything with her fork and fingers. It’s not entirely ladylike but he can forgive her.) Now, rising to his feet, Stukeley strikes the glass with the knife — once, twice, three times.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I might crave your indulgence for the briefest of moments.”

  “Sit down, Stukeley!” He hears the whisper inside his head. He smiles indulgently at the captain but continues.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I do not intend to keep you from this delicious Feast. I simply wanted to say —”

  “Sit down and be quiet!”

  “I simply wanted to say a heartfelt thank you to our generous host, the captain. Tonight is my fourth Feast aboard The Nocturne and a very fine time I am having, too.”

  “Sit down now, Stukeley!”

  “Forgive me if I appear a little gauche — I am still new to all these things. I know it is not traditional to make speeches on this occasion. And this, indeed, is hardly a speech. More a toast. If you have a glass before you, then please raise it now. And, for those of us who do not have glasses, well, we — in our own way — will drink this toast later.”

  Some laughter at this.

  “But please, whether you have glass in hand or no, please join me in a toast of thanks to the captain. In gratitude to the one who grants us all safe harbor. To the captain!”

  He raises his glass. The donors follow suit. Some of the vampires, amused by this deviation from the
norm, raise their hands as if clasping imaginary glasses. Together, donors and vampires exclaim, “The captain!”

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I wonder if you’d care to join me in a dance?” At his words, the soft percussive music of the Feast grows louder and faster. Stukeley nods at the musicians in the corner. They smile back. At last, some new music to play.

  “Sit down, Stukeley!” the captain says once more, but already Stukeley has swept Shanti into the centre of the room. He begins twirling her around the floor. The music grows louder.

  “Come on!” Stukeley calls to the others, ignoring the captain’s protests. The so-called leader of the ship stands still as a statue as Stukeley and Shanti dance around him. “Join us! This night is cause for celebration.”

  “No,” the captain says once more. And now not only Stukeley hears him. Now, not only Stukeley defies him. Others among the Vampirates lead their donors into the center of the room and begin to dance. Their faces reveal a mixture of fear, delight, and rebellion.

  Shaking his head, the captain pushes through them and strides out of the room. Many of the vampires rise and follow with their donors. They will not play any part in this.

  But others join the dance, intrigued that the ritual of Feast Night can change like this. They watch Stukeley with true admiration. He is so new to the ship — a much-needed breath of fresh air. Hands reach across the table. Feet scurry to the center of the room. Has there ever been music so sweet and tempting as this? Why, it is impossible to stand still!

  The style of dance varies from couple to couple. Dances of different eras play out alongside each other. Not all of the vampire–donor pairs are composed of a man and a woman, so there are men dancing with men and women with women. No one thinks anything of it. From above, they resemble the petals of a giant flower. At its very heart is Stukeley and Shanti.

  “Well,” she says as they turn once more. “This is irregular, to say the least.”

  “I thought I’d shake things up a bit,” he says.

  “Did you now?” As she speaks, she becomes aware that someone is watching. She turns quickly, meeting Darcy Flotsam’s eyes. Darcy has her donor by the hand. They are about to leave the room, of course, but there is something in Darcy’s eyes. A longing to stay, perhaps? A longing for something else besides. Darcy’s eyes meet Shanti’s. Embarrassed, Darcy turns and walks out of the room. Stukeley watches her go.

  “That figurehead is a pest!” Shanti says, drawing Jez closer toward her.

  Stukeley laughs. “Now, now, my dear. What harm has she ever done to you?”

  “What’s her game anyway?”

  “Game?”

  “She’s got her sights on you,” Shanti says as he spins her around again.

  “Darcy and I are friends, that’s all.”

  “Friends?”

  “She can’t give me what I need.” He looks her in the eyes. “Only you can do that.”

  “Yes,” Shanti says. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  Later, they are alone in his cabin. Now at last he can drink his toast to the captain. And he does, lingering over the taste of her blood.

  “Stop!” she says. “Stop!”

  He looks up at her face. She is frowning. He draws back for a moment and stares up at her, the picture of innocence, his lips wet with her blood.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You’re taking too much! You’ve had enough!”

  “Nonsense.” He smiles. “Your blood tastes great, by the way!”

  “You’ve had enough,” she repeats, pulling away from him.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I’ve done this many times before. Or have you forgotten? I was Lieutenant Furey’s donor for a long time before I was switched to you.” He can hear the hurt in her voice — the demotion from a lieutenant to a non-ranking officer.

  “I don’t expect the good lieutenant had much of a thirst. He was only a young lad, so they say. I’m a full-grown man.”

  “He had a very healthy thirst, until his current . . . difficulties.”

  “Yes,” Stukeley says, his words edged with a sneer. “And now he has no taste for your blood at all.”

  “It has nothing to do with me.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be grateful,” he says. “There you were, shriveling up like an old prune, and here I come along, bang on cue, to drink your blood.”

  “Oh, lucky me! Lucky, lucky me! Remember, Stukeley, you need me.”

  “Yes, Shanti, and remember that you need me. Without each other, we’re nothing.”

  The deck is almost empty. Stukeley has come to get some air. He is elated with the intake of fresh blood in his veins. Shanti’s blood is as spirited as she is. They are a perfect match. He enjoys the element of cat and mouse in their relationship. And if he sometimes feels like the mouse and lets her feel like the cat, well, where’s the harm in that?

  He sees a familiar figure, leaning against the deck rail.

  “Hello, beautiful!” he says.

  The woman turns. Darcy Flotsam directs her large eyes toward him. “Hello,” she says, holding something back in her voice.

  “You’re disappointed in me,” he says, joining her at the guardrail.

  “Disappointed?”

  “Because of the dance,” he continues. “I know I was impulsive, but I felt such joy. Before, I was so full of despair. But now, since I came here, things are so different. Can you understand that?”

  Darcy nods. “I do understand, as it goes. But you must be careful. Try to contain that joy of yours sometimes. Out of respect for the captain.”

  He laughs. “But surely, the captain wants us to be happy.”

  “The captain wants what’s best for us,” Darcy says. “We must respect his wishes.”

  “Wishes?” says Jez. “Or rules?” He sees he has pushed this as far as he should. He doesn’t want to upset her. Not her. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” he says, his voice much softer. “Rather balmy. And would you look at those stars?”

  Together, they turn their eyes up to the heavens. True enough, the stars are out in force tonight.

  “But you know what?” Stukeley says, looking at Darcy sadly. “You know what, Miss Flotsam? There’s one star missing from the skies tonight.”

  She sighs. “Please don’t use that cheesy old line on me.”

  “What line?” he says, innocent as ever.

  “You know the one — about how I fell from the skies.”

  “No,” he says, lifting his clenched fist toward her. “Not you, this.”

  He opens his fist and there, sitting in his palm, is a glittering diamond brooch in the shape of a shooting star.

  “For you,” he says.

  She gasps, then reluctantly says, “No, really, it’s lovely, but you mustn’t.”

  “Mustn’t what?”

  “You mustn’t give me things.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, it will make Shanti jealous.”

  “Shanti? Why ever would it? I’m grateful, of course I am — deeply grateful for what she does for me. But she can only fill one of my needs. Whereas you, Miss Flotsam . . . Well, I’m embarrassed to speak further. May I? May I pin this brooch onto your dress?”

  Darcy bows her head. “All right. If you insist.”

  He comes closer, reaches out and carefully pins the brooch onto her bodice, mindful not to snag the fine material. “There,” he says, stepping back. “Quite beautiful!”

  “Yes it is! Thank you, Mr. Stukeley.”

  “Please,” he says, “you must call me Jez. And I wasn’t talking about the brooch.”

  Darcy shakes her head from side to side. First the dance, then this. He is like a force of nature. Unstoppable. She shakes her head again. “What are we going to do with you, Mr. — I mean, Jez? What are we going to do with you?”

  38

  HERO OF THE HOUR

  Connor’s crewmates were in jubilant mood. By all accounts, the
raid on the Sunset Fort had been a great success. Both The Diablo and The Typhon were loaded with more precious treasures than either had carried before. And it had all been accomplished without losing any lives — among the two crews, anyhow. And no one seemed in any doubt as to who was responsible for this victory.

  “You were amazing, man!” said Gonzalez, slapping Connor on the back. “We were all watching from the deck. The way you brought that guy down!”

  “It would all have fallen apart if it wasn’t for you,” said one of The Typhon’s crew. “That idiot Moonshine nearly ruined the whole operation, but you saved the day!”

  “You did good, Connor,” said Cate, who had remained at his side since they’d returned to the ship. “You did exactly what was asked of you.”

  He looked at her, trying to frame the words but he found he was shaking uncontrollably. He tried once more to speak. “I k . . . kill . . . I killed . . .”

  Cate shook her head and brought her arm around him. “You did your duty, Connor. If you hadn’t killed that guard, Moonshine Wrathe would be dead now. You were only doing your duty.”

  But Connor couldn’t seem to see it that way. In his mind, his hands were outstretched, like the two sides of a scale. Moonshine sat on one palm and the security guard — Alessandro — on the other. Who could say who was more deserving of life — or death?

  “Where is Moonshine?” Connor asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Cate said. “He must be here somewhere. Oh yes, here he is! Moonshine!” she called. “Moonshine, over here!”

  No! thought Connor. He hadn’t wanted to see him. But it was too late. Moonshine Wrathe was ambling across the deck toward him. He had already changed out of his fake uniform and was now dressed in his more regular uniform of skinny jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Hey,” he said as he came over to Connor. “Thanks for the helping hand over there.”

  Connor tried to smile. “It’s okay.”

  “Seriously,” Moonshine said. “That security guard was one mean dude. I owe you one.” He flicked his fingers at Connor, then turned and sauntered off again.